[Game Thread] A Sunken Ship Of Mildewed Scrolls

[Aosaw]

"Well, this is an unfortunate turn of events."

Nemat sits up on the floor and looks around. He recalls what Underbite said in his room at the Formidably Maid. Welcome to the crew of the Wormwood, he said. I've been press-ganged, Nemat realizes. He sighs. Might as well make the most of it.

He's dressed much as he was before, though wearing a bit more clothing than in his room. He doesn't recognize the rags he's wearing now, but it's better than nothing, and he sends up a silent note of gratitude to Desna for bearing his modesty in mind. He runs a hand, damp from the floor, through his scalp, damp from the air. And it's roughly at that moment that the bosun appears, looking very Detect Evil - I'm assuming the bosun is evil, but this will confirm it definitively.unfriendly. Better do as he says, Nemat tells himself. For now, at least.

Before the bosun can think of an excuse to use that whip, Nemat gets to his feet, and plants them. When Kipper steps forward with the other sailors, Nemat gives them all a good Detect Evil is a cone, so that's what this is. The longer I have before they get to me, the more specific information I should be able to get about each of them (with regard to alignment, at least).once-over.

Of course, it doesn't dawn on him until the sailor speaks that they're not speaking in ordinary common sailor-speak. The bosun used terms like swabs, and yardarm, and "flay yer flesh to sausage skins". Suddenly he laughs, abruptly and loudly. "Oh!" he says. "You're pirates. That explains..." he sniffs the air, and scrunches up his nose. "...a lot."

He nods to the others still trying to wake up. "Best get on your feet, fellas. This ain't no fever dream."

[kenneth]

Aydan belches. It's long and loud and ends a little wet. He spits a sour wad of gunk as he sits up.

"I feel awful." He looked it too. He could only open one eye at a time, apparently. Neither seemed to show him anything he wanted to see.

"Piss bucket, piss bucket... Oh, speak of the devil, here comes six of them." Aydan scratches his head and then the scruff of his beard. "So, are we slaves or crew? Either way is fine, really. I just need to know if I'm to be paid or I'll have to take it out on you ugly little shites."

[kingmonkey]

"You won't be paid, my friend," Hyrald replies in a low voice, "I suspect we've been 'volunteered' for our new jobs. And it's probably a good idea to hold off fighting back for now. You don't know how tough these guys might be."

Hyrald watches the bosun approach. The man takes obvious pleasure in cruelty. It's a trait that Hyrald has seen before... more closely than he would have liked. The bosun's antics were over the top, and Hyrald hated him for it already. But he would let that anger pass. It served no practical purpose at this point. Hyrald watched, too, as the boy, Kipper, approached. No doubt he was a bully, too, and would abuse Hyrald and the others.

All in due time, Hyrald thought.

[cyranojoe]

The taste of dead wine on his tongue, puke all over his mouth... the two are one an' tha same, and it triggers an emotional vomit in Naethin as he comes to. 'I... drank? Booze??' The teen's body shakes, hands form fists. 'What tha feck's wrong wi' me?' Images of his family in drunken revelry swim about his vision, blurry, foul, raucous and horrible. Naethin blinks them away, or tries to, and fiercely. His eyes are moist yet dry, throat scratchy, head thumping -- hangovers are not his forte, but he recognizes the experience nonetheless. He'd been celebrating, damn fool. He'd come into money, got paid for a job that wasn't supposed to pan out, and he'd gone out to celebrate. Maybe pick up a woman. Oh, what a woman....

Gathering his wits will take some time, time he don't have, though he ain't figgered it yet. The internal torture of having fallen would normally be enough to leave him mouldering in his pain for at least a few hours, but fate and Besmara would have it otherwise. "On yer feet, ye filthy swabs!" comes the unfamiliar voice, full of piss and vinegar and sounding altogether too much like Uncle Jeorge. Naethin raises his forearm, snap!, in instinctive defense of a blow that doesn't come. Yet.

