[b]"We could ask Vrunyar if we find no other way to stop him. But if the ship's damaged and he's passed out, that could be bad too."
When they seek out Owlbear, she tries to size up his mood as well.
Owlbear sits dejectedly in the hold, undisturbed by the choppy waters but still miserable. It seems that someone has taken the opportunity to have a little fun at his expense: the culprit maliciously smeared the big man's back and arms with plugging tar, then covered him with feathers. The intent, it seems, was to make him appear like an actual owlbear; however, the cruel joker forgot to add a beak. Owlbear brightens a bit when he sees Ollivor, and stands up with a hand outstretched. "Bikket?" he asks the cook.
Ollivor sees Owlbear's condition and sighs. Some bastards go for low hanging fruit and count themselves clever.
"I have cheese," He says, recalling the bit he keeps to cut and chew into now and then."Now you close your eyes, and I'll give it to you." Odd to ask the man to trust him when he's clearly been a victim of trust, but he wants to do more than feed the poor fellow.
Since they are alone, the three of them, when Owlbear closes his eyes, Ollivor casts Presidigtation upon the big man, wiping away the feathers and tar with a quick spell. Then he drops the small bit of cheese into Owlbear's hand and says, "Open your eyes and see if you like. If you don't, I can get you a biscuit later IF you promise to try to be brave and stay calm when we ask you. That fair? And you look much better without feathers i think."
Wyn's heart breaks a little at the sight of poor feathered Owlbear.
As Ollivor magically cleans away the goop--Wyn hopes Owlbear cannot relate such wizardry coherently to Plugg--she approaches him gently. "Come, let's see, you're not hurt are you?"
Vrunyar’s first task of his first day aboard the new ship is to create a mutagen. He spends an hour preparing the ingredients, boiling, decanting, stirring, and finally condensing. He slips the vial into his pocket, knowing that if he drinks it his health and vitality will increase, but if anyone else takes it that person would suffer from terrible nausea, becoming nearly incapacitated for an hour.
He gets a bucket, a brush, soap, and some crudely fashioned incense sticks he made from medicinal herbs. There’s a stench to this ship that he didn’t smell yesterday. It’s of chained bodies sweating in the stifling darkness of the hold. He can smell the vomit, piss, and excrement from past slaves.
For the rest of the day, he kneels scrubbing the hold. The incense finishes after three hours. Vrunyar knows it is a temporary victory against the ship’s stench. At lunch he burns a sulfur candle and lets the fumes dissipate before attacking the hold again with sudsy water. As the ship gets battered by the winds, the dwarf groans as some of the crew begins to toss their latest meal. At least he is already cleaning he thinks.
By the time his day is over, his hands, knees, and back ache. At dinner, he manages to massage some flexibility into his fingers and use the spoon to eat. He rubs his hands for extra warmth against the cold that grew during the day.
”Quite the weather, eh?” he says to one of the crew sitting next to him.
The storm hits the Man's Promise brutally, repeatedly, and unrelentingly. Compared to the squall they survived on the Wormwood, this storm is far more powerful. Several times a minute, blusters of wind rock the entire ship, which teeters and rolls and threatens to capsize. Some of the Rahadoumi sailors, huddled in a corner of the deck, wail about a leviathan's tentacles grasping the ship and tearing it apart.
It is fortunate that Doran took the sails down, as the sheets would have caught the gusts and toppled the ship, sending its crew to the bottom of the sea. The driving wind and rain is far too powerful for anyone to be outside in the elements. One of the former slaves wanders up and is quickly swept away into the inky ocean waves. The ship circles without guidance, pushed in all directions like a child's toy in the bathwater. The sickening sensation grows for the crew as they hold onto things for any stability. The crew whispers, shouts, mutters, and gasps prayers to Besmara, Gozreh, Asmodeus, and any god who will listen - even the Rahadoumi sailors, notoriously anti-deity, join in.
Fortunately, Wyn and Ollivor got Owlbear tied up before the storm hit. The simpleton seems fairly docile, all things considered, in his swaddling of heavy rope lashed to a column. He gets hit by a rolling barrel or crate at one point, but doesn't break free as he bellows out in pain.
