# Storms in the Port (Update: Now with 100% more drugs!)



## Jacob the Impaler (May 23, 2007)

This story hour is going to follow the first urban campaign I have run. This is mainly writing practice for me. I've never really written fantasy or science fiction before, so this will be a bit out of my comfort zone.

The PC's:
-Grus "Bearkiller" Orlaf: CN Human Barbarian 2
-Aldaian Renoux: LG Human Cleric of St. Cuthbert 2
-Samuel Greenapple: TN Halfling Rogue 2
-Taren Duskbrook: TN Elf Conjurer 2
-Froderick "The Red" Firehammer: NG Dwarf Fighter 2

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CHAPTER 1: THE GOOD TRAITOR

There was no transition. They stepped under the cloud's shadow and it poured. Everyone scrambled to put on thier cloaks. Grus shut his backpack to shield his nervous new lapdog from the rain.
"He's gonna suffocate under there, bonehead," Samuel said, placing his gear into his waterproof saddlebags.
Grus shrugged with a yellow smile.
"He's a real little feller. Figure there's enough air in there 'til this sonuva_____ blows over. Much rather he get stuffy than rain-death."
"I don't think this will blow over soon," Taren said, gazing at the sky. "These clouds haven't moved since we've seen them. It's unnatural. And don't keep that poor animal in there. Keep him in your cloak."
"Well, if you care so much about the runt, why don't you hold onto him?"
Aldaian trotted his horse ahead of them, giving each a fatherly smile as he passed. With his gray hair and sunken cheekbones, he looked the part more and more every day.
"Let's get moving, you kids. The sooner we get to Anvil City, the sooner we can get out of this infernal weather."

The flooded farmland gave way to rocky fields. The rain slowed a bit, but the clouds still showed no signs of moving. They were joined by a dour-looking dwarf riding a stout pony when the road began to slope down between two cliffs. He explained that he was Frederick "The Red", a warrior on a noble quest to slay the goblin-king Naur in the lands south. This accursed rain was just slowing him down.

Finally, they reached the humble gates of Anvil City. A lone guard huddled under the archway, grimacing as the travelers passed.
"What's eating you?" Samuel asked, not expecting any kind of answer.
"Don't talk about eating, twerp," the guard grunted. "I haven't eaten in a day."

The infamous Anvil City seemed rather tame. The few people in the streets trudged purposefully between buildings. The gloomy peace was broken by the occasional distant shout or clang of steel. Grus and the dwarf exchanged eager grins. As they turned down a street to search for an inn, the city changed dramatically. The street grew narrow and steep. Rickety, tightly packed buildings on either side formed a grim corridor. Then they ran into Maria.

She was young, pretty and struggling under a heavy pack. Grus approached her with a big smile, but Aldaian hurried ahead of him before he could do any damage. As a compromise, Grus was allowed to carry her pack. She thanked them.
"This is all for the tavern. Those merchants are gouging us dry, what with the ports being closed..."
She talked almost nonstop over the rain for the rest of the journey. Soon they reached streets flooded with thick, brown, stinking water. Samuel's big riding dog, Dotty, plodded along with head raised in disgust. The flooding and rain had closed the ports for four days. Dockworkers, especially the half-orcs, had been rioting and looting in the waterfront. They had finally died out long enough to walk around with relative safety. Maria pointed out the notorious Fishbones District as they passed it, an essentially lawless strip rife with taverns, brothels and opium dens. An ugly din rumbled from its streets. Samuel admired with giddy excitement. Maria worked at the Whale Bone Tavern. It was a nice place, although it was now crowded with stranded sailors from a dozen ports. Scents of sweat, beer, tobacco, salt and baking bread congealed in the stifling heat. There was scarcely room for the new patrons to walk across the balcony and down the stairs to the main bar.
"We bring booze!" Grus announced. Raucous applause and hoots rang out and soon the bar was teeming with life. Maria handed out mugs of beer and shots of spirits with smiles. Suddenly a kobold popped up behind the bar. Samuel nearly drew his crossbow, but nobody else seemed alarmed.
"Welcome to the Whale Bone Tavern, friends. The name's Azik-takt."
Fortunately, the party had enough more than enough gold left from their previous adventure to afford the inflated prices. Soon, everyone was sweating and drunk. Aldaian drank moderately enough to notice half-orcs positioning themselves strategically on the balcony and stairs, watching the kobold behind the bar and reaching under their drenched cloaks. They must have seen him too, because they moved into action with a yell.

Drunken patrons scrambled to avoid the thugs' clubs and daggers. Aldaian dropped one at the bottom with a single swing of his mace before two more fought him into a corner. Grus managed not to kill any bystanders with his greatsword and teamed up with Froderick. Taren conjured supernatural grease on the stairs, slowing the advance of the orcs and causing moderate property damage. Samuel's inebriation made him a poor shot, and he almost hit two orcs as they jockeyed for position on the balcony. The orcs lowered themselves onto the bar from the balcony and hurried to the huddling kobold, who gave one of them a crossbow bolt in the arm. They grabbed him nonetheless and rushed through the fray. Before they could reach the stairs, however, they staggered and fell exhausted to the musky tavern floor along with two other patrons who'd been panicked moments before. Taren stood above them with a triumphant grin. The rest of the fight was downhill. When they all stopped moving, Grus finished off one of the sleeping thugs. The kobold stopped him before he could do the other in.
"We need to question this one," he explained.
Grus restrained himself with an indignant grunt. The tavern cleared, and soon only a few brave or truly plastered sailors remained.
"They'll be back," the kobold said. "Thanks for saving me, by the way. I owe you."
When the half-orc awoke, Grus and the kobold sent him through a rigorous interrogation in the kitchen. He was dumb, even for a half-orc, and knew only that he was working for kobolds who wanted Azik-takt dead. Something about revenge. He never met his employer, but he was offered the job at the Silver Scarab.
"The opium den, you know?" he pleaded.
Azik-takt withdrew from his captive, shuddering.
"I used to be the leader of a kobold tribe in the sewer. Ten years ago, the last count offered money and this tavern for my territory. It was miserable down there, how could I refuse?"
The sewers had flooded, and the kobolds who had been sold out to the city authority were
forced to the surface, thirsty for the blood of the "traitors". After some negotiation, the
party agreed to stop these kobolds. Froderick drank while the rest tried to sober up. They would find the Silver Scarab.


