Too Many Crates, Not Enough Ale

Woke up on the Wind Rose. Everything hurt, and I was somehow more sober than I wanted to be. We found 40 gold, some spare weapons, and rum I regret not drinking sooner.
 
In the captain’s quarters: a log, a note about “darkness downstairs,” and a name—Earl Renfeld.
 
Below deck, one ghoul was impaled on the mast, and the darkness felt thick. A locked chest gave me an excuse to break something—inside were some odds and ends, and a fine pair of boots. Took them. They haven’t exploded. Yet.
 
John found a magic ring, stuffed a crate inside it. Clever trick. We rowed back to shore. Air smelled like honeydew—either cursed or mocking. Didn't like it.
 
On the way back to town, saw an angry dwarf in the forest. We ignored him. Probably for the best.
 
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Baron’s Keep:
Zardic and John did the talking. I stood there, radiating consequence.
 
500 gold reward. I got a bottle of Firebellies Brew. Strong. Clean. No explosions—disappointing.
 
The Magister nearly had a fit over the crate. Mentioned a Courier Service and Tournament. Whatever’s coming, they ain’t ready.
 
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Captain’s Tavern:
Challenged the Captain to an arm wrestle. Lost 2–1. Better than I expected.
 
Met Brandy, a halfling with sharp eyes. Gave me a card with a demonic grin. Didn't explain. Just smiled.
 
I kept it. Might be important. Might be cursed. Might be both.
 
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Closing Statement:
Still hungover. Richer. Suspicious. Wearing great boots.
 
(Still not a journal. Just the thunder talking.)