Arrival in Whaler’s Cove

Detail Focus

[6D] Mundane (technical) - Whaler’s Cove is a fairly ordinary-looking fishing village, with a modest dock and a few clusters of humble dwellings. Of note are the inn, “The Whale’s Wail”, and a repurposed barn that seems to serve as a general storage area.

Set the Scene

Complication: [1] Hostile forces oppose you - no one here seems to be pleased to see Morgause

Altered Scene: [1] Normal - Morgause isn’t in immediate peril, and can move around the village freely, for now…

—

Morg steps up gracefully onto the trail of wooden planks that leads into and around the village, forming what passes for a street.

Not far off, she can hear the lapping of waves and the motion of the sea, but that’s about all she can hear. Whaler’s Cove isn’t deserted, but those of its denizens that she can make out are silent and sullen, regarding her with open suspicion as she draws closer.

It’s more irritating than distressing - Morgause isn’t much of a people person, by her own admission. As she approaches a pair of stocky-looking fishermen, she tips back her hat, pale features sharp in the gloom.

“I know, you don’t like strangers. But listen, I’m -“ she begins, then stops short as the men turn to face her.

Their features are wide, and even paler than her own, with a sickly greenish tint. Wide, half-open mouths and rheumy eyes give them an almost aquatic look.

“Git gawn, Witch.” The taller of the two - though not by much - spits on the already waterlogged ground.

“I’m a Witch, yes. Well observed.” She replies dryly, but she moves along quickly all the same, the prospect of trading more barbs with the fishy pair decidedly unappealing.

It doesn’t take much more than a brief circuit of the village square to realise that the fishermen are not the only amphibious-looking denizens of Whaler’s Cove.

She passes a gaggle of children skipping stones over a stagnant looking pond, who crane their necks up to watch her pass with blank expressions, mouths sucking at the air noisily.

A troupe of washerwomen emerge from the small docks, baskets carried under sallow arms, then pause as Morgause hesitates, her mouth halfway to trying her luck in questioning them. She can feel the way they’re undressing her mentally, as though their pallid - possibly webbed - fingers are crawling over her soft skin.

She shivers, and pads along the boards.

Alright. So the village is full of merfolk? Fish-people? Worshippers of some strange and antediluvian God? Far be it from me to judge, some of my best friends would probably be half person, half something, if I had friends.

She pauses, glancing over her shoulder, spotting a few of the villagers loitering behind her, staring. Looking ahead, she can make out the bulk and the sign of an inn, The Whale’s Wail. Across from the tavern, is what looks to be a barn, and further still, a path out of the village that leads to the shore.

The inn could possibly house individuals that aren’t quite as unwelcoming as those she’s met so far. On the other hand, she doubts anyone stays here long. The shores around these parts are dotted with all manner of natural caves, which seems a good place to start her search - she has a feeling outright asking the villagers about her objective is bound to get no response at best, and an angry one at worst.

The question is where to head first.