Sense of Foreboding...

The party had escaped the Watcher’s Isles, though just barely. Only one of their crewmen remained, the others were either dead, or had been swept screaming into the fog. Which was worse, none can rightly say. As such, an underlying sense of dread permeated the ship. They sailed thus for several days across the open sea. Till they came neared their destination.
“Ho! Land ho!” came the cry from the crow’s nest. But this sight was not met with the usual joy and merriment of a crew upon sighting harbor, for this was no harbor to them. It was the isle of Eileen a’ Ceedich, an island infested with mages of horrible power, and cultists worshiping dieties others dare not imagine, let alone name. As they drew closer a thick fog descended once again, and the sun fell from view. In the distance they could see a cliff overhanging the surf. And upon the edge of this cliff stood a lone figure. A mysterious chant emanated from the island. As they came on the figure on the cliff seemed oblivious to thier presence. Only once they had come very close did he make any move. The figure’s arm rose, slow and deliberately, pointing off to the right.
“I think he wants us to go that way,” but before Roberts could so much as lay a hand on the wheel it began to spin, and the ship veered to starboard. The Dread Pirate took a step away from the helm, and a few minutes later the ship had docked itself within a tiny cove. A lone delapadated walkway led away from the ship. The crewman was left behind to guard the ship, as the others set out along the path. Following it led them to a cavern, and within, an underground river, upon the other bank sat a cloaked figure, looking eerily similiar to the one they had seen upon the cliff. After a few moments of anxious debate in hushed tones, the party decided to cross the river and confront the figure, for they understood that it was here that their friends and families had been taken by the slavers.
“Halt.” issued the figure as they drew close, “What business have you here?”
“We come in search of our countrymen, they were recently brought here as slaves” The Dread Pirate displayed no fear of the mysterious figure.
“They are no longer here,” the figure droned, “They were sent north, to a sect of the Cult of Zehir in the Nentir Vale. If you wish to find them that is where you must go. Now you have no business here, be gone.” it commanded.
And so they left, armed with information, they sailed away under their own power, but still they were not yet free of a strong foreboding…



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