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## Jacob the Impaler (May 24, 2007)

CHAPTER 2: AGAINST THE JUNKIES

Grus entrusted their kobold friend with his unnamed lap dog, and they trudged into the coast's seediest neighborhood. Samuel imagined that on a normal evening, they would be accosted by undesirables every other step. But the weather forced brave souls seeking debauchery into the taverns, brothels and opium dens themselves. Every establishment was brimming with displaced sailors. In one tavern, a small war seemed to be waged, and Taren was nearly hit by a stool flying from an already shattered window. Aldaian piously watched the murky floodwater rising between his legs, clutching his cloak tight as if to shield himself from the wickedness outside.

The party walked past the Silver Sacarab twice. To their credit, it was hard to find. The little place was wedged between a sprawling, noisy burlesque house and a boarded-up tavern. It was maybe fifteen feet wide and very long. Beads and curtains separated it into little segments where stoned guests huddled silently around hookahs. At the end of the den was a little oriental man who scowled at the newcomers while he combed his long moustache. Aldaian stepped forward.
"Welcome. We still have best opium, best prices in whole city."
"We want to know if you've seen any kobolds here."
The little man's scowl deepened, opening wrinkles like fissures in his face.
"I do not associate with those disgusting creatures."
When Aldaian made it clear that they didn't want any opium, the man yelled something in a strange language and ordered them out. On cue, two patrons arose and drew flails from under their cloaks.

They fought with much more skill than the half-orcs. Taren was knocked cold before he could react. Grus drew his sword, and one of the thugs jerked it from his hands. Unfortunately for the thug, Grus was raised in a culture where disarming a barbarian warrior was a grevious insult. In the frenzy that ensued, he tore apart half of the den trying to get his hands on the offender, shrugging off flail blows like snowballs. Finally, the thug tripped over a nodding sailor and subsequently got his trachea crushed by a smelly boot.
The other thug went down more honorably, seriously injuring Aldaian and fending off the attacks of the dwarf before succumbing to several crossbow bolts. 

When the smoke cleared, figuratively and literally, the little man was nowhere to be found. The patrons who weren't comatose crept towards the door. Even after divine healing, Taren felt more like taking a nice, long bubblebath than hunting down a rude little man who would probably lead them to another beating. Grus bolted the entrance shut to keep out possible reinforcements. After a thorough search, Samuel found a trap door hidden behind an exotic paper wall that folded like an accordion. The wall amused Grus, despite the fact that he was starting to feel his wounds.
"What's the point?" he mused. "A kobold with a damn cold could tear through one of those."
They discussed their next course of action. Aldaian's spells were gone, and Taren and Grus were bruised and bleeding. After a heated debate, they agreed on pushing forward. The little man could not be allowed to escape.

The trap door opened to a shaft. A rope floated rigid in the air, waiting for use. Just to be safe, they dropped a torch to the bottom.
"Caltrops," Grus spat. "Welll son of a..."
Sliding down the rope would mean imapling a foot on one of the many caltrops spread across the floor. Froderick gave a practical solution - sliding down with one's feet up, then landing carefully between them. He was so confident about his plan that he offered to go first.

He grabbed the rope, and it went limp. He fell twenty feet and landed on several of the spikey metal buggers. Humiliated and furious but alive, he was hoisted out of the pit and tended to. Aldaian insisted that he rest up, a suggestion that was hotly rebuked. After they learned what they needed from that little monster, Froderick swore he would tear him limb from limb.

A few minutes later, the party lowered themselves into a pit using thier own rope. Samuel suggested they take the rope that betrayed them, which was met with cold silence. He took it anyway. They wandered through a damp series of rooms and corridors. Weird echoes of music and brawls and sex filtered through the stones, making a weird eerie echo occasionally drowned out by the roar of nearby sewers. They dispatched a few dire rats and a stray skeleton lacking the sense not to attack when outnumbered and outgunned. Samuel did his best to look for clues of their quarry's passage, but came up with nothing. They reached a rusted gate that even Grus couldn't get to budge and turned around, grumbling. The whole experience was so disheartening that they decided to call it quits and spend the night in the opium den. Then by luck or grace, Taren found a secret door. It slid open, revealing a low, narrow passage. Samuel happily volunteered to tackle it, candle in one hand and crossbow in the other.

The passage turned, and he extinguished his candle when he saw a dim light ahead. A storeroom filled with little chests opened before him, and soon he caught the sweet scent of opium. A grin spread on his face, and he ventured towards the light. That's when he felt a trip wire break against his knee. He barely avoided falling into a shallow pit filled with glue, and just missed a crossbow bolt from a kobold that sprang up from behind a pile of chests.


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