Each minute brings in a new terror as the storm buffets the ship. Each time it rocks hard to one side or the other, the crew grits itself for a full capsizing. The storm seems like it will never end. A loud crack and creaking snaps shake the whole crew. It is followed by a titanic crash as one of the ship's masts topples through the deck. One of the Rahadoumi sailors cries out briefly before being crushed under its weight. The hole in the deck begins to blow into the second level, sending driving rain and a cold tempest straight into their faces. The sailor's blood and viscera get picked up on the current, splashing onto the rest of the crew.
Wyn runs out, trying to drag any sailor out of the mast's way.
Ollivor tries to help Owlbear, "Easy, easy..." And straps down whatever came loose if he can but when he sees the big man appears to be safer than others, states, "You stay brave now. I have to go topside, but tomorrow it will be better and I'll get you biscuits."
Ollivor himself had been praying, or at least sending out a few muttered plea to the gods. Apsu was probably only one he called on some wouldn't know ...Dragonblood is in me, they say. If you really value every drop of that in this world as some claim, I'll ask you to help me and mine but even during these moments, he keeps moving. Leaving Owlbear, he heads up to help Wyn with the others.
Should he see Doran, he'll listen to see if the fellow has new orders or guidance for him, in the mean time he'll rely on what he has learned on how to be a good sailor.
Doran's face gradually grows paler as the storm grows in its mad intensity, the normally calm and assertive halfling studying the faces of his crewmates with mounting alarm. It's happening again! The damned gods of the sea aren't done with their game, making me watch as crew and ship go down around me, leaving me cast ashore, knowing everyone else has met a watery end... He looks around at some faces in particular, sadness etched on his own. Ollivor, focused on keeping the cargo in the aft hold from shifting under the force of the bucking waves, and showing a surprisingly deft hand at it. Wyn, who looked out for Owlbear out of the goodness of her heart, even if she'd say it was for everyone's safety. Vrunyar, who worked his fingers to the bone to scrub the stench of slavery out of the planks of the Man's Promise. Thorn and John, brave fighters, and each mad and sound at the same time, good men. These are the souls that will perish if this ship founders, the sea gods' roaring laughter crashing around their heads as the dark water takes them.
NO! NOT this time! Doran says to himself, his eyes blazing through the stormcloud darkness. Not this time. We will survive, we will keep her afloat, we'll undo what Plugg's foolish pride has brought about. Or we'll die trying, and I with them. Just as this thought has settled in, a massive crash shakes the ship from stem to stern, though closer to the stern, and the storm's rage can now be felt belowdecks. "We've lost the mizzenmast! We've got to cut it loose, or it'll roll us, drag us under, when the storm washes it over the side. John, Thorn, Wyn! Blades out, cut away sheets, rigging, anything you can reach that keeps the mast attached to the barky!" Two blades appear in Doran's hands as if by magic, and he follows his own orders, steel flashing in the dim light as he works to free the crippled mast from the ship, lest it topple her, or drive itself further into the hull and leave her holed in the midst of the storm.
Hearing Doran shout orders, she focused on his voice to keep from panicking. Wyn grabbed a knife that had been used to cut lengths of rope to tie up Owlbear and the barrels, and went to start sawing through the nearest ropes entangling the mast.
Even though this is the worst night she'd probably experienced aboard a ship, somewhere a calm and grateful, if tiny voice, speaks out, glad that she was here rather than manacled to an oar. There were different degrees of helplessness and she wasn't in the worst.
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Below in the berthing area, John held tight to a post. The rocking and rolling from the storm had gotten progressively worse in the hours since Doran had issued his orders and the crew had quickly turned to lashing and stowing any crates or barrels that might become vicious bludgeoning devices come the blow. All sailors knew the term "Stow for Sea" and each knew that an unexpected wake or a swell could break arms, legs or worse should an unattended object begin to slide wildly on the decks. What even John had been surprised about was the seeming laxity from Captain Plugg in the hours before the storm. John had felt the wind changing. He knew what was coming. He could feel the pressure in the air, that all old salts could. But apparently in his hubris and pride, Plugg overlooked the power of Gozreh. Anyone who had spent time on the seas knew he was a fickle god, calm one moment and furious the next. And so as Doran forced his way below deck, John had kept his eye closed and prayed. Prayed for deliverance, prayed for vengeance, prayed for the chance to be rid of the vicious, foolish, bastard of a captain.
