The Setting

Spoiler: Zipnog's Letter
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To My Dear Readers

My name is Zipnog, Wendell
Cartographer, Ornithologist, Author
I write this report with the sincere hope it need not be read
Certainly not by someone investigating the fate of our ship

The Beast
While majestic and serene, was colossal
Colliding not attacking
Did tear apart the bottom from our ship
Stranding us upon a narrow sandbar

The crew, able and sober
Did their best in difficult circumstances to ensure all survived
Though many could not escape injury
Upon the violent impact of running aground

Sailing these forbidden passages
Lessens our chance of being found by passing ships
Those who make this cursed voyage are often motivated
By desperation, greed, or desire
Or like I, by all three

My assessment of our surroundings
Barren tundra runs along a narrow coast
Overshadowed by mountains, pushing toward the sea
Frigid waters isolate distant islands and shorelines
Fleeting light barely breaks the horizon
Disappearing into darkness a few hours later

Fear not! Repair work has already begun
I have faith in our craftsmen and professionals
To rescue us from this peril
Should they be provided with sufficient materials

To that end
A party is being formed to reconnoiter the shoreline
And return with the needed supplies
Of their success, I am well assured

W. Zipnog
Learned Society of the Supreme Qorrashi
Mithril Academy
Fairhorn Expedition

Spoiler: Location: Galley
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Clouds of breath reveal the depth of cold. Those bunking in the forecastle have mostly made their way to the galley. Gathering round an old iron stove in hope of staying warm. Drawing from his rapidly diminishing bag, Tobias the ship’s cook tosses another coal onto the fire. Releasing a burst of energy within the glowing orange belly of the furnace.

Tobias, a human of less than thirty years, blonde and hale does look about nervously as he stirs a bubbling pot. His companion, a white cat vocalizes a proud trill as she drops a wet scrawny rat onto the deck. A quick glance around the cramped L-shaped kitchen reveals gnawed ropes and canvas bags torn open at the corners. Hinting at the extent of the infestation. From the floor, on to the butcher’s block, only the quartermaster knows how long the stores will last. Into the pot it goes.

To the rear of the galley is a doorframe leading to the lower deck. Ladders run up (to the main deck) and down (to the shattered hold). Among the tightly stacked sacks and barrels narrowing a narrow passageway, walks the quartermaster. Stern and greying, a robust man of distant orcish blood insists on being addressed by his rank.

Spoiler: Location: Lower Deck
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Pressing his generous body between crates of provisions to count the barrels stacked behind, the quartermaster seethes.

“Scarcity by any measure. Even at half rations the supplies will last little more than a month. It was foolhardy to undertake this endeavor on such a light load. All involved knew it. Greed would not allow us to act otherwise. To leave behind our prize occurred to none. How much more valuable is a sack of gold compared to a sack of grain? Ample supplies were left stacked upon a far off beach a fortnight or more behind by sail. Our precious treasure, now strewn upon the bottom, lost to the depths.

Cursed is our endeavor. What hope have we, when our fortunes are opposed by those above. Every sailor has heard the tales of the tragedy which flavors voyages made through these waters. Now we too have looked up into the sky and have seen the shimmering lights. An indefinite stay, locked away within the ice an all too real possibility. What a cruel fate.”

His lamentation is interrupted by a commotion in the mess hall, a deck ape breaking apart tables with her bare hands. A stunned member of the crew stands in the corner with a bowl of pottage in hand, watching the scene unfold.

Spoiler: Location: Shattered Hold
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“Move! The only way we’re getting out of here is if we repair the damage to the hold.”

Charging past everyone with an armload of planks, Gilda Harmonyspirit descends the ladder to the shattered hold. No voice can be heard over the symphony of ripping saws and hammer falls. The hollow cavern is alive with activity. Gripping on to the ceiling beams with both hand and foot, Gilda shimmies and swings across the hold. Delivering much needed wood to a group of Hadozee perched at every imaginable angle, working diligently to repair the damage.

Gargantuan holes framed by splintered and shattered wood tear through multiple sections. Leaving more of the ship open to the elements than enclosed. Sea water floods the bottom of the hold, churning with each incoming wave. Some of the timbers are salvageable while others will need to be replaced. Several tall trees are needed to be felled for material, if there be any hope of making her seaworthy.

