Pirates

A small crowd gathered to see the party leave Candlekeep. They said their farewells to the Great Readers and to the Keeper of Tomes. Orrin Glass approached them with one final notebook he had copied for them on one of the research topics. It was called "The Illithid Mind," penned many years ago by a young man called Jeremy Mizzen. 

Jeremius Mason? 

Hmm.

First they went south, then north--in case any thralls or informants at Candlekeep were looking to follow them. Their original plan was to head to Baldur's Gate and travel north from there, but they learned from a friendly source at Candlekeep that the Lords Alliance had Wanted posters up for their capture. Judging by what they heard of the poster, the crimes listed were actually not far off: some real, some…loosely associated, all vaguely accurate. They switched up plans and decided to head toward the coast and send in the rogues to steal a ship. 

After a six day slog covering their tracks, hunting small animals to slay in tribute to Malar, foraging, and diving into the philosophy of their predicament, they found themselves camped on the outskirts of the Cloakwood, beside a strawberry patch. How convenient, Dala'gse loves strawberries. Only after he picked a few did a cordial man calling himself Vasalldo approach saying the strawberry's were Lord Herbert's crop. They would not be allowed to steal the berries, nor could they really afford the price. Instead, they would need to come into Barberry Ledge Manor and then Vasalldo could explain to his master that the berry crop was a quart short because they picked them for a pie for visiting dignitaries. 

Oh, yes, since their faces were plastered on signs all over the Lords Alliance, they felt it better to travel as Tethirian Dignitaries. Regal cartographers (Falka, Slothrop, Rya) looking to establish trade with Baldur's Gate, accompanied their obedient servants (Dala'gse, Ironica), as well as their Calimshani master of protocol (Safad). Slothrop had outdone himself on the disguises, and even had a chance to get back into his forging, creating some very legitimate looking documents. 

Vasalldo welcomed his distinguished guests. He gave them a tour of Barberry Ledge. Safad heard the manservant explain they must see his master's ship, and tried to shush him before Falka could hear, but oh, oh, Falka heard. 

"A ship, you say? We'd love to see it," she winked at Safad, who buried his face in his robes.

Vasalldo led them to the pleasurecraft and Falka eyed the ship hungrily, but showed some restraint, noting privately to Slothrop that this one wouldn't do on the open ocean. They retired to dinner. 

It was rich, heavy, decadent, and finished with the strawberry pie. Too much after days of rations on the road. A few of them failed to process it all correctly and needed to get up in the night to attend their stirrings. Falka opted to use the decorative vase she found in her room. Safad opted for the outhouse, and a pleasant serving girl had to come show him where it was. Awkwardly, she waited for him to return as well to make sure he made it back to sleep. 

When he returned to his room, it reeked. He quickly identified the source of the stench--a decorative vase filled with werewolf feces somehow found it under his bed. He mage-handed it out the window and into a hedge. 

The next morning, they were given a letter of introduction for Lord Herbert who was away on business in Baldur's Gate. Vasalldo recommended they travel the coastal route and stop at the fishing villages along the way: Stoningport, Kallis, and Hote. 

"Fishing villages, you say? They are likely to have ships then?" Falka asked hungrily. 

"Oh, yes, I'd say so," Vasalldo assured them. 

They set off for Stoningport. 

As they arrived at the dusty lane that led down a hill toward the water they saw the town's main commerce was granite. It had a unique type of ship called a stone sloop that was used to transport the cut rock to destinations along the Sword Coast and to Baldur's Gate.

"These ships may well do," Falka suggested. 

"Yes," Dala'gse agreed. 

So they got a lay of the town during the day and then camped out in an irrigation ditch at night. 

They were going to steal a ship. 

When the night was thickest during the witching hour, Falka, Slothrop, and Ironica were set loose on the town to find an appropriate vessel. Safad, Rya, and Dala'gse would hang back, wait for the bird call indicating a ship had been secured, and then they'd rendezvous a mile or two down the coast. 

The sorcerers and the druid sat in the dark, under the stars, on a hillock overlooking the town and the harbor conversing in hushed towns as the stars danced above them. Only too late did they realize who they'd sent into town. Falka. Slothrop. Ironica. 

Oh dear. Safad asked Rook to send him reassuring thoughts.

Meanwhile, the trio stalked through the town with villainous intent. They slinked house to house, shop to shop, until they were poised beside a building just above the pier that led to the docks where a large fleet of stone sloops and a smattering of fishing vessels swayed gently on their slips. The town was mostly quiet, save for a muffled ruckus coming from a rowdy-looking bar called "The Tarhole" near the pier, and the occasional soft dinging of a ships bell as its clapper clanged with the waves. 

A slight mist rolled in. 

Falka, Slothrop, and Ironica saw the pier had two guards, a gnome and a halfling, who were engaged in some spirited squid-jigging. The squid were really running by the looks of it. Every now and then the Tarhole's door would slam open, letting out the sounds of late-night drunks and exasperated barmen, as the inebriated patrons stumbled onto the cobbled streets of Stoningport. Falka eyed the tavern warily.

But the trio kept their eyes on the prize: a vessel on the docks. Ironica and Slothrop would take care of the pier guards while Falka provided cover, bow drawn. 

The two thieves danced their way between shadows, silently maneuvering behind the squid jigging guards....

Back on the hillock, Safad waxed philosophical on what it meant to be Chosen -- or really, what any of it meant for that matter. How their lives and their roles in the greater machinations around Faerun had played out since they first met. What the themes had been for them, how they needed to see beyond what was right in front of them and develop this connection with Arumbelle, who had been trying to speak with them for so long. A good and noble goddess, representing nature and life and delighting in its richness...

Ironica's dagger ripped through the gnome's throat before he could let out a scream. Slothrop's found the halfling's heart as his hand clasped firmly around the fisherman's mouth. Falka relaxed her bow and was about to move when the Tarhole's door burst open and four drunk patrons emerged. With barely a thought, her bowstring thrummed quietly four times, as four arrows whizzed unerringly at the shocked townsfolk. Four shots, four dead. Falka couldn't help the wolfish smile that spread across her face.

She sprinted toward the group to collect the bodies. Ironica and Slothrop saw the commotion and did the same. They had almost managed to drag the bloodied corpses to the edge of light on the pier when the Tarhole opened yet again, and two more drunkards emerged. 

Ironica was quickest this time, sprinting back before they could notice the blood on the ground where the dead revelers had been slain. Two quick flashes of her dagger and two more innocent townspeople fell to the ground. 

Slothrop and Falka were quick to help. This time, as they dragged the eight bodies down the docks, no one was there to see them.  

They grabbed the bucket of still inking squid and found the choicest vessel, with half a load of stone in its cargo. They stowed the corpses aboard and pushed off into the night. By the time they heard the alarm bells ringing back in Stoningport they were a mile away, obscured by the mist. They breathed a little easier. 

As they contemplated when to steer the boat into shore to meet with their companions, they heard a strange sound coming from the cabin. 

It was singing. A soft, half-asleep, singing, in an old gravelly voice:

Welll Dale Selkirk was a silver-tongued lad
I wish I was in Vilhon now!
He gathered up all the boys and I
Kissed my mum and love goodbyeeee
‘Lee take them all!
I was told we’d cruise the seas for Chultan gold
Board no ships and shed no tears
Now I’m a broken man on a Waterdeep pier
The last of Selkirk’s privateers

They had a stowaway. 

And they were pirates.