He opens his eyes. Brown pupils take in their surroundings, amidst uncontrollable blinking. Then they lock on: Boat. Bullies. Beatings.

Pirates. Childhood terrors and wild stories from play rise to mind. His best friend, Darius, had loved stories of pirates; his family, too. The latter had mocked Naethin with claims that he was descended of a mighty captain, bloodthirsty and proud, a hero to boys and leader of men. And then they'd kicked him in the teeth. Hours later, Darius would lift him from the ditch, innocent of the harm done him not long before, and still they would play pirate and marauder, warriors protecting maidens and rogues burying treasure all up and down the Greenwood.

And now here he was, not even a year fled home, captive and slave of goddamn pirates.

The butcher's caress of his bully-boy does not go unnoticed; it produces a twinge in Naethin, and a flash to memories unlived... but he shoves the thoughts away and scrambles to his feet. Hell is coming, might as well be up and ready to face it. How to avoid the beating, though? Can he run?

Even as he's considering his options, the others around him voice their thoughts: one, whip-slender and dark-haired, lets the coming storm know he's unafraid, and that they smell. Fool. And for Naethin, more memories of Darius; though he'd been stout and blonde.

Another brave idiot pipes up, declaring the thunder to be worthy of his urination. FANTASTIC. At least this one looks like he won't break in twain on his first beating. Exotic, kind of like Keriko from back home, only much rougher, in body and demeanor. Oh, he's a guy too, of course.

Caught trying to identify the blurry tattoo on the second man, Naethin almost misses the low whisper of the third fellow. Something about backing down. 'Now him, he ain't so much an idjit,' Naethin thinks. Maybe he'll be smart, an' he'll stay out of it as these guys are stompin' Mr. Keriko and Little Darius.

Damn straight that's what Naethin plans ta do.

There are four others, but they don't leave an impression, and it's clear who's in charge.

"I's up, boss." Head lowered, but eyes aware. Ready for the blow, willing to take a hit or two if it saves him from the real beating. He's been there before.

[Aosaw]

Huh, Nemat thinks. The acrid smells of gunpowder and smoke assault his senses, and for a moment he suspects that the entire ship might be about to burst. But then he identifies the source of the odor: the pirates themselves.

And a moment after that, he realizes that it's not a physical smell he's experiencing, but a psychic one. For whatever reason, these men have the taint of cannons on their very souls. And it doesn't take him very long to figure out where that taint came from.

This ship's about to explode, alright, he realizes. Explode in a flurry of violence, if we're not careful. They might not be as bad as the bosun, but he's definitely left his mark. These aren't your grandmother's pirates. So Nemat allows his smile to vanish, and his eyes to drift to the floor, and he steps back to show the men that he's not about to resist his new position - which is, of course, a dangerous assumption for them to make about him. But they certainly wouldn't know that by looking at him.

[kenneth]

"Slowly now, Bahadir. The deck's not the only thing swaying." Aydan's not the last to his feet, but close enough. Getting both feet under him at the same time seems an insurmountable task. Whether it's the copious amounts of grog he'd swallowed the night before or the drug they'd slipped him, his head felt afire.

It's all he can do to remain standing. He still can't see out of more than one eye at a time, even after swabbing the eye-boogers away with his knuckles. "I need a willow-bark tea before the beatings begin. I have a headache, currently, and want to be able to enjoy it."

Now that the scruffy brown man is standing, a distinct keloid scar can be seen around his neck. It's too long to be a simple slash wound and looks too horrific to have been superficial. He rubs a hand across it as though the wound still pained him, then tries to stretch without falling. He barely succeeds.

[Mal Radagast]

The bosun pointedly ignores your various observations, though Kipper’s face twists up in a slack sort of pouty rage. If someone told you his name came from the way his lips pucker, you might believe it. Of course it could simply be that he’s a slimy little git, and he smells.

