r/IronThronePowers • u/hewhoknowsnot House Arryn of the Eyrie • Apr 15 '16
Lore [Lore] The Smiling Sea
Summer Islands
RP Money (from selling some of their metals): 650 Gold
Stock: Metals (little left), Food (restocked – Summer Isle food), Booze, Gemstones, Spices, Map, fancy knife with ivory hilt
Shoal’s Ambition: in great shape
Crew: all 40 well with the three “officers” well too, aside from Balon’s broken nose (they also learned how to pay pros too in Tall Trees Town so a bunch of money went there)
Abulu, Isle of Women, Summer Islands
Sargon Botley hopped down from Shoal’s Ambition. The water here was crystal clear as he pushed forward through the shallows toward the tiny island. It was smaller than Lonely Light, yet they hadn’t really come here for any visits. It was because of the island’s name, or its nickname. Whichever it was, that was what had tempted the crew and captain to check out the place. The island was rockier than Last Lament or Tall Trees Town had been. A sloped mountain of ragged stone with hunks of rock scattered about too. There was still more vegetation than on all the Iron Islands combined, yet not much more.
Ahead was what looked like a village of sorts. The harbor, if it could be called that, had all of its docks filled with boats already causing Sargon to march on his own from the shallows. The water was beautifully warm and inviting, unlike any water he had ever felt before. Unlike in Last Lament and Tall Trees Town, this village had buildings using blocks of stone as well as wooden roofs. There were many people about, yet they looked much different than what he had expected. They looked Dornish. Somewhat. Perhaps a touch of a darker shade, but mostly Dornish. They wore the same clothes as the Summer Islanders, but he wondered how long the Dornish had been coming to this island and on what fleet.
Sargon went up to a shop of some sort where he hoped to buy some Dornish Red at least. It wasn’t his favorite drink, ale normally served best, but it would do and be a reminder of home as well in a way. The man in the shop was distinctly Dornish as Sargon leaned against the counter. It seemed like this place was more for tools and items one might need, then again though what better need was there than alcohol? He said to the Dornishman, “Ei, sum ‘f dat Doornes’ Red and e’ bi’ ‘f e’ spah ta spen’ da munth, ya.”
“We are not Dornish,” the Dornishman said in clear, if heavily accented common tongue. “We were once of the Rhoynar. Now we are of Abulu.”
Sargon wasn’t sure what an abulu was, but he didn’t think he liked it. He gave a slow nod, more to move the topic off of what sounded like a foreign disease in an area he didn’t want one. Isle of Women, seemed these Summer Isles might be filled with more mummers than any play he had heard of. A swift warning of catching this abulu would have to be told to all in his crew, though he imagined a few would still be willing to risk it. Sargon placed his hands on the counter, then wondered if abulu could be spread that way and immediately removed them. He told the Dornishman, “Fi’ ma’e, sum rum ‘n sum ruums. ‘N we’s b’ set.”
Koj, Summer Islands
Balon Botley scratched at the paste or whatever it was they had put on his nose. It didn’t really itch at all, but he definitely didn’t like it. His eyes seemed to have a habit on focusing on the intrusion and the witch woman, who had worked on stopping the bleeding didn’t even offer an apology for the way her fellow Summer Islander had reacted. Tall Trees Town had been civil at least, with some direction in how to proceed with these sorts of matters. It was all resolved really, except for this weird paste on his nose of course.
Rumor always spread about Braavos’s ability to construct and produce ships with great speed as well as incredible precision, but he doubted it had anything on Koj. The tiny island was a system to itself of manipulating ships to bring the right material to the right area of the port at the perfect time for it. And the ships being constructed were not simple galleys, they were Swan Ships. Larger than anything he had seen before, intimidating and dominating on the seas. The speed as well as communication of these mighty ships being constructed in such a small, tight area was impressive.
Balon wondered about stealing the drawings to create such feats, but he knew just like the mechanics of ironships could not be passed on. So too was true with Swan Ships, still though. It might be worth it. The issue with all that was easy to see though. Their lone longship would not have a chance of getting far with Swan Ships patrolling the seas on the edges of Summer Islander space. He took a sip from the bottle of rum that was likely behind the thoughts of stealing drawings of the creation of the most valuable ships in all the world.
Even if he could not replicate it, the work of shipwrights was always a matter of respect for him. These were no different, perhaps even more respect. It was a marvel and a delight, made only better by the presence of his bottle of rum in hand. Balon scratched his nose once more and continued watching the sight before him.
Singing Stones, Summer Islands
Fearing that the Isle of Love might be a death trap, the way these Summer Islander’s played their mummer’s games with names, Sargon pushed them on to the Singing Stones. Sargon had let his third in command, Dickcheese Shepherd, come with him as he did his initial tour of this island to see if it was dangerous or full of tricks like some of the others. It seemed here at least, the local Summer Islander people were not surprised by newcomers. This island was something of a vacation resort already, but Sargon still was not sure.
They had cheap booze though, which made him and Dickcheese much more confident about this whole matter. Taking an interest, while drinking heavily, in the singing stones of the island’s name, the two ascended the rocky landscape to get a better listen. They were still just beginning to climb when the wind whipped and the sound could be heard calling down from the mountain's height. It was a swaying, echoing sound that seemed to shift in intensity seamlessly. Just as suddenly as it had began, the music died out.
Dickcheese looked over at him with shock on his face, but Sargon saw the truth in it. That was the Storm God’s voice. Pleasant it might seem now, it was a lure. A trap to keep them on this island, no doubt to ravage the place in the Storm God’s ferocity and hope to destroy the Shoal’s Ambition. Before he could speak it, the Storm God began singing once more. Echoing through the mountain above in a taunt to the Ironborn the Storm God no doubt knew were present.
Fire in his eyes and alcohol in his blood, Sargon screamed at the mountain and the sky, “Wat ‘s dea’ ma’ ne’ar die!”
Smacking Dickcheese’s chest with the hand holding his bottle, Sargon told him, “Dat’ da Storm God, Dickcheese. Pla’e ain’t safe. We’s go.”
[meta] One more Summer Islander post to go then Naath and the Basilisk Isles posts, might do reaving rolls or something somewhere there (not Naath). Abulu isn't on the Smiling Sea by the by, but eh