Elon sets to work 'crafting' his room to further his enjoyment. He stretches and bends various woods to create pleasing seats or nooks, as well as establishing the perfect anchor spots for the hammocks of the Hammock District. "Hmm... yes, this is going splendidly." he says to himself as he adjusts the fresh hammock he made from a blanket that now contains the unconscious halfling.
With a bit of rustling, he manages to get a comfortable spot for Barley, just under his own hammock, while all of his provisions and gear is stored in the corners of the room. He made sure to put the wooden box of rats on the left side near the other person's hammock and his new pet cobra in its basket near Barley.
The air is thick inside Barbarosa's cabin. The captain is enjoying an evening pipe before he finally puts his head to rest. The Audacious is underway again and all is well with the world.
Then the interruptions begin.
The first is Platonious. Barbarosa listens to his complaints.
"Take it up with Elon! He's the damned fool who decided you should see our secret operation in person," grumbles the captain, "Now get yourself back below or make yourself useful. If you decide to be of use, you'll earn a fair wage. We can let you off at Azir, if you like. Now, out of my sight!"
Gavin is next.
"Three Cocks, I don't even know where to begin with your troubles," Barbarosa looks exasperated after the deckhand's moaning, "Suck it up and find some other man to fūck. I don't care if you like his curls and lithe rippling muscles the best of all. If you ever bring something like this to my attention again, I'll get the Plank involved... and for the gods' sakes man, we've got women on board now. I didn't realize after our last journey - though perhaps I should have - that you preferred to shag men!"
One-footed Dave has a go, but doesn't get too far before...
"I don't fūcking care what he's asking you to prepare for his yak! Just show him the supplies we brought for the thing and cook for the people on board." Barbarosa dismisses him, but calls for him to hold up at the last minute, "And I know the boy needs to learn, but if Jeff prepares another fish stew for me, I'm gonna make you eat it. Teach the boy another recipe for fūck's sake!"
Fourth up is Nelenquessir.
"You have to take what Mtumbwi says with a healthy pinch of salt," Barbarosa cautions, "I genuinely don't think his foot would fit in there, but I really wouldn't press the matter: while I don't think it would fit - I'm not so sure Mtumbwi wouldn't try... and yes, I would take the man's threats literally."
The next interruption comes from Aaron Donal.
"Well that's too bad, Donal," Barbarosa shakes his head, too tired to be bothered with the linguist's heartfelt and flustered complaining, " I hired you to teach languages and if you can't manage to say 'no' in any of them, then you'd best prepare some fūcking private lessons on Azlanti and also grade Aeslin's fūcking homework while you're at it."
Lastly, once Barbarosa has finally gone to bed, George discovers the captain is a very light sleeper.
"Boy," he begins with his eyes still closed and turned away from where George is held frozen in terror, "Get ye out of here and I'll pretend this never happened. You are now responsible for all of my possessions. If I lose anything, you will find it for me. I don't care if it's stolen or I accidentally dropped it into the fūcking ocean. Nothing of mine goes missing for the rest of the journey. Got it?"
The closing of Barbarosa's cabin door is the only reply. I love it when the fools try to steal from me. I wonder what I'm going to make go missing first...
|
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Wrigley paces below deck, occasionally pausing to place his palm firmly on the seamless inner-wall of the ship. His mind traces over what he previously knew of ships and laments slightly that he did not take care to learn from his family's business while in the shackles. Still, it did not seem possible to the halfling, no matter how little he knew of ships and shipcraft, to build a vessel with no seams, cracks, or openings. His mouth curls to a slight smirk while dragging his palm along the pristine surface.
"What a fascinating modern age we live in," he says aloud, utterly intrigued by the construction of the mighty ship.
For a while after he stroles through the lower deck, until running into Aaron Donal between lessons. "You know," Wrigley begins. "Your main purposes on this ship might not be one of hauling ropes and rigging, nor charting our course... But you may still have one of the toughest jobs aboard... You have to deal with us directly." he says, referencing his friends, the sturdy, stalwart adventures who have strong bodies and even stronger opinions.