The noise rouses those other shapes sharing the darkness with you...mostly smaller shapes, now that you get a decent look, hardly bigger than that (Naethin)Chelish boy. Nothing odd about this – plenty of small folks on ships; they’re good at it. Whatever knocked you out probably hit them harder, if that assh-le bosun didn’t adjust the dose. Only one of them looks human sized, if a bit on the slim side, as it struggles to knees and elbows. Another boy?

Speaking of which, there’s yet another boy whimpering in the corner, trying to hide behind a barrel. No, a gnome...hard to tell what age...he’s wide-eyed and trembling terrified, and you can smell piss. Though this might be on account of he’s found the bucket.

The slim figure coughs out a rough chuckle at Ayden’s joke, and the assh-le bosun in question takes two clomping strides over to the figure and kicks hard. She – you can tell from the sound she makes when the air goes out of her – tumbles back against the hull. Turning around, he pushes the Ayden’s picture has a bit of mongoloid look to it, so I was thinking Tian blood somewhere. I’ll amend this, if necessary.halfbred Tian hard in the back, so that he stumbles toward young Kipper. Behind the bosun’s back, the woman flips him off.

Taking this as an invitation to general violence, the other goons start in. One of them pulls the gnome out of his corner by a shoulder, shiny black boots dragging polish-marks across the weathered wood. Eventually, the little guy finds enough of himself to stagger along. Another one, real fat f-ck, picks a third shape out of the shadow, slings it over his shoulder in a careless haul, then laughs as he gropes the as-yet-unconscious halfling woman. A third thug bends down to do the same, when a gutteral grumbling escapes the last shadowed shape. “If ye tooch ma beard I swear ta my god I will fill ye wit’ lightnins an’ damn the consequences.” The dwarf looks up into the thugs eyes, and the thug takes a step back. Sure, they could kick the piss out of him, but he might get a spell off before. The thug has no wish to be the target of said spell. He spits. The dwarf spits back, and stands up, straightening a long, straggled, storm-grey beard.

Everyone up, or accounted for at least, the bosun grunts and walks behind, pushing or kicking as the mood takes him. The goons push or punch or jostle as they please, mostly just enjoying the power trip. One or two seem a little put out that there wasn’t more of a fight. One or two seem a little relieved. That’s the sort of mix you get, out here.

“Alright ye li’l pricks, up easy an’ no fightin,” the bosun sneers. The way he says it he could mean you, or them, or all of you. Kipper leads the way, quickly joined by an eyepatched goblin with a ragged strip of cloth tied round – her? – chest. (If you keep watching as they ascend, you might notice the goblin grab his hand, before the young man shakes her off.) The fat f-ck and his fondled halfling follow, each step screaking under his weight. The human woman stumbles, and the bloated bastard scoops her up in his other arm. She struggles, but it’s a poor position and no space. From behind, the bosun’s whip cracks. “Up easy don’t mean slow, ye filth! Get!”

Two short flights of stairs...if you look about the middle hold, you mostly see a mess of barrels, buckets, and crates. Several pigs and a few chickens, which don’t seem to account for the preponderance of pig and chicken sh-t, mill about in the empty spaces between. Clearly these are not prosperous times for...well, whatever ship it is you’re aboard. If you’re looking all around, you might also notice that the livestock has an odd sort of shepherd, sitting quietly in the shadows. A very large shepherd, he waves at the procession with a simple amiability. If you look very closely, you may notice that his other arm, the one he isn’t waving with, is chained to the foremast.

Fresh air, finally, on deck – as fresh as it ever gets and it’s a bloody blessing, the way you feel. The women thump loudly onto the deck, but even so you can see the halfling stirring to wake, and that vibrant freshness in the human woman’s eyes. Bright eyes, though you couldn’t put any one color to them, not without drowning in them. Dark red-brown hair, that flashes warm off her cool eyes. She’s pretty, but if she catches you thinking it, she may roll those eyes at you. Not a chance, there.

