War...conflict...bloodshed...these things all take their toll on the souls of men.  Some it drives to insanity, others towards further horror.  For many, it leaves them scarred; anxious and alarmed at all times.  If one is lucky, they can find a means by which to to stave off such diseases. As it so happens, an unlikely marriage of both leisure and business would fall into your lap.

Over the many years of marching, the many foreign soils Sharps had trod, there was the fascination of plants.  How different species appeared and disappeared depending on geography and how some thrived in one locale but suffered horribly in others.  Then came the deeper knowledge of plant lore, of powers and potions.  The ability to heal with but a drink, or to take life with but a drop.

It was on a fateful trip to find some such elusive species of flora that those damned mists appeared.  High in the mountains, some several hundred yards above the valley below, they appeared.  They did not descend the mountain nor did they rise from below but rather seemed to form in the air around you.  As the sunlight became choked and visibility all but gone, you had no choice but to simply wait it out on the mountaintop.  For many hours you sat, high above the world, and as you nodded off into slumber, not once did you imagine the very rock you lay upon was no more.

As the sound of lapping water fell upon your ears, you sat bolt upright, weapon in hand but before you stood no enemy or creature...but rather the ocean.

Kazimir, by contrast, had seen plenty himself, much of which was found within his new home world.  The mists were something every child knew, songs and rhymes had been burning it into their collective memories for generations.  So when the mists came to call upon Kazimir, it was of little surprise.  Knowing his fate was now in anothers' hands, he simply sat and waited for the choking cloud to pass, depositing him in some far flung land of horror.  Staring into the mists, his vision targeted the only object he could find, a lone, ancient tree.  The mists swirled, churning to and fro, blotting the very world from existence, yet the tree remained and indeed remained even as the mists finally released their grip on the light.  Yes, the tree remained, solid, ancient, stoic but the landscape was no more as it had been.  Kazimir now found himself seated in middle of an old but manicured cemetery.

Kazimir stood and surveyed his surroundings, drawing his furred cloak around him to shut out the chill of the accursed mists.  He walked toward the lone, ancient tree and noted the headstones as he passed, looking for anything remarkable.

Sharps rolls to his feet in a practiced move. His trained eyes look for enemies in the unfamiliar locations; seeing none he stands full, replaces his blades and surveys the new lands he has found himself in.

"Well, fuck me," he says.  He whistles for his horse, and calls out to Twelve. He pats himself down to ensure nothing has been lost in the transition from there to here.

"Guess I won't be bangin' that sweet little barmaid again tonight. It never fails: pay for a room in advance and somethin' always comes up ta spoil it."

He uses his senses to learn more about the place he is in, and specifically looks for high ground to walk to so he can see more. Are the bird noises familiar, is there a smell other than the ocean, is this the same climate he was in.

Kazimir: At first glance, the place seemed deserted.  Many of the headstones were very worn and crumbling and as you looked around, the remains of old foundations fell apart in the bright morning sun.  It then dawned on you that the place was impeccable and clean.  The vines and other plants were trimmed and the grass was kept very low.  In the corner, almost built into the wall itself, lay a stone cottage, smoke still rising from the chimney. Further off, you could make out the faint roof lines of cottages and homes possibly still standing.

Sharps: Before sits the ocean, vast, dark and blue.  Gulls cry as the surf gently crashes into rock-strewn shoreline.  The boats creak on their mooring lines...wait...those are actual boats...and that's an actual pier.  That's when the remainder of the sounds...voices, children, animals...sends you spinning around to find a thriving port.

"Well, that's not as bad, is it?" he says to himself. "Ports mean sailors, sailors mean bars, bars mean wenches an' whisky an' answers."

He checks his money supply and gives his appearance a once-over. "Bars mean jobs, too. But sometimes sailor boys get drunk and have accidents. Then...no need to look for a job."

He starts off toward which ever end of town looks like it has the most sailors and bars.