Suddenly from above, John inclined his head. He heard a scream and a popping and snapping of wood. Then with a titanic crash, The mast fell and caved a massive hole through the deck through which biting rain poured in. Pushing himself upto his feet, John nodded at the first mate and grabbed a nearby hatchet. Someone grab rope, we need to tie ourselves together lest one be blown over by the wind and sea! Shaking his head, John grabbed the bit of line that Wyn had been using previously and wrapped it around his waist before pulling fifteen feet of it away and throwing it to Thorn. Tie yourself up. If one goes over then the other will act as a balance. We need to be quick and cut the mast free, else the sails will act as a drogue and drag us down into the water like a second anchor. Turning to Doran, John nodded fiercely. We need some men the bilge too to keep up with the water now that its pouring in through the hole.
Vrunyar braces himself in the hold as the ship pitches to starboard. His knuckles are white as he grips wooden beams. Mizzenmast? he thinks after hearing Doran’s commands. I really need to pay more attention to how the sailors talk. I’d cause more damage up there than the storm, not knowing what to do.
Seeing Ollivor, he makes his way through the hold, using all four limbs to slowly proceed through the rocking hold; along the way stepping onto a few toes, hip checking a few Rahadoumi, and clipping Aretta’s head with an elbow. ”Sorry,” he says over his shoulder as he takes another step. Would a stone ship be at the sea’s mercy like this? he wonders.
”Ollivor,” the dwarf yells three steps away from him. ”Last storm I helped with the bilge! Whose job is that now that John’s helping topside? Is it topside? Or the deck? Helping with the mizzenmast.” The dwarf reaches Ollivor and gives his shoulder a squeeze. He offers a smile and nod to Owlbear. ”I'm glad to see you looking after Owlbear. I got an elixir to help me work the pump. Fortify me. Should I go do that? My hands are tired from all the scrubbing today, but looks like I don’t have much of a choice with a storm like this. We’ll all be dead tired soon enough.”
The storm pours into the deck, sending waves of wind and rain straight into them. A series of lightning strikes, one right after another, supply a crackling light to them. The screams and howls of the crew echo with the crash of the storm, making the entire scene into a tableau of chaos. The crew members scatter, rushing for corners and for the bowels of the ship, with a few heading to the stairs to try their luck with the main deck. The ship starts to roll to starboard, sending the broken mast in a slow rotation with the power of gravity. It collides with the side of the deck, rocking the entire boat with its slamming power. The ship teeters on its side for a moment, seeming like it will capsize. Finally, after a terrifying period at the edge, the ship begins to rock back to port - but the mast starts to roll as well. What remains of the mast's base cracks and splinters as it falls apart.
Sandara and Arutro shout over the storm that they'll take over the bilges, and the pair rush down in that direction. Rosie and Crimson run back into the hold, carrying a chest between them. They throw it out forward, spilling the contents onto the deck. A collection of weapons and armor fall out, giving them the tools with which to free the ship from the millstone of the mizzenmast. The pair - along with Jax, Conchobar, and Hojo - await instruction for how to help and what to do.
”Ollivor,” the dwarf yells three steps away from him. ”Last storm I helped with the bilge! Whose job is that now that John’s helping topside? Is it topside? Or the deck? Helping with the mizzenmast.” The dwarf reaches Ollivor and gives his shoulder a squeeze. He offers a smile and nod to Owlbear. ”I'm glad to see you looking after Owlbear. I got an elixir to help me work the pump. Fortify me. Should I go do that? My hands are tired from all the scrubbing today, but looks like I don’t have much of a choice with a storm like this. We’ll all be dead tired soon enough.”
"Well I...."
Sandara and Arutro shout over the storm that they'll take over the bilges, and the pair rush down in that direction.
"Looks like they're taking care of it, Vrunyar," Ollivor says, and tries to stay upright as the ship shakes and he tries to get his weapons.