Danger is the point of life. To those who make this their motto, no tears are shed when a malicious wave crashes down upon an unsuspecting hadozee worker. Thrown backwards from his post headfirst into one beam and then another, before plunging into the icy water with a splash.

Spoiler: Location: Main Deck
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Healers robed in grey attend to the sick and injured among the bunks of the forecastle, now converted into an infirmary. Sea sores and hypothermia along with a plethora of concussions and broken bones have left much of the crew incapacitated. At a time when all hands are needed, another injured worker is unwelcome news..

His bulky frame is supported by two strong sailors dripping with water. Their teeth chattering, their bodies involuntarily shaking. Both feeling the effects of their efforts to rescue their shipmate. Who drifts in and out of consciousness, a bloody head wound along with hypothermic shock. Hoisted on to the table, arms swinging in confusion, all hands are needed to hold down their convulsing companion. The ship’s surgeon assesses his patient’s condition, pouring a concoction into the open mouth of the struggling Hadozee. The entirety of what remains in the green glass bottle is needed to cease the turmoil.

Unfolding the correct optic lens from his multifaceted eye-piece allows Oskar Coalvern a dwarf of exceptional skill to see the most minute detail. Reaching for his specialized tools he begins to work on repairing the fractured skull. Long moments hold the balance of life and death. Complex machines, living things, ever so delicate. The mechanism is laid out before him. Intricate but not alien, everything having place and function.

Wiping blood from his hands and sweat from his brow, Oskar Coalvern’s efforts saved a life tonight. Figures in grey shaded robes patrol up and down the bunks in silence. Illuminated by candles or lantern, attending to those in need. Chaos has given way to order, and afforded the surgeon time to attend to other matters.

Spoiler: Location: Wardroom
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A chart lay overlapping another, its corners falling off the round table around which the senior staff have gathered. Mr Zipnog, scientific attaché to the expedition speaks, standing upon a chair due to his gnomish stature. Pointing to a detailed chart of his own design, he puts forward a plan. The frozen passage, every hazard in the water has been dutifully marked. While the shape of the shoreline is a fairly accurate approximation, little detail is given of the interior. Pointing to an area of shoreline well ahead of their position, he indicates there should be a river. Tapping the approximate area with his wooden rod. Intentionally projecting more confidence than he truly possesses.

A strong wind pulls against the heavy wood door leading out on to the open air of the main deck. Forced open by the hand of one of their own. Papers fly off the table much to the annoyance of Mr. Zipnog.

“Take a seat Mr. Coalvern, we’ve already begun.” Orders Captain Fairhorn of the Harmonious Spirit, a human well advanced in years, bound to his wheelchair.

Seating himself between the Master-At-Arms, a mammoth of a man, and she of the helm, as slippery as they come, the meeting can continue.

“A party of four volunteers, equipped as best we can provide. I frankly don’t think we can spare anymore.” Mr Zipnog recommends, gathering back together his notes.
“We are in need of timber for repairs and fuel for warmth. Locating a reliable source of food.” Mr. Zipnog stops speaking when he is interrupted by Mr. Coalvern.

“And medicine, I used the last of several bottles these passing hours.”

“If I may continue.” snips the learned scientist, yearning for the formality of the academy.

A rat peeks its head out of the darkness, squeezing between two warped planks to continue on its way. Hermann Thatchoder, Master-At-Arms, physically taking up more room than any other at the table, scrunches his face into a look of disgust, declaring “Something needs to be done about the rats”

“Honestly now, this is no simple endeavor. Detailed planning is needed.” Mr Zipnog insists, but throwing his diminutive hands in the air, takes his seat when the conversation moves on without him.

“There’s a tangled knot of them somewhere onboard, growing larger by the day.” Cautions Melody Longacre, Helmsman, seated to the right of the captain.

Silent until now the old sea dog speaks, calmly with a baritone commanding respect.
“I have every confidence in all of your steadfast determination to relieve us from this predicament. I Intend to see home again, I hope each and every soul onboard shares that sentiment. Despite losing our bounty, upon our safe return I will pay bonuses and danger pay from my personal fortune to every member of the crew. Spread the word, we have before us many challenges, return when you have found useful volunteers.”