"Good luck to you, sir." Wrigley laughs and continues on.
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"Salam, mənim ad Gado edir. Blue yeməyi dəyirmi masa edir. Xeyr, mənim şalvar ola bilməz. Bəli, bluza çox dəbdə deyil ."
Gado paces back and forth in his room, practicing the grammer points he has learned so far with the group language lessons. He avoids Bazsil, the obvious source of the linguist teacher's recent short temper that has been taken out on everyone around him, preferring to avoid uncomfortable conversations.
He also is avoiding Aeslin today as well. While he spends a fair amount of time studying outside of the lessons with her, picking apart the grammer of polyglot and the language of the azlanti, her exuberance for this has been taxing, and exhausting.
"I suppose I am equally as nerdish when it comes to the things I am good at. I could cut them a little slack, I suppose." he mumbles to himself, alone in his room.
"Maybe its time to work on my scrolls a bit more."
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The moist sea air aggravates Ciaran's lungs, and Gratum can hear him through the wall of their cabins, coughing long into the night. Despite the lack of sleep, Ciaran is no more (or less) surly than usual. He weathers Donal's language lessons with grim forbearance - a forbearance that perks up notably when, in a moment of desperation, Donal offers to share his private supply of liquor with Ciaran if he'd only mark Aeslin's pop quizzes. Since Ciaran has no understanding of either language, and can only read Taldan slowly and carefully, Aeslin finds her feedback is terse and... unusual.
Ciaran spends much of the rest of his time with Gratum and George in the workshop, away from the sea air that bothers him and the rolling ocean which bothers the dwarf. The two adults trade stories from their adventurous past - bonding over dead goblins - while George listens (occasionally chiming in with tales from his horrific childhood in Magnimar). Desperate for exercise, he assist Gratum in his tasks, or (when desperate) takes to prowling around the topdeck in the early hours of the morning, jogging in endless circles around the tiny space while the night shift tries to avoid him.
The rest of his time, Ciaran spends in the armoury with the Colonel. On his first visit, the Colonel raised one bushy eyebrow in fierce outrage at the intrusion, but Ciaran simply nodded to him, quickly surveyed the weapons in the store, then sat down in a spare chair and began to carve a piece of wood. After a few moments of silence, the Colonel sniffed, and returned to his work.
The next time, Ciaran brought the man his grog ration, and the silence was more companionable. Despite spending hours together, the two exchanged no more than a few words at most.
Should he ever. Ever. Come above decks while the captain is steering the ship while in "Underwater Mode" he will ask Ciaran, "Are you sure he's safe on this ship?" and promptly spew green chunks on Ciaran's boots.
Ciaran isn't unduly bothered by this - he's had worse on his boots in his time - and gently helps the heaving dwarf back belowdecks. He opens a new hogshead of ale to calm the groaning dwarf's stomach.
@Ciaran: "You there," Bazsil approaches Ciaran. "You are not as weak as most on this ship. You look like you know how to fight, much like me. And fight angry, much like me. Perhaps we should train and spar a bit. I do not think anyone else would suffer a chance blow from Lucy very well, but you might." That last sentence would be considered a complement coming from Bazsil.
Ciaran shrugs. "Certainly. I can think of nothing that would give me more pleasure," he says with a little irony.
Wandering around the ship, while she awaits her grades, Aeslin starts taking in the wonder of the Audacious. She often stops and studies the various constructs, both magical and engineered, that the ship uses. "Interesting alteration of the Thrune's modification of the force wall. I'd be surprised if they had seen such a use in the Arcanamirium," she says to no one in particular, taking notes in her journal.
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Once again bored with the bookwork that he has chosen to be the mentor of, the weasel, Sebastian, sneaks out of Aeslin's handbag to go hunting. He carefully makes his way through the ship, looking for the little places that rodents tend to hide. He is surprised to find that there are all very clean. This puzzles him, as even the stores of grain and other durable foods seem vermin free!
Frustrated, he keeps wandering around the store rooms, when he finds several cages with chickens in them. 'This is a most glorious day, indeed!' he thinks, as he begins to stalk his feathery prey. He sