NOVEL WEB Chapter 4: Morning Huddle
Erastus 22
The next morning, I woke up to a searing radiance that burrowed through my eyelids like an ice pick to the brain. The small window of the room allowed a thin shaft of hateful sunlight to assault my face, burning my sensitive retinas. My pounding head and parched mouth were heralded an old familiar foe, one that was invited to all the best parties.
Fuck. Way too early to get up. Get the curtains and I’m back to bed.
I tried to rise, but was hauled back to the bed by a cord of iron muscle, wrenching me directly into the shaft of sunlight. I felt a soft, squishy pair of breasts press against my back that would have been far more welcome had circumstances been only slightly different.
“No.” Sosima mumbled, barely surfacing.
Damn it, Sima.
I considered squirming loose, but didn’t wish to upset her sleep. Better to suffer in silence than displease a woman at dawn. (Escape Artist 1+6=7 Critical Failure)
Fuck that. I’m dying here.
With a whisper and a flick of the wrist, I extended my will towards the window as a third limb. I tugged at the loop securing the curtains, slowly working them free with my limited dexterity. Finally the curtain fell into place on the left side of the window, casting my face into shadow. (Casting while grappled: Concentration 15+4=19 success)
Get the other side. I don’t want to be back in the same boat in ten minutes.
I drifted off again after autopilot hid me from the sun’s baleful glare, returning to blissful unconsciousness. Of course, as far as I could tell about five seconds passed before a thunderous pounding on the door dragged me back to reality.
“Alright you two.” Sandara’s voice cut through my sleep, “time to get up. Can’t be wasting the whole morning.”
How is she so damn chipper? She drank as much as I did.
A quick scan of my log confirmed that she’d already cast Lesser Restoration on herself, likely seconds after waking up.
Of course she did. She’s in port, she’s not expecting trouble, so of course she used one of her stronger spells first thing in the morning as a hangover cure.
Sosima let go of me, possibly with the intention of throttling Sandara. I pawed at the end table, finding a set of dark glasses and popping them on. The shade lenses were mostly for protecting my sensitive eyes from bright light, but at that moment I was fairly certain a candle would qualify as bright light.
The moment Sosima opened the door to stop the pounding, Sandara shouldered past her and flopped onto the bed next to me.
“For shame, Fishy.” She chided Sosima, “this bed is definitely big enough for three. Maybe even four. Total waste of money, making Syl and I sleep separately.”
“Lady Sosima Aulamaxa.” Sosima corrected her, which Sandara blithely ignored as usual.
“Sure Fishy.” She answered. “So, any big plans for the day? I’m thinking I’ll take a look around the docks, maybe ask Rowe to show me around. You in?”
“As much as aimlessly wandering with you two sounds delightful,” Sosima said in a level tone, “I intend to purchase a few new outfits. Unless I’m fantastically lucky, everything I own is likely completely unfashionable by now.”
“Eh, fashion in the Shackles follows the strong and beautiful.” Sandara said with a shrug. “I think you can pull off the granny look if you want to wear clothes 20 years out of date. Sure, people are likely to guess you’re actually an old hag if you go that route, but I’m pretty sure you could wear a potato sack and people wouldn’t give a girl like you too much grief.”
Sosima had taken out her earrings before sleep, but she turned red so quickly that for a moment I thought she was taking on her tiefling appearance.
“Get out of my room!” Sosima ordered. “We shall see you in the taphouse.”
“Actually, could you bring us some water?” I asked, “my mouth feels like it’s full of sand.”
“Oh sure!” Sandara answered with an impish grin.
She handed me a flask, which I drained thankfully. I handed it back to her, and she held it aloft for a moment. She flourished her small skull and crossbones flag, the symbol of Besmara, and a tiny spout of water poured from the air into the flask. She offered it to Sosima, who stared at it for several seconds. Her face had a studied, neutral expression as her eyes flicked between sandara and the delicious, cool water. In the end, she snatched the flask out of Sandara’s hand and took a long pull.
Good. Not to the point of effective self harm to spite Sandara. Not yet, anyway.
I dragged myself out of bed, and noted that I’d gone to sleep in my clothes. I looked like a rumpled mess in Sosima’s hand mirror; not very presentable.
“Nope, not good enough to be seen by the crew,” I said to myself, “and definitely not good enough for potential clients.”
I rummaged through my overnight bag, pulling out a small selection of vital tools: two wands, a comb, a pair of scissors, a small mirror, a completely useless razor, a hanger for my clothes, and a revolver. For obvious reasons, I hadn’t wanted the gun at my hip while I was drunk off my ass. I stripped, hanging my wrinkled clothes from the coat rack and storing my gun next to Sosima. She paused just long enough to give me an appreciative once over, but was busy putting her own face on.
