Chapter 2, Part 3: Serpent Haven Heist – "Heist is Such a Negative Word"
Serpent Haven Heist – "Heist is Such a Negative Word"
Setup: Drex’s grand welcoming party for Guzmán Martinez is a spectacle like no other. Skyfarers, pirate captains, merchants, and opportunists flood the courtyard outside Serpent Haven, drinking, gambling, and scheming under the flickering glow of storm lanterns. Music blares from a ramshackle band on the main stage, while servants scurry between tables balancing trays of questionable seafood and overpriced rum.
The task is clear—but only one party member can infiltrate the mansion without raising suspicion. The others must remain in the crowd, mingling to deflect attention and orchestrating subtle distractions whenever the infiltrator risks exposure.
Why Only One?
- The mansion looms in full view of the gathering. Guards posted on balconies and scaffold bridges monitor the party.
- The event is Drex’s show of power; every guest is subtly watched.
- Too many faces disappearing would trigger alarms. A lone figure slipping away can be excused as wandering for drink, gossip, or mischief.
The Objective: Infiltrate Serpent Haven, retrieve incriminating documents proving Drex’s betrayal and his ties to larger conspiracies threatening Turtle Island.
Simple Map Layout:
- Main Courtyard: Party area, guarded, filled with guests.
- Ground Floor: Main Hall, Trophy Room, Dining Hall.
- Second Floor: Upper Library, Captain’s Quarters (target), Balcony access.
- Basement: Rumoured Hidden Vault/Storage.
- Access Points: Rope Bridge (rear 2nd floor), Storm Drain (basement), Front Gate (main hall), Skyline Crane Hook (upper balcony).
Encounters Inside:
- Patrolling Guards: Usually in pairs, moderately alert.
- Trap Rooms: Pressure plates in trophy room, tripwire alarms near the Captain’s Quarters.
Cinematic Moments Woven Into the Heist:
- Entering the Trophy Room: The infiltrator pushes the heavy wooden door open just enough to slip through. Inside, the air is thick with dust, varnish, and the musk of old wood. Lanterns burn low, casting long, trembling shadows across a gallery of grim trophies—relics from shattered airships, tattered banners faded beyond recognition, figureheads carved into screaming faces, and barnacle-encrusted wheels from vessels long consigned to the abyss.
The walls groan faintly, and the occasional flicker of lantern light plays tricks on the eye—was that a shadow moving, or merely the glint of brass on a rusted sextant? The floor is a treacherous patchwork of exposed beams and pressure plates, their outlines just visible beneath a thin layer of dust and sea-grit. Every step becomes a puzzle—footfalls carefully plotted on stable planks between death-trap tiles.
In the center of the room, mounted in an iron frame, rests a beautifully preserved cutlass—the blade dark with age but still razor sharp, its guard shaped into a curling serpent. The weapon exudes an air of legend, its grip worn smooth from countless hands. Beneath it, locked behind a cracked glass case, a brass plaque reads: “The Last Claim of the Sky Conqueror.” This sword, once wielded by a figure of myth, seems to hum with the echoes of sea battles long past.
The atmosphere presses in like a held breath, the weight of a thousand violent stories locked in wood and steel watching the infiltrator’s every move.
- Crossing the Main Hall: The main corridor is swarmed with revelers moving between the courtyard and the banquet hall. Guards block both side passages, casually scanning the room between sips of rum and bites of roasted meat. A direct crossing risks being stopped—or worse, recognized.
The infiltrator’s eyes dart toward the grand banquet table in the center of the hall—a sprawling construct of old ship planks, groaning under the weight of platters piled high with roasted meats, jugs of wine, and towers of crab legs. It stretches almost wall to wall, offering the only cover in an otherwise exposed floor.
Without a better option, they crouch low and slip beneath the heavy tablecloth, the damp fabric brushing against their back. Instantly they are immersed in a dense tangle of boots—leather, steel-toed, some bare-footed drunks swinging their legs beneath the table. Chairs scrape. Tankards slam. A servant weaves between guests, nearly tripping, sending a mug skittering to the floor—a splash of ale arcs down, landing inches from the infiltrator’s face.
