The party huddles in one of the corners of the inn. The dank air reeks of rotting fish, shellfish and seaweed, mixed with the sharp tang of the mold spores which pervade the atmosphere. The nauseous smell of the fish head gruel is masked by the nose of the flagons of cheap red wine, priced well over the odds.
Across the DMZ of the center of the room a huddle of locals glares at you in sullen resentment. They all seems youthful but prematurely aged. The pathetic fire in the center of the room trades heat for smoke, the powerful wind and driving rain forcing its way through the poor construction, causing the haze to swirl and writhe.
Up above, where the cell like bedrooms lay, the hideous sound of wood being ripped apart can be heard, the the terrified screams of your employee ring in your ears down the rickety stairs and through the cracks in the floorboards.
The party are traveling the plains of Mandolia when they encounter a dark skinned woman of middling age. Naming herself as Helena of the Cypil Coast, she tells you a story of a chest containing a relic, which when returned to small fishing town on the coast, will reveal a pirate’s hoard of treasure. Promising a fair cut in the proceeding for assistance, several of you take to the road with her, traveling down along the dark and slick river, the weather moody and brooding.
Reduced to walking, the horses variously dead from colic, or spooked into charging into the river and drowning, the party reach their destination, a miserable collection of moulding wooden building build out over rotting piles over the rocky shoreline, the river surface flat and black, like a stationary oil slick, despite the strong current below the surface and the driving rain from above.
Helena drags a large wooden chest, on a rope harness, behind her. Reaching the inn across the traitorous planking of the village, muddy despite the rain and the lashing of waves from the high seas. A small touch flickers fitfully under the sign of the Drowned Virgin.
Inside you are met by the landlord, thin despite his occupation. After renting rooms you settle in a corner of the taproom, Helena hauling the chest up the stairs to her room, fierce in her refusal of offers of help. After a while people drift in to the inn, but despite their increasing numbers only a low murmur can be heard from them. Darkness rolls across the water, blackening the sky and gloaming the already dim room.
As the sun rises over Bleakhaven a strong offshore wind blows the overnight rain away, carrying with it the smell of blood from the slaughtered villages, their copses littering the floor of the Downed Virgin.
The bodies of the two sailors, returned to mortal realms for a short time, lie on the banks of the river Exxon, its dark waters glittering in the sunshine. The arrows in their back flutter in the breeze, the wind catching their flights and tugging as the gaping wounds in their back.
The bodies of Captain Blood, his pegleg brutally removed, Shipmate Render and the obsese bulk of Cook Bakersfield, and four of the crew, are already attracting flies. Of the malign sea monsters nothing can be seen, presumably having crawled back into the water, wounded but not actually slain.
The body of Helena floats on the morning tide near the wreck of the unnamed ship, now submerged next to the village’s pier. Nearby Kirmat the Tyrant and Chuwah Patronslayer paw over the recovered treasure, the few remaining villages risking life and limb to bring forth all that is salvagable from the wreck.
Having secured their horde, which mostly consists of fine silver kitchen and table ware, the party add insult to injury by commandeering the few boats and sailing away in the across the placid sea under full sails, leaving the few remaining survivers to count the gold coins accidently dropped and lost earlier in the predawn darkness.
Tamrik and Chuwah get 420 XP and 1150 GP each.