Session 38 -- The Hibernian Star Rises

The night had been uneasy at the inn in Corcaigh. After thwarting an act of sabotage and finally preparing their ship for departure, the companions turned in for a few precious hours of rest (with some finding their rest more restful than others). Dawn had only just begun to paint the rooftops of Corcaigh when thunder split the sky. Explosions echoed from the harbor, and the eastern wall of Blackrock Fort collapsed in a plume of smoke and flame.

Murchad was first to his feet. He rushed to the window, shouting for the others as he looked from his window to see fires raging across the waterfront. The city was under attack. They had foiled part of the plot to bring down the city walls, but now the harbor and its fort had suffered massive damage. Murchad, still half-dressed, cursed under his breath as he realized the forces of Connacht had struck sooner than they had hoped. Worse yet, he remembered that the Hibernian Star was loaded with gunpowder from their previous preparations. If the ship caught fire, the results would be catastrophic.  He looked, but he couldn’t see their ship from the inn through the flames and smoke!

The companions gathered their gear and sprinted toward the docks through streets choked with smoke and panicked townsfolk. At the pier, they found their ship miraculously intact but rocked by the concussion of distant blasts. All but a few small fishing vessels like their own were either on fire or already sunk. The party quickly boarded their ship and sought to get underway as quickly as possible. They had to get away from the fires and the city that was obviously a target for more to come.

Murchad and Grace O’Malley, the captain, barked orders to the crew while Vedica and Dwårfy worked the rigging. Jack, Tiv, and Ceangal organized crews to man the ballistae. Tiv prayed over the deck, calling for protection as the ship pulled free from its moorings and lurched into the open water alongside three Munster galleons – the last that remained of the city’s naval defenses – with their decks aflame.

The three Munster galleons were already aflame—still fighting but crippled by the surprise bombardment. The Hibernian Star surged past them under full sail, its crew working feverishly to haul away from the burning wharves. Overhead, the black banners of

Connacht’s warships appeared, closing fast through the smoke.

The inlet that led to Corcaigh was a narrow and irregular shape, dotted with islands large and small. Even once they got away from the city, they had a long stretch of treacherous water between them and the open sea.

“Haul south!” Murchad shouted, gripping the rail. “If we stay in the harbor, we’re fish in a barrel!”

The Hibernian Star accelerated, its bow cutting through the gray waves as the first of the Connacht galleons advanced. Murchad instructed Grace to skirt the fighting as much as possible. It wasn’t their job to save Corcaigh. If they could use the chaos to slip by the larger warships, so much the better.

It was not to be. The bottlenecks throughout the inlet meant that keeping the Hibernian Star out of range of the enemy ships would be impossible. A ballista bolt that splashed wide, sending up a pillar of spray. The enemy returned fire with catapults, their stones crashing into the water near the retreating ship. Then came the hiss of Greek fire. A tongue of flame streaked across the waves, narrowly missing the Hibernian Star but igniting the sea around her in burning patches of orange.

“Those bastards brought dragon’s breath,” Dwårfy growled.

Jack steadied his weapon and took aim at the helmsman of the nearest galleon. His shot struck true, and the enemy’s steering went wild. The galleon veered broadside, presenting an easy target for one of the Munster warships, which rammed it head-on. The two vessels locked together in a melee of grappling hooks and screams. The other Munster galleons caught up to the two ships locked in hand-to-hand combat and continued trying to sink it.

Murchad maneuvered the Hibernian Star through the chaos, the burning wreckage of friend and foe alike drifting past. The air was thick with smoke and ash.

Several catapult shots from the heavily damaged Blackrock Fort managed to seal the deal and finally sink the Connacht galleon. The first of the Munster galleons was so heavily damaged, however, that it also foundered. The other two, finally getting their flames under control, continued southward with the Hibernian Star.

As they were heading through the bottleneck approaching the town of Cobh, he saw another Connaught ship rounding the headland.