She looks about, clearly pleased to be at sea, no matter the circumstances. If you look about as well, the first thing you might notice is that there’s no land in sight and only the barest hint of a wake – no hope of escape in the immediate future. You’ll also note that this is a three-mast ship – probably, what, a hundred feet long by thirty wide. Give or take. If the crew berths were down two holds, and the stores were one below, there probably isn’t much room for more than bilges and a coupla cabins. Maybe a galley. Getting to her feet, the redhead smiles to the bosun. “Hey, didn’t I spit in your face last night?”

Crack! Blood wells across her cheek to match her deep red hair, as the bosun closes to her and kicks her back down to knees. He coils the whip and raises it backhand –

“That’ll do, Scourge.” The foredeck is dominated by a huge Garundi man, bald, bearded, gold-ringed...fearsome, for the way he carries himself as much as anything else. You don’t see any of Scourge’s swagger, here, just cold calm and confidence.

The redhead wipes the blood off her cheeck – you might notice that there isn’t so much as a mark left behind – and squints up at the Garundi man. After a moment, she chuckles, lacing her laughter with scorn. “A press-ganging, Harrigan? Really? Isn’t that a bit old-fashioned?”

Scourge scowls, but looks to the Harrigan before he does anything. Harrigan shakes his head, then very comfortably drops himself onto the foredeck steps. He takes up a blackened old pipe, strikes a tindertwig and puffs at it. Slowly, he brings his focus back to the ragged line of new recruits before him. “That’s Cap’n Harrigan to you, lass, and you may call me old-fashioned if it makes you feel better.” He sighs, then, and shrugs. “I had need of new recruits, and my boatswain here has provided them. Job well done, aye?” Puff, puff...puff, puff...he looks around, stands up again. “Mister Plugg!” A young man steps out from under the foredeck’s shade, offers a tight bow to the captain. It matches his tight smile, as well as his tight-cut coat and breeches. If you’re watching for it, you might notice the bosun’s eyes glaze a bit. The captain, if he spots this, chooses to disregard it. “Mister Plugg is going to make pirates o’you bloody lubbers, if he can. I won’t blame ‘im if he can’t, I’ll just throw you overboard.” Turning to go, he pauses a moment. Looking over his shoulder, pipe puffing, he considers whether to add anything. “Two rules are mine,” he decides. “First off, the likes o’you don’t bring your sh-t to me. That’s for Mister Plugg and his patience, not mine. Second – a keelhaulin’ awaits any man or woman what kills my crew. I’m shorthanded, see.” With that, he walks back up to fore.

You’re left in the hands of Mister Plugg and the ever-ready bosun Scourge. Plugg takes a moment to size you up...

DM Note Finally finished it! I am sorry if I take too long...hoping to get my 1/week at least up to 2/week soon. Also, I was trying for too much, I think - tell me if I'm just plowing on without giving you enough to work with. As it is, I almost rolled right ahead here, but I'd really like to see your characters responses to all the new data before we get into the day's activities. The eight of you are standing/sitting/kneeling in a rough line on the main deck - that's four, plus the redheaded human woman, the greybearded dwarf, the halfling girl, and a boyish-looking gnome. Scourge, the bosun, is standing on one side of the stairs up to the foredeck, and Mr. Plugg is on the other. The thugs are still milling about, trying not to have to go back to their duties just yet, and they include the sour-faced Kipper, the fat fellow (named Bloater, though you don't know it yet), the goblin, and maybe one or two others if you'd like to put them in for some reason.

[kenneth]

Looking rather disappointed, Aydan raises a finger and speaks, "What if they happen to accidentally die after you pitch them overboard?"

