PrP: All Ye Who Enter Here

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Log Info

  • Title: All Ye Who Enter Here
  • Emitter: Lenore
  • Characters: Jokul (Ftr4)* Virton (Art2)* Charlotte (Swb4) Jacob (Clr4)* Ezriya (Sor4) Raniq (Wiz2) Landau (Clr3)* Ikavod (Bbn4)* Kalkorth (Bbn4)* Charity (Mnk3)*
  • Place: Alexandria - Port of Call
  • Time: April 22, 2016
  • Summary: There is a small port down in the coastal regions that follow the river out of Alexandria proper; it has been known to harbour pirates in the past, but lately the local lawmen and a small contingeant of naval forces have put a stop to that. The scoundrels have met the gallows, and have been left hanging as a warning to all that might try the same. However, upon checking their handiwork an evening or so past, the bodies have gone missing, and the nearby guard outpost is empty. The only clue to what has happened were some strange tracks that they found leading toward the water, now mostly washed away. They're at a loss for what to do, and have approached the Adventurer's Guild looking for people to help investigate their strange situation.
  • APL: 4
  • Encounter 1: 6 Hangmen, CR 8


ST:

Trade is the blood of a nation.

At least, that's what they say.

If that's true, than this place, known to tradesmen and locals as Port Nobile, is a beating heart tangled amidst the bony breast of Alexandria, fed by the vibrant brine that grants life inland by way of lazy waves on fine sand shores. An inlet at the bay, protected from the most foul of nature's tempermental tantrums, it is a rocky cliffside carved out into beautiful sculptures and natural pillars that make way for newly constructed bridges and docks that interlock pads hither and yon, each with different company signs; The Jade Isles Trade Compendium most probably the largest, constantly abuzz with strapping young workers hurriedly rushing their cargo into warehouses, only to be back up the boardplank moments later with something new heading the other way.

The group has traveled by various means to arrive here; there are regular trade caravans that were more than happy to pitch in their own coin to have adventurers along as guards, but the option to travel on their own is always made available. Along the way, the strange happenings of late have been told and retold over long hours, each guide having their own spin on it. By time the group has gathered at the port and compared notes, it's rather like a long game of telephone that's come to an end, and by their best guess, it's something along the lines of: 15 bandits ate rubber bananas and barnacles with their pet dog Petey.

That said, there are elements that have shown up multiple times, consistant in every tale told; they have had their fill of pirates assailing their trading vessels just out of the bay, and used some of the growing port's profits to bring in the privateering naval fleet, The North Outlanders Squadron, to bring them in for proper judgment on authority of the Ivory Marquis. Who that is, well... nobody really actually says. However, it appears as though he has been acting judge, jury and executioner in regards to the unlawful conduct on these high seas, and has been hanging those found guilty from one of the natural water-sculpted stone bridges that crops out of the waters some way off shore, as one is wont to do.

Guards are posted outside the gates of the port, dug into their own little bunkers into the cliff faces on either side of the town, one of which is not too far from where the Redeemer's Gangplank arcs its way over the waves. Due for a changing of post, others had gone to alieve the watchmen of their burden, only to find that no one was there -- only vague signs of a struggle, a few trickled, smeared streaks of blood, footsteps that appear only to lead away from the post, and disappear into the sands being soothed by the gently risen tides.

Wishing to keep the situation under wraps until they figure out what actually happened before alerting and perhaps panicking the people of the Port, the group has been ushered directly to the outpost without drawing undue attentions to their arrivals, discretly.

"Here we are, lads." It seems a catch-all term, not gender-insensitive. "Blimey, there's a lot of you folks, isn't there? Alright... this is where our fine gentlemen were last seen," An official speaks, arms folding behind him, hands clasped against either of his wrists as he rolls to the balls of his feet and back onto his heels again. He gestures toward the arch, where there is still a sign that hangs low from a sturdy, albeit rusting set of chains -- salty sea air will do that. "As you can see, not even their ropes remain. No cages. No bones. They were barely days ripe, those dogs -- birds hadn't even picked them clean yet. Don't know why anyone would take them, none what-so, but they've also clearly assaulted our servicemen, as well. Our priority is to find our men alive, of course, mm-HM, mmyes, but the Marquis has shown a rather pointed interest in knowing just what has happened to his warning of mercy. And so, additional recompense shall be distributed should you manage to solve both mysteries for us."

