It was before sunrise when the first wave hit, rocking the Moradin's Glory back and forth and causing one of its passengers to fall out of the makeshift bed he was sleeping in. This was Jaran Varden - playwright, thief, and, now adventurer.
Jaran got this feet, looking around him. He was in the Glory's cargo hold - he had fallen asleep after one his favourite activities: bedding a young elven woman, who, he observed, still lay fast asleep in the collection of barrels, crates, and blankets the two had been using as a bed.
By examination, the Elven woman couldn't even be 75, and a greater man than Jaran might take issue with sleeping with a person who could be hardly be considered a young adult. However, Jaran justified his escapade, he didn't spend all those years in the Bellmoral Thieves' Guild to preach to himself about morality and the law.
Luckily for his bedmate, the storm hadn't woken her. As for the rogue, however, the violent rocking of the ship and sound of thundering rain reverberating through the below decks didn't lend well to rest, and so he did the next best thing: He located his clothes, and all except the vest he usually wore as an outer layer, dressed before heading up the ladder to the upper deck.
The situation proved worse than Jaran had expected. Waves that could be no smaller than three stories battered the sides of the Glory, not only sending her careening from side to side, but also causing water to forcefully wash across the deck. All this illuminated only by flashes of lighting, each followed by roaring thunder in its wake. Truly, Jaran feared, he might have made a mistake taking this voyage.
There were only a few figures on the deck in these conditions, most being Dwarves. As the name suggested, the Moradin's Glory was a Dwarven vessel - in fact, the known skill of Dwarven craftsmen was the only thing keeping Jaran from falling to his knees and praying to every oceanic deity he could think of. It also meant that the crew were no taller than five feet, making one person on the top deck stand out amongst the rest: A beautiful young woman about Jaran's age, dressed in a worn, military-style jacket and carrying both a longsword and flintlock sidearm on a belt around her waist.
The bard vaguely recognized this woman as the passenger in the quarters next to his. They had had no interaction, as Jaran hadn't spent much time in his room, but he could remember seeing her short brown hair and beautiful face and thinking to himself that, should his advances on the Elf be spurred, she'd be the next target of his infamous charm.
Jaran approached, and tried to start conversation with the topic that was, no doubt, on everyone's mind: "Crazy weather we're having."
"Ye reckon 'tis bad?" The woman raised an eyebrow, "Ye ain't seen anythin'." Her voice was full of an accent Jaran recognized as belonging to the Kingdom of Keoland's coastal regions - which, considering the Glory's destination of Saltmarsh was located there, made sense.
"If thirty-foot waves threatening to sink this ship isn't the worst the sea has to offer us, I think I might stay on land for a while." Jaran responded, shrugging slightly.
"Aye, ye better." The woman agreed, a strong smugness in her voice, "Nah everyone can handle Talos' glory, can they, cap'n?"
"No, I do not believe so, lassie." The dwarven captain chuckled, causing Jaran to grimace, and not just from the rain biting against his face. The rogue decided to steer the conversation towards the true purpose of his visit, to avoid further bite from the two obviously sea-trained individuals.
"How will this affect our arrival date in Saltmarsh?" Jaran inquired.
"We were jus' natterin' about that, actually." The woman responded before the Dwarf could, "We be lootin' a detour."
Although Jaran had trouble understanding this woman's odd dialect, he could understand the word 'detour', and could assume 'looting'' meant 'taking'.
"Where to and how long?" He cut straight to the chase once more.
"One day, laddie." The Dwarf finally got the chance to speak, "And to the Styes, the closest city with a functioning port."
'Functioning'. That was an odd one. Jaran had never been to the Styes, but from what he'd heard of it, nothing there was 'functioning' there. Formerly called the Island of Pleasure, the Styles used to be a glorious resort for the rich and famous, until tragedy after tragedy struck - war, famine, plague, you name it. Over time, the Island of Pleasure had turned into a massive ghetto.
Still, he was in no place to complain. Dwarves knew their craftsmanship better than he, and so if this captain felt his ship wouldn't stand the storm, who was Jaran to question him? The bard sighed, putting his hands in his pockets to get them out of the rain and nipping cold that accompanied it. "How long until we arrive?"
The sun had just risen when the Glory docked in the Styes, and it was just how Jaran had pictured it: the decaying remains of a once noble port city. Under bent gables, the carcasses of its houses leaned against one another - languid, broken, and awaiting peace of collapse. Door frames sagged, dislocated from sod walls heavy with mildew, while splintering timbers supported rotten boardwalks like broken limbs, disappearing into the thick, rancid water of the harbour below.
Although most of the passengers elected to remain on board, Jaran was not one to sit around and do nothing. There was a thieves' guild in the Styes, which meant he could easily find himself amongst friends. But first came a more important bit of business: finding a place where he could get a stiff drink.