[Aosaw]

Nemat gives Aydan a wry look. "Getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we? Try to focus on where we are at the moment." He looks to the bosun, and then Mr. Plugg. Neither Scourge nor the first mate seem friendly; but of the two, Nemat gets less of a sense of looming devastation from Mr. Plugg, which brings him a bit of relief. It lasts only a moment, however. I'll have to make some fast, unpleasant friends here, he thinks. Maybe I'll start with her.

He glances at the red-haired woman, but his words are in reference to the bosun. "Well, this is a first," he says. "On this ship, they let the Innuendo, directed toward the red-haired woman. Translation: Scourge is a rabid dog. Maybe it's time someone put him down.

Dice Bluff DC 15:

1d20+8

(5)+8

Total = 13

Anyone else in earshot can try a Sense Motive check to beat my bluff check and figure out what I'm saying; Sandara understands it without a check.dog carry his own leash."

He turns to Mr. Plugg. "If it's all the same to you, mate, I'll take my assignment now. I'm good with ropes and rigging, and I'll get to work straight-away."

[cyranojoe]

In the end, his fellow slaves all hold off on fighting back. Smarter than they talk, for sure. And some of them just keep talking, too. Maybe they like getting their jaws busted? With the way that bosun’s actin’, they’ll be getting theyselves corrected right soon enough. Anyway, Naethin c’n take a couple kicks for a little while. That ain’t nothin’. As for the rest of them… a dwarf, a Halfling, a gnome… they’s all peoples Naethin ain’t seen much before. An’ that friendly lookin’ slave down there with tha livin’ stock. Innaressin’. But he don’t much expect to see any more of ‘em in the near future.

Some people take right to slavery. It’s just in their nature to accept the loss of freedom and choice, and kowtow to another man’s will.

It is not in Naethin’s nature.

Yes, he’d bowed and winced and yielded to the bosun and his thugs when they were all cornered in the darkened hold, but with the sun on his face and wind in his sails, staying here – taking his “assignment”, as the weak-willed fool-boy called it so readily – is the last thing on Naethin’s mind. He couldn’t have been out more than what, six hours? They can’t have been traveling near that long, even if the ship had been rigged to sail soon as they was boarded. A midnight shipping was fine and all for Darius’ stories, but things were never that simple, and it took time to get a ship up to speed. That much he knew, even if it was only because his bones told him so.

As Naethin measures the space around him, the redhead who’d been flung to the deck takes her feet. He admires how steady she stands; his own legs wobble and jerk to and fro. She rolls her eyes at him, and he wasn’t even thinkin’ nothin’ rude about her! Bite that, then… Naethin almost smirks when she gets what-for from the bosun. Likely a whippin’s the least of what they’ll do to her when’s all said an’ done.

He wasn’t gonna be around ta see it, or have ta decide whether ta protect ‘er. Good thing for her, too, seein’ as she was givin’ him the cold one without even tradin’ names yet.

And then, FOOM. A mighty Garundi warrior strides in, an’ Naethin’s skin near about leaps up and crawls off on his own. Ain’t seen one of his breed that size before, though they really wasn’t the same, his pa was Chelish an’ maybe some other relatives, too, bein’ they was in Chelix country an’ all. He sure talked and though like he was backwoods Chelish, but Naethin was raised right proper Garundi, or so his kin had always said. Looking at the man, with his golden rings and exotic bearing, Naethin knew he’d been lied to. Not that that was news, not with his family.

The pipe, though, that was familiar.

Seein’ as the redhead trades a tongue-lashing with the captain an’ don’t get a back-scratch ‘er nothin’ fer it, must be she knows the guy, an’ he’s too cool to care. At that point, Naethin discovers he’s been holding his breath in awe; finally, he releases, breathing out hot air as the colossal Garundi departs. But the teen don’t give the Plugger no second glance, nor a first one, fer that matter. Captain said don’t kill nobody, an’ don’t come cryin’ ta him. Well, yeah, he weren’t plannin’ on any a’ that. Just a couple hours’ swim.

