I'm pretty sure we're being followed, which is Not Great. 

We're making decent enough time, even with a brief stop to eat - water, horrible hard crackers only marginally improved by soaking in water, sharp cheese and a peppery sausage, but I can hear people following on the road alongside your trail. 

I have no idea how, but I can.

We are still as a group somehow faster than them, and I think this is because there are some people with them who from the occasional sobbing - and angry sounds from those moving them along - Would Prefer Not To be, which is a big old can of Yikes! Hard Pass. 

It's a relief when we see the palisade walls before us - stone and wood, with arrow slits, guards only visible in passing between the defensive crenelations.

We cut back to the roads, emerging from the forest, and then there are immediately swords and spears pointed at our group by a bunch of armored guards - most human, some otherwise.  Armed with halberds and swords, they wear tunics with long black sleeves and cream-colored slashed puffy shoulders under steel breastplates, with their legs in chain skirts and long black trousers with gold piping over sturdy boots with spurs.

I wonder how we missed them when I heard the other fuckos, frowning as I put my hands up.

"Who are you and what are you doing on Her Majesty's isle?" the leader asks, a dark skinned man in a black cape with red lining over the other guard's equipment.  He looks to me like the art team mentally cast Idris Elba for the role; high cheekbones, goatee, salt and pepper stubble that looks rakish on him rather than sloppy.

And, also, a sword - partial basket hilt curled over his wrist, with a long, thin blade - drawn, if not pointed at me.

"Uh..." I swallow my fear to repeat the line I've said for at least 4 characters now. "We're but sellswords looking for work, waylaid en route to -"

He cuts me off, thankfully using his hand instead of his blade. 

"Aurora's mercy, more of you lot," he groans. "And half of you reciting the same sun-blasted speech."

...Well, at least I know we aren't the only survivors. 

"Are there that many of us, er, milord?" I ask.

"Captain will do," he growls, not lowering the sword. "And enough. You've all attracted enough attention, crashing around on the isle."

Baffled, I say absolutely nothing, and he takes that a bit better - sighing and sheathing the sword.

"Work's cut out for you, then. There are scarce enough supplies for us until the next ship gets in and dumps you murderous lot all in the Contessa's lap, but make yourself useful and make sure that ship's safe from depredation and we'll keep you safe behind the walls.  Cause no trouble, and we'll extend the same courtesy."

This isn't how this part goes. This isn't how this part goes at all. And if he's sick to death of the players coming in -

"We will try to make ourselves discreet and useful," Alesha says, stepping forward and saving our dignity.

"The latter, perhaps," he sighs, waving to open the gates. "Get to the square, spend your silver if you have it, stay out of the way of our citizens."

"We'll try," I say, getting through that gate as quickly as I can without alarming them. "But, uh, there may be hostiles out there on the road - just thought I'd warn you?"

"Good thing we've set a watch then, isn't it? Godsdamned Adventurers," he mutters.

There are at least a dozen other adventurers in the dirt roads of Costa Dulce. Mostly human and Vuplecian, but we count three cattes, three pixies, and two Koboldt with curled horns and shimmering scales; one in red and gold, the other in deep purple and green. 

We even meet an eithyr, in the rippling blue and green of a Water-aspect, her horns made of coral and her psychic's robes matching that bright red.

I'm weirdly calm about this confirmation that something has gone terribly wrong. Honestly, what else was I expecting? That it was just our own party?  And at least these folks seem safe enough here in the town.

One of the Ubastim - slim and tiger-striped, in the witch hat and robes of an Alchemist - is despondent, chatting with people in hushed tones about agriculture and medicine, offering potions, and occasionally praying at the small shrine to Sekhmet's Ubastim goddess of brewing and witchcraft, Flamma - pouring a libation into Her pot and almost conversationally praying to her. Others are pooling rations, currency and equipment, trying to figure out how long it will last and what they can afford to buy. 

Two are off smoking and whispering, a catte and pixie pair, getting stoned and trying to forget they're here.  I checked with them; the catte's handle is Weedlord Score-Of-Scores-And-Score, and the pixie is named Intrusive Tot.  I guess I can't blame them for taking refuge in self-medication when they were just here to meme and now have to worry about how long the food will last.

"Not enough room at the inn," the gruff, bright red Koboldt informs you. "We're doing what we can."

This whole time, I'm talking, trying to figure out what to do - when my ears prick again at a distant low rumble.

I leap up to hear more, and some of the others follow.

"That was a cannon," I say. "There are ships fighting."

More than a dozen adventurers and twice that many guards shift.

"I don't know how I heard that," I say, shaking my head.  "But I did and that's unmistakably a cannonball -" 

And then, the whistling that follows a can full of gravel bursting in mid-flight.

"- and that just now was grapeshot!" I exclaim.

Most of the adventurers gathered don't have a clue either, but the water-Eithyr puts on a blindfold, takes a second - looking around, using a psychic's Farsight - before nodding.

"I saw them," she says, removing the blindfold.  "Three ships, two pirate caravels getting trounced by a Yberian galleon.  How the hell did you hear it?"

"Mouse-Hunting Ears," says a Vulpecian in a ridiculous red trenchcoat getup and a tall peacock feather in his hat.  "Enhanced hearing and immunity to Surprise.  It's a Vulpecian trait and a Sylphanite boon."

"Yeah, except I didn't pick up MHE at character creation," I mutter, calling up my character sheet.

And blinking at it.  Staring.

"...There it is," I say.  "I uh, levelled up last night, but I didn't - actually assign my Attribute points or spend my CP or -"

Hikaru is following suit, making the gestures he needs to call up his sheet.  "I appear to have levelled up without my knowledge as well," he mutters.  "Presumably through practice.  Just like in the real world."

"Except practice doesn't assign numbers to what you can do, and also, I haven't exactly been flexing my ears," I protest.

The catte who had been praying to Flamma looks up, dusting off what looks like a white lab coat and adjusting a pair of glasses. "Are you Sylphanite?"

"Cleric of," I mutter, not liking where the conversation was going.

"You think that Sylphan might have given it to her?" Alesha says, frowning.  "On the grounds that she might need it?"

"You must admit it has proven useful," Hikaru says.

I look again at my sheet, and the presence of that Perk, and the increase in my stats.  Mandatory increases in Vigor and Spirit.

And my garbage Resolve inching up to 2 points, from 1.

"Remind me to ask him what the fuck," I growl.  "And hope he has more to say about it than You're Welcome."

"I mean, maybe you should thank him.  Did you a solid," Sekhmet says.

"Yeah?" I say.

"Cause now that we know the pirates are coming, we can give them the welcome they deserve," Sekh says, their nasty grin revealing a sharp fang.