I slowly worked the tangles out of my long hair, starting with long sweeps to detect problem areas and then teasing them apart. While I worked, I let autopilot control the magic to do his part of the morning routine.
I tapped into the blessing of Besmara to take control of the local weather. I pulled the magic tight against myself, affecting only a few feet around me. As I focused, the humidity in the corner elevated rapidly. A pillar of mist swirled around me, forming over the course of 12 seconds. Every surface became slightly damp, including my clothes. As I finished detangling my snowy locks, I reversed the magic. Over the course of a minute, the air became incredibly dry, sucking the water both from the air and the faintly damp clothes. I retrieved my white shirt and linen jacket, now wrinkle free, and pulled them on.
My boots, though they were leather, were enchanted. Not only were they a perfect fit, they were also unaffected by moisture and never needed attention to maintain the shiny black finish popular in the Shackles. To top it all off, I’d finally managed to identify the damn things. They granted autopilot a +5 to intimidate skill checks, which I’d figured out on my own, but also had a second, more active ability. If I focused entirely on projecting authority for a round with my stance and expression, the weak willed simply could not attack me. Usually it would be better to fight if I was surrounded by people trying to hurt me, but I liked having the option.
Thus fully dressed, I took a deep breath, plastered a confident smile on my face, and walked down to the taproom. I needed food, and since Taco Bell wasn’t available I’d have to go with whatever the hell Murderin Mike at the bar had cooked up.
To my utter shock, breakfast was fish tacos. Apparently Goatshead had plenty of cheese, or at least Walleye’s Rum Room did. The grizzled old salt running the bar was Walleye himself, and he had a damn fine cook. I settled my stomach with some tasty junk food, smiling and nodding at everyone I recognize. More than one man with fresh bruises scowled in return, but I was manifesting a good mood and I wasn’t going to let anyone ruin it.
“So, any big plans today?” I asked, sitting down near Syl, Sandara, Rosie, and Owlbear. “We haven’t been in port for a while.”
“Nothing too much yet.” Rosie said. “I tried asking one of the guards for a recommendation, but everything he suggested was way too expensive. I think he knows we just got here with money.”
Rosie was, as usual, as cheerful as I was pretending to be. I’d seen her drinking the night before as much as anyone, more than most when factoring in her 3 foot frame. Rosie was a halfling, though exceptionally buff despite that. Even several weeks after losing her dominant arm in a fight, she’d gone out of her way to maintain her rippling physique. She had her long chestnut hair tied back while she ate a plate heaped with fish.
Given the lost limb, I’d assigned Rosie a management position on my ship. She had done such a good job as Owlbear’s minder, helping the gigantic man work to his full potential, that I figured she’d do a good job as bosun. So far, she’d done an excellent job of directing the swabs in their various menial, yet vital, tasks.
“I think I’ll check to see if there are any bookstores.” Syl answered, “I’ve read through my whole supply and I’m due for a top off. After that, I’ll ask around and see if anyone is looking to hire a little extra muscle while we are in town.”
“Right here.” Sandara said, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “This is the best kind of bar. I’ve got shopping to do later, but right now I’m doing pretty good.
“Cool,” I said, nodding. “Rosie, I was planning on talking to a guy I know in town. I might be able to get you a good prosthetic. I don’t know if it’ll actually pan out, but he might be able to give us a hand.”
Sandara cackled, surprising me.
“You did not just make that pun.” Syl groaned.
“I wasn’t intending to.” I said, looking at Rosie. “I’m so sorry if that was rude.”
Rosie shook her head with a light smile.
“It’s fine.” She stated. “You’ve been great, and if your friend can actually help that is great. Don’t break the bank on my account, though. We still need to get everyone home; I don’t want to get a new hand and then starve to death.”
“That’s not going to happen.” I assured her, “I’ve already set aside a budget for Sosima, and if 200 gold isn’t enough to resupply we probably shouldn’t be buying much here anyway. Besides, I have other things I want to ask him about, and I don’t know him well enough for a pure social call.”
Much better to show up with a few hundred gold in hand and make small talk. Especially since one of the questions I want to ask him is “Will you give me a pile of money.”
Sosima joined us, wearing a tight black dress, accented with red frills that drew the eye to her bust and hips. Her glossy black hair was immaculately styled in long curls, and I was fairly certain she’d used some kind of eye liner at the absolute minimum. She’d used her earrings to disguise herself as her original species. The poor girl still felt a little dysphoria over her current status as a Gillman, after so long living as a tiefling. Horns and wine red skin were a good look for her, so I sure as hell wasn’t complaining, but sometimes I wondered if it was healthy.
“Good morning everyone.” She said professionally, looking each of us in the eye except Sandara. “I’ve compiled a list of everything that I must restock; if you would be so kind as to look over the list and make suggestions I will take them into account.”
