In the small, smoggy town of Skur, the most southern part of a barren continent in which the North reaches its pinnacle, not much is going on. Though be it the end of the work week, it seems that no one is celebrating. The seas surrounding this bay town have been over fished due to the lack of alternative meals in the region, and the only trading that goes on is that of the northern fur trade. Together this causes dismay and hunger to the sailors, deckhands, and fishermen for hire about the town. The only pitch of relief is that of the local bar, where they can drown their sorrows in the cheapest, most potent, and certainly the most questionably sanitary drinks. On a fog-surrounded night there is an omen of bitter frost, the only gift from the North Skur ever receives, that will certainly roll in and stay for many months to come. The bar is alight with lanterns that offer no mirth, as does nothing in the establishment. Few men speak over a hush whisper, even the barkeep appears to be a menacing mute. One can hear the soft notes of a slim, strange guitar coming from a bar patron who looks to be the only one in a good mood, as he attempts to entertain a couple low-lives with not much luck. For the past couple weeks there have been new regulars that are far from the average lowly presence one finds usually in the bar, as the night drones on the three men and one woman grab each other's attention, as one man grabs all of their interest.
At the bar Quinn O'Malley, a young man in travelling clothes strokes his red beard and fiddles the cold iron of his hand-me-down flintlock pistol, as a means to occupy his mind on anything other than what he could have possibly just been served by the grunting, glaring but otherwise accommodating barkeep. His eyes follow the swaying of a full-handed barmaid, not being able to explain the trashy-to-hot ratio she possessed, or why it was such a treasure. As his neck cranes to follow her last movements out of sight, he realizes what is sitting to the left of him, ordering a whiskey and asking for the cleanest glass the bar had to offer. The slight startle was due to a rat-folk man named Skrim Ninnec, a scurry rodent looking a little rough around the edges, but brandished in tried-and-true armor and well-equipped for a scrap, travel abroad, or even a crusade. The rat-folk bristles as the hand of a squat, balding man in the silken robes of a merchant strokes his coarse fur, and asks Skrim if affording a drink is all he desired. As the rat replied defensively, the man interjected with a daring proposal. If Skrim only showed up tomorrow morning, he would receive 500 gold, plus even more for getting the job done. As Skrim takes a gulp from his alarmingly overflowing glass, the man turns to Quinn and repeats the offer, asking the young man if he wants to retire after only one job, living comfortable for the rest of his life. Quinn shyly agrees to meet tomorrow morning aboard the Athan Mi'ere, but not before questioning the man of his intent. He replies that he has been scouting promising talent for the last three weeks, before his ship sailed out. The two new colleagues stare as the man walks away calmly to a table hosting a lizardly woman who seems to have fallen asleep atop her ale and potatoes. As he gets Dali Onasys to come to, she tells him to go away, but changes her mind as he chimes "500 gold, and a possibly 50,000 if the job is up to standard; now wouldn't that eradicate the struggle in your life?" Before dropping back to her pillow of potatoes she can't stop the whirlwind of thought if a sorceress had ever made that much treasure.
An hour drones on as everyone cautiously sips their drink, all except the brave throat of Skrim, who takes a gulp and immediately is flushed in heat before coming out into a mere headspin from the gasoline-esque shoe polish the barkeep had overflowed into his stained glass. The soft notes of the bredea instrument are drowned out by the slurred shouting of a man that was sitting at a table listening for some hours. The man yells "What did he talk to you about?" in an escalating crescendo until a slam ends his shouts and the bar falls even more silent. The tan, mustached man donned in an open blouse and shapely slacks jumped up from his perch on the table to smash his instrument in the man's face before an acrobatic cartwheel over the drunken man's head to run out the door. The mutters climax before the man, black hair pasted greasily to his gaunt face, streaks of blood and wood stuck to his skin, points at Skrim, who is playing a game at the bar that consists of how small of sips he can take of the whiskey. The man mutters audibly as he approaches the rat-folk, speaking directly to Skrim only when the man grabbed him by the fur. The sentence was punctuated by the lightning-quick shattering of the full glass on the gaunt man's face, followed by a punch from the scrappy fist of the armored rodent. The man improvises a weapon as well, but is too weak and wobbly to commit the act of throwing a chair at Skrim, who although is inebriated, side-steps the throw with ease. As rotting tables collapse, with the two-man brawl to follow, patrons begin to leave, running out with each other's coin and attempting to barricade themselves from the angry patrons who hadn't had the idea to steal gold until the others had already acted. Skrim stomps on the man's gut until he passes out buried in a halved table. All the while Quinn had finally gained an audience with a barmaid by the name of Maeridan, whom dropped valuable information, saying that strange, nicely dressed folk had frequented the bar for the last couple weeks, but the squat, balding man had only visited the bar once, that very night. Before Quinn attempted a peck on the cheek for his new found heartthrob, she blocked his scruffy face to alert him that her husband, the barkeep, was only allowing the talk because Quinn had left such a generous tip on the table earlier that night.
Climbing over the labyrinth of overturned tables, Skrim is assisted by O'Malley, who carries the near- comatose sorceress Dali on his shoulder, they head together to the inn across the bay, since the one above the bar had been closed ever since the patrons complained about blood dripping down into their food, drink, and cards from the ceiling. On the way they approached the yelling of a man to the three story window that was flung open, but seemingly speaking to no one. Coming in closer Quinn recognized him as the tanned, flamboyant man who fled the bar earlier that night. As his coos for love, his last night on earth, spreading his fantastic genes into the next generation, among other fairly good reasons for coitus, a young woman appears at the window, correcting the man that he has been calling her the wrong name and she doesn't want to talk to him. Before she could say another word, a grappling hook attached to her sill, and the nimble man swung an arc that one could tell was just bragging because of how non-functional it was.Taking off his hat, slicking back his hair, and pulling a rose from his sleeve he entered the window. Moments later another window a story below shattered. As the mass rolling on the ground like a ball unwinds, it suddenly sprung into a leaping run, as the mustached man bolted for his life from a man wielding a musket. As they disappear into the distance, Quinn, Dali and Skrim made their way to the open inn. After explaining to the innkeeper that they needed multiple rooms an entire night and explaining that the situation was not what it seemed, she grumpily charged them nearly nothing. They all headed to bed for a couple hours before the sun rose, wherein they shuffled all their belongings into their packs and scrambled for the dock.
One by one they climbed the gangplank to board the ship, greeted by the bald merchant with an assurance they would come, and a small purse clanking with the promised gold. Looking around, they see this schooner, the Athan Mi'ere, is of a different breed than the ones the adventurers had journeyed on before; the sails were broader, the sides had intricately cut holes big enough to fit a cannon through, the front of the vessel resembled a bit more of a bayonet than a bow, the captain had an assistant meticulously moving nautical instruments, and the sail closest to the stern had a slender lady in drapes of satin meditating on a platform, facing directly into the biggest sail. Slight impressions of her translucent silk were found on all of the crew, men and women alike.
Just then hands slam on the port side of the ship, with a quick grunt a mustached man is standing on the deck railing, looking about as he removes his hat to slick back his dark curls before donning his feathered hat again. The bredea player had a look on his face of self-satisfaction that one would never associate with the man that was first run out of the lowest-grossing establishment on record, then shunned out of a midnight reverie by his targeted lover, then chased down the bay by a musket wielding maniac. What could the job possibly be? Why is this ship not have one scallywag in sight (except for that of the adventurers), and who was this mysterious man with seemingly gold to spare? As he invites them to sit with him at breakfast, the motley crew of adventurers follows, eager for what happens next.
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