Once the distance was closed, the Connacht ship sent streams of Greek fire toward the Munster ships and hit the Hibernian Star with a ballista. The Hibernian Star again tried to slip by, firing ballistae at the Connacht warship. Jack once again shot at the helmsman and wounded him, but he was able to continue steering the ship.

Ceangal decided he could be of more assistance than merely directing a ballista crew. He let loose a huge fireball on the deck of the Connacht ship. The entire deck was awash in flames, but the ship was still afloat. Ceangal turned to Tiv and said, “Well, that was kind of disappointing. I was hoping for something mo—” and with that, all of the Greek fire on the Connacht galleon’s deck exploded, splintering the ship into toothpicks and sending it to the bottom of the harbor.

Chris started directing the damage team to repair the damage. Along the waterfront of Cobh, the townspeople could be seen cheering on the friendly ships, backlit by the flames and explosions.

As the Hibernian Star entered the straits between the islands south of Cobh, the Munster ships split up. The Hibernian Star continued making its way south. As they cleared the bend around one of the islands, Murchad called out, “I see one more galleon!”

Then, a moment later, “Two! I see two!” A second Connacht galleon outflanked them from its unseen spot around the bend. After another stiff fight, during which the Hibernian Star was hit with Greek fire and set ablaze. Vegvisir directed the fire control crew.

The Hibernian Star targeted one of the Galleons with its ballistae, piercing it just below the waterline and sending it to Davy Jones’s locker with Davy Jones’s stinky gym socks.

Murchad pulled Vegvisir away from his damage crew just as the fires were put out. “Fireball time!” he said, pointing at the other enemy ship, “Blast that ship!”

Again, a Connacht galleon was set ablaze, and again its own Greek fire exploded, destroying the vessel.

As the ship neared the mouth of the harbor, one last Connacht galleon rounded the headland, blocking their escape.

“Ready the ballistae!” Jack shouted.

The remaining Connacht ship broke for the open water. The Munster galleons, though heavily damaged, managed to limp away from the burning harbor.

For two days the party sailed south and east across the cold waters of the Channel. The winds favored them, and the damage to their ship was repaired through hard labor and a bit of Dwårfy’s dwarven ingenuity. By the time they reached the shores of Gaul, the hull gleamed with fresh pitch and the sails were whole again.

The Hibernian Star sailed around the island of Mont St. Michel, but the party couldn’t find a place to drop anchor. The sheer walls around the island prevented any direct landing. They had to drop anchor at Ingena on the mainland. Ingena was a lively coastal town built on the mainland opposite the island abbey. Twice a day, at low tide, the sandy causeway would be exposed, allowing people to walk to the island. Fishermen shouted across the wharf, and traders haggled beneath the gulls’ cries. Across the bay, Mont Saint Michel loomed in the morning light, its towering walls rising from the tidal flats, the abbey at its summit glimmering faintly through the mist.

The companions secured lodging at the Rusty Anchor Inn, a weathered establishment with good ale, warm bread, and prices that made Vedica mutter about tourist traps. The innkeeper, Gavril, welcomed them warmly, though he warned that strange tales had spread from the island: pilgrims vanishing, lights seen moving through the abbey at night, and talk of an inquisitor who had come months earlier and never left.

The group spent the night gathering rumors and supplies, purchasing a small lifeboat to aid in future landings (although it would still not help them here). When the tide turned at dawn, they crossed the causeway to the island, the wet sands gleaming silver beneath their boots.

Mont Saint Michel was a fortress of stone and faith. The narrow streets wound upward past shuttered buildings and silent courtyards. The air smelled faintly of salt and incense. At the edge of the town stood a pilgrim hostel a quiet, walled compound with a small herb garden tended by a weary nun named Sister Agnes.  This would be their home until they could locate and retrieve the relic hidden somewhere on the island: the tip of the Sword of St. Michael.

“Few come now,” she told them, her voice trembling. “Strange shadows keep pilgrims away. Stay if you must, but beware the night.”

Inside, they met Brother Thomas, a nervous acolyte who swept the floors and muttered about cries heard in the darkness, and Father Henri, an old caretaker clutching a rosary and a mug of warm drink. “The abbey’s heart is troubled,” he whispered. “Beware what stirs.”

