Baldur's Gate : The Sword Coast Chronicles : NWN2 Persistent World

It seems that something happened, although it isn't shared much. The Run a Rig seems to have placed a sign that recites:



For those curious enough that would dare to get closer, there would be a letter just underneath. If anyone took it off, the day after would be placed there once more.

Greetings,

It is with heavy hearts that we, Rose and Mathilde Wintertal, must make an announcement today. Due to unforeseen circumstances, we find ourselves in a period of mourning, and as such, we regret to inform you that our shop will be closed for a tenday.

We understand that you may be curious about the details, but please understand that we wish to keep this matter private for the time being. The sea has taken its toll, as it often does in these treacherous waters, and it is a time for us to grieve and find solace in the memories we hold dear.

However, we do not wish to isolate ourselves completely from our friends and patrons who have supported us. If any of you would like to visit us during this difficult time, our doors are open to you. We could all use the warmth of friendship and the comforting presence of our community in such times of sorrow.

You have been more than customers; you have been our friends and confidants. We hope you will respect our need for privacy while we heal, and we thank you for your understanding.

For any urgent matters or inquiries related to our shop, you may reach out to us through Sendings or you can leave a message to 'Parrot', and we will do our best to reach out as promptly as possible.

In the meantime, let us all remember the spirit of camaraderie that makes our town so special. We look forward to the day when we can once again welcome you to the Run a Rig with open arms and renewed spirits.

Until then, fair winds and calm seas to you all.

With gratitude,

Rose and Mathilde Wintertal

Rumors would speak of more new faces are making Roaringshore their new home. Some say many of these new residence are run a way's or wanted necromancers or even unwanted necromancers. But such rumors really mean nothing to the locals for Roaringshore for it is a pirates village. For a lawless place like Roaringshore, it's home to many pirates, smugglers, thieves' and run a way's.




Establishments and shops within Roaringshore is likely to see an increase of profits. Davey "Fishy" Jones aboard the ship the Sparrowhawk has made gains selling fishing rods, baits and lures. The Swordarm Inn and the Broken Goblet Tavern seems to be spilling with life. The owners are likely to be pleased by the profitable income.




While southern towns and villages are having goblin and orc problems, or the north feeling the presence of a mad God, a particular bartender is said to be trying to make these new found scallywags learn a new way of living. Will he succeed? Many doubt so. But they are seeming to seek his advice quite often.

More flyers of this sort would be spread across Roaringshore. Advertising and seeking personnel. The Run a Rig owners are clearly still advertising their work.

As Dusk approaches, a man dressed fully in red with a peculiar set of goggles could be seen drunkenly stumbling his away out of the Broken Goblet, fresh rum bottle still in hand. As the salty sea air smell of decomposing fish and various humanoid races assaulted his nostrils he dropped to his knees and heaved his own fish he had caught earlier that afternoon, right between the legs of some poor dead sob sitting against the bar wall with a chunk of wood sticking out of his eye cavity.

As he heaved (and some of the less discretionary reputation might even say "hoed") the sound of a creaky cart could be heard making its way up the narrow street.

The man working the cart stopped and made his way over to the corpse, which was apparently pinned against the wall. After much jiggling and a well positioned foot for leverage he was able to pull the piece of wood from the deceased pirate and it slid over and fell to the ground with a thud, leaving a trail of blood on the wall as it went.

As the worker grabbed the corpse by the legs and began dragging it back to his cart the man in red stood up, wiping the puke from his face with his sleeve and revealing a wide sinister smile.

That looks heavy, may I help you with that?

Without waiting for a response the man in red grabbed the body by the arms and helped him toss it onto his already considerably loaded cart. After some hand dusting and wiping of hands on ones clothes the man in red turned to the corpsman and spoke again.

I don't know if this is permissible, but I would be more then happy to dispose of those corpses for you. Less work, and I would even be willing to throw you a few coins for the trouble. Seems like a pretty good deal to me
As the man in red says this he opens his hand and lets a fist full of gold coins slide into the back of the workers cart