Overhead, laughter erupts as someone pounds the table, sending plates rattling. The infiltrator presses forward on hands and knees, slipping past a dangling belt knife and a pair of legs kicking in rhythm to the off-key music spilling from the courtyard beyond.
- Unlocking the Captain’s Quarters: The lock is old but well-maintained, each tumbling pin feeling like thunder in the infiltrator’s ears. A bead of sweat trails down their temple as they work the tools in silence, crouched in the shadow of a tall, battered bookcase. Just as the final pin clicks and the mechanism yields, a sudden burst of booming laughter rumbles from the courtyard outside—the unmistakable voice of Drex carrying over the crowd.
The infiltrator freezes, breath catching, as Drex’s voice rolls through the open courtyard balcony nearby. His shadow momentarily sweeps past the doorway as he paces on the balcony outside, glass in hand, commanding attention. The infiltrator remains pressed against the door, fingers trembling, waiting for the sound of boots moving away before slowly turning the handle and slipping inside.
- Rooftop Escape: Alarms scream from every corner of the mansion—boots pound against scaffold planks, shouts echo as guards converge like hornets. The infiltrator sprints along a narrow scaffold beam slick with morning dew, their breath ragged, heart pounding like a drum. Below, the chaotic din of the party continues, oblivious to the storm unfolding above.
Ahead, the crane hook swings erratically, burdened with a dangling crate of rum barrels destined for the kitchens. A gap—five, maybe six metres—lies between the beam’s end and the hook’s arc. The infiltrator steels themselves. One breath. Two. On the third, they launch into the air.
Wind whips past as hands close around the rough hemp rope, nearly slipping as the crane lurches. A barrel shifts, nearly bashing them in the ribs. Below, a group of drunken captains cheer—whether for a dice roll or the infiltrator’s desperate leap is unclear.
The hook sways hard, pivoting away from the mansion’s edge, ferrying the infiltrator over the crowd toward a secondary scaffold near the docks. For one weightless moment, they hang between the safety of escape and the yawning abyss below.
And then—with a jolt—the crane locks into place. The infiltrator drops, boots hitting scaffold planks with a satisfying thud, already running before anyone looks up.
- Descent from the Rope Bridge: Each step sends a fresh tremor through the rope bridge, the fraying fibers creaking ominously underfoot. The drop below yawns open, framed by the flickering glow of lanterns and the chaotic sprawl of partygoers, who laugh and gamble, utterly oblivious to the drama unfolding above them. With each shift of weight, strands snap—a sharp twang lost in the swell of music and drunken cheers. The infiltrator grips the swaying side ropes, boots slipping on the weathered planks slick with ocean spray and grime.
Halfway across, the sound of raucous laughter erupts as a pirate throws a barrel of oysters at a cheating gambler, perfectly masking the harsh crack as one final support strand snaps. The infiltrator releases their grip just as the bridge sags sharply, dropping the last two metres to the balcony. Boots thud softly against the aged timber, knees buckling, but they roll to absorb the impact—immediately pressing flat against the shadowed wall as a pair of guards stroll lazily past below, none the wiser.
- Distraction from Outside: At a key moment, one party member stokes a heated gambling match or starts a staged fight. A crowd gathers, guards move to intervene—buying precious seconds for the infiltrator inside.
Escape Mechanics:
- If an alarm is raised, guards mobilize quickly. Escape requires:
- Dexterity/Stealth (DC 14) to flee unseen.
- Athletics (DC 13) to leap from balconies, slide down rigging, or use scaffold paths.
- Charisma (Deception DC 13) if rejoining the party—pretend nothing is amiss.
- Failure risks a rooftop chase, an aerial grapple along scaffold lines, or a fall into Turtle Island’s scaffolded abyss.
How the Party Outside Can Help:
- Performance/Distraction: One member stages an impromptu drinking contest or arm wrestling match near the mansion’s rear to draw guards.
- Persuasion (DC 13): Flirt or argue loudly to create a crowd gathering that blocks line-of-sight.
- Insight (DC 12): Notice when guards start to grow suspicious and signal the infiltrator with a pre-arranged sign.
