ALPHA PHASE - ON THE SHIP - NPC CAST

Several weeks earlier, an aged Kalentoi-style freighter under an independent captain made its way into Omrazir's harbor, 'The Greenest Dolphin' painted along its bow in Cadenzan script. Soon, the harbormasters at the Customs Authority had marked the freighter's new destination as Al-Sabiyyah... and now taking on passengers.

Swabbing the Deck

a darkly-tanned crewmate

An albatross crashes into the sail, gets dangled in the rigging, and falls to the main deck. Shipwitch decides fresh air-chicken would be better than salted cod.

Hektor swabs the deck.

Blood. Hektor's used to seeing blood, but that was another life. In this life, his huge callused hands clench the sturdy handle of the mop. He may not fully remember it all, but the memory runs in his flesh.

Hektor swabs the deck.

One morning, there's a puddle of vomit outside the door of Captain's cabin. Its color is tinged with deep purple, but Hektor knows that's not blood. That wine from Plomo was deep purple, and so were his dreams after he had some. But Hektor's a big guy. Captain's just a normal guy.

Hektor swabs the deck.

Cook's got the runs. So do many sailors, but Cook's too old to handle it. There's some mess, and it stinks worse than Captain's wine puke. The cook's humors are troubling everybody, argues First Mate to the Captain. We need a new cook. Fine, when we dock in Omrazir.

Hektor swabs the deck.

Remembering the albatross, Hektor wonders if it was a bad omen. Shipwitch doesn't think so. But Shipwitch was crying when the storm came, and now there's puddles everywhere.

Hektor swabs the deck.

After docking in Omrazir, muddy boots are always trampling. Crates go up the gangplank into the cargo holds, carried by muddy boots. New people walk on. New muddy boots, and muddy slippers, and muddy everything. It's the season for rain here, says First Mate. Rain and fog.

Hektor swabs the deck.

A Moment in the Life of a Shipwitch

a twitchy, topaz-eyed sailor

I go out onto the deck, and hear the wind singing to me. That sound is refreshing after the ringing of the captain's rebuke. His scolding, slurring rant still echoes through my skull.

If I don't trust myself enough to trust him to hear the things I hear, then I'm of no use to him or anybody least of all myself. That's what he told me, along with other crap. I don't even really understand what he means. His stupid voice gets so accented and confusing when he's pissed. And that cabin reeks of the cheap wine we picked up in Plomo.

For a moment, I gotta just take a breath in from the fresh air. Then the breeze twines around my ear, and whispers a warm reassurance of mild skies and sunlight, and I can feel the beating of my heart soothed down to a patient rhythm. The next time I exhale, there's more peace in my soul.

And I understand what Cap'n Pal meant now. Whether I think he's gonna believe me or not, I gotta tell him next time the wind warns of a storm. At least, if he doesn't believe me, it won't be my fault.

The First Mate's Log

a pox-scarred first mate

The log book is a large ledger bound in well-worn black leather, its heavy parchment pages battered at the corners and splotched here and there with various stains. Some look like blood, some look like soup, and some are entirely unidentifiable. Despite the state of the tome, every page is written in a very neat hand, using a variant of Sirdabi script most common in northern Irzal and utilizing a typical Cadenzan sailor's cipher. The letters are small, and it appears the entries are each roughly a week apart, consistently on schedule.

The last date recorded is 10-18-796.

• Hit mild storm five leagues from Omrazir. Lightning hit the ship.
• Made it into harbor with some damage to forecastle and deck.
• Couldn't offload Plomo wine, so the Captain shared it out to the crew.
• Shipwitch gone missing for two days.
• Contracted amateur shipwright Borta Razin to mend damage - cost: 5 dirhams.
• Contracted new ship's cook Fadila Alheta for the journey - cost: 3 dirhams.
• Picking up passengers and more cargo to make trip to Al-Sabiyyah.

(Following is a roster of passenger names and inventory of new cargo.)

The Captain's Log

a ruggedly roguish sea captain

This messy sheaf has many small, mismatched scraps of rag paper interspersed between fine vellum sheets and tattered parchment. Some of the pages are even ripped, and everything is fallen out of the binding, and it's quite likely the book might even be misplaced beneath the cot in the captain's cabin rather than in the compartment of his desk. The entries are sparse, spaced apart with some distance, and each one is written in a grandiose scrawl.

