For most of the voyage, a host of seabirds have accompanied the Maycastle, attracted by the scraps of food regularly thrown out by the ship’s galley. But at dawn on the thirteenth day, as the ship enters the Gulf of Konkor, the usual flocks of shrieking gulls are nowhere to be seen. It is as if they have suddenly become aware of impending danger and have turned back, eager to stay out of harm’s reach. Later in the day, a fierce squall arises from the east which whips the iron-grey waters of the gulf into a maelstrom. The crew fight desperately to control their ship as the storm rages all day and all night, not abating until dawn of the following day. As the wind gradually dies and the sea settles, the lookout is able to resume his post atop the mainmast.
‘Land ahoy!’ he cries, and all eyes scan the northern vista. There, perched on the wintry horizon, is a grey strip of barren, frost-covered rock. You magnify your vision and see, on the western side of this island, a few slate buildings clustered around a fortified stone tower.
‘That’s Fort Azgad,’ says Captain Prarg, with relief in his voice. ‘At last we’ve arrived.’
As the Maycastle cuts through the icy waves towards the fort, a beacon flares into life, its guttering yellow flame marking the entrance to the outpost’s slate-walled harbour. A Lencian flag is raised atop the watchtower and the crew give a cheer—for them it is a welcoming sight after two cold and difficult weeks at sea.
The Maycastle docks at the harbour wall, alongside the iron-bowed ice-boat which will take you to Ixia. The excited garrison have gathered to greet the crew; they have been looking forward to receiving fresh provisions and news from their homeland for several weeks. You disembark with Prarg and are met on the quay by a bearded sergeant clad in a fur-trimmed leather tunic. He escorts you to the watchtower, where you are welcomed in person by Captain Lanza, the garrison commander.
Lanza is a stocky, hard-nosed soldier whose leathery, frost-bitten face bears living testimony to the five years he has spent as commander of this bleak, godforsaken outpost. His posting here had been his punishment for a drunken brawl in a Vadera tavern in which he had killed, albeit in self-defence, the brutish elder son of Haglar, the mayor of the city. At his court-martial he had been allowed to choose his fate—command of the notorious Azgad Island garrison, or death by hanging. Lanza readily admits that there have been times when he has felt that he made the wrong choice.
Lanza’s private quarters comprise a sparsely-furnished chamber near the top of the watchtower. You warm yourself in front of an open grate and listen as he and Prarg discuss your onward passage to Ixia aboard the garrison’s ice-boat. At length, Lanza voices his fears about recent sightings at sea—strange craft which sail beneath the waves and ships crewed by the living dead. As you listen to his chilling account, you look out through the chamber’s slit window at an icy mist which is creeping in from the north. It swirls knee-deep around the watchtower and the harbour wall.
(I can use Kai-Alchemy or Grand Huntmastery with Sun Lord. I choose the latter.)
Drawing on your Kai Mastery, you focus on the encroaching mist and detect strange movements in the ultraviolet spectrum of light. You cannot discern exactly what is moving out there, but you are certain of one thing: it is evil and it is drawing ever closer to Fort Azgad.
You warn Captain Lanza and at first he does not believe you. He chuckles, saying that it is not uncommon for new arrivals to imagine they have seen all manner of spectres in the sea mists which swirl around the fort. But then a loud, discordant bell rings out from above, and Lanza’s face is transfixed with shock.
‘By the gods!’ he splutters. ‘It’s the alarm bell—we’re under attack!’
From out of the eerie mist there looms a high-prowed ship, wrought of age-blackened timbers which glisten with ice and frost. It speeds into the harbour and a morbid terror grips the hearts of the Lencian garrison when they see that it is crewed by a cadaverous host of skeletal warriors. A ghastly wail arises from the invading ship, an unholy shriek that shatters the garrison’s will to resist. As one, the shocked Lencians turn and flee from the quayside, dropping and discarding their supplies and weapons in their hurry to get away.
‘Ishir preserve us!’ cries Lanza, as he takes up his sword belt and hurries towards the door. ‘My men are routing. I must rally them to the defence before all is lost!’
Prarg unsheathes his sword and rushes after Lanza. Outside the door you see a circular stone staircase which leads up to the roof, or down to the base of the watchtower. Lanza descends the stairs but Prarg does not follow. Instead, he begins to climb the steps to the roof.
(Follow Lanza or Prarg? I choose Lanza, maybe I can help rally the troops)