The Salted Rig
Est. 2025 • Human Fighter (Mariner)
The Salted Rig
The Salted Rig is a low-slung timber shop tucked between a cooper and a fishmonger, its front awning perpetually damp with sea spray. Nets and pennants hang fro...
Shopkeeper
Maris Varela, a Human Fighter (Mariner) (Lvl 6)
Keeper's Species
Human
Shop Inventory
(19)A sturdy coil of hempen rope, good for rigging, hoisting sails, and emergency lines.
Silken line prized by sea captains for light weight and reduced chafe on blocks.
Clawed hook used to anchor, climb, or tow. When tied to rope it secures to ledges and rails.
A treated goatskin waterskin. Keeps water from tainting and fits in most packs.
A brass hooded lantern built to resist salt spray and to stay lit in steady wind.
Clay flask of oil for lanterns and signal fires.
A stoppered flask that sloshes even when still. Speak a command and it pours fresh or salt water on demand.
A brass spyglass with a leather grip and a slow-focusing mechanism. Salt-polished lens.
A well-organized chest of tackle for catching food or scouting shoals.
A kit of pitons, a small hammer, and a leathern pouch for securing lines and anchors.
A compact manual bilge pump useful for small boats and emergency use aboard larger ships.
A spare fore-sail for small ships and longboats; patched and ready, sold with repair kit.
A handheld signal rocket sailors use to call nearby cutters or to mark a position after dark.
A small kit containing needles, waxed thread, spare toggles, and a palm awl for sail repair.
Treated leather gloves with reinforced thumbs and woven knot-grip patches favored by deckhands.
A palm-sized stormglass used by captains to read air pressure and sea moods. Useful but not infallible.
A small glass phial of red shimmering liquid favored by ship's surgeons.
A vial of sea-scented liquid with a tiny jellyfish-like bubble suspended inside.
A layered bottle of liquid that tastes faintly of salt and limestone.
Maris Varela
Shop Atmosphere
“The Salted Rig is a low-slung timber shop tucked between a cooper and a fishmonger, its front awning perpetually damp with sea spray. Nets and pennants hang from beams, and a narrow plank prow juts into the street with an old figurehead nailed above the door. Salt-stained maps litter a whalebone counter where the proprietor calls out prices in a cheerful, gravelly voice. The shop smells of tar, lemon oil, and boiled leather; at dusk the owner fires the signal rocket in the yard as a little ritual to call the tides. Locals swear the bell in the rafters rings itself when a storm approaches.”
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