- Deception (DC 14): Feed false rumors to distract a particularly nosey captain or inquisitive merchant.
- Sleight of Hand (DC 12): Sabotage a nearby lamp, causing it to fall and spill fire/oil, drawing guard attention.
Discovery:
- A bundle of letters tied with red silk, their seals broken and re-sealed multiple times. Each penned in Drex’s own hand or from his trusted lieutenants, the correspondence outlines detailed plans for the coup—strategies for seizing control of Turtle Island, names of captains swayed by bribes, and carefully worded orders to silence dissenters. Among them is a letter addressed to an unnamed 'Benefactor,' hinting that Drex is not the mastermind, but rather a willing pawn in a much larger game.
- A series of coded missives and ledgers, each meticulously organized but penned with sharp, formal handwriting. The letters are direct correspondence between Drex and Vashara, one of the Apostles of Fire and a commanding figure within the Disciples of Chaos. The documents detail an extensive partnership—transactions in slave trafficking, laundering stolen cargo, and covert dealings stretching far beyond Turtle Island.
Beyond mere criminal enterprise, there’s something far stranger. Among the invoices and orders are pages upon pages of genealogical records—birth certificates, family trees, and obscure legal documents. With a careful Investigation check (DC 13), the infiltrator pieces together an unsettling revelation: Drex has been obsessively tracking the bloodline of Francisco Perez, the Sky Conqueror.
The records indicate that Perez’s descendants have been hidden in plain sight for generations. The lineage includes the late wife of Guzmán Martinez, Drex himself... and one last living heir whose name remains uncrossed in Drex’s personal notebook: Guzmán Frederico—the son of Martinez.
The implications are staggering. Whether this obsession is born of ambition, prophecy, or something darker, it’s clear that Drex’s motives run deeper than piracy. He’s hunting legacies... and intends to wield them.
- Hints about a powerful relic linked to Francisco Perez—perhaps stored in the hidden basement.
Atmosphere:
- The wind howls. Lanterns sway. Every creak of timber feels like a footstep.
- Laughter and cheers from the party filter through walls, a constant reminder that the clock is ticking.
- Shadows stretch long. Somewhere, a clock chimes the hour. The tension is suffocating.
- Every scrape of boots against wood feels deafening. The entire mansion seems to hold its breath, waiting to exhale the infiltrator’s doom.
This is not merely a theft. This is a desperate scramble to tip the scales of power before Drex’s plot snaps shut around everyone.
Immediate Continuation:
With this new revelation, the infiltrator has only minutes to warn the rest of the party. Fingers trembling, they stuff the incriminating documents into their coat and bolt for the exit. Every shadow feels like a trap, every creaking board like an alarm. The rooftop, the rope bridge, or the crane—any path they take must be fast, silent, and clever. They have no time for subtlety now. The only chance to stop what’s about to happen is to physically reach their companions in the crowd below, breathless and wild-eyed, with the truth spilling from their lips the moment their boots hit solid ground.
At that exact moment, the deep hum of an approaching airship cuts through the revelry. Lanterns sway, heads turn. On the cliff’s edge beyond the mansion, Guzmán Martinez’s airship descends in a swirl of dust and moonlight, hissing steam as it settles.
The ramp lowers. Martinez and his young son, Guzmán Frederico, step onto the scaffolded cliffside, greeted by cheers, toasts... and a shadow no one else notices.
Perched amid the rocks, nearly invisible under a ragged hood, a Rasher with a blowgun shifts position. Their eyes narrow. They inhale slowly, adjusting their aim toward the boy.
If the party outside acts—whether by a magically relayed warning or a desperate sprint enhanced by spells, acrobatics, or sheer will—they may arrive in time.
Failure means the dart flies. A tiny hiss, nearly inaudible... followed by the soft thunk of poisoned wood hitting flesh. Frederico staggers, clutching his side, then collapses.
Gasps ripple through the crowd. Chaos erupts. Drex, face a mask of manufactured horror, throws up his hands. “It’s the Rashers! Revenge! I told you they can’t be trusted!” he roars.
But something’s wrong. A simple Arcana check (DC 10) reveals the Rasher was under the effect of mind control magic—puppet strings directed from elsewhere. Even without magic, the documents clutched in the infiltrator’s hands damn Drex completely.
