Chapter 32

Bilwin wakes up where he passed out the night before, lying on the sand at the edge of the glade where he sparred with Gven. The storm is gone and the sky is clear, but the pre-dawn stars look different. He slowly pulls his arms up underneath him, propping himself up on his elbows.

An older dwarf stumbles across the sandy beach towards the young dwarven cleric, holding a humongous tankard that’s easily half his height. He has a thick red beard, long hair tied into intricate braids, and thick heavily worn armor. Lifting the stein to his mouth as though it weighs the same as a pint, the seasoned dwarf takes a lengthy drink, easily spilling most of it down into his beard. He takes a seat on a boulder close to Bilwin and, without bothering to wipe his face of the leftover beer, gives Bilwin a somewhat concerned look.

“It’s been a while, how ye feelin’ this morning?”

With a glance back towards the incoming tide, Bilwin slowly says, “dwarves don’t belong on water.”

“Dig deep enough, and the mountain’s always there,” he responds solemnly. “Now, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I, umm, I lost something and I don’t know where to find it.”

The dwarf takes another long swig from his exceptionally large stein, once again spilling half of it down the sides of his mouth. Wiping his face with the back of his other hand, he gives Bilwin a stern look, appraising his still-half-inebriated state. “Well, y’er in no shape to get this in one go and the others need to know.”

With a flick of his wrist—or maybe it was a snap of his fingers, Bilwin couldn’t quite tell from where he was lying on the beach—there was a weird shift of focus around them and the others from his party suddenly appeared, looking confused.

Gven looked at Bilwin, still lying on the sand, and then to the old dwarf. “Who are you?”

Pointing at Bilwin, the grizzled dwarf says, “he calls me Hanseath. Let’s mark the occasion with a drink.”

In that moment, each of them finds themselves holding a pint-sized stein in their hand. Hanseath lifts himself from the small boulder he was sitting on and goes around to each of them, pouring from his large stein into theirs. Returning to his de facto seat, he raises his tankard towards them and proceeds to take another gulping drink. Once again, most of the liquid spilling into his beard. The others drink from their steins, each one smiling at the delicious flavor contained therein.

“We should get on with this. Veylara will be upset that I’m here.” Seeing their confusion, he adds “no, she’s not a god or deity or whatever it is y’er calling us these days, but she’s one of the few mortals who understands and respects what we’ve gone through over the millenia. She enjoys her alone time—quite the introvert, actually—and I don’t care to disrupt it any more than necessary.”

Hanseath goes on to describe how the gods are a glitch, they don’t belong to the natural order of things in this world, Olam. Many of his kind use this to their advantage, gaining power and control wherever they can. Others are less ambitious, mostly interested in living their life, not getting shat on by the other gods, and helping out their followers when they can. After The Conflict, the gods were given an ultimatum: leave forever and they’d still have some followers—and the powers that come with them—or continue to fight and lose all their followers—and their powers too. A group of the gods are unhappy with how The Conflict ended and, from what Hanseath can tell, they seem to be working on a plan.

He looks over his shoulder suspiciously, “something is going on and, I’ll be damned if I know what they’re up to. One, or some, of us are stirring up shit and they need to be stopped.” He gives them a more serious look, “ye might have to fight this battle.”

The group looks around, noting each others surprise at the revelations and the subsequent resolve to see this thing through.

“Y’er three days away from the first of several islands. Amonah is the largest of them and the only one with a large port city. Be warned though, that town’s controlled by those who support your opponent in Elsemar, Davanor.” Turning to Gven with sympathy in his eyes, “I’m sorry for what y’er going through, lass. People aren’t always who we imagine them to be. Same with the gods.”

Returning his attention to the group, “if you go to the other side of the island, ye’ll find a temple inside a dormant volcano. There be answers in that temple, and some history ye might find…compelling. Your path, your choice. I’ve told ye all I know.”