As Jaran disembarked, he found himself alongside the woman from yesterday, dressed in different clothes except for her jacket, and carrying her sword and pistol once more. This wasn't surprising - Jaran himself had also taken his armourmnets. Aside from hidden daggers and thieves' tools, he had a rapier on one side of his toolbelt and a flintlock on the other. He had no will to become another casualty of the poverty and crime of the Styes, after all.
"Happy t' be on land again, landlubber?" The woman taunted Jaran once the gangplanks had been walked and they stood firmly on the pier. To be honest, Jaran was quite happy, but he wasn't about to admit that.
"Happy to be an ass to strangers, sea dog?" he shot back. This elicited a laugh from the woman.
"Landlubber's got sass!" She chuckled, "I'll give 'im that. Ye can call me Aldrava. Aldrava Hollace. Who might ye be?"
"Jaran..." Jaran extended a hand, "...Varden."
There were three possible responses to the name 'Jaran Varden', based off if she had seen his hit play, The Virtue of Embers, and her opinion of nobility. He was going to wager she hadn't seen it. Although the Virtue was a sensation back in Bellmoral, it was mostly such for the nobility, and she didn't seem the type to be a noble. So, he was expecting a casual response, not one of awe that she was meeting a man who had entertained the nobility, or one of disgust that he had associated with the pretentious highborns of society.
Much to his surprise, as Aldrava took his hand, an air of recognition came across her face, "Ye wrote th' Virtue!" she exclaimed, "I knew ye looked familiar!"
Jaran smirked. Maybe he did have a chance with this woman after all. Even if he was currently a one-hit wonder, the fact that he could entertain the elite of Bellmoral had gotten him in bed with many a woman since it became a sensation.
"Guilty as charged." Jaran smiled, taking Aldrava's hand and guiding it to his lips, where he placed a soft kiss on her knuckle.
"Shove it up yer arse, Jaran." Aldrava rolled her eyes, "Yer fancy play only proved that people 'ave low standards when it comes t' theater."
"Ouch." the playwright winced.
"But." Aldrava cut in, "ye've earned yourself a seat next t' me at th' bar. I wants t' see if th' landlubber can hold his drink."
Jaran sighed. 'Mixed signals' was an understatement. Just as Jaran was about to ask if Aldrava knew where a bar was located, a new figure emerged from the Glory and came down the gangplank, this one immediately catching the attention of both humans.
The figure's resemblance to a large toadstool mushroom and obvious fungal nature suggested it was a Myconid, but Jaran hadn't remembered seeing something so odd when sailing on the Glory for the past three days. Yet, clearly it had been aboard - as it was currently lumbering down the ramp to shore
"How long has he been aboard?" Aldrava raised an eyebrow, confirming to Jaran that his observational abilities hadn't gone soft.
"I have no idea." Jaran affirmed, "First I've seen it."
As the two prepared to discuss this strange occurrence, though, the Myconid approached them, and two hands reached to the hilt of their respective swords, just in case. Luckily, the Myconid didn't seem to mean trouble - instead, it simply stared at the two for a bit.
"Hello?" Jaran asked, cautiously. Still no response, at least not verbally. Instead, the mushroom pointed with one hand to Jaran, then Aldrava, then finally to itself, before its hand returned to once more hanging loosely at its side.
"I reckon he wants t' travel wit' us?" Aldrava seemed just as confused as Jaran at this creature's behaviour. "Guess he doesn't want t' be alone in th' Styes. Can nah say I blame 'im, this bum town."
Jaran had to agree. A creature as exotic as a Myconid was going to attract a lot of attention - and in a 'bum town' like the Styes, that was not a positive thing.
"Well, we're just going to get a drink, yeah?" The playwright reasoned, "I guess he can come."
"Wha''s yer name?" Aldrava asked the Myconid, "if ye're goin' t' drink wit' us, we needs somethin' t' call ye."
Once again, the fungus remained mute, simply staring at Aldrava with the two glowing orbs that (one could assume) passed for its eyes.
"Right." Aldrava nodded, "Strong 'n silent. I'll call ye 'Shroom' if that's okay wit' ye."
'Shroom' didn't seem to protest.
'The Bat & Dog' was the first tavern the group of three came across, located just three minutes of walking aimlessly through the Styes. It was a run down place, but seemingly less decrepit than the other buildings, and so its dive bar status was ignored and soon the two humans were seated at a booth, Shroom opting to remain standing to the side of the table.
Three copper pieces were paid by each of the Party, and in turn drinks were brought out to them. However, one thing was on both humans' minds: Although it still hadn't spoken, Shroom had ordered an Orcish ale by pointing at it on the menu, and paid for it, yet it didn't seem to have a mouth with which to drink it. Did it have a hidden mouth? If not, how did it plan to consume?