Kazimir stood for a few long moments as he considered his situation and took in his surroundings.  It was obvious that he wasn't in Hazlan anymore, that much was certain ... but where had he gone?  Lowering the hood of his furred cloak, the intricate patterns of Kaz's tattoos stood out in stark contrast against his pale amber skin as he weighed his options.  The air felt cool against the smooth skin, for he — like all Mulan — regularly shaved their scalps.

Deciding finally to get some answers, the warrior set off toward the cottage.  The cemetery in which he had found himself was obviously well tended, and if the cottage's thin trail of smoke threading its way to the heavens was any clue ... the caretaker was home.

Sharps:  Breathing in the crisp, salty morning air, you are indeed quite surprised by how pleasant everything seemed, all things considered.  The fog had completely retreated leaving behind a rustic yet bustling town.  With the sun now clearly shining, you can see that you aren't too fair from one of the piers.  The town itself, while small, is quickly filled with the usual noise and chatter one would expect to find.  The markets open for the day and soon people begin filling the streets with vendors hawking various wares to any passerby.  The taverns are easy enough to locate as the local "characters" stumble forth into the light.  You notice many individuals heading down to the docks to fish but strangely, no one seems to be sailing out for any reason.  In fact, except for 3 larger ships, nothing beyond the size of dingy can be seen.

Kazimir:  An aged, grizzled gentleman opens the weather worn door.  While his face and snow white beard reveal his age, his body was another story.  The man would have had to bend down to get through the door, probably 6'5 feet tall, with arms the size of trees, to say nothing of his legs.

With a look of concern he addresses you; his voice low but booming none the less...

"Can I help you sir?"

Hoping to catch a clue as to where he might be, Sharps heads for a vendor that is selling bottled liquids, preferably of the alcoholic kind.

Sharps is a man with military training and survival instincts. He walks slow and tries to not look like he's new in town. He evaluates the manner of dress of these people, how many are armed, are there guards or constables. Do they seem overly religious and are there women and children. Then he checks his surroundings- what lies beyond the row of buildings he can see? Are there trees visible, and what kind? Are they single ornamental trees or do they represent a forest or grove?

As Sharps arrives at the vendor he finds a bottle that might easily be stashed in his rig, since his horse is nowhere to be found. "Here now, what might you be askin' for this one here?" he asks, paying attention to the accent and monetary units requested by the man.

Sharps: The town itself seemed rather standard, filled with the usual peoples one would find living in such a place, yet there was a distinct lack of diversity.  The edges of the town were definitely not visible from the shoreline suggesting it was a rather large place; the large ships docked also would lend to that theory.  Yet, by and large, the town was rather singular in its composition of citizenry.  The language spoke was most certainly common though the accent you could not place to save your life.  The coinage, too, seemed both familiar and yet alien.  The alloys seemed the same...gold, silver, etc..., but the visage stamped upon it was unlike any you had ever come across before.

As far as bottle vendors, you can find a few merchants around that sell glass vessels, as well as apothecaries and the like with various substances in glass containers but as far as alcohol, the only thing you can find (nearest to the docks you were next to anyway) is a lone tavern the name of which cannot be deciphered as the sign above it is extremely weathered and neglected.

"Damnedest place, this is," Sharps says. "Almost like a dream."

He tries to actively disbelieve his eyes and use all skills to detect magic in the surroundings.

Should that fail, Sharps will take a big sigh and turn to the tavern. "I better not be payin' for a drink, only ta find out it's ghost ale or some shiite like that." He hesitates.

"Well, I would give a copper for something ta drink, even if it is ghost ale. If this is all a dream, might as well enjoy myself. Let's go see what spirit titties look like."

With a bounce in his step Sharps makes for the tavern and enters the establishment.

Despite the lack of care given the sign above the entrance, the inside is rather well lit and, for the most part, clean.  However, the presence of extra beds crammed into each corner and curve of the room was definitely something new.  A large, rather unsavory gentleman stood by the door; a permanent scowl ran the length of his face as he watches you enter.  The place itself was rather empty so finding a spot to sit was a simple matter of choosing.  A barmaid stood behind the counter wiping down several glasses.

