Tales of the Shackles

Starday, 6th Abadius, 4712 A.R.

I were right and wrong.

Right about the boys plannin’ to knock over the ships in the Bogsbridge ‘arbour, but wrong about the storm losing it’s heart. Because she’s back with a fury today, an’ all the fury of a jilted bitch.

It’s Vault Day today, sacred to the god Abadar, who likes to see gold safely moved into the vaults today in preparation for the countin’ houses to do their numberins, or whatever it is them merchants like to do. But we see things the other way round out ‘ere – turns out Vault Day is the day we picked to liberate some o’ that gold.

Maybe ol’ Abadar was keepin’ an eye on things today, though, because we didn’t quite walk off wi’ the loot we were ‘opin’ for. The first boat out bust in through the side o’ one of the ships in the ‘arbour, in the search fer rumoured sapphires. Well, they didn’t find no sapphires. They did, ‘owever, find a ship’s hold full to the gills wi’ angry lookin’ salts. Got chased all the way into town, an’ there was a bit of a tussle before they got away.

Next plan was more o’ the same, really. Captain was takin’ the officers over to the Royal Sloop in the ‘arbour to see if there was anythin’ else worth nickin’ on it except fer grain. They got on board pretty simple thanks to Duaros pickin’ out an unguarded spot, then took advantage o’ the storm to creep on belowdecks. Besmara knows ‘ow they did it, but they managed to take out most o’ the crew down there without gettin’ into too much o’ a mess wi’ the ones upstairs, an’ even managed to make a new friend – pretty lookin’ fella name of Slick. ’Ee’d ‘ad enough o’ the grain business, it’d seem, an’ there and then signed the black paper wi’ the cap’n. Welcome aboard – specially as they brought back a couple sacks o’ sugar which should get a petty price in one o’ the bigger ports.

Cap’n felt that the heat were up a bit, an’ seein’ as the repairs were all done, we set out in the midst o’ the storm, like idiots. Still, Besmara likes a good raid, an’ what with us nearly in spittin’ distance o’ Her Most Holy Isle, the winds died down jus’ long enough fer us to make it into a little sheltered cove. next stop, Tidewater Rock for a flagon o’ grog, a weddin’ celebration, and a bit o’ a rest.


Uncle_DM Uncle_DM

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