Although neither of the two knew exactly what they expected, the answer came in a form they certainly didn't: Shroom took the ale and poured it on itself, akin to watering a plant. Logically, this made sense. He was, as far as they were aware, a plant. Still, it elicited a laugh from Jaran, followed by chuckle from Aldrava.
"So, landlubber, ye're a writer." Aldrava began, once a few sips of each of their drinks had been taken, "Nah necessarily a good'un, but 'tis yer trade. Yet I found ye wit' cutlass 'n gun, on a galleon t' a foreign land. Why?"
"Inspiration." Jaran replied, simply enough, "Plays don't write themselves. I need material." He decided not to mention the letter. The thieves' guild in Bellmoral had intercepted a letter to the mercenaries guild, detailing an assignment that, albeit not well defined, was lucrative enough that Jaran felt it could get him out of the poverty that came with one's inspiration well running dry.
"You're a…" The writer began, "Actually, I'm not sure what you are."
Aldrava leaned in across the table, and for a moment, Jaran couldn't help but glance down her top. "I be a marine." She said at last, her voice hardly above a whisper, "Or at least I was. Quit th' life a few years back." That would explain the military uniform jacket, and the knowledge about sailing that had inflated her ego earlier that morning.
"Keoland?" Jaran guessed.
"Aye, Keoland." Aldrava nodded, "Served her fer six years afore th' sexism got t' me. Men, hardly more competent than ye, were promoted ahead o' me each month."
"And now you're an adventurer? Or just going back home?"
"'t'would loot a lot t' brin' me back ship, landlubber." Aldrava shook her head, leaning back, "No, me guild got a letter. Some noble sort be assemblin' a crew t' go on a mission, 'n ye wouldna believe th' loot he's offerin'."
Jaran raised an eyebrow. "Was it Aubreck Drallion by any chance?" He couldn't help but ask.
"Aye. Somethin' in Saltmarsh, wouldna say wha'. But he needs a crew, 'n th' pay be fantastic. Ye know 'im?"
Now it was Jaran's turn to lean across the table, lowering his voice as his companion had done earlier. "I got the letter too." He admitted, "Well, my guild did. You're not going to believe this, but I'm en route to Saltmarsh for the same reason."
A half-grin crossed Aldrava's face. "Then I guess this makes us a Party. Me 'n a landlubber, who would 'ave guessed?"
Jaran returned the grin. "I guess it does."
Thirty minutes and nine copper pieces later, Jaran and Aldrava walked out of the Bat & Dog, followed closely by Shroom. Already, the Myconid was getting some odd looks, and not just became it was literally pouring drinks on itself a few minutes ago.
"So, wha' now, landlubber?" Aldrava inquired.
"Fucked if I know." Jaran responded with a shrug, "You're the sea dog, and we're in a port town."
"Nah a port town I've ever been t' afore." Aldrava countered, "But I suppose a bit o' walkin' can nah hurt, thar has t' be somethin' t' do around here."
Jaran agreed with a nod, and the two began to walk down the street, looking at building signs and facades for something that might pique their interest.
They didn't find one, however, instead finding quite a scene in what passed for the Styes' city market. An aged man dressed in grey robes brandished a holy symbol against an onslaught of rocks and taunts, tossed at him by a small crowd.
"Please!" The man begged, "He wasn't a murderer! Even if he was, nobody knew! I surely didn't! He never told me anything!"
The crowd was undeterred. Although the rocks bounced harmlessly off a bubble emitting from the holy symbol, each projectile got a bit further, and it was clearly only a matter of time until the Sanctuary gave way.
This gave Jaran and Aldrava pause. On one hand, this man was clearly being harassed, on the other, they were new to the Styles, causing trouble might not be the best course of action. The decision if to intervene or not was a difficult one.
It was Shroom who made the decision for them, lumbering towards the poor man and his hassles and positioning its fungal body between the two. Just as the lynch mob began murmuring among themselves and the rocks became less frequent, Shroom extended its staff, a ball of flame engulfing the end.
Although the fire flickered and licked at the tip of Shroom's staff, the wood did not burn or turn to ash. This was magic - surprising Jaran and Aldrava as much as the crowd. It was sufficient; the common folk of the Styes knew better than to mess with one capable of controlling the elements, and they scattered, blending back into the crowds that wandered the streets or simply fleeing altogether.
Once he was sure there was no threat left, Shroom ended its spell, the fire flickering for only a few moments before going out like one had blown on a candle. The man behind him also ended his Sanctuary spell, and as Jaran and Aldrava approached, he looked them up and down.
"T-thank you!" The man enthused, "Thank you so much! The Lantern Ghost Murders! They have turned people into monsters! Paranoia! Lynching! And it's all covered up!"
"Slow down, scallywag." Aldrava ordered, "'twas Shroom here who saved yer life, we don't wants t' hear yer tale."