Doran manages to keep his feet, though he's more affected by the wild rocking of the ship than he would have expected. Knife in hand, he aims to cut some of the rigging anchoring the fallen mast to the ship, but his balance fails him and he simply misses.
Wyn, already on her way to help cut the mast free, grabs one of the curved blades spilled out of the box. As she goes to put it to work, the ship shifts violently.
Getting used to the rocking, she manages to keep her feet and begins to hack at the ropes.
Thorn catches the line thrown to him by John and quickly ties the line securely around his waist.
Thorn is caught off guard by violent shifts of the ship and thrown to the deck landing abruptly on his back. The rush of icy cold water soaks through his clothes chilling him to the bone. Thorn watched Rosie and Crimson running with a chest in hand until they dumped it open and his elven curve blade slide quickly across the deck towards him. The blade cut through the thin layer of water while splashing the icy water up and the droplets landing on his face. The frustration of losing his balance infuriates Thorn and causes him to jump back onto his feet with great haste but not before grabbing his blade.
Ollivor will try to help clear the rigging when he can.
The groaning and creaking of the ship concerns Vrunyar. He can’t tell if Doran and the others’ actions are succeeding, but he decides that he’d rather attempt to lose his life fighting the storm than sweating in the hold.
”Calm, Owlbear, calm. I’ll be back soon,” he says to the dim witted human.
Bracing himself, like before he manages to get ten feet before the rolling and the shuddering of the ship catches him in a lunge from one beam to the next and he crashes against some crates.
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triding onto the deck with a lurch John Rawkins, or Red as some of his friends had come to know him ran a eye along the deck. The wind howled and screamed. Rain pelted his hair and within seconds he was drenched from head to peg. Raising a hand he flicked a strand of long red hair out of his face and frowned. What was important now was that he stayed calm.
Calm.. what a fething joke. John thought to himself frowning. That dam bastard Plugg should have known better. Instead he led our arses right into a bloody fething storm.
Again the deck lurched and with a loud SLAM! the mast rocked against the deck and through the rain John heard a man roar in pain. Poor bastard.. likely got pinned between the mast and the rail. Tis nearly as bad as being between the devil and the deep blue. John thought mournfully for cursing Pluggs ignorance again.
Nodding to himself, John pushed his way toward the crate and dug out a wicked looking hatchet. Nodding in thanks he stuffed the hilt through the black sash he wore around his waist that he had managed to win a week before gambling on the Wormwood from Riki Blackburne, bless his foolish sad soul. Turning John pointed towards Rosie, Crimson, Conchobar, Jax and Hojo who stood by the crate awaiting orders. John commanded, letting his voice carry in the same way he had been trained to do as a young petty officer. The others are dealing with the ropes and sails. We gotta protect them from the mast and buy them some time. Rosie, Crimson take the port side. Jax and Hojo take the larboard. Conchobar, you're with me amidship. We push hard and stabilize to give the others a fighting chance!
John leads a half-dozen crewmen in grabbing hold of the mast, keeping it from slamming from side to side. They strain to hold onto the heavy, wet wooden mast. The blood from the sailor makes their boots slide on the slick deck as the storm pours down through the gash from above. The ship rocks in both directions as the sailors push and pull to keep the mast as still as they can. The others pick up the weapons scattered on deck, scrambling to their feet as quickly as they can. Doran clears some of the rigging with his hands, untying the knots where he can and using his claws where he needs to. Wynifrid hacks at the ropes with her blade, carving at them to tear the sheets free.
Vrunyar plants his hands beneath him and pushes violently against the floor to get up. He gets his feet underneath him for two steps then stumbles as the ship pitches to port. Luckily his dwarven instincts (or low center of gravity) take hold and he’s able to roll towards a beam to grab support. Shoving himself from that he reaches the ladder to climb above to help with the mast.
Doran sees that John has gathered a knot of sailors to help with stabilizing the mast. Good man in a pinch, that one. Let's see what I can do to cut these ropes clear while he's got that gang workin'.
He swings his blade at the nearest rope, but a gust of wind, carrying a great wash of cold water, flings the rope out of reach just as he attempts to cut it.
Wyn swings with almost excessive force as she hacks at the ropes, while cheering on the crew working with the mast.
