A few hours before the time of departure burly dockhands began hauling last-minute deliveries of supplies to the ship. They carried out salted meat, fresh water and beer, all in wood barrels with cheap preservative enchantments. There were crates of crossbow bolts, rope, tents, grappling hooks, and anything else that might be of use. The dockhands carried gunpowder in casks overlaid with dry, dry magic, and long flat boxes with tightly-packed machetes somehow managing to rattle inside. It was all there.
They carefully avoided the members of the Expedition already waiting on their way to the dock where the
Cepolada lay at anchor. Once there they milled about uncertainly for a little while before simply setting everything on the deck and heading back for more.
After a fairly large pile of crates and barrels had accumulated, Tyrone Deslock appeared. He was walking down the docks arguing with a scribe, while another tried unsuccessfully to hand Deslock his hat.
"What do you mean, they're fakes?" he was demanding of the first scribe.
"I'm sorry sir, but I'm afraid the evidence is overwhelming," the scribe responded, in a voice that said he'd already gone over this. "They're knock-offs. Which explains how we got them so cheap."
"What about the maker's mark?" Deslock asked. "You know, that little squiggly thing that they claim is in the shape of Verdan?"
"Forged," the scribe said, "and rather badly at that."
"Damn." Deslock scratched his head, realized he didn't have his hat on and snatched it from the second scribe, who looked relieved at being rid of it. "Can we get our money back, then?"
"The man who sold it to us is no longer where we bought them," the first scribe said, flipping a page on his clipboard. "And according to the Customs Office, he shouldn't have been there in the first place. They were rather interested in what I had to say when I asked them about it."
"Wonderful," Deslock growled. He glared at the beautiful morning, and unfortunately for everyone involved the first thing his eyes found was the pile of crates on the deck of the ship.
He spent the next hour or so alternating between shouting at the dockhands and shouting at the scribes. With some dint of effort and volume he managed to get all the supplies stowed safely below deck while the Expedition members slowly trickled in with various states of hangover.
Once the supplies were stowed, Deslock pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time. "An hour," he muttered. "They've got an hour." He watched the people already at the docks, either ignoring or looking suspiciously at each other.
Or just looking around, as one of them was. "Right on time," Deslock said to himself, and wandered over.
"Jonas Thrace?" he asked.
"Yes?" The man was pale, slightly ill-looking, and missing an arm. Despite that he still stood strong and tall, with the look of eagles about him.
"Explorer Deslock," Deslock said, shaking Jonas' hand. "I understand you'll be accompanying my little Expedition. Good to have you aboard--you came with good references."
Jonas hesitated, then smiled and started to say something, but Deslock was already moving away to shout at a dockhand who'd dropped a final crate.
When he was done shouting, Deslock heard someone clear their throat from behind him. When he turned around he saw a man standing there patiently. He was old, this man, yet seemed to be in very good shape.
"Yes?"
"I'm Mark Resdian, Mr. Deslock. You told me a while ago that I was accpeted on your Expedition, yes?"
"Ah, right," Deslock said. "Resdian. I remember you now. I'll be giving a little speech in about an hour--in the meantime, you can stow your stuff on the ship." He turned away before Mark could get a word in edgewise. The old man simply smiled strangely at Deslock's back and picked up his bags.
Since it seemed that as long as he stood on the docks people were going to accost him, Deslock went onto the ship. It was a good ship, the
Cepolada, sound and sturdy and utterly waterproof. He wandered among the stacked crates with a checklist, making sure everything was in order.
In the area where they were storing the beer he found a dwarf, stealthily installing a spigot on the hidden side of one of the barrels. When Deslock started peering over his shoulder he looked up.
"Ah...hello?" the dwarf said.
"Who are you and what are you doing on my ship?" Deslock asked.
"Now see, that's a bit of a story, really," the dwarf began, only to be cut off by Deslock.
"I'm Tyrone Deslock," he said, "and if I didn't give you explict instructions saying you could be on the ship, you shouldn't be here and I'll have you thrown in prison."
"Kirk McKellen," the dwarf said, and Deslock frowned. He leafed through his papers until he found the right one, and spent a few seconds examining it.
"All right, you're on the list," Deslock said. "But I'll expect you to share your beer tap with me." He left the dwarf groaning and muttering about the unfairness of it all and went back on deck.
From the deck Deslock could see the entire harbor, laid out around him in a huge crescent. He watched the little people moving about on the docks, struggling with deliveries or organizing cargo, waiting with impatience or simply waiting. From this perspective he could almost appreciate the beauty of the city. It was always the long view that caught his imagination--the sight from the mountaintop, the soaring peaks and vistas, the endless sea of green that was the jungle. You had to get down in the allies and canyons and forests to get to that vantage, but these moments...these made it all worthwhile.
Unfortunately, here in this place people could still reach him. He scowled as a scribe approached and ruined his solitude.
"The final checklist is complete, sir," the scribe said. "We've got everything you asked for safely stowed, with the exception of the supplies you're picking up in Tyb." He paused for a moment, as if unsure whether to bring up the next topic or not. "Do you still want to bring those Verdan munitions, now that you know they're shoddy knock-offs?"
"Yeah, I'll bring 'em," Deslock said. "There's a mechanically inclined dwarf stealing my beer in the hold. I'll put him to work checking over the munitions."
"Er...yes, sir," the scribe said, and scurried off, glad that this was the last day he would be working for Deslock.
And the Explorer watched the people on the docks as the hour of departure drew ever closer.
Metagame said:
Jonas Thrace, Mark Resdian, and Kirk McKellen are all players being introduced here. Give them a round of applause and a knife to the back or something along those lines.
I'm giving you all time here to narrate you reaching the docks. Tomorrow the ship will leave, possibly with a band playing on shore, and the Expedition will get underway.
Most of you have received orders, rumors, and other information from your factions by now. I wasn't able to get to everyone today because I was busier than I expected, and it's really late now so I'm thinking that I'll finish them later. Assume that your faction is lazy or the messenger was killed in the night. You'll be contacted either on the ship or in Tyb.
The Expedition leaves tomorrow, gentlemen. Nine o'clock Buron time. Don't be late.
And now that I'm done writing this, I can at long last go to sleep.
