Martin enters unfamiliar territory. Uneasy negotiations are sure to follow, and escape will be tricky if things go sour.

A standalone encounter set in the world of Panditerrelle, capturing a single moment of conflict rather than a complete narrative arc.

Setting borrowed from actual-play campaign.

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About 60 years ago, off the western coast of Djenebwy.

– Begin Entry –

Martin of Grenvald stood at the ship’s bow as the water turned from clear ocean blue into murky brown. He had entered the estuary, the sweet taste of ocean spray fresh in his beard. Martin braced himself for the ship’s captain to adjust course.

Ahead, the channel disappeared under the canopy and into the swamp. The ship too large to navigate the trees, it jerked as it careened towards the only accessible dock.

There were a few orcs on the dock. Martin instinctively reached inside his cloak and placed his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

A hand gently touched his shoulder. “No need for that here,” Kitara the Pious whispered. “Trust that if we do not strike, they will not retaliate.” 

The orcs docked the ship while barking orders in orcish at each other and passing the ship’s ropes about. These locals lived up to their reputation for being uninviting – the way they pushed each other around as they worked seemed… excessive.

Kitara’s hand squeezed Martin’s shoulder. But why?

Oh. He was white-knuckling his dagger. He dropped his hand to his side. Just a quick job, and we’re outta here. No ruffling any feathers this time.

But accidentally ruffling feathers was what Martin did best…

Docking completed, Martin disembarked. As he stepped onto the platform, he brushed shoulders with an orc, and recoiled.

The orc grunted at him.

The narrow boardwalk wrapped around a large black willow tree, providing a path to a beast lurking in the water. One of the orcs said a two-word phrase and gestured to the beast.

“Go,” Kitara whispered again. Her serenity was contagious. “Just act like you belong.”

Martin nodded subtly. Kitara didn’t speak orcish either, but she always knew best. That was the rule.

Martin strode across the boardwalk to where he could see into the place known to foreigners as The Floating City. Every gnarled house or structure was built against a large tree and had a dock. Instead of streets and alleys, there were fetid swamp waters that spoiled the salt taste in Martin’s beard.

Martin scrutinized the lurking beast. It had sleek, hippopotamus-like skin, a massive body, and an elephant-like trunk that it used as a breathing straw. It was submerged entirely in water except for its spine and eyes.

Martin mounted and pressed his legs tight against the beast, making the leather saddle squelch. He compacted his body, expecting at any moment that a hand or jaws would burst from the water and snatch his ankle.

An orc slapped the creature and shouted “Hai!”

Martin’s mount lumbered away from the dock. He looked over his shoulder and saw the orc waving back at him, but whether it was a friendly or taunting wave, Martin couldn’t tell.

– End of entry. –