Tales of the Shackles

Oathday, 18th Abadius, 4712 A.R.

We found the legendary treasure o’ Mancatcher Cove!

T’be honest, it were beginnin’ to look like a myth to me, spread about by the sahuagin so they’d get a fresh shipload o’ treasure-‘ungry food turn up once in a while. But no. Looks like old cap’n Wolfe really did stash all ‘is ill-gottens ’ere, an’ the sahuagin’ve only been addin’ to it this whole time.

Lucky we piked them potions o’ water breathin’ off of Locke’s cronies. The officers all necked one an’ entered the underwater tunnels after workin’ out the whys an’ wherefores o’ the rhyme our little goblin chum were spoutin’. ‘Course, Bert didn’t need no potion, kitted out in that stingray cloak they’d found on the ‘alfling ghoul a week or so ago. Trouble was, ’ee were so much faster than the rest o’ them in the water, ‘ee went speedin’ off into an ambush an’ nearly got ’imself a briny farewell down there in them lightless depths. Not a nice way to go…

But all’s well what ends well. Sounds like Perri got the body count, usin’ ‘is fiery words to burn a whole creche o’ sahuagin fingerlings. They finished off the matron what guarded the slippery little buggers, an’ fought their way through a whole load more. Finally, they caught up wi’ the chieftain, a four-armed brute who was sore because ‘ee thought our lot ’ad killed ’is son… and it’s a pretty goo bet that we ‘ad, somewhere along the line. Besmara knows we sent enough o’ the things to their scaly maker.

Anyway, they were smartly at nines and tens down into the treasure room, where they shifted a fair king’s ransom. There’s furs, silks and cloth, some o’ it older than Port Peril ‘erself, an’ all kinds o’ art, sculprures, a couple o’ paintings sealed up tight in a wax bag so as not to let the seawater in, an’ gold. Lots o’ gold. A chest brimmin’ wi’ coin an’ jewels, by all accounts.

not that we’ve really seen much o’ it at this point. The stuff’s so ‘eavy, there were no way they could ferry it all back to the ship in one go, an’ on the way out they ‘ad to go full pelt out o’ the escape tunnel, right through a bloom o’ Shackles Pink Ladies. Dunno what the saltheads were thinkin’, but most o’ them got stung by the jellyfish’s tentacles a couple times, an’ poor old Perri’s swollen up like a sucklin’ pig on Merrymead Day.

Looks like tomorrow I better ’elp these poor lubbers shift that gold into my… I mean our pockets.

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