“How?!? How can he be asleep?!?!” screeches Gerrick, as he nods his head towards the sleeping form of Bartholomew Rhum, who is snoring amidst a tarp of barrels, oblivious to the waves and rain that are drenching him and the holy symbol of Melora that is bouncing around his chest.
“Why not?” shouts Dunbar over the racket as he gestures to the churning sea surrounding them, “One might say this is his temple!”
“At this moment, it feels more like the realm of the Bitch Queen”, replies Ulaanbaatar. At this the sailor turned cleric cocks one eye open and glares at the half-orc.
“Only a fool would invoke the name of Umberlee,” he says sternly, “when The Queen of the Deep be reaching for him.” Suddenly, the elf Asturean scrambles over the cargo pile and settles himself into the pocket with his friends.
“They’re making for land.” he yells over the storm, “I swear I saw lights ashore. Luck might be with us and Luskan may be close if we can make landfall!” Just then one of the seamen stumbles into their niche, his face worried. He drops a coil of rope at the group’s feet.
“Captain says the storms worsening, and we’re about to hit some bigger waves!”, he points at the rope, “Tie yourself to the ship if you don’t want to be washed overboard!” As suddenly as he arrives, he lurches away quickly hollering more instructions out to the crew.
The dwarf wastes no time. He grabs the rope and begins to feverishly tie himself to the mast, his breath coming in ragged whimpers.
“This isn’t natural!” shouts Asturean above the din of the tempest, “I’ve never seen anything like this!”
Suddenly, there is a terrible sound of snapping timber and groaning keel. The boat lurches horribly to one side, throwing all but the secured dwarf to the deck. Gerrick‘s eyes are wide in fear, as the sounds of screaming sailors can be heard over the howling storm.
“She’s going down!” hollers Bartholomew as he scrambles to his feet. “Get the dwarf off the mast and make for the row boats!”
“Oh gods… oh gods… no!” Gerrick scrambles to untie the rope, but in his panic he fumbles uselessly at the knots. Asturean‘s usual grace is hampered by the wind and listing ship, but he manages to scramble out of the cargo.
“Boats are this way!” the elf points aft of the ship.
“Hurry!” Rhum says loudly as he notes the ship tilt even further. Both half-orcs grab the rope on the dwarf and heave, their arm-muscles straining in heroic effort. The ropes snap lose and the dwarf falls bodily to the tilted deck.
A vicious wave crests over the deck, knocking Asturean back into his companions and shifting the deck cargo several feet. The group is once again thrown chaotically to the boards, sputtering and choking on seawater. At first, the wave seems to have righted the scow, but seconds later it begins to slink sideways, even faster than before.
“No time!” Bartholomew bellows, “Grab onto this cargo netting, all of you, and pray that this shit floats!” As one the group wraps their hands and arms through the netting around a pile of barrels and crates. The half-orcs both interlock their arms into Gerrick‘s as the dwarf’s rants of terror become incomprehensible to the group.
“I can’t swim!” the dwarf wails to no one in particular.
“Don’t matter none!” laughs Bartholomew, “No one can swim in this sh–”
From the opposite end of the ship, a gargantuan wave hammers into the group, cutting the cleric off in mid-sentence. The deck, indeed the ship itself, seems like a distant memory to the group as the next few terrifying moments are filled with blackness, salt water, and the deafening roar of the sea. When the bundle of barrels manages to float back to the surface, the group, spitting salt water and trembling, is still clinging to it.
“Come on you bitch!” screams Rhum, “Show me what you can do!” Next to him Asturean is franticly looking everywhere, but sees no sign of the ship. The dwarf, his mouth wide in a silent scream, keeps his face buried deep into the ropes and netting.
Another wave batters the group, followed by another. The storm winds lash at them, threatening to tear them apart, and Bartholomew laughs maniacally into the rain. It seems to go on for an eternity, before they are finally lifted from the sea by a massive surge, but instead of plunging back into the dark waters, they land on gravel and sand.
Many grunts and groans later, Dunbar rolls to his feet, blood streaming from a gash on his cheek. He rolls the still form of Asturean over and sighs when he sees the elf is still breathing. Grabbing the elf by his collar, the large barbarian drags him up the beach to safety, leaning heavily into the storm. From out of the blackness of the worsening gale, Bartholomew and Ulaanbaatar stumble into him, both bruised and bleeding from various cuts.
“Where is Gerrick?!?” shouts Dunbar in order to be heard.
“He’s down there,” Bartholomew says, pointing towards the beach, “ranting like a lunatic, and eating beach sand!” The wind hits them with such force that they all stumble two or three feet.
“Well, thank Silvanus that we all lived!” Dunbar yells. Bartholomew shrugs as he bends to examine Asturean.
“Someone be so kind as to collect our stout mister Greystone, and let’s see if we can find this here town that Asturean spotted!” Bartholomew shouts just as Asturean‘s eyes blink open.
The storm rises up a notch ominously, the howling wind screeching at them like a jilted lover.