They were told that the island had several districts. At the top of the mount was the church and its attached buildings (originally the old abbey). There was an abbey and a convent complex on the south side of the island. The heart of the island was a village of townspeople that served the abbey and the pilgrims alike. Along the eastern edge was a large barracks complex where the force of guards lived.

During the time of the Magiclysm, as the Roman Empire was collapsing due to monsters, magic, and demihumans, people from the nearby coast retreated to the island for the defenses it offered. They continued to build up defenses, and the abbey and the church were built. They continued to be a fortified settlement during the early medieval period when Scandinavian Dwarves ravaged Europe’s northern coasts. Today, the island knows peace from such attacks, but Gaul maintains its fortified nature.

Curiosity drew the party further through the narrow lanes. The sun had barely risen, but the island already felt half-dead. Houses were locked, and even the wind seemed hesitant to disturb the silence. Murchad, mapping as he went, led them toward the graveyard in the village portion of the island.

Among the mist-shrouded tombstones, they found a bent old gravedigger named Paul. His grin revealed more gaps than teeth. “People see shadows moving,” he said, “and then they disappear. Some come back changed—most don’t come back at all.” He pointed toward the small chapel at the edge of the cemetery. “I saw them there, in the chapel. But it’s locked now. The Inquisitor took the key.”

Vedica’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Locked, you say?”

The companions circled to the chapel’s side door, a heavy wooden thing with iron fittings. Vedica tried her tools, but the lock resisted. After some debate, Ceangal used dimension door to send Tiv to the other side of the heavy, oaken door, appearing within the chapel’s dark interior and unbolting the door from the inside. The others filed in quietly, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor.

The chapel was small, lit only by faint light through narrow slits in the walls and some votive candles. Statues of saints stood in alcoves along the sides, and flanking the secondary altar in the side chapel, their faces serene but shadowed. Dust coated the pews, and the air was cold.

“I don’t like this,” Jack muttered.

Tiv explored the vestry, finding only candles and vestments. The others fanned out. Murchad’s sword began to glow faintly, its runes pulsing blue.

“Shadows,” he said. “They’re here.”

At first, nothing moved. Then Murchad noticed that two of the statues’ shadows were not cast like the others; they moved against the light. Slowly, they detached from the stone and glided toward the floor, stretching into beastly shapes.

The shadows lunged. Tiv’s slingstone whistled harmlessly past one, but Jack’s rifle cracked, knocking a hunk off of a statue and striking the creature behind it. Ceangal unleashed a bolt of lightning from his sword, filling the chamber with a flash of blinding light. One shadow dissolved into wisps of smoke, but the other pressed forward, clawing at Murchad with icy fingers.

Jack darted in from the side, his blade flashing silver as he struck. The shadow recoiled, flickering like a dying flame before vanishing altogether. Silence followed, broken only by the companions’ ragged breathing.

Jack reloaded his weapon slowly. “Well,” he said, “I suppose that they weren’t exaggerating about the place being haunted.”

Ceangal sheathed his sword, the glow fading. “No,” he said quietly. “And this was only the beginning.”

With that, two guards burst in through the open door, alerted by the sound of Jack’s arquebus. Initially, they began to reprimand the party for damaging the statue, but Murchad explained about the shadows. A look of uneasy knowing crossed the faces of the guards.

They were no longer angry about the statue.

The party managed to get a little more information out of them about the recent events on the island. The inquisitor, Elara Voss, arrived in October of the previous year, presenting herself to Abbot Ronan with ecclesiastical orders showing she was dispatched by the Church in Ratumacos to investigate reports of moral decay, illicit rituals, and declining faith. It was around that time that the shadows started attacking and abducting villagers, although there was some disagreement between the two about whether they started the month before she arrived or the week after.

The party decided to return to the hostel and wait until dark to see if they could start to get to the bottom of whatever strange things were happening on the island (and to find the relic, of course). Regardless, they knew that they would have to seek out Inquisitor Elara Voss sooner or later.