Sharps ignores the man at the door and slides into a stool near the barmaid.

"I'll be needin' three things from ya: a whisky, the name of this place and your name, as well, if ya don't mind sharin' the information." He looks around the room. "Did ya have a bit of a sleepover here, eh?" Sharps inquires, in the nicest possible manner.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:16, Sun 01 Sept 2019.

The bartender, a stout, broad-shouldered woman, slides a glass towards you.  She towers at a massive 6'2" with arms that would make most men feel ashamed.

"The name is Javoari and you're sitting in the Broken Bilge."

The liquor is actually quite palatable considering it was a local strain with ingredients you may or may not know.

Sharps sets the glass down and orders another. "Well, Javoari, well-met. I find myself in need of a horse and tack. Any places you could recommend?

"And as a follow-up, why do you have so many sailors sleepin' in the bar every night?"

"A steed?  You are definitely new around here.  Almost no one ventures past them walls, especially for great length.  As for my sailor friends, well, the sea is even less safe."

"Well, that sounds like the beginnin' of a right scary story, and it so happens I like them stories," Sharps says, settling in.

"So, here's the thing: I'll tip ya if you can be as specific as possible with the details, and I'll tip ya again if you get all long-winded and tell me the whole story about what lives in the waters and beyond them walls. Now, take yer time and give it all to me. I love a good story, and, bein' new 'round here, you just might save me life by the telling," Sharps says, positioning himself on the bar stool so he can see both the enormous barkeep and the huge man at the door.

"A scary story, huh?  That's the understatement of the year.  Whole towns been upended, it would seem, and no one really seems to know what's going on.  In fact, the whole damn island has gone screwy.  If you ask me, it's some super dark magic.  Probably from those damn goblins."

She looks around the almost entirely empty room and leans forward, as if some monumental secret were hidden behind her lips.

"Can't really give you detail if there isn't much to give in the first place.  Beyond the walls?  Well, the rest of the island but more importantly, it would seem death is the new stock and trade out them gates.  We haven't even seen a trade caravan or merchant cart in...oh...probably 3 or 4 months now."

Leaning backward to stand straight again, she pulls an anonymous bottle from the shelf and pours herself a small glass of whatever the golden hued liquid was.

"As for the sea, well, there's nothing really to tell.  Ships went out, never came back.  Pieces would wash up.  Same with bodies, well...parts of anyway."

She pauses and raises the small glass into the air; her head lowers briefly.  Recomposing herself, she downs drink in one swallow; her face contorting for several moments after.

"Then we've got this wave of murders in town as well as goblins and whatever else they dragged along hounding our gates.  Add to all of that, some of the older captains, the ones that sailed just before the fog set in, claim that we're not near the mainland."

She slams the empty glass down.

"Need more detail?  Ask the guards or one of the dead.  I work for my money."

Sharps slams his glass down, too, in solidarity with the bartender.

"Work you do, indeed, and that story was every bit of what I had hoped it would be. A fine telling, that, and worth what I promised." He settles up for the whisky and the tips.

"And I'll take your advice, head out to speak with some guards or whatszit. One last inquiry: if a man who was really good at killin' goblins was to seek employment doin' the same, to whom would he make inquiry? And, in which direction could that person be found?" Sharps ends, with a smile and a nod of appreciation.

Taking the coins and glass she points absently towards the door...

"Another fool who laughs at death, I see.  Ask for Captain Rasmir.  He's usually by the main gate to the north."

With a slight nod of the head Sharps takes his leave, paying no attention to the huge guard at the door. He walks out and decides to stroll along the docks area as he makes his way north, listening to conversations and trying to piece together what is going on in this crazed port town that seems to be drifting away from the mainland and into a sea of trouble.

He fills his recently-acquired bottle with water, then buys a skewer of meat and nibbles at it while walking, to make his presence less remarkable and more commonplace. He is listening to the complaints of the people, sailors and common-folk alike, as he makes his way to the north gate.

