A dark and stormy night…
“Row! Row! You bastard son of a goat!” followed by the crack of the whip. The chains dig deep into manacled wrists as the heavy oar slowly turns. A sudden wave sprays surf in the face of the slaves rowing, and the hull can be felt vibrating erratically below. A sure sign of being too near the shore.
Arrows fly overhead, and the sound of a slave being hit cuts through the wind, sleet and rain. He screams out in agony but is quickly silenced.
“The Corsairs are almost upon us!” There is desperation in the cry of the slave master. “Can you make her markings?”
“It’s the Thôrandrann!”
Someone whispers in fear, “That’s Delos Criss’ ship!”
A dark voice sounds out, “Head for the fog bank.”
“Are you mad? You are taking us too close to shore!”
“I refuse to let some inbred Corsair dog stand between me and my prize.”
Suddenly the fog lifts for a moment and a tall cliff with an ancient lighthouse at the top manifests. The slave master bellows orders for the vessel to turn about, but it is too late. There is a deafening crash as the ship heaves itself upon a reef.
Cold… Darkness… Panic… Screaming…
Men struggle to the shore, some taking time to help their fellow slaves, but not many. Most perish into the cold, dark waves of the Belegaer. More screams. More Orders.
“Quickly, take the map! There is no time to lose!”
On the cliff stands the hoary lighthouse, partially collapsed. It must have been a powerful beacon of hope, now crushed beneath centuries of fallen rubble.
Sweat mixed with seawater drips. A guard approaches. “Orders from the master. All is not lost, our goal should be less than a week’s march north from here. Take the scroll and guard it with your life.”
A grin spreads across the slave master’s face. “Good. The lord will be pleased." He motions indifferently towards the captives. “The slaves are of no use to us any more, and will only slow us down. Execute them.”
A guard kicks a man down on the floor.
Roll For initiative.