Ollivor, seeing that Doran is having trouble with the wind, puts his own muscle to work (such as it is) and hacks away at the rigging.
Thorn gathers himself and quickly observes John has secured the mast with some help from others. Thorn knows they will not be able to hold it for long and rushes to help. Just before he reaches the mast Doran slashes wide of his mark. "DAMN SQUALL! It just wont back down" Wyn and Ollivor continue working the sheets and rigging of the mast. Thorn knows the danger of rolling mast can be deadly to the tipsy sailor but the sheets could be the death of them all. Thorn pauses momentarily to observe the tangle mess of rigging and sheets but thanks to the gust of wind delaying Doran Thorn can see a single taught line holding the whole mess together. [i]"Well, well a blessing in disguise." Thorn keeps his keen eyes on his target as he dashes toward the revealed line. A quick and accurate slash over Doran's head breaks the rigging and sheets away from the mast. Thorn yells out in a brief triumphant "HAZAA! Now lets bring this mast down and sail for smoother waters."
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Throwing his shoulder into the mast along side of Conchobar, John looks to his left, seeing Rosie grunting in exertion as the rain pelted her. Beside her Crimson cursed out to the heavens and The Lady of Graves, swearing over the storm that he would not die here.
The rain beat down on the six members of the crew as the pushed with their combined strength trying to fight against the elements and gravity to keep the mast from tumbling down the deck, breaking limbs and shattering skulls. Johns legs burned and he felt some muscle along his abdomen shriek in pain from the massive force he was trying to exert to keep the mast steady. John felt the blood thundering in his ears and his heart beating hard in his chest. The massive amount of force he was struggling against seemed almost overwhelming. Then his traitorous peg slipped.
Collapsing to the deck, John scrambled backwards as the mast groaned and shuddered forward nearly a foot across the deck. He was tired. Gods was he tired. He wanted to sleep. He wanted all of this to be over. The backstabbing, the revenge, the lunacy, the pressganging. All of it. But he couldn't give up. Pushing himself tiredly to his feet, he John saw Jax and Hojo fighting their own personal battle for survival as the Mans Promise tried to take revenge for its capture. Always Strong... John whispered, repeating back the Andoran Navy's motto. Grabbing a massive barrel, John roared and threw himself at the mast with a renewed vigor. Pushing the barrel against the stinging rain, John lodged it in place between the cracked mast and the windlass. Smiling, John watched as the mass of the mast locked itself in place against the massive chain and anchor hoist, before tiredly taking stock of the rest of the ship.
With a loud commanding bellow, John pointed his hatchet towards Rosie. Rosie, assist Doran with his rope. Vrun, I need you, Crimson and Conchobar to start working on cutting free the mast. I will join you shortly. Jax and Hojo, give Thorn a hand, we earned a breather, but we need the mast cut free now before the sail acts as a droge and pulls us down faster.
Wyn whispers to Doran. "Shouldn't you be shouting the orders, not John? Could get you both in trouble otherwise."
Working together, the crew quickly strips the mast of its sheets and ropes - pulling and untying what they can and cutting the rest. The storm pours in through the broken deck, draining the crewmen of energy and strength with the frigid elements. Everyone holds the mast in place, led by John's remarkable second wind. Someone has to climb up the mast, into the storm, and hack the mast free. They'll have to pull it down and keep it stable, but they're much safer now thanks to their quick reactions than they were immediately after.
As Wyn realizes the work freeing the mast is done, a sudden exhaustion comes over her. Or perhaps she hacked just a bit too hard at that last bit of rope. She shakes her head a moment, trying to clear the weariness that falls on her as hard as the rain, but that they've been working for hours and she finds all she can do for the moment is stand.
Still, she stays on guard as best she can. She knows the sailors have to break the mast free. It would be better for a more experience sailor to do the climbing but she stands ready to help steady them or break the mast.
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The wind keened and shreeked. Rain splattered through Johns hair slicking it back and running through his scruffy beard. Around him, the other sailors began to falter. They are about to hit a wall John thought, watching as Shivikah with his bald head and plethora of tribal fetishes fell to his knees from exhaustion. Not that John would mind worse happening to the ex-slaver, but that was for another day. Right now the ship was in danger and despite Besmara being at odds with the Golden Eagle, there was truth to be said about settling your quarrels on shore.