Listening closely as you strolled through the town, you found most conversations appeared normal.  Yet, something in their respective tone was off.  There was a sense of anxiety or discomfort even as they discussed such mundane acts as the evenings meal plan.  However, in hushed tones you would hear whispers of murders in the night and unknown demons plaguing the lands.  To be fair, it all sounded rather normal for a small town.

Making your way to the northern most gates of the town you find a standard stone built archway with large oaken doors held shut by a large plank and several bolts.  On top of the wall archers can be seen pacing about in their duties while a handful of soldiers busy themselves with daily, mundane tasks...oiling armor, feeding the horses, etc.  Peering around, however, you begin to notice that perhaps only a small number might actually be soldiers.  Many look young...far too young to be serving in any military capacity.

As you approach the small training area, from one side of the stone archway, a door opens and a grizzled looking gentleman steps out.  His head is shaved down close to the scalp, revealing a plethora of scars.  His face shows signs of age and wear and his beard, while long and thick, is showing heavy signs of white throughout and a large section is bare; a large visible scar covering the patch.  His armor is simply leather, old and tired yet clearly polished and taken care of, despite the numerous holes and patches.

Sharps approaches slowly. "Well, you have the look of one who has earned the title 'Captain.' I was advised to seek out a Cap'n Rasmir, and if you are he then I am pleased. Sharps is the name an' killin' is my game. I'm seekin' a contract to kill goblins an' such. Barkeep said you were the man ta see about such work."

The grizzled warrior eyes you with the studied gaze of a soldier.  When he speaks it roars like a wild dogs bark.

"Aye, that's me and you look to be yet another unknown person who appeared in the town, about right?  Listen, things here aren't what you're used to.  The things beyond these walls, well...dangerous doesn't even begin to describe it.  As it is I've already had a party go missing out in those damned woods.  You want the work?  We got plenty of it.  No contracts here, we simply pay a fair wage to those who work with us.  Times are hard my friend..."

He fans his arms around him, turning his head to either side indicating the troops around him.

"...and beggars can't be choosers."

Sharps nods as he looks about. "Aye, those are true words. Times are hard, it seems, from the look of your worthy troops," he says, without any disrespect, nodding his head toward a particularly young lad. "An' beggars can not be choosers, also true, but I am not here beggin' so I can afford ta be choosey. My talents would be wasted pulling watch on the wall or standing guard at the door to some buildin'.

"So I'll consider your offer, Captain. I have only just arrived an' need ta see the city before I decide where I might do the most good. Your men will receive my aid in fightin' the things that go bump in the night, if they and I are nearby to trouble. Who knows- I might just find my way back here, before long." Sharps shrugs a little. "I feel more at home in an encampment than I do in a noisy old inn, anyway."

After any further conversation Sharps walks along the wall, away from the Bilge, seeing how far the barrier goes and if there are any signs of recent fighting, murder or mayhem.

"Listen my friend..."

The Captains voice seem to soften slightly as he spoke.

"...hard barely begins to describe how it has been.  In fair warning, find some place well lit and full of people before nightfall.  I don't believe in curses, but something dark has taken hold of this place.  Keep your guard."

The wall itself more than likely encircled much of the town.  Running to the east, you could only assume that the wall ran into the ocean, judging from the curvature of the shoreline you appeared on.  To the west, the wall seemed to continue running as far as the town itself.

Sharps nods at the man, his face serious. "Aye, I will be takin' that advice, Captain. You may see me back before the sun sets. You think on it, will ya. Consider what might need doin' that your troops are stretched too thin to handle."

Sharps parts with the man in respect.

--

Deciding that the walk to the eastern edge of the wall is futile, Sharps makes his way back into the center of town. He stops and buys a juice drink from a vendor and asks if there is a silversmith in town.

If so he makes his way there, always listening to people's conversations while never seeming to be eavesdropping. If no silversmith operates in this town he ambles down to the docks to mingle with sailors, ears always on alert.

A silversmith does still operate within the town, though his shop had seen better days.  Very few wares graced the walls and display cases.

Sharps looks about as he sidles on up to the shopkeep.