He glances around to the few men that had come along with the lot of you, one of his hands waving them away, before doing the same to the party. "Right. Carry on."


The stories interest Jacob quite a bit, but once they reach the site, he is all business. It isn't lost on him that these bodies were taken while they were dead. And whoever took them was willing to do so by all means necessary. The soldiers are more than likely among the dead by now, but he says nothing of the sort yet as he examines the scene, his features a mask of placidity.


Kalkorth is standing towards the back of the group with his arms crossed. He knows why he is here and he has no skills in tracking. He looks around counting how many adventurers they've called in for this investigation. He keeps his head on a swivel looking around incase whatever attacked the guards decides to attack them. Wouldn't that be fun and easy.


Charlotte makes a bit of a face at the scene. "Hopefully they're still alive." She says resting her left arm on her rapier as she starts her way forward. "warning of mercy, huh? Mmmm...we'll figure it out."


The sea was always interesting to Ikavod but that was likely because half his life had passed him before hehad ever seen it with his own eyes. The desert sands of his home weren't exactly refreshing. Work is work and with another day comes another ne'er-do-well profiting on the backs of others... or murder, just plain murder showed up quite often. He is larely silent, large and silent. Actually more large and then silent. "Are we placing bets on whether or not there are walking corpses involved in this one?"


"I hope folk eat plenty o' citrus around these here parts, don't want nobody gettin' scruvy." buzzes Virton, spurs giving an audiable *tink* noise as he paces at the back of the group, doing his utmost to stay out of folks way. He's had a hard time actually spotting things lately, perhaps due to the long exhaust port hanging from the corner of his mouth like a cigar. He pauses, the trail of smoke pausing from a miment, before he buzzes an exhale - causing the tube to cough out a thick blurt of black smoke, wafting skywards. He rocks back on his heels, copying the official in the motion. "Hoo-eee. Them dang folks surely did get taken away, but I suppose it's important to tell folks that crime just don't pay, don't want no lawbreakers round these parts, nosir." He makes a motion to stand on his tiptoes, and his neck visibly extends a few inches with a 'tktktktktk' of moving parts, resulting in him staring at the vague signs of struggle with a tilt of a head and one glowing orange eyeslit 'peering' (see: Glowing more brightly) than the other. "I tell ya what though, partner. Nothin' good happened here. No sir. Walkin' corpses? No thankya, sir. Them be abominations." states the walking, talking, living Golem, to Ikavod.


"Of course they are alive!" Charity half-bellows, half-councils. "For that is why the Dragon Father has put us upon this long, cold, briny road! To bring justice and succor to those needy, calling out for aid."

She flexes an arm as she moves to stroke her chin. "Truly, our callings are blessed."


Being a relative newcomer to Alexandria Landau is putting fingers in as many pies as possible, and that means picking up favours and dirty jobs with equal alacrity. Divested of the armor he has worn in these days past, the Cerenzan strokes his chin thoughtfully, using his staff as a walking (and occasional leaning) aid,"Either way we shall find out." his relatively deep voice muses as he considers the scene,"Do we have a tracker amongst us, to read spoor?"


Ezriya had...a complicated relationship with the sea. On the one hand, drowning was very much a real deal, pirates are jerks, sailing can be awful for your complexion and for as fickle as the skies were, the seas could be even worse. On the other hand, fish came from it. And fish are awesome.

Still, to pay for such fine seafood and others, the egalrin had to work. And working for her...included coming here. After hitching a ride with a caravan to Port Nobile, she gets ushered inside. When she is shown the scene of the crime she peers down at it along with the others, unable to really make much sense of it. When the call for a tracker comes out, the egalrin shakes her head.

"Unless it involves reading music or magic, I'm afraid I'm of little use besides deduction skills."


"If no one else is able," comes up the rumbling mutter from the side of the group, belonging to the rather surly, heavily-armed (and not just because he's hauling an utterly unreasonably large sword propped against his shoulder) Aesir who had, up until now, apparently elected to stay silent. "I have some rudimentary knowledge of tracking I picked up with my last crew."


