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The last time we saw our water-bound, whiskered adventurers, the fellowship ran into a trio of pirates who’s wrath burned against Captain Crimson. After a quick show of the newly upgraded Mystic Wave’s awesome abilities, Captain Crimson leaves the triumvirate in ruin, as the fellowship continues on towards the mysterious dwarven isle in search of the Time-Changer. Meanwhile the remaining pirates huddle on Captain Kennit’s ship, clinging onto hope that maybe, just maybe, a passing ship would take mercy on the crew whose ship was dead in the water…
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The sea is as smooth as a piece of glass and the fog lays over it like a heavy blanket, as Captain Kennit’s galleon sits motionless in the water. Crew-members lay about the vessel, exhausted from the day of fighting foes and fires. The fire from the Mystic Wave burnt through all the sails, rendering Kennit’s ship immobilized, powerless to go but where the waves may take it. The stern of the ship caught fire, and part of the hull started taking on water. Several men died from exhaustion and falling overboard but the crew finally was able to put out the fire. Kennit sits on the railing staring out over the main deck. There weren’t many men left, but between his crew and the survivors of the other two ships, there were enough. Enough for a mutiny.
This wasn’t his idea, but seeing the lone ship out at sea sporting The Captain’s Crimson flag, was enough of a temptation to get him to go along with Captain Nutt’s plan. Now he was the only surviving captain, the only one left to blame. If he didn’t come up with an idea soon. They would begin to blame him in the open and sooner rather than later he would be walking the plank, or worse, they could get hungry.
A crew-mate in the crow’s nest stirs and then sits up quickly, screaming “HEY OVER HERE! HELP! HELP US!” Kennit jumps up quickly, making his way to the stern of the ship, the same direction the crew-mate was screaming. Several on board awoke and walked/crawled over to the edge of the boat.
Kennit didn’t see anything in the dense fog, but slowly, a green light illuminated the fog several hundred yards from the boat. Soon the whole crew was chanting for help, praying that the passing ship would show them generosity, allowing them to ride back to a port with them.
The ship creeps closer through the fog, and the green light gets brighter. The sound of drums and tribal music grows louder as the green light grows brighter. Kennit finds this strange to be sure, but rescue is needed if they are going to survive. The best case scenario is that whoever is piloting this boat is friendly, and they’ll allow them onto the boat peacefully. However, if the members of that crew deny them passage, Kennit knows there will have to be bloodshed. If it was him or them, he knows his crew will be the ones leaving on that boat.
The drumming gets louder, coming to a crescendo as the boat reaches the edge of the fog, but when the boat comes into sight, the now darkened boat slips silently into the clearing. The vessel is a large sloop, dwarfed by the Kennit’s galleon. There seemed to be no one aboard.
A chill creeps up Kennit’s spine, something is amiss. A soft thud sounds behind the crew, followed by the thud of a crew-mate hitting the floor. The crew turns to see a dark-cloaked angel of death, face obscured except for where it was broken around the eye. A pair of talon-like blades are clutched in his hands, dripping with the fallen crew-man’s blood. Everyone stands frozen, staring at the killer who stands on the deck.
Kennit feels a hand on his shoulder and warm breath on his neck. Behind him, the Witch Doctor steps down onto the main deck. Kennit is intimidated by the tall, muscular man, garbed in strange and foreign tribal garb.
Kennit throws himself at the Witch Doctor’s feet, falling to his knees and staring up at him. “Oh please help us, we were abandoned to die out here, please have mercy…”
Kennit’s cries are cut short by a ceremonial ivory knife, now dripping in blood clutched in the Witch Doctor’s hands.
The Witch Doctor grins and then sets his gaze upon the remaining crew.
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The Marksman lays upon the floor of the Mystic Wave struggling to get through a set of pushup exercises. “20… 21… 22 UMPH.” The Marksman collapses. Rehabilitating the shoulder that was torn open by the Predator was difficult. This difficulty was compounded by the rocking of the ship, rising and falling with the stormy waves. The Marksman stands, walking over his chest of drawers and grasping a cup of water.
His meeting with the Predator told him one thing, he wasn’t ready. He was nearly killed by him and if given another chance, the Marksman is unsure if the outcome wouldn’t be worse. This was the killer that destroyed his father, an assassin of the highest order. “When the Predator returns,” the Marksman thinks “I will be ready, because I cannot continue to run from him. When I return to the Realms, I will hunt him down.”
The Marksman stares into his cup contemplating the lethal adversary the Marksman will face, when a sudden lurch causes the Markman to spill his drink.
“ALL HANDS ON DECK! NOW YOU LOLLIGAGGIN’ SLOW POKES,” calls Captain Crimson from the captain’s wheel.
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The Gunslinger climbs the staircase from the restrooms (the Inventor was sure to include many creature comforts for the voyage), arriving on the main deck. He looks around, seeing all the crew-mates leaning over the railing of the ships.
“There it is, I see it here,” cries one of the men as several more rush over to see what it is.
The Gunslinger climbs the stairs up to the poop deck, continuing to rub his Fable Beard Company beard balm into his beard.
“What was that?” asks the Gunslinger.
“Something, I fear, that we’ve never seen nor wanted to ever see,” worries Captain Crimson eyes following the creature rising at the prow of the ship.
The creature towers as high as the mast of the might Mystic, electricity arcing off of its body. The giant eel eyes the crew on the deck, grinning an insidious fishy grin.