As the adventurers take in all that Hanseath has shared with them, Dolor speaks up. “What about the symbol we saw in Davanor’s warehouse?”

“Ah, that belongs to B’raq, she’s got a thing fer the sea. Specifically storms, the torrential downpour kind that shake everything up, both above and below the surface. She revels in the destructive power and damn if she don’t love having followers. The more the better in her mind.”

Hanseath slowly lifts himself from the boulder and raises his behemoth of a stein in their general direction before taking one last swig. “Good fight to ye! May ye sing loud songs and be drunk most of the time!”

Grindlefoot wakes from the dream to find himself slowly falling downward. The decaying webbing that has been holding him up in the rigging of the bow mast on the Iron Vulture is gently lowering him to the deck. As though he planned it, the halfling lightly touches the wooden deck, brushes the remaining strands of web from his shoulders—with a little bit of difficulty due to its sticky nature—and walks toward the starboard railing to check on his companions, waking up on the island’s beach.

Cap’n Don wakes from his napping hammock by the helm, sees Grindlefoot is back in halfing form, and runs over. “Can ye dae that again? A hae an idea! Well, lots o’ ideas fur that butt-yarn! That’s great stuff, yer butt-yarn! But first, will ye get rid o’ whit ye left on the mast?” He points at the bow mast, with the sails still pulled together and covered in webbing. Grindlefoot makes some gestures and flames appear on the mast, burning away the webbing in a controlled manner, not harming the mast.

Bilwin feels a wave of water from the incoming tide wash over his hair and slowly opens his eyes. Looking into the pre-dawn sky, he contemplates the dream they just experienced. As he considers the implication of Hanseath speaking to him directly, well, as directly as a dream can be considered, he hears Dolor. “What the…umm, why is the bow of the ship on fire? Oh, wait, it’s out now. We never should have left Grindlefoot alone with the captain.”

The rest of the group wakes up to see Veylara walking towards them, from the top of the hill. She smiles when they relay their dream encounter with Hanseath, not angry at all with the deity’s surprise visit, perhaps even showing a glimmer of joy. The storm giant agrees with their conviction to continue onward and guarantees them safe passage through her storms.

Mond asks Veylara which of the gods have an affinity towards water and what she might know. “There are several, but the two most powerful are Mayim, the god of rivers and lakes, and B’raq, the goddess of storms and churning seas.”

Before they leave the island, Gven turns to Veylara with a serious look. “We are in your debt, and yet I would ask one more favor. Your sword is a mighty weapon and I would like to earn the right to carry one as noble. What service can I perform for you that would gain me such a prize?”

Looking down at the barbarian half-orc, Veylara appears lost in thought for a moment and then slowly reaches into her boot. Hidden within its shaft, the storm giant slides out a dagger that appears to be the sister to her greatsword, with the same bluish-tinted blade. She easily holds it by the hilt in one hand. Suddenly, she flips it so that the hilt faces Gven.

To the six and a half foot tall half-orc, the giant’s five and a half foot long dagger is bigger than her current greatsword. Gven slowly takes the blade from the giant’s hand, holding it with an obvious sense of awe and reverence. Gripping it with both hands, she takes a few swings, exhibiting the sword forms she knows so well. The heft and size fit Gven as though it was forged specifically for her hands.

“I believe that you will need this more than I in the coming days. Know that I expect it returned to me someday. A gift of this sort creates a bond between us and requires a gift in kind. It must be something of great value to you.”

Reaching under her leather tunic, Gven retrieves a wooden medallion and hands it to Veylara. “This was carved by my father and represents the bond of my family. It’s not worth a single copper to any tinker, yet it’s priceless to me. You have my word that I will return this glorious blade to you one day and retrieve my family’s medallion, and we share the tales of our adventures.”