Just as the man was about the apologize, Jaran spoke up. "Honestly, I do." He commented, "We need something to do. What's the harm in listening to an old man ramble for a bit?"
Aldrava sighed. "This was nah wha' I had in mind." she protested before giving in, "But I suppose 'twill do."
"Then come!" The man motioned constantly with his hands as he spoke, as if somehow being too still would cause him discomfort, "Let's go to my place! I have food! And drink! W-we can- I mean you can- you'll be quite comfortable!"
A modest wood-and-brick building sat among the Alchemist's Quarter, a large district housing all sorts of chemical work that would be frowned upon in a more civilized city. It was here that the three adventurers were lead, and here that they found themselves eating stale bread and drinking cheap ale as they sat in rotting chairs surrounded by half-finished clockwork inventions, the smell of grease, and shelves of books on every imaginable topic.
The man Shroom had saved stood before them, pacing and making grand gestures as he explained his situation: He was named Sherborne Refrum, and he was a solitary individual with few who he could call friends. The one he had once considered his closest friend was Jarme Loveage, a man whose execution Refrum had attended only the previous day. The memory, it was apparent, still haunted the tinkerer.
"The Lantern Ghost Murders!" Refrum became more excited, "Terrible, terrible things! For half a year, each night new victims would be slayed in the most gruesome ways! Then, without fail, left in public places to be discovered the next morning. Oh, those poor people who had to find the bodies… they were never the same…"
"Oh, but that isn't all! The Militia, they hardly raised a finger! Sure, they put on a show of investigating each crime scene, but they hardly went on after that! They didn't put any extra patrols in areas where the Lantern Ghost struck, or- or anything!"
"How did they catch yer heartie, then?" Aldrava inquired. Despite her initial resistance to this meeting, she had proven quite interested in the story.
"They- they didn't!" Refrum made an excited gesture, "It was a poor, poor woman… found Jarme standing right over a mutilated corpse! Covered in blood! Knife in hand! But… something was different about him, I heard. Jarme- Jarme was a kind and gentle soul, and sane as any man can be! But, when they found him, he was distant… quiet... until he flew into these… incoherent ramblings! He went to the gallows a loon, a loon I tell you! Of course, I tried to investigate myself. But there's only so much a man can do, and the Militia, they were always of no help! They blocked me at every turn, even when I offered to cast Speak on Jarme's corpse!"
Jaran moved to stroke his beard before remembering he had shaved his facial hair when he left Bellmoral.
"Oh, but it gets worse!" Refrum insisted, suddenly flying into another fit of excitement, "They threatened to lock me up in Hopene'er, just like Jarme! If I continued my investigation, I mean! Which is why I come to you, noble adventurers. They can't lock you up! Well, I mean, they can, but I reckon they won't. You have that… Thing! That mushroom man! That Myconid! They wouldn't dare mess with you so long as he's around!"
Jaran paused, his hand once again reaching to where his beard would have been. His facial hair had been in a style popular with the nobility of Bellmoral - he had shaven it to better blend in with the common man, but was now beginning to regret it. Surely, he looked like a fool constantly reaching to his face, only to come away empty.
"What's there to investigate?" He inquired at last, "They caught Jarme with knife, body, and insanity. I'm going to take it he didn't have an alibi?"
"Aye." Aldrava nodded, "He might 'ave been sane when ye knew 'im, but it jus' seems t' me th' Abyss had a grip on his mind when ye weren't lookin'."
"Ah, but- but!" Refrum raised an aged finger, "The Lantern Ghost didn't stop! Today! This morning! A young fisherman called Raif - poor soul - he was murdered in the exact same way! The Guard, they've been doing their best to cover it up, but word spreads! Put it all together and what do you get?!"
"A framing." Jaran affirmed, "We'll look into it. But we're only here for a day, so don't expect miracles."
"Thank you!" Refrum grinned from ear to ear, "Blessings be upon you, adventurers! But be warned! I believe there are forces at work - dark ones! And I believe they have formed a massive conspiracy! I believe they put a curse on Jarme - a horrible one that twisted his mind! Then, when he was caught, they wrapped their hand around his brain and- and squeezed! Of course, whoever is in this conspiracy- whoever runs it, they have power over the guards! That would explain the quick execution, the cover up of poor Raif! It would explain everything!"
Much to Jaran's surprise, Aldrava didn't seem to have any objections to running a little investigation of their own. Perhaps, he pondered, it was because they had nothing else to do for their day on detour. Or, perhaps, she had a more altruistic side.
"The Council must be involved in this!" Refrum continued ranting, "And I am sure they are watching me! My reputation as a thorn in the side of the council... nobody will speak to me. But you, not only do you have a magic mushroom! You have no reputation! People will talk to you! So, go! Go to Hopene'er Asylum! That's where Jarme was held his last days! That is where you're sure to find clues!