It’ll be long and hard, real hard, and maybe even hopeless – but it weren’t near as long or hard or hopeless as bein’ some bastard’s slave, even if that bastard were a proper Garundi king straight outta one of Darius’ stories. And all this happenin’ ta him because he’d allowed some cursed alcohol to touch his lips late last night. Yeah. Naethin brushed his overlong bangs out of his face. A long swim would be good punishment fer his drinkin’. And there weren’t goin’ ta be a better moment fer a ‘scape than… NOW!

Naethin shoves the nearest figure liable to take a grab at him, and RUNS.

OoC Naethin makes a simple melee attack on someone – whatever would be appropriate to shove them into a group nearby – and then attempts to run across the deck, climb the side, and leap overboard. Up to you all how everybody else reacts.

[Aosaw]

Nemat smiles at the red-haired woman, pleasantly surprised to find a kindred spirit among the morass of sailors. He senses the salt-air smell in her hair, which is quite separate from that of the sea around them, and identifies her quickly enough as a follower of the Pirate Queen. He might be concerned, but she lacks some of the more pungent odors that linger around the crew of the Wormwood. What's more, she seems to have noticed Nemat's affiliation as well, and she hasn't started scowling yet.

Of course, it's in that brief moment of recognition that the youngest among them decides to make his escape. It doesn't dawn on him until the boy is half-way across the deck that the punishment for attempting to escape might not be as severe as succeeding.

There are sharks in these waters, after all.

Too far away or not, Nemat understands the lad's desire for freedom - but death is the wrong way to go about it. Well, I'm not making many friends today, he reflects - and charges after the boy, attempting to tackle him to the deck before he reaches the rail.

OOC Of course, Nemat's action is moot if Naethin fails to get half-way across the deck because he's already been grabbed by a sailor. But it would be a damn shame to lose a PC so early in the game, eh?

[kenneth]

Getting a talking to was not among Aydan's favorite pastimes. It was usually done by someone who's more interested in the sound of their own voice than by someone who actually had anything worth listening to. He found himself in agreement with the tall but weedy fellow who'd cautioned him earlier. Getting to work was infinitely better than getting lectured.

To Aydan the captain seemed an impressive enough fellow. Not so self-important that he needed to avenge every slight and yet fully in control of his ship. He was physically impressive as well, but Aydan didn't put much stock in that. He'd seen what grape-shot can do to a man. "When you get right down to it, we're all just meat. Ask any shark."

"This Master Scourge is someone I could do without, though." Getting a lashing was part of being a sailor. Scourge looked to be the kind that liked to give them, though. It wasn't that the young half-breed was afraid of pain, but that someone might take so much pleasure in it galled him. That and dying under the lash was a hell of a way to go.

The fact that Scourge also looked to be a chicken hawk raised the young man's ire as well. Those types in a position of power seldom took no for an answer. He was constantly amazed the women didn't periodically go on killing sprees with all the harassment they endured. Aydan put the man on his short list of people who disparately needed to die.

Mister Pugg, on the other hand, seemed to be in desperate need of a blow job. Being so wound up at such a young age didn't speak well for the man's longevity. While Aydan hadn't seen enough of the man to know his worth, he was sure he wouldn't like him. At least not until he got a few mugs of grog in him.

Aydan shrugs. "Don't have to like a man to respect him. I sure hope he gets this over with. I need to puke."

[Mal Radagast]

Turning, Naethin bowls right over the gangly gnome, who staggers backward into Kipper, who had gotten back to swabbing, but close enough to watch. Kipper cries out in surprise, which elicits the unwanted aid of the eyepatched goblin, who drops out of the rigging and onto the gnome. Scourge, following the wrong disturbance, marches in to break it up while Naethin makes his own break. Nemat, with his longer legs, has almost caught the lad up when young Mister Plugg draws his cutlass and turns in one smooth motion.