Turning the tiny-to-her medallion over in her hand, Veylara recognizes the Unwinking Eye of Gruumsh. It’s delicately carved into a round piece of honey mesquite, a hardwood tree found in the grassy plains of the Badlands. For safe keeping and decoration, the storm giant hangs the medallion from her left ear.

Bilwin says to Veylara, “I want to thank you for your hospitality and this opportunity to reconnect with Hanseath. Please, drink from my stein. It will grant you a vision of something that brings you joy.” The storm giant takes a long draught from the magical mug and over the next few minutes, her face takes on a countenance of calm and happiness. Handing the stein back to Bilwin, “thank you, that was lovely. It has been a long time since I last saw my home.”

Dolor, Mond, Bilwin, and Gven return to the Iron Vulture and find Captain Don describing something to Grindlefoot, emphatically waving his hands in all directions. “An’ if the butt-yarn hauds, like A think it will, we can mak’ it dae that thing A telt ye aboot!”

The ship sets sail within the hour, the captain and his crew wave to Veylara as they leave. Once again, she’s perched upon the two hundred foot outcrop, watching the storm off in the distance. True to her word, both the sky and the sea settle down around them as they leave their safe harbor towards Amonah.

Gven turns to the others and says, “that was the absolute best brown ale I have ever tasted. Hanseath knows his beer.” Dolor gives her a quizzical look, “no, no, that was a lovely porter with just the right touch of chocolate flavoring.” Mond looks away for a quick moment before realization hits him and he smirks at the others, “mine was a smooth peach cider.” Bilwin laughs at the group, “indeed, he knows his beers and like all good bards, he knows each and every member of his audience.”

On the first day back at sea, Gven sits alone with her new greatsword, meditating upon its place in this world and her connection with it. After several hours, she gains attunement with the weapon, learning how Veylara forged the blade as a partner to her own greatsword and the storm giant’s experiences with it. “Tempest Edge” is its given name, describing the explosive power contained within its precious metals. Once a day, as a bonus action, the blade can channel the power of storms with 1d6 of lightning damage. On a critical hit, it emits a deafening Thunderclap that causes an additional 1d6 damage and deafens the target and all enemy combatants within 10 feet until their next turn, unless they make a DC 13 constitution saving roll. In addition, the wielder has resistance to lightning damage.

Gven rises gracefully, holding Tempest Edge in front of her with both hands, and takes it through a handful of forms. Settling into a relaxed stance, she looks at the blade with respect, then turns back towards the island and Veylara, nodding her head in a silent moment of gratitude.

The rest of their journey to Amonah is uneventful, until mid-afternoon of the third day. Dolor notices that the sea in front of the Iron Vulture is churning in a swirling manner and Cap’n Don immediately takes action. Grabbing Bilwin, they run to the bow of the ship where the captain reveals a hatch that has a dial inside. “Turn this tae the richt when A gie the signal!” He takes Grindlefoot and Gven to similar hatches in the stern, and Dolor and Mond on each side of the ship, close to the bow. Captain Don runs back to the wheel, opens a matching hatch, grabs the dial, and yells, “Noo! Turn fur aw yer worth!”

The wind is picking up and the sea is getting rougher as they near the churning whirlpool. It takes the crew a few tries to move the obstinate dials. In a fit of inspiration, Grindlefoot wild shapes into a gorilla, but still cannot budge the damned thing.

Finally, after three attempts, all of the dials are turned simultaneously and they hear a deafening noise come from the ship’s aft. Looking behind the ship, Grindlefoot sees bubbles in the water and the ship suddenly lurches upward. On each side of the vessel, a long piece of flat metal rotates outward from the hull to extend perpendicularly. They look on with astonishment as the whole ship begins to rise out of the water and float in the air. Moving forward even faster than it sailed the water and rising quickly, a weird hum comes from the hull.

Cap’n Don goes berserk with happiness. “It wirks! It really wirks!”

Dolor is the only crew member not feeling the nausea of flight sickness and asks the captain, “Great. Do you know how to land it?”