Jacob places a hand atop his head and runs it through his hair. "Then we need to work every angle we can. Too early to suspect anything, though the fact that they took the dead is... a bit telling. I'm not about to assume *that* though."


ST:


"Aye, miss. When you hang scoundrels as we have here, or rather had, they are known as angels of mercy -- a threat, a warning, to disuade others from enjoying the same fate." One of the fellows explains before he turns to hustle off with the rest of the dismissed regiment, leaving the rest of the group to their investigatory business. Once they're all away, and the commanding gentleman is satisfied that none have any other questions for him, he, too, turns to begin to pace back toward the port proper in order to better survey the reports that continue to pile in.

Such is the business of beaurocracy.

Or however that's spelled.

At Charity's bellow about them being alive, there is only a slight hitch to the man's step before he continues on his path, head hanging low and giving a subtle shake as his footsteps whick along the fine sand path.

The investigation is not so much a mystery as many would have had the group believe; it's fairly clear to most involved here that the 'tracks' lead toward the water, until it's swallowed up by gentle swells that have had their way with the young, impressionable coast, washing it away with a gentleness that most certainly never remains for long. What seems to be baffling the local authorities, however, is what did it, and how; it's clear to the keen and empathetic masses that Captain Walksaway truly has no hope of finding the young guards alive by this point -- it's already been more than a day since they discovered the grizzly scene.

There are hours of light left, but already there is a pink edge to the horizon, skimming like flame across the calm waters, caught in tiny whirling riptides that paint abstract vision in placid pool, drawing the eye in hypnotic flow toward the serenity there. So beautiful. So full of intrigue and mystery.

So obviously where the danger is.

In fact, the longer someone might look toward that lavalamp lagoon out there, the more activity begins to stir; the later the hour, as the moments tick by, and our wayward investigators have their back and forths, a soft burbling growing ever louder from around the rocky growths that once dangled from them the literally man-made decorations, causing a froth of sea lather to bleed toward the shore. Nonchalantly. Brilliantly. Very hard to notice, aside from the fact that it's like an oilslick, and smells about as awesome.


Kalkorth is growing bored as they are looking around the water for any clues on to what happened to the guards. He has taken his greataxe out as he looks at the lagoon. He narrows his eyes a little and he points out, "Hey look over there. Something is happening in the water. He looks around and he starts to make his way down towards the frothing and bubbling. Better then standing back and waiting for something to happen.


"Well I'll tell ya what," Virton buzzes. He takes the long padding route around, circling from the back of the group, his head still extended a bit too high to be entirely normal looking. He doesn't actually tell you what, mind. He obviously thinks it's just some sort of expression, as his head 'tktktktk's back down to something more normal. Rather than standing about and talking about things, the Golem pads along the wet sand, in a b-line towards the frothing, bubbling water, his light chassis assisting him in not sinking into the wet sand like one of those very pretty rocks that Jokul and Jacob have noticed on the beach. "I betcha that tall fella's right, and then I betcha somethin's gonna knock me six ways from the weekend an' make me have one of them whatchamacallits.. hangovers.." As Kalkorth comes pacing along, the Golem slows down a bit, to let the bigger man lead the way.


"The tracks lead... into the water!" Charity 'deduces' with the power of LOOKING AROUND.

She frowns. "I expect water-dwarves. They are a crafty and wicked sort, water-dwarves."

There is no such thing.


"Well, we have tracks that lead one way so our options aren't exactly broad. Who can swim?" Ikavod asks, his eyes turning toward Virton for a moment. "Who can keep their head above water?" he inquires, flicking his eyes around and then glancing at his own armor and size. "Well, no, just swim, I suppose?"


"I can swim, but I'd rather bring that....out of the water. Just a preference." Charlotte says as she moves over to the side to see what's going on.


"Well that isnt so good. Only question remains is that do we assail forth with what light remains to us, or await the morn." Landau's deliberations are cut short as he notices the activity in the water,"Time to make preparations methinks." he understates as party members start to drift in dibs and drabs toward the bubbling. Port Nobile it may be, and it may provie to be as trecherous as those the dock is named after.