"Good day, and well-met. Apologies for being brief, but I am looking for a blade made from silver or with a silvered edge. Might there be something like that hidden among your many treasures?" he asks, already suspecting he knows the answer. "In the alternative, might you have silvered arrowheads or crossbow bolt ends?"

Should the shopkeep have nothing of interest, Sharps will linger and ask, "I have been told of some killings in the town recently. It's nasty business, I hear, and as one who would not like bein' dead I am hoping to avoid that. What can you tell me about these murders?" he asks. "Help me stay safe, mate."

"I have nothing of the sort on hand...not exactly a huge rush on such expensive things but they can certainly be fashioned, if that's your fancy."

He lowers his head slightly and leans forward, as if what he speaks is forbidden.

"Nasty business is what it all is.  These ain't your regular ol' murders and the numbers keep rising.  No one is really certain but I think we all agree it's these damn mists that brought whatever it is here.  No one I know has even seen anything but the homes, the places these people were found...well I've never inspected myself but I hear tell that they are absolute horror shows.  Blood on the walls.  Bodies ripped apart.  As I said, nasty business."

Sharps nods, very serious. "You've been right helpful. An'I see that your place is sufferin' from a lack of customers, what with the mists an' all. Here's a few silvers for your trouble." Sharps pulls the coins but keeps them in his hand. "Now, how many hours do you estimate before the sun sets here? And, if I was in the investigatin' mood, where would I for sure find some of these houses what been the scenes of attacks."

"Dark would still be some time off, good sir.  Plenty of sunlight ahead before this day is out.  As for the houses, well, they shouldn't be too hard to find.  Several such homes now sit vacant; can't say I blame anyone for not rushing to buy.  The guards could give you a rundown, if need be, but there's one I know for certain just down the way a spell.  Old apothecary and his wife got done in.  A rather ugly scene from what the rumor mill tells."

Sharps leaves the coins for the silversmith as promised. "You are a wise man, so here's a bit of advice you do not need: don't be a hero. Stay in when ya should be in. If the world turns the right way, I'll see ya on the morrow."

He leaves the shop and makes for the scene of the crime, not necessarily walking in a straight line to get there. He watches to see if he is followed, making abrupt turns around and walking in broad circles, using different techniques.

Upon arriving at the house he does not approach at first. He looks to see if anyone seems to be watching the house. When he finishes he just walks past the building at first, noting all that he can.

Following the directions given by the silversmith, you eventually arrive at a section of the town that is heavily gardened and with less housing.  What houses you see in this area are all cottage style with thatch roofing and built primarily from stone.  They appear to have been built sometime ago as they are covered in thick layers of growth.  A few even have trees growing through them.

Looking around, you find what you believe to be the former home of the now deceased apothecary (courtesy of the silversmiths' gift for colorful description).  The home itself is fairly simple in its construction, resembling the other homes.  Glorious, brilliantly colored flowers blossom out from the entire structure whilst the outside garden looked like a maze of trellised vines and berries.  Colored glass bottles dotted the entire property, most notably in the windows which directed the sunlight and enhanced their brilliance giving the entire scene an almost otherworldly, fairy like aura.

Nothing truly seems to stand out to you.  No visible signs of trampling or disturbance and nothing that appears out of place or missing.

Sharps keeps his sword in the scabbard as he walks boldly toward the cottage. His eyes scan the area to look for tracks, signs of a struggle or any other indicator of the horror he believes to be hiding behind the front door. Sharps opens the door wide to look in but does not step in right away.

The wooden door creaks on it's hinges as you open it.  A small swirl of dust picks up in front of you as the breeze races inside.  Before you sits a rather simple but crowded cooking area.  A few pots and pans hang from hooks but the room itself is mostly filled with bottles, beakers and small glass vials of all shapes, sizes and colors.  The walls are festooned with drying flowers and herbs giving a comfy feeling to the entire room; an intoxicating aroma slowly encircles you like a fine perfume.  A table with two stools sits in the middle of the room, still covered in herbs that are partially chopped and mashed.  To the back of the right wall you can see a door and towards the front of the left wall rises a small staircase.  The dust has only recently begun to settle so any discernible tracks are virtually nonexistent.