The officers and I passed around the paper, and I began to wonder if 200gp was actually enough for everything. Shelf stable food was of course vital, but Sosima also wanted to supplement with livestock which would need its own feed in turn. In addition, we were critically low on sail cloth, rope, caulking, and needed to replace dozens of tools. She even listed cannon balls; we didn’t have enough for a single broadside, let alone a full scale naval engagement.
“You’ve been pretty thorough.” I said, reading through for the third time. “This is enough food for two months?”
“Indeed.” Sosima confirmed. “More if we ration carefully or supplement it with fishing or hunting, of course. I’d prefer more in the event we find ourselves stuck on another island, but this should suffice.”
“Why do you want so many barrels of water?” Sandara asked, “that’s not going to be an issue with me and Emrys here.”
“In the event that the two of you are incapacitated, we will likely be in the middle of a crisis.” Sosima answered primly. “I would prefer that such a crisis not be exacerbated by dehydration as well. That is still only half as many barrels as regulation would normally dictate.”
“But you’re still buying it.” Sandara persisted. “Just get some barrels and we can fill them up.”
“Properly sealed barrels full of sterilized water are better for long term storage.” Sosima insisted. “Standing water can go stale and become toxic if stored improperly.”
“You’ve stated your case, Sandara. You’re the Sailing Master, not the Quartermaster. It’s Sima’s call,” I declared, cutting off the argument, “If that’s all, I think now is a good time to see if your idea works, Syl. The demon one.”
Syl’s eyes lit up.
“Excellent.” She said, “books can wait.”
••••••••••
What I had in mind could be misinterpreted very easily. I’m fairly sure it was illegal, for multiple valid reasons. Of course, not much was actually illegal in the outskirts of Goatshead, but I also didn’t want to be shot by some fine upstanding citizen exercising their freedom. For that reason, Syl and I hiked to the edge of town to find a good spot. We started near Jerry’s house and explored in wide sweeping arcs.
“So, what are you calling?” Syl asked while we looked around. “Did you think about what I asked?”
“Just a Dretch.” I told her, holding up one hand to forestall her argument. “I know it would be objectively better to call something more civilized, but I’m not doing that. I’m still uncomfortable about the whole plan. I’m pretty sure I can get over any guilt if it’s a Dretch, and more importantly I’m pretty sure we can take it.”
The location we eventually selected was a ten minute walk outside town, a nice clear patch of ground where families might gather to have picnics just out of sight of the nearest building. Whether it was frequented by charming families of four or meth heads, it served our purposes.
“You’ve got the weapon?” I asked, glancing down at her belt.
“For the tenth time, it’s right here.” Syl said, patting a heavy sickle at her belt. “Hopefully I won’t need it.”
The prior owner of that sickle, a grindylow priestess, had carved it from cold iron. Cold Iron was a naturally occurring variant of iron mined deep underground. It lost many of its special properties when exposed to excessive heat, so the process by which it was forged employed magic somehow. Cold iron rejected extraplanar influence, making it very difficult to enchant but also extremely effective at harming fey and lesser demons. (Knowledge Planes 13+3=16 success).
“Ok, last chance to back out.” I said, looking over my shoulder at Syl.
She gave me a long, level look before sitting down on a log and crossing her legs.
With a sigh, I turned around and mentally established the boundaries of the dretch’s confinement. A large patch of dirt formed a rough circle; I matched its dimensions so that there would be a visible marker of where the demon could go. Once I was confident, I reached out into the shallows of the Abyss. The seething tide of demonic energy yielded up a victim for me quite easily, the lowliest of demonkind. Only fresh dead souls of those stained black with evil were lower on the abyssal food chain.
I smelled the creature in the prime material before it even began to manifest. For ten minutes, I was obliged to watch as a fat little humanoid figure took shape from sickly green smoke that smelled of rot, blood, sweat, and feces. No matter, I would have my revenge soon enough. Then again, perhaps this was the Dretch’s revenge?
Once the short, fat demon was physically present, it proceeded to glare at me. Its beady little eyes conveyed nothing but flat dislike. It expected to be commanded, used as cannon fodder against my enemies. A potentially dangerous task, but not the reason it hated me. It just hated everyone.
I checked Syl, and confirmed that she was standing. I took a deep breath, and fired a blast of cold energy at the creature. It was an innovation on the cantrip Ray of Frost, capable of substantially more destructive power. The trail of flash frozen moisture reached the Dretch and left no mark upon its pallid grey skin, but in the action there was an implied command the Dretch could properly rebel against.
I command you to die for me.
Command rejected. (No roll required)
The dretch lunged towards me, slamming against the edge of the mentally constructed enclosure. I felt autopilot focus, holding firm as the dretch pit its mind against mine. The physical displays were mere tantrums if he could not overpower my will.