Jacob is one of the last ones to take note. He holds back a curse as he moves to investigate with the others. "There are only a few ways to survive underwater. None of them suggest anything good."


Ezriya merely stares at Charity, her eyebrows flickering in disbelief. How could someone concentrate so much stupidity into one statement? It was a wonder for her to even comprehend. It wasnt' until the smell of the sea lather that her brain kicked back into high gear, processing that there was a likely threat on the way.

Ezriya's hands burst into light orange flames after a second's worth of concentration, clearly ready for combat. Her eyes glow with a similarly orange tint.


Kalkorth puts his great axe away and he takes out his dagger. He moves towards the water to start to wade in. "Well let's find out what's in there."


ST:

Hey! Look over there!

Kalkorth is the hero of the day. That is, of course, that he has perhaps alterted the group to the impending ambush that has come blowing in off the water like a particularly nasty storm. A sound, like a ship's horn blaring in the fog erupts into a settling eve, exploding from the depths as the froth suddenly spills onto the shore as though being rapidly displaced, hissing and popping as it does so, heard only once the echoing blast begins to leech off into a harrowing echo. From that foam, that oily 'mist', hairless, slick, pale scalps can be seen as 'people' rise from the depths, their heads lolling back and lifelessly to the side, their skin blued and eyes wide and empty, bulging out of their sockets as one might expect of a man hanged.

From their necks, rope hands long and sloppy, molded and spotted with kelp that dangles and drips as they advance, half a dozen of these pitiful damned breaking formation to approach in mindless refrain:


"Guilty then..."

"...Guilty now."

"Mercy for none..."

"...We'll see them drown..."


They repeat this, without seeming target, turning toward Kalkorth as he is the nearest to approach, with weapon drawn. Salty seawater trickles from the corners of their mouth, drenched, tattered clothing hung from skin that is both bloated and scorched by days of damning sun, their lips flaking in broad bits that almost make them look as though they would fall apart.


"Guilty then..."

"...Guilty now..."


Looks like they're gunna give that axe-weilding lumox a piece of their 'mind'.


"Oh no. You ain't nothin' right. No sir." buzzes the Golem, as Virton swishes up an arm to throw his ponch up and over his shoulder. His Thunderbelcher is hauled up, an Artificer's wet dream considering the amount of blinking lights and diodes on the damn thing. With an earthshaking roar, the weapon discharges -- and misses completely. "DANGIT."


Charity sees the drowned souls emerge from the water. "Water dwarves! I knew it! You can see from their hairless exteriors that the Dragon Father has stripped from them their ancestral glory of facial hair for their crimes against those among the costal regions!" She calls, with her negative knowledge of dungeoneering, the seas, or actual religion.

She then zags towards one, takes on a power stance with two raking claw hands, and smashes her fist into one of the drowned zombie-people.


"For the love everything important woman, be quiet and fight!" Ezriya shouts towards Charity, the sorcerer summoning forth two translucent crystals and mashing them together into one slightly larger one. She flings the crystal football at a wide arc, the projectile slamming into the drowned man's head and shattering. Normally she might get a little closer but considering how many of them there were...probably a bad idea.


"Piety and devotion to the Dragon Father /IS/ important!" Charity shouts back.


Kalkorth watches as the rope seems to twirl around him and bind him. The giantborn merely grins as he take a deep breath as his muscles bulge and he reaches up with his free hand to rip free from the bonds and tosses it away. He puts his dagger away and takes out his greataxe.


Just as Kalkorth tugs his way out of the rope, Charlotte covers him by stabbing the thing in front of him in the face.....dropping it instantly. "I don't think we hafta worry about where these guys went...."


With the hanged men surging out of the waves Landau has nary a moment to respond, the waterlogged shamblers lurching (and thankfully not letching, although the ropes could lead someone to assume otherwise) out of the water, but with a belated sidestep the Scholar begins to hurredly chant a prayer. Elune graces us with an explosion of concussive sound, catching much of the creatures within its radius... and beyond some tearing of flesh, they dont seem to react like living creatures do.