Shaking his head in anger, John looked up at the cracked mast. When you drink every night and don't enforce any sort of physical fitness or conditioning, what would a captain expect from his crew? When the time came they would be found wanting. John was many things. A husband, a sailor, a marine and an Andoran. But he was not weak, and he did not give up.
Flipping the hatchet that he held in his hand around and through the silk sash tied around his waist, John peered through the watery haze at the crumbled mast. Splinters jutted from the end like wicked spears and bits of rope and torn sail-cloth hung haphazardly around it. Even in calm seas the conditions for climbing it would be dangerous. In heavy seas it would only be more so. But the job needed doing and quickly, else there would be the devil to pay.
Nodding to himself, John for just a moment thinks back a better time, a time when Iakob was still alive and the future held more promise than despair.
::John breaks away from the hug and politely nods to the captain in support of Iakob. "Aye captain, Mr. Steele here is a good man. Even if he is an officer. Right at the forefront of boarding's, and not afraid of little work like some are." Taking on a distant stare for a moment, John gives a small, sad smile. Grimacing as his eyes move to his peg leg, John continues. "But as I said sir, lost it at sea to a dammed shark. I can get around good enough, even climb and stand the crows-nest if ya like."::
Perhaps it was the fatigue, or simply a moment of pleasant remembrance, But John felt at peace. He might die tomorrow, or the next day. But not here not today. Today he was going to make good on his word to Captain Jonas. Moving towards the mast, in a hurried, but confident manner, John looks back towards the small knot of faithful allies the press-ganged members of the Empty Lighthouse had managed to earn the trust of. Crimson, Conchobar, Jax, Hojo and Rosie, I need you to assist our strongest climbers so we can cut this down now!. John barks, the command present in his voice, strong and inspiring. First Mate Myles and Thorn... John pauses realizing that is acting far more in command of the situation then he likely should. You may hate me, but we need to survive this blow first. John states matter of factly before turning back to the mast and beginning to climb it. And I can't chop this bastard down by myself.
Ollivor was pleased for his part in things, and he'd learned some sailing skills well, but hearing about storms and actually being IN one are two different things. He's just not prepared for the constant tossing and tearing about it provides. There's no respite, and a great weariness overcomes him. Still, he struggles to help
Ollivor loses his grip and falls on his ass, in a manner that would be comical if things weren't so grim
As Doran looks at the wreckage of the mast and ponders climbing it, he calls back to Wyn over the roaring of the storm, "Now's not the time to be picky about who calls the shots. John's in a good spot for the work, and he's a good man for it. Now let's see if I can't beat him up there to cut her loose," he adds with a grin.
He turns to John, giving him a hard look for a moment as the man realizes he may have overstepped a bit in giving orders to the first mate. But Doran then gives a firm, confident nod and says, "Nice work, Rawkins, you've done well. Let's get this mast free, shall we?" As he steps forward to begin his climb, a storm-tossed bucket washes under his feet, and he steps squarely into hit, stumbling about and adding to the impression that he and Ollivor are a comic troupe, rather than any sort of sailors.
Despite the rain streaming down his stubbled face and plastering his clothes to his body, Vrunyar is able to endure the storm’s fury as he helps on the deck. He answers a peel of thunder with a ”Ha!” struggling to support the mast.
A lightning flash causes him to miss Doran’s fall. One moment he was about to climb the mast, the next he has his foot in a bucket.
”Looks like you got a wooden growth on your foot First Mate! Let me take care of it.” The dwarf reaches down and yanks the bucket off his foot and tosses it towards the hold.
"We need you up there!" he yells, pointing at the mast, knowing it's redundant since Doran knows what to do.
As Vrunyar pulls Doran's leg free, the other crew members rush up to help. Each of the five pitches in a hand, with Rosie and Conchobar standing on the mast and pulling Doran upward. Jax essentially throws the halfling up the mast, giving him enough of a burst that he scrambles up the wet but stable mast and makes it next to John in the pour rain. He looks around in surprise, unsure of how he ended up there - even with his natural talent. Rosie shouts, "Cut it loose!"
