|Linked to||Demeaux Island|
Rat Corsairs can be triggered in Demeaux Island by doing the following:
Ah, the gully: the ambusher's favourite terrain feature. It looked like such a short and easy way. But now a sudden flood of black and white fur confronts you: a starving torrent of rattus faber corsairs! Their chief addresses you in a piping unhuman voice: "Easy there, me giants! We're in dire need, here. Lend us help, and we'll pay well for it. No need to fight." (But you notice his rat-hand is on the hilt of his rat-cutlass.)
|Give them what they want
They're only rats, but they're a lot of rats, and they have what looks like a ratling-gun. And they'll exchange drowning-pearls for supplies to repair and restock.
||A wary exchange
"Ye're not bad for a door-filler. Not bad at all. A pleasure doing business. Should you ever find yerself beneath the floor-boards of Khan's Glory, look me up. Calm seas!"
The Wretched Mog has been riding on a Gap-Toothed Gunner's shoulder. Now it arches its back and hisses like a hatful of scalding serpents.
Ratwork rifles roar! Zailors stamp! The gully is filled with screeching and zalty oaths. And the Mog is everywhere. Rats scatter like chaffy grain. Its mouth drips crimson: its eyes blaze yellow. At last you stand triumphant, and the rats are fled or dead. You draw a string of drowning-pearls from the weskit of the rat-captain. His eyes are already filming with death, but he hisses savagely “To the Seven Cats with yer...”
A single zailor is dead. His throat has been torn from ear to ear. It doesn't look like a rat-bite. You glance at the Mog. It is washing its face with a casual paw.
|Refuse the trade
You need your supplies. And they're vermin.
||Failed event||Game note: But rat-bites fester: you might lose crew.|
|An ignoble rout
There were more rats than you realised! You stamp or shoot dozens to death, but they're everywhere now, dropping like toothy fruit from hiding-places on the gully's edge. You retreat in terrible disorder.
|Davids and Goliaths
Ratwork rifles roar! Zailors stamp! The gully is filled with screeching and zalty oaths. At last you stand triumphant, and the rats are fled or dead. You draw a string of drowning-pearls from the weskit of the rat-captain. His eyes are already filming with death, but he hisses savagely "To the Seven Cats with yer..."
Poor Tilman has been bitten almost to the bone. The wound is filthy. You clean it as best you can, but he won't last the week.