Jacob decides, finally, to move foward as Charlotte lands the first strike. No need to guess what these are. "Like I said..." He snaps the fingers on his right hand, calling forth a pale blue hand. "...there are only so many ways to survive underwater. Now..." He points toward the next target in line. "...begone!" The fist flies... aims true... and SMASHES the corpse in the face!


"Would have been an easy bet." Ikavod mutters as the nature of the threat begins to show itself. He deftly draws his glaive from his back and gives it a quick twirl which causes the grooves bored through the blade to create a sharp chirp before coming to an immediate halt. He seems prepared up until one of the dead things ensnares his arms and legs. While perhaps distressing to some it just seems to amuse Ikavod. "Fine, I guess this means I'm going to destroy you first." Ikavod's head briefly inclines before it's thrown back and a deep, nigh-unnerving roar is torn from his throat.

As Ikavod levels his gaze on his foe the faintest hints of ghostly flame burns upon his shoulders before lifting from his form into translucent embers that begin to leave only the faintest trails as they weave a double healix up and down his form. It's not graceful, it's not fluid, but etched haft of the glaive sweeps in a wide arc to quite viciously smash into the side of the undeead creatures head. Those half-translucent flames swim around the target but seem to return to him with no real affect upon anything.


"Alright," growls Jokul after all the flying ropes and such (one of which he has to sidestep too!), and finally hefts the weight of his sword away from his shoulder to be gripped in both hands instead. "This is more my style." Is he grinning? Yes. Yes he is. ANd he's going charging right for the wall of undead ahead with his oversized sword sent into a wide, horizontal swing that cuts through one "hanged man" cleanly enough to leave two pieces falling apart and into rolling along the ground... and create a tear into the clothing of another one with just the very tip of the blade. Surely his tailor is going to be mad. Right?


ST:

From still somewhere in the water, a lash of rope attached to the thing's neck is flung forward toward Kalkorth, coiling around him with a wet slap; the feeling is slick and slimy, as fishy as the scent it carries, tangling him in a mixture of rope and weeds that cling and tug as the creature does its best to drag the man toward it, mouth hanging slightly wider, pupilless, empty eyes reflecting his tangled body back at him in some distorted view of reality, bent and obscured by the slick coating.

"Down..." It insists.

"Down..." The others begin to answer.

"Down..." They all cry.

"Into the deep, the dark to drown..."

The second takes his ideas from the first, a second rope slithering through the waters like some seasnake approaching a target, lashing out toward the barbaric giantborn, embarassingly tripping in an unexpected sinkhole of sand, yarding down the rope on his way into the waves, causing it to swing about to slap it in its face. It's creepy, the expression never changes, its eyes don't blink, it merely gets back up and begins the refrain again.

A third does the same as the others, apparently all of the mind that they would very much like to take you all out on the town. Or, the down, as it would appear. The rope just barely goes skirting by Charity, slinking over her shoulder and across the skin of her neck as it lands harmlessly and is yanked back and away back to the originator. When Charity begins to approach, the nooseman seems to believe that he's actually been mistaken, and she is captured and being dragged helplessly toward his location.

"Down..."

"Dow--NOPPKF!"

Apparently it has trouble keeping the rhythm when it's being fisted.

Hang6 runs toward the entangled Kalkorth as though it should be in slow motion to the sacchrine tunes of old romance movies, with swelling crescendo and heart-tugging strings, both arms out as it sloshes at surprising pace through the waters to get to him, swinging one of its arms to claw at him as though it would strike him across his face, in the immortal language of the love-hate divide.

Not to be out-done romantically by his slower, less-attractive, JOBLESS brother... Han5 darts a rope toward Ikavod, as well, lasso'ing him a man from what seems like a room away, coiling it about bare flesh, the slick tendril worming, constricting about arms and ribs, before he begins that cowboy-drag across the dance floor -- oh, Nelly, come to me!

There's a harsh stagger as the soundblast hits the chanting dead, sending chunks of fatty, bloated skin flying all over the place, Kalkorth and Ikavod feeling the tight yarding of the rope as their captors jerk them toward the water in the process, howling out a cacophonous response in retort to Landau's devestating sonic blast; they simply insist: "DOWN!"

