Every old salt knows a song to sing

[foxsays]

WHO: Araceli Bonaventura, Simon Ashlock, James Norrington, Helena, Rey, Korrin Ataash
WHAT: Exploring an eerie shipwreck locals have complained about that absolutely goes according to plan. Until it doesn't. Because of the ghost pirates.
WHEN: Mid-Bloomingtide; pre-Tourney, vaguely around the phylactery uproar
WHERE: Somewhere off the Kirkwall coastline
NOTES: ooc post, will warn if anything comes up but since we're doing puzzles I'm going to go ahead and say language, feel free to make your own starters for any travel shenanigans that you'd like if you'd like that

A small vessel takes them out of Kirkwall early in the morning, six of them packed in headed for where he reports came from; no sailors were willing to volunteer so it's this team themselves, and well, it's fortunate that half of them are from Naval Presence isn't it? A short trip, fair winds on the way there as Araceli explains what awaits them from the reports gathered from chatter about the docks or sent to her office:

Strange unnatural lights. Boats and ships crashing. Sailors not returning. Demons suspected of course.

Only that's when the fog rolls in once they're getting to where it's been reported on the maps by islands so small they don't even merit being on the big maps, only navigational charts to be steered about. Light through a fog could explain many things but there's something else, something that seems to whisper to each and every person on the boat.

And that's when they cut through the fog and the island itself - and something much larger - rise up out of the water.



No rift. No demons. But something that beckons all to come venture inside. Tie up the boat, you'll be needing that later after all, this one certainly isn't going anywhere.

Comments

ʟᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴄᴋ;

[foxsays]

The hatch is heavy, much of it grown over with the only the hardy life that survives the salt battering it when the seas sweep up, yet the latch is surprisingly free of rust for all that there are barnacles studding the deck, seaweeds and kelps making parts of it slick underfoot, small tide pools formed where the waves have crept high enough. Araceli looks at all of them, draws one of her rapiers and gives a final tug before it swings loose and descends into the dark.

"Watch your step," she instructs quietly, "the stairs might be rotten."

And who knows what's down there.

[[ooc: Welcome to the Puzzle Dungeon! This is where we'll meet our spirit pals so we can skip this if you'd like and jump straight to the puzzles in the other threads if that's what you'd prefer.]]

ᴋɪᴛᴄʜᴇɴ;

[foxsays]

In the kitchen three places are set, and at two of those places sit two spirits who are introduced by the one showing everyone through the door. Perhaps don't breathe in too deeply when the food has gone to mould and rot, a layer of slime spread across the water, the sickly-sweet stench of decay mingling with the brine of a wrecked ship so far out on the water.

"Alejandro." The one on the left raises a hand. "And Reina." A hand goes up from the one on the right.

"One of them lies, one of them tells the truth," the first spirit says, "and they can only answer yes or no. I'm sure there must be a question or two on your minds."

If you can work out who'll give you the right answer. But this is just the warm-up, it's all going to be fine, everything's going to be fine.

ᴀʀᴍᴏᴜʀʏ;

[foxsays]

For those who know how it feels, the hum of magic prickles across the skin and down the spine before anyone steps inside the well-stocked armoury thanks to the many barriers, too-bright in the dark of the ship. Maybe this is the source of the lights if not the spirits themselves, filling the room.

The floor feels wrong, uneven beneath the feet.

But it's a shipwreck. An unnatural shipwreck at that. It's probably nothing. Until when someone finally steps too heavily and the click precedes a gout of flame bursting from behind one of the barriers.

ʜᴏʟᴅ; ᴋᴏʀʀɪɴ, ʜᴇʟᴇɴᴀ & ɴᴏʀʀɪɴɢᴛᴏɴ

[foxsays]

Who's to say why some spirits take a liking to some and not others, it's best not to dwell on it really but while Araceli, Simon, and Rey are ushered off in the direction of the workshop, Korrin, Helena, and Norrington find themselves taken deeper into the ship.

The cold presses in on all sides somehow despite how close the air is elsewhere on the ship, same as the Kirkwall they left behind.

The first hand to touch the door might draw back in surprise when it isn't damp spreading across it but frost, and when the spirit bids they open, the floor is a great spread of ice. Huge hulking crates dot the floor, netting and rope nailed in place where supplies once were when the crew all lived. Perhaps you can see the problem set before your feet gang.

"There was a mishap. Alchemy supplies in here when we hit the rock," the spirit sighs, shrugging lazily. "We, well, you need to fetch a few things for us."

ᴡᴏʀᴋsʜᴏᴘ; ᴀʀᴀᴄᴇʟɪ, ʀᴇʏ & sɪᴍᴏɴ

[foxsays]

"You three," one of the crew calls as another leads Korrin, Helena, and Norrington away to somewhere deeper into the ship, "I have something for you, something exciting."

There's not much choice to it, is there? No way off the ship, the spirits of the crew to be dealt with, and this the only way to do it; spirits wish for something and they aren't demons at least. So time it is to go to a cluttered, disorganised space with papers scattered everywhere. Books burst at the spines. More water damage coming from somewhere to rust the tools, warp the wood of the workbenches; here they find themselves in the workshop with a strange arrangement of plinths dotted throughout the room some with a hammer or sacks with rusted points (caltrops? Nails?) sticking out.

The spirit doesn't follow them in, lingering at the doorway. "Our captain left something behind in here but we can't get to it. You can. If you can work it out." Another sigh, this one of frustration. "He was a master. And an utterly paranoid bastard."

ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ's ᴄᴀʙɪɴ;

[foxsays]

Both halves of the key in place, the captain's cabin opens. None of the spirits ushering the party here and there, prompting, harrassing, 'helping', whatever anyone wants to call it, none of them are here. Instead the eerie spectre of a man before his grand desk, seated quite comfortably as if expecting them.

"You're late," he drawls, a thick Antivan accent that speaks to a life with the Armada before that life was stolen from him. "A captain hears all the chatter, but he doesn't wish to be kept waiting.

"How long it's been since anyone new appeared. Which of you is sharp of wit and keen of mind? I do mean truly keen. It'd be a terrible shame if you bored me now."

ᴄʀᴇᴡ ǫᴜᴀʀᴛᴇʀs;

[foxsays]

The captain is gone.

Here are the crew quarters, chests at the end of each bed, and a body laid out on each of those beds. A few tables space out the beds, cards and dice left where they were in living, a bottle or two of rum and plenty of empty glasses left to gather dust. Spirits met already and spirits not encountered hover by them, waiting for someone - anyone - to arrive.

"We've waited a long time, send us off the right way."