Veyra’s Journal – Entry II
Brokthar Landing to Ipswitch
After dispatching the Kuo-Toa that ambushed our ship, I suspected there was something deeper at play—a tugging in my chest, a divine whisper pointing toward Ipswitch. Upon arriving in Brokthar Landing, I immediately began plotting our course, though we were presented with two options: venture north into the elven Mainswood, or follow the mysterious signs toward the fog-cloaked Ipswitch.
We gathered at a small pub to regroup and plan. Kelris and Zer0 stayed behind to keep an eye on The Antelope and its odd captain—no doubt a good call. There, we encountered a curious figure: a disheveled wizard with a tight expression and a large, book-stuffed backpack. Nestled within was a tortoise—small enough to fit comfortably inside, but clearly carrying far more than it should. Ada, as she would later introduce herself, turned out to be keen of mind, though wound tightly as spell scrolls left out in the rain.
Ganak, generous as always, shared a drink with a forlorn Dragonborn named Percy—abandoned by his would-be paladin companions for sleeping in. Darius was unimpressed by his commitment (or lack thereof), and, unsurprisingly, took the opportunity to lecture him on the sanctity of Paladinhood.
Meanwhile, Banzo, ever the blade-curious, found herself chatting up two heavily armed travelers in sleek leather from Kalimport. Their mission? Finding the infamous battle-dwarf Pwent up north. Banzo tried to filch a blade from the woman—foolhardy, considering her paranoia—and was caught, nearly starting a feud with what I now suspect is a gang family. Naturally, she now claims to be infatuated with the woman who nearly gutted her.
Still, with Kelris absent and the Mainswood unwelcoming to outsiders—especially those of non-elven descent—I made the case for Ipswitch. Ada confirmed my suspicions with news of an available ferry, passive-aggressively reminding us all to read the town’s bulletin boards more thoroughly.
With the help of a friendly barkeep named Bred, we were directed to Harold, a fisherman with a small vessel and a yellow raincoat too bright to trust. Nevertheless, for ten gold and a favor to “tell Harold Bred sent us,” he ferried us across to Ipswitch at dusk.
The village was everything I feared and hoped: shrouded in fog, eerily quiet. As we disembarked, I spotted two figures dive silently into the sea. Ada confirmed the fog’s magical nature and even collected a sample for her research—which, of course, she carefully placed in her tiny tortoise’s shell-bound extradimensional storage.
The Salty Mackerel was the only inn, and though the barkeep was accommodating, his surprise at visitors was unsettling. Banzo and I broke into his quarters and found the furnishings waterlogged. She made an impressive escape out the window after knocking herself silly. Wibbly’s distraction downstairs only escalated the situation—predictably.
Later, we spotted shadowy figures slipping into a nearby fishmonger’s under the cover of night. Rallying the group, we followed. The gang acrobatically exited through windows while Ada and I opted for the stairs.
Inside the fishmonger’s, Wibbly’s drunken antics accidentally revealed a hidden door and ladder leading to an underground chamber. At the bottom, we encountered Salty Joe—yes, that’s his real name—and after some awkward diplomacy, he introduced us to... more Kuo-Toa. Six of them, seated at a crude table. At their head sat a Slaad, adorned with a makeshift crown of fish and belts.
Banzo fainted before she could do anything memorable (Teya had to leave), but the rest of us pressed on. I spoke with the Slaad, who claimed to be a religious leader, guiding these fishfolk toward peace and away from heretical behavior. He told us that some factions may have strayed, perhaps summoning something far worse in their misguided rituals.
Ada confirmed a trace of divine magic on the altar—a troubling implication. The Slaad pointed us toward the innkeeper as a possible source of local corruption and described an arcane interference from competing altars nearby. Something divine—yet wrong—lurks close.
We have a thread. We have a direction.
I intend to pull it.
– V.