Just as Han6 is about to get its cuddle on with Kalkorth, the man wriggles free with all the cruelty of a mean girl in highschool that's too good for the Audio-Video club kid, and in the midst of this devestation, the moaning forlorn is stricken down by Charlotte's clearly jealousy-born pierce; he had no idea they were involved. Honest! With a gurgling, the creature falls back into the water without so much as a splash, though that burbles up from below the brink is a sickening purple mush that now joins the froth at the shore, mercilessly staining boots, and longing for ponchos.

Han4 throws his rope at Jokul, but his heart just isn't in it. Maybe he's just not attracted to him. It lands in the water with a quiet splish, the hangman looking across at the Aesir with a vacant expression, mouth wide, luxurious sailor's beard glistening. It just drags the rope back to itself, soundlessly. Emotionlessly.

He wasn't even worth it.

And then suddenly, glowing blue fist.

And then there's Mod. Er, Jokul. Clearly distracted by the danse du macabre going on, Han1 is struck down as though Jokul came home drunk, and stepped on a misplaced toy and took his anger out on the dog. Only, in this case, the dog is a horrific dead thing intent on seeing the rest of the world drown. It, too, hits the water, reaching and uttering its final words: "T-...t-iny... b-beard...." Blurblurblurb.

When Ikavod strikes the deadman's head, it only keeps dragging him onward toward him, "Down, dowwwnnn.... down with meeee..." It speaks through a mouth split in half, hanging low as purple-red gloop bubbles up from inside, spilling down from near the socket of one of those white eyes.


"BIG ONE!" buzzes Virton towards Ikavod, noticing that the big man is still encoiled in the foul undead's ropes. With that vicious hit on the undead, Virton takes advantage of the whole situation as the cannon on his shoulder charges and pops up, and the gunslinging Golem raises both hands up to the cannon, gripping and holding it in place. With a blurt of eye-hurting red lightning, the death ray impacts on the Han2, blasting it back into it's eternal rest.


Ezriya notes that her party is dealing with the hanged men quite effectively, as they were being effectively beaten to death...redeath?

...Super death?

In either case, Ezriya throws in her two cents, as she creates another magic missile and flings it at a far flung sailor-man, crashing against it's skull.


Charity, as a friend - Jokul - starts clobbering her target, she draws herself up on her feet, before delivering a smashing elbow to one of the zombies, and seeing it drop, leaps upon the second with an oruch roar, dropping a kick, and then a simple straight punch sped by the internal magic of her ki at another zombie, letting both drop.

Then she stands still, exhaling, and grinning toothily at the rest of her comanions. "See? Without bears, dwarfs are no match for justice."


As Virton remedies the entanglement situation Ikavod extends him a curt nod before catching movement from the corner of his eye. It's a quick, brutal thing the way the glaive sweeps out on the multiplied force of that strong, heavy limb. The haft quickly obliterates the creature's ankle whereupon it stumbles to fall flat upon its face. Unceremoniously, Ikavod takes a step forward before driving the heel of his boot into the back of the creature's head. The result isn't pretty nor is it very clean but it does just as intended. "Is that the last of them?" he inquires, glancing around.


ST:

There is a massacre; bits of waterlogged flesh everywhere, ropes drifting to shore, unattached, rotting rapidly, sinking down and away as they entangle with one another and are lost to the sea. The final hangman makes one last, desperate attempt at justice for he and his crew, charging toward Ikavod, until it's impaled on the reach of his spear, and sinks back and down toward the water, hands resting over the wound as it pulls away; one last, fragile remnant of life, as though it felt the pain again. The horn blows again in the distance -- a lonely, hollow thing that brings a blemish to the vermillion skies that speak well of the morning's fortune for sailors traveling here and abroad.

Splash, splish...


"Guilty then, guilty now..."

"Into the dark, there we drown..."

"Down with you, into the sea..."

"It was not me, it was... the Marquis..."


A breath, trapped for so long by that strangling thread that bound it here, is loosed with a shuddering gasp as it slithers away into the lapping waves, and he, too, is gone. A final, chilling message from beyond the grave, from those wronged once, and punished twice.

~Fin

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