And don't worry, concerns of any malicious intent should be....put to rest

The slick docks of Roaringshore are always busy with the heavy footfalls of laborers assisting the sun burnt sailors hoist cargo on and off their ships. They come to Roaring shore to peddle their wares, illicit or otherwise, in the markets here and beyond. The rhythmic lapping of waves on the barnacle clad boat hulls are a peaceful backdrop the the grunting of laborers, punctuated by their cries, jeers, and sneers as they joke with one another to make the work go faster.
Upon the docks a few new faces can be seen, newcomers to the Shore they have taken it on themselves to come work the docks and hone the skills of their new trade. The tying of knots, logistics, hulls sizes, astronomy, trade, rigging, repair work, all of these things and more they hunger for soaking up what crumbs of knowledge the sailors give to them willingly or what they make the group work for.
A large armor clad man spits insults at random sailors who grin and return them in kind the likes he has never seen. Their worldly travels have granted them silver tongues in all things abrasive and he makes note of the ports they traveled and the languages they speak there.
A small chittering Hin darts unseen over boxes and under legs following instructions from some FirstMate. She scrambles up a mast and out onto the rigging her small form perfect for the delicate work and commits the lesson to memory.
A muscled mustached bruiser cheerfully hoists full barrels two at a time up ships gangways taking carefulchittering note of the contents one brings on an ocean journey. The sailors eye him and he hums a tune while talking to his wife about the spoilage rate of apples and hardtack. Strange thing, no one ever saw a women with him.
An annoying man with a grating voice and a fetching chicken attempts to accost off-boarding Captains to “instruct” them in proper etiquette befitting a privateer and how to run a ship. He is chased off with hash words and the occasional flash of a blade but listens keenly when they correct him on ship operating procedures, he nods, that makes sense.
A Gull perches on a weathered house and looks out onto the docks, the entire bay is reflected in it’s glassy eyes. It watches the people come and go, whom they speak with to fill their hulls with supplies and who they visit to offload their goods. It marks these men and how to find them. Letting out a cry it leaps and takes to the wing. It will remember who to speak with for outfitting oneself for an ocean journey.
In the Broken Goblet red eyes look out from behind goggles as the man they belong to tips back another drink. It dribbles down out the sides of his lips and splashes onto his red coat. Finishing his pull and lets out a loud belch while slapping the counter. More ale for him. He commits nothing to memory and drinks to lose some more.

These actions continue daily and the group learns more, will they become fitting Privateers? Or will they be just another wreck littering the bottom of the sea? Time will tell, but so far the telling is favorable.

“Pull up! …. The boxes here... Be careful, don’t let the bags get wet!”

The wind blew the crew's orders, mixed with the bangs of hammers and the creaking of the Sparrowhawk's lifting cranes.

Like busy ants, the men and women swarmed around the wooden queen of the harbor: sails were repaired and new ropes were pulled into the rigging. And as the morning mist began to lift, their first songs rang out and the many-voiced choir was carried by the wind up to the Broken Goblet, which rose like a king on his stone throne over the harbor and the bay.


Barges brought new Billgenstones that had to be moved below deck. Damaged barrels were thrown overboard and later fished out of the cold water, while new barrels were already stacked on the pier. On a barrel nearby sat a small creature with a quill in its paws, recording the exact number in a book whose pages were larger than itself.

Some of the crew prepared to jump into the water around the Sparrowhawk to scrape the shells off the hull. Magic like breathing water, defying the elements, and light made their hard work easier. Others danced high above the deck in the rigging or swung from one mast to another.

Sheren rowed a small boat from the ship over to the pier, where the eternally grumbling ship owner was pacing impatiently. The young woman jumped ashore and handed him the list of necessary supplies. Sheren had to admit that his grumbling increased just a little bit more as he read the long list.
Finally the owner nodded and handed the list back to her: “Get your butt to Baldur’s Gate and find the ship’s chandler, Aidan Thatcher. Try to get a good deal from him for all of this.”

Sheren nodded and carefully rolled up the list: “Aye, it will be done.” Then she signaled to the little animal on the barrel to hand in the paperwork and come with her.

An intensely annoying man with a shrill voice has been spotted back in RoaringShore. There he visited the Bar and the corpse cart while being tailed by a uncharacteristically fetching chicken. He eventually retired to the inn.

Individuals displaying an unhealthy interest in the deceased soon find themselves stalked by a physically imposing man in the damp alleyways of Roaringshore. He is quieter than his size suggests and he is quick to break contact when confronted, preferring instead to hover like a wraith where the shadows are thickest. Neither wholly hidden nor exposed, he appears to be sending a message to the group, that they are being closely watched.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, these sightings coincide with the defacement of a billboard note proclaiming Myrkul's continued existence with a black, eight-pointed sunburst.

DM Winter wrote: ↑Thu Nov 30, 2023 9:48 pm

On the night of Uktar 30th, fire consumed a house by the docks in Roaringshore. Locals knew it the home of Markus Yarnhand, and his wife and teenage son, Anna and Kory. The fire was eventually put out by dock workers aided by an Umberlant priest that used the opportunity to collect a tithe for the Church. The family has tragically passed away in the flames. Little is known about what started the fire.

A tethyrian woman, outsider in these parts, arrives at the scene of the accident after the last embers die out, insensitively smoking a cigarillo. She tells anyone who will listen, that a suspicious group of people arrived from the north during the night of the accident and that she witnessed them invoking spells by the town well. Roaringshore's history of playing host to many such shady characters every day and her own nature as an outsider cause most of the onlookers to brush her accusations off and she doesn't make too much of an effort of impressing her theory upon any of them.