A Pre-Campaign One-Shot

The Last Toll

Tonight, the silence breaks.
It won't be the only thing that does.
Who You Are

Independent operators. Greywater runners.
The people who come back to Breakwater.

You work out of Breakwater — a pirate haven carved into volcanic cliffs on the outer edge of the Greywater. Not navy. Not merchants. You run routes through dangerous water for people who need things moved without questions, and Breakwater is where you come back to when the water's done with you for a while.
You know these docks. You know these people. This place isn't home exactly, but it's the closest thing the Greywater offers.
Level 5
The Last Six Months

Something's off. It's been off long enough
that people have stopped saying so.

Routes that used to be reliable have gone wrong. Contacts who were solid for years have gone quiet. Three people you could name have had runs fall apart in ways that felt less like bad luck and more like someone knew where they'd be. Nobody's drawn a line between the incidents because nobody wants to be the person who draws that line.
The lights have been getting closer every night. Last night, a sailor off a Greywater run said she saw them move. Not drift. Move.
And then there's the Shroud. The impossible fog wall that has sealed off the eastern waters for as long as anyone can remember — longer, actually. Five thousand years, if you believe the histories. It has always been there. It has always been still. Three weeks ago, lights appeared inside it. Faint at first. Silver-blue, not like lanterns, not like anything.
People are talking about it the way you talk about a storm you can see coming but can't outrun — loud enough to sound brave, quiet enough to sound scared.
Tonight the Cutway is busier than usual and trying too hard to sound normal about it.
Three People You Know

The faces that matter tonight.

Rennick Callus
The man who runs Breakwater. Has for eleven years. He built the Holdfast at the top of the cliffs, imposed the tithe system that keeps the island functioning, and maintains order through competence, charm, and the understanding that everyone here exists because he allows it. He listens well, remembers names, and makes you feel like the most important conversation in his evening. Most people on this island owe him something. Most people respect him. These are not exactly the same group.
Petra Vane
Runs the best drinking house on the Cutway. Broad-shouldered, fifties, has been reading rooms for a living since before you were running routes. She knows everyone, likes fewer people than she tolerates, and has the kind of quiet authority that comes from being the person who decides whether your evening goes well. If something's happening on this island, Petra knows about it before the people it's happening to.
Old Osker
A dock worker who has been on this island longer than most of the buildings. Loud, opinionated, harmless, and parked on the same stool at Petra's every single night for three years without exception. The background noise of Breakwater evenings — the man who's always there, complaining about the same things, buying rounds he can't quite afford, knowing everyone's business because no one thinks to lower their voice around a man they stopped noticing years ago.
Where You Are Right Now
The rope lift groans as it crests the cliff edge and deposits you onto the Cutway. Lantern light spills from Petra's open door. The noise inside says the room is full and working hard at pretending tonight is like every other night.
You walk in.
Osker's stool is empty.
The Last Toll — a pre-campaign one-shot