What follows is a bit distorted to any observer's eye. The air grows humid, sticky humid, much more than usual, even at sea. Stormy humid. Naethin is just atop the head rail, with Nemat hardly a step behind him, when Plugg makes a backhand swipe with his cutlass - from ten-fifteen feet away - but if it has any effect, you don't see it. In fact, you don't see Naethin or Nemat, either, but you hear splashing a moment later.



Someone shouts, "Man, overboard!"

Captain Harrigan stomps back into view, swiftly takes in the scene, favors the frowning Mister Plugg with a pointed glare, and turns around. "Rosie! Make ready to kedge!" A few steps to the foremast, and Harrigan turns around, one arm bracing in the rig-ropes. "Heave to, lads! Summun drop the kedge, and try not to drop it on their idiot heads!"

DM So I'll need some checks from CJ and Aosaw : DC 15 Swim or Acrobatics to avoid taking 1d3 nonlethal damage from the fall. Then throw in a couple more Swim checks just to see how you get along in the water. You can interpret those pretty much however you like, they're just to make sure you don't fumble. Incidentally, the kedge is a smaller anchor used to execute hard turns, but more slowly than dropping the main anchor. The ship's moving quick enough that throwing a line has a marginal chance of success, even if they were willing to grab it.

[Aosaw]

Nemat looks around, surprised to find that the water seems to have met him before he hit it. He didn't plan on jumping overboard, really - but now that he's done it, he makes the best of it. It won't do anyone any good, after all, if he lets the boy drown.

Turning his free-fall into a

Dice Swim:

1d20+4

(18)+4

Total = 22

dive, Nemat does his best to keep his

Dice Swim:

1d20+4	(13)+4			Total = 17
1d20+4	(1)+4			Total = 5
1d20+4	(4)+4			Total = 8

head above water while he struggles to find and grab hold of Naethin.

[cyranojoe]

Naethin's intense focus on his purpose slips slightly -- the cries he recognizes as the bully-boy Kipper knife into his awareness, cutting a thin, vicious smile across lips that would rather be focused on the job at hand, but vengeance is a tasty dish, even if it's only tasted on the way to an almost certain death.

He's gonna make it. 'I's gonna make it... gonna make it...!'

Climbing up on the rail, Naethin's heart shoots to his throat, slams about his upper chest like a bird trying to take flight out of a cage in the act of being covered, the avian refusing to accept the darkness that's coming to envelop it.

Deep breath... SLAM! interrupted by a collision half-expected, but coming in unanticipated form. Neither body nor hand, bullet nor sword, but... water?

But now he's falling, and

Dice Swim:

1d20+7

(11)+7

Total = 18

he'd better do sh*t about it, 'r he'll jes' be another pile a' chum been tossed overboard fer tha sharks.

Turns out it weren't too hard a jump, even with the big splash what hit him up top, an' he hits the surface in more of a dive than the bellyflop he really expected. Sure weren't 'nough ta kill him, which he may er may not give thanks fer later. Fer now, it's time ta

Dice Swim:

1d20+7	(20)+7			Total = 27
1d20+7	(3)+7			Total = 10
1d20+7	(17)+7			Total = 24

swim, and that goes pretty well, almost easy... except some jackwagon's decided ta prank him and jump his bones!

What the--? Mer-man? Swamp monster? Davy Jones hisself? Naethin don't know what's going on, but some lanky-legged sea monster's decided it wants him fer lunch, an' that sure as sh*t don't suit him! The teen

Dice Melee:

1d20+4

(15)+4

Total = 19

lashes out almost blindly, but feels something connect here an' there. Fighting while ya swim ain't the easiest thing ta do, an' anyway, he only jes' now hit the goddamn water, but it seems like he done okay, fer what it's worth. Too bad he don't have his eatin' knife. Shore could use it 'bout now.

"Shove off an' bite it, ya--!!" The rest of Naethin's curse is swallowed by the sea, while he swallows all too much of the sea in return.