As the tension spikes, all eyes swing toward Drex. The air crackles. Weapons shift in their sheaths. Accusations poised on tongues.
And then... something stranger still begins to unfold.
Vashara Intervenes – The Arrival of the Apostle of Fire
Suddenly, a voice cuts into the minds of every person present—a low, whispering tone that feels like it emerges from the back of their skulls, bypassing ears entirely. It’s cold, intimate, and wrong.
“Drex... you poor, pitiful little man.” The words slide through every mind. “You fancy yourself a fearsome pirate... yet here you are, unable to deal with a child.”
A paralyzing silence descends. The music dies. Cups freeze mid-air. Nobody can move. Not a blink, not a breath. Only the flickering of lantern flames and the sound of waves crashing below break the suffocating stillness.
Materializing from thin air atop the mansion’s balcony, Vashara steps forward—her crimson robes swirling like embers caught in a windless fire. Her gaze is needle sharp, her grin predatory. She circles Drex slowly, savoring every ounce of his frozen helplessness.
“A captain who relies on others to do his bidding... is nothing more than a puppet.” Her voice oozes mockery. Each word slices like a blade.
The crowd remains frozen, unable to resist. Pirates, nobles, mercenaries—all powerless witnesses.
Vashara’s eyes shift to Frederico, the boy trembling at the edge of the crowd. “And you...” she purrs, “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?” Her fingers flex as though tasting the power in the air. “Let’s see that precious trinket you’re carrying.”
In one swift motion, she rips a necklace from Frederico’s neck. Dangling from the chain is a silver ring—simple, elegant, but radiating an eerie, pulsing light.
Vashara holds it aloft. “Here lies the true power,” she announces, voice echoing. “Not in titles or boasts... but in the ability to seize what you desire.” Her grin sharpens, turning to Drex. “Perhaps, Captain, you could learn something about strength.”
“Consider this... a lesson.” Her whisper is filled with wicked satisfaction.
As she speaks, another airship—a sleek vessel with crimson sails and jagged, burning runes—drifts into view. It hovers just above the cliff’s edge, steam venting from its hull.
With casual ease, Vashara steps onto its deck.
And then—release. A sudden pulse of heat passes through everyone present. Those marked with the Azure Tattoos feel their skin warm and glow softly, breaking the mental shackles. Muscles seize, then loosen as control fades. Those without tattoos must make a Wisdom saving throw (DC 13) or remain paralyzed, relying on allies to shake them free mid-fight.
Vashara turns once more, her voice echoing through the cliffside. “If you dare...” she purrs, “catch me.”
Her ship lurches upward, engines roaring as it lifts off.
If the players act fast—leaping from scaffolds, sprinting for the dock cranes, or grappling onto trailing rigging—they can board the ship mid-air. Those who do find themselves immediately set upon by Vashara’s “pets”—hulking, warped elemental constructs of flame and bone.
The chase is on. The battle begins. And the future of Turtle Island hangs by a thread.
Vashara’s Aftermath – The Ring and the Reckoning
As the final blow lands, Vashara lets out a piercing shriek—not of pain, but of defiance. Her body stiffens, then begins to decay unnaturally fast. Skin shrivels. Bone cracks. Her crimson robes collapse into dust as her form disintegrates, scattering into the wind. All that remains is the silver ring, now dull but still pulsing faintly with arcane power.
The party stands over the ashes, breathless, battered. Victory feels hollow... yet monumental.
Upon returning to the cliffside gathering, the crowd is in chaos—captains arguing, onlookers whispering. Drex is nowhere to be seen, his plans exposed and his power shattered.
Guzmán Martinez, standing protectively near his son, turns to the party. His eyes are sharp but filled with gratitude.
“I think... you’ve got a lot to explain,” he says, folding his arms. His voice softens. “But after what you just did... I’ll listen.”
There’s a pause—a heavy moment where the future feels unwritten. Whatever words follow next will shape everything.
Note: Track the party’s final Reputation Points carefully. Did they return the ring? Did Frederico survive? These choices will echo far beyond Turtle Island.
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