None of the entries are dated, but the last one reads:

And here I am, stuck in this southern port again, far from home, with no friends except for Etennay.

And even Etennay, I know, does not tell me what she truly thinks of me. She's annoyed that we bought so much wine in Plomo and now it's gone to waste.

Not totally to waste. I didn't mind it. But so ends my foray into building Paldeo's Mercantile Emporium...

*a tense scribble of ink fills that little patch of the paper with quill-nib scratches, and when the writing resumes, the letters look somehow even larger and looser in shape*

But that's fine. I prefer the freedom of the sea! And writing of such freedoms one must note the risk, the thrill! That's freedom. And danger.

Many dangers. Like sailing during winter.

We're only traveling along the southern coast of the Adelantean, so the dangers of winter sailing are not half as bad. Some of the dockyard chatter goes that there's war a-brewing, somewhere on that bright western horizon...

But I've learned enough in my years to never trust the Adelantean, and winter sailing worries me more than war. Even on the southern coast of this treacherous sea...

A Vision of a Passenger

a sleek brunette

Outfitted impeccably in stylish carmine silks, a sleek Sirdabi woman stands on the docks. Gulls screech and whirl in the air above, but her only concession to the salty wind that tears at her loosely-draped messaline scarf is... a slight half-smirk on full red lips.

She watches the deckhands carry a series of heavy starcedar crates up the gangplank onto the Greenest Dolphin. The aged Kalentoi freighter doesn't seem like a fitting vessel for a merchant of her clear stature and wealth, but it's one of those few ships traveling to Al-Sabiyyah this winter, and trade must go on despite potential civil unrest.

Suddenly, she lifts her voice - a calm, silken drawl touched with the harsher desert accents of Rahoumi nomads, and calls, "Careful with those!" Her tone, though entirely composed, contains a deceptively powerful warning note.

"Perfume bottles are delicate things, you know." Pearly white teeth flash in a smile, and she purrs, "Delicate, and expensive. You'll pay for every last one should you break them."

Another Vision of Another Passenger

a fox-faced woman with apprehensive green eyes

BUMP. Scrape. Huff, puff.

BUMP. Scrape. Huff, puff.

BUMP. Scraaape-- *Squawk!* "Ugh! Shoo! SHOO! Aaaagh! No, stoppit, stoppit stoppit OUCH NIRZALI BLAST YOUR BLEEDING EYES YOU STUPID BIRD!"

Gazes slide across the crowded docks of Omrazir, seeking out the source of the small commotion, then glance aside again when it turns out to be only a harrassed-looking Razmani woman pulling a huge and battered trunk along the pier and swatting at seagulls.

"Hnngh," the woman expresses, attempting to remedy the messy overabundance of russet hair in the sudden absence of one shiny hairpin -- then stops stock-still as she notices the looks passing over her. Her own eyes, mossy green and wary, flick nervously about as she seems to draw in on herself like a rabbit that thinks it's attracted the eye of a hawk.

Then one man in the crowd, possibly more benevolent than the rest, or possibly just in search of an easy tip, advances upon her with a smile. "Need some help with all that, lady?" he asks, jerking his head to indicate not just the trunk, but the heaping of bags slung over both shoulders, and the odder canvas-wrapped bundle plunked on top of the trunk.

With a sharp start and a small nervous exclamation, the woman stammers out a, "N-no, no, not at all good fellow, thank you, peace, be well!" She quickly grabs the leather wrapped handle of the trunk again, putting her back into it as she labors to get it in motion once again across the irregular planking of the wharf.

BUMP. Scrape. Huff, puff.

BUMP. Scraaaape......

The man watches her go, observing the once-good clothes now worn shabby on her narrow frame, the hunger-sharpened planes of her face, the glimmer of gaudy jewelry beneath a moth-eaten silk neck scarf... and then moves off with a shrug. There are wealthier women in need of aid, and a lousy little peddler's got nothing of value to offer.

Now, the Greenest Dolphin has embarked upon its journey, setting out from the foggy Omrazi harbor and sailing into the west.