Thorn stands next to Vrunyar as the ice cold rain and wind beats down on them. Thorn pauses for a moment as he parts his hair out of his face and slicks it straight back to feel the rhythmic beating of the rain on his face. The rain and cold briefly reminds him of sailing the ironbound islands in his long boat and the icy waters on his face again.
Thorn snaps out of his brief walk down memory lane as he watches Vrunyar rushing to aid Doran and fight with the pesky bucket that reached up from the depths to snare Doran's foot momentarily. Shaking his head at the first mates misfortune "I guess we should have left some of the rigging on the mast to help him with his climb, but then again I vaguely remember the little fellow falling from the rigging during the last storm on the Wormwood. I believe he may have broke a leg on the landing. I guess he really is cursed more than the rest of us, aahhh who am I kidding we are all in the same cursed boat, literally too!"
After Vrunyar free Doran from the clutches of the evil bucket some of the crew grab Doran and give him a proper hoist up the mast to stand next to John. Thorn not wasting anymore time standing around springs half way up the mast grabbing onto some splintered wood and quickly navigates his way up the mast to help John and Doran cut the mast free.
With the mast stable, John climbs up the mast despite his wooden peg leg. He leads the others up, as the sailors below assist Doran in scrambling up the fallen mast to the main deck. Thorn needs no such help, easily scaling the mast despite the frigid winter zephyr that blows down upon all of them.
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Clutching to the broken and cracked mast with white knuckles, the ship rocked and swayed in the gale. Twenty feet up in the air, the sense of danger was almost like an electrical charge running against Johns skin. The weathered sailor knew that better men than himself had fallen from such heights before in calm weather and that he was climbing the rain slicked, broken mast in the middle of the full fury of the storm only served to heighten his apprehension.
Clawing his way upward, John bit down on the fear. People below him were relying on him. The fact that one of those people happened to be Plugg, who thus far had been curiously absent on deck was not without irony. Maybe I got lucky and he was washed overboard by a rogue wave. John thought, the idea fluttering through his mind. Though I doubt I would be that fortunate. After only a few moments, but what seemed like a lifetime in the wrath of the gale, John reached the weakened split of the mast. Huge chunks of wood were missing completely, though that which remained continuously groaned and snapped under tension.
Grabbing a rope that lashed sinuously in the wind John wrapped his fist into a coil around it to stabilize himself. Using his good leg, the marine straddled the bottom unbroken bit of the mast and with a test of his weight he leaned back against the rope. Coming under tension, water streamed down the hemp line and it cut into his hand, but it held. Grabbing out his handaxe from his belt, the marine pointed with the dulled edge towards the weakened gash near the middle of the mast. Doran, Thorn.. we need to cut there. Hack it down along the starboard side. When it falls it should do so away from us. The last thing we want to do is bring it down on us. John cried out, before slamming his axe down into the the groaning, splintered crevice with a meaty thunk.
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”Ollivor let’s go!” Vrunyar yells as he bends on one knee and points to his shoulders. ”I’m as steady as a rock and I’ll hold your feet.”
Doran steadies himself against the howling gale, watching carefully where John has aimed his strike. He sees that John's blow was effective, but thinks there's a weaker spot he can wedge his dagger into and pry loose. He jams the blade in deep, wiggles it a bit to get it into position, and shoves it sideways, breaking off a long splinter holding the upper and lower portions of the mast together.
Hearing the chatter about the Starboard side, Ollivor draws forth his own weapon and readies himself. Then an offer comes from Vrunyar...
”Ollivor let’s go!” Vrunyar yells as he bends on one knee and points to his shoulders. ”I’m as steady as a rock and I’ll hold your feet.”
"Right then," He says and clambers on the dwarf's broadshoulders to get a better shot at the mast which as gone to being an aid to the ship to a great threat against it. The cook's still weary from the battering of the storm, and struggles...
Ollivor's boots are too wet, he's too damn weary, and a strong gust takes the young man and slaps him hard from the side sending him tumbling.
"I'm starting to think the gods want me to stay in the damn galley today."