Sharps steps inside and closes the door behind him.

He pulls a dagger and keeps it in hand as he moves slowly through the home. He touches nothing. His goal is to investigate the upstairs, as the couple was supposedly attacked at night and that is where he imagines their bed chambers to be. Prior to that, though, he steps along that right wall, looking out the windows to see where that door might lead- to a back garden, to an outbuilding or to a set of cellar stairs.

Regardless of his discovery, Sharps does not open or touch the door. Once he is fairly certain where the door leads he will make his way back to the front door, then down the left wall to the stairs leading up. He looks for blood anywhere, including on the stairs, and then climbs to the second floor.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:17, Wed 09 Oct 2019.

Beyond the door appears to be another room, though from what you can see on the exterior it is oddly colored, with various chunks arranged in no particular order.

As you reach the stop of the staircase, the true scene of the crime unfolds.  Before you sits what appears to have been a bed chamber, but it's current condition would almost disqualify it from such a title.  The room itself appears as if a storm had blown through it.  Books were torn and pages scattered about the room.  Boxes and glassware were smashed to pieces.  Even the walls themselves seemed as if they had been scratched upon.  The bed itself was the most telling find.  Amidst the torn sheets and removed bedding, the large, dark stained pool marked the potions masters' final place.

Nodding to himself, Sharps looks for windows. He and evaluates if the damage blew the glass out or if glass was inside, indicating someone may have entered the chamber by breaking the window.

"Well, this is a madman's dream, if that is what this be," he says to himself. "A whirlwind? Dust devil? Damn mage-craft." He evaluates the room for signs of magical use, for any indications of how someone would have gained entry to the home, and then goes back downstairs and looks for something to eat.

He munches fruit or such, looks around at the herbs and spices on display and determines if any might help him in the preparation of poison of dinner. After, he wipes off his hands and then explores what lies beyond the other door on the main floor leading to the odd room.

The only entrance point, other than the front door, would be the set of windows across one wall of the room.  Neither are broken but neither is latched and open with relative ease.

Your search initially seems almost pointless as the state of the room makes discerning minute details near impossible.   Whatever the bookshelves contained was mostly destroyed but you do spy that the bed has been moved away from the wall; from scratches into the wood floor indicate it was recent.

As for food, I wouldn't recommend eating anything found in the home as it is surely rotted quite thoroughly by now.  Did you want to continue with the bedroom search or head down to other room still?

His eyes catching the bed's odd positioning, Sharps reaches down. With one hand he pulls a dagger and the other lifts one side of the entire bed, tilting it. He will examine everything: the bed itself, the wall behind, the floor beneath, looking for anything interesting.

Lifting the bed you find the entire backside was blistered with scorch marks and soot.  Upon the floor itself, a small panel lies open.

((ooc: from your description, I am unclear. The underside of the bed is charred, as if the flames originated from the panel in the floor, or the back of the headboard, implying a flame origination of the wall?))

Sharps investigated everything- the bed, the origin of the flames, the panel area, if the flames appear magical in origin or if they are mundane. He sniffs to see if there is a detectable source, like a wood fire, or if the flash happened so quickly there was no burning of papers from the bookshelf.

Sharps thinks about the layout of the home. He tries to remember which first floor room this bed's space would be over.

The underside of the bed as well as one edge along the back and, for obvious reasons, the linens are pretty scorched.  The open panel reveals what was once a simple hidden box with some sort of explosive or incendiary trap.  Whatever its' contents were, they are long gone.  The room is situated, if you worked out the math right, somewhere above the kitchen area, give or take.  The flash doesn't seemed to have gone in any considerable distance from its source.  The decimated book collection was torn into ribbons as opposed to set alight.

Setting the bed down and sheathing his dagger, Sharps takes a last look around. "Looks like the whirlwind drew open th' panel. Still don't explain that blood stain, though..."