Opposed charisma check to escape:
Dretch 3+0=3
Emrys 16+4=20
My barriers held firm. It continued to flail its arms towards me, but it was fully contained so long as I did not break the circle with my own flesh. I fired another blast of frost at it.
“Phew. Ok, we managed it.” I called out to Syl. “This might take a while, though.”
I was interrupted by a cloud of acid green gas flowing out of the Dretch as it roared at me. Syl and I backed off; it was nauseating but ultimately harmless. Dretches could summon a stinking cloud once per day, which was probably about on par with tear gas if you stayed inside of it for long, but it wouldn’t spread past the area of the initial spell. Further, it was easy for me to kick up a wind with Besmara’s blessing, dispersing the cloud in a few moments.
“And that should be the last arrow in its quiver.” I said grimly. “I don’t think we randomly plucked some kind of special variant Dretch, so this guy is basically hopeless.”
“Alright. Get to it.” She said, “unless you want me to soften him up for you?”
“This first time? No.” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t think the cold iron would disrupt the circle but I’m not sure it won’t.”
Things would have probably gone very quickly if it had actually escaped, with Syl shredding the little bastard in a few seconds. Instead it was a slow, grinding process of doing negligible damage through repeated blasts. Autopilot was handling the violence, such as it was, so I was left to occupy myself. I didn’t particularly want to chat with my girlfriend while slowly freezing a creature to death, so instead I lost myself in the numbers. Metaphorically, I stared at the clock to see how much longer this would take. As often happens when someone is doing that, time seemed to stretch infinitely out.
Each Frost Blast did 2d6 damage, or somewhere between 2 and 12 damage, weighted towards the middle. This was a substantial amount of damage for something that didn’t cost me a spell slot, averaging around 7 on a successful hit. Unfortunately, the dretch had cold resistance, which knocked 10 points off of any cold damage it took. It was similarly resistant to several other damage types, including most physical damage not dealt by cold iron weapons. Thankfully it didn’t have regeneration, or this whole exercise would be totally fruitless.
So I need a roll of 11 or 12 to do any damage. That means 5+6, 6+6, or 6+5 on 2d6. That’s 3 possible results out of 36, or one in 12. Each ray takes about 6 seconds to charge and fire, with Autopilot doing nothing else. As such the math works out as 1 successful attack per 2 minutes. Of course there is a 1 in 3 chance that the attack in question will do 2 damage instead of 1, so I’ll adjust my math up to 4 damage every 6 minutes. The average dretch has 18 hp, so that’s a little less than half an hour of holding up my hand and feeling my fingers go numb from the cold. Statistically. It could take longer.
Of course this isn’t taking into account crits, which do double damage on 1 in 20 attacks, or when it manages to dodge me. Lets focus on the positive. A single critical hit for max damage would deal 24 damage in one go. Minus 10, so 14. Then again, that’s a 1 in 36 chance stacked on top of a one in 20 chance. 36 x 2 = 72. add the 0. Ok so a 1 in 720 chance of doing 14 damage all at once. Those aren’t even really terrible odds, honestly. This could plausibly be done in one more attack.
My first crit was only for 14 damage, incidentally, which meant that 4 made it through. Even so, seeing two minutes worth of work accomplished instantly got a cheer out of me. It took almost an hour to actually kill the blasted thing. When it did I roared in victory like my team had scored a touchdown.
“So, did it work?” Syl asked, looking up from her book.
Right. There was a point to all this.
I opened up my achievements tab, and sagged with relief to see that the counter on the “killer of a thousand men” achievement had ticked up from 57 to 58. Killer of a Thousand Men was an ongoing task I’d been given, demanding that I personally end the lives of 1000 sapient creatures. I’d felt a bit queasy the first time I’d seen it, to be honest. I’d felt slightly better when I’d learned that sapient undead counted, and apparently called demons did too.
“Yeah.” I said, tucking my cold, clammy hand into my armpit to warm it up. “I don’t know if one kill is worth that much time, though.”
“You know what I think.” She said, crossing her arms.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, waving her off, “there might be other creatures easier for me to kill for credit. I know, but if we are doing this I want to kill something that the world is just flat out better without, and the gremlins didn’t count for whatever reason. Maybe because fey don’t really die when they are killed.”
“Please just promise me you’ll keep trying to optimize this?” Syl asked. “Even if it’s annoying, you might get something powerful with a month of concentrated effort, with more on the way. I don’t really know much about outsiders, but there has to be at least one kind of evil little bastard that isn’t resistant to your magic.”
“Fine, fine, I’ll think about it.” I agreed, grudgingly. “More magic would be good, I can’t really argue with that. Anyway, help me carry this? I don’t have a lot of bargaining chips for Jerry and I want to see if he wants it.”