Sharps heads downstairs. He looks through the apothecary's stores and bottles to find anything herbal or potions that could prove useful. After, he explores the closed door in the back which leads to the unknown room beyond.

Let me have an Int. check

The door gives way with ease as you gently press upon it. As the door slowly swings to the side, a beautiful, vibrant image begins to unfold.  The room itself, at least at its core of construction, appears to have been just a simple sleeping chamber, perhaps, at one time.  It's current use, however, is far removed from its original intention.

The rafters are bereft of any thatch and are instead covered by panes of brilliantly colored glass.  With the sun shining brightly outside, it gives the room a very ethereal, otherworldly quality.  The room itself has been refitted to a be a greenhouse.  Pots of all shapes and sizes fill the room, each bursting with some sort of fragrant, colorful flowers and foliage.  Towards the back of the room sits what appears to be a small alter or work table of some sort.

((Sharps rolled 12 on intelligence, so he made that roll)

"Hmmm... druid, maybe?" Sharps mumbles to himself as he takes stock of the room before him.

While you find no actual, ready-made potions, you identify several ingredients for all sorts of concoctions.  Most of the herbs and flowers have dried out (with some that makes no difference) but quite a few items were still completely viable.

Stepping into the room, Sharps investigates the altar, the room in general and tries to glean anything he may find for an indication of what it is that has killed so many people in this town.

Afterward, he goes looking for something specific. "Folks what live by the water always have storm shutters for their windows," he muses. If needed he leaves the house and walks around the exterior, looking for the shutters- and for clues.

The best you can tell, the old apothecary dabbled in some other arts.  Probably rather mundane given his profession but no way to know for certain.

The house, much like the rest in the area, possessed no shutters.

"Well, this is a place I could take refuge in, should I find a need for it," Sharps says, "but it looks as if all her secrets are long gone."

He leaves the apothecary's home and makes his way to the docks. There he looks for a person who might be willing to talk to him about what is in the water- and the drifting nature of the island.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:53, Mon 28 Oct 2019.

Surprisingly, most of the people you encounter are rather loose-lipped, suggesting it is something more than mere strangers that has them so gripped with fear.  As to the waters, no one could really pinpoint anything specific.  The majority of the tales revolved around ships that sailed out into the seas and simply never returned.  There were also a handful of tales speaking of strange creatures attacking fisherman but they seemed confined to more northern waters.

"Well, everywhere I turn is a dead end," Sharps tells a seagull who happens to be walking nearby. "Might just as well sit here on this bench and wait fer somethin' exciting ta happen." He takes a drink from his juice, kicks his feet out and watches the goings-on at the docks.

Once it seems that people are starting to make their way indoors for the night Sharps (if undisturbed this entire time) will make his way to the guardhouse and the Captain there.

If you hadn't spoken with anyone, you'd almost swear it was business as usual along the waterfront.  The only truly odd thing was the lack of ships or ship movement, otherwise, the port hummed with the usual vibrancy and life you expect to find.  As the inevitable shadows of night began to creep in, the attitude and general air shifted dramatically.  Mothers cried for young ones to come in at once as the fisherman began to hurriedly pull in their remaining lines/nets/pots.  The area rapidly changed from joyous and calm to silent and anxious.  Catching anyone you can along the way, you manage to find enough information to discern whereabouts the captain might be.

Sharps makes his way to the place where the Captain is supposed to be. Once there he reiterates his previous statements. "You got a place for an old military man in your barracks here for the over-night, don'tchya?" Sharps asks.

The captains gaze remains fixed with the same expression of anger and exhaustion as you speak.

"As much as I would like to simply offer you some room, the town itself is rather taxed, meaning nothing is free.  We have room here yes...for active guards."

Sharps shakes his head. "I can't go makin' a pledge without knowing what the town is facin', an' nobody seems to be heavy on the details. Makes it damn near impossible ta decide anythin'."

He nods to the old Captain. "As before, if you or yours is in a pinch I will render aid, an' I do hope yas survive to the morrow." He makes his way back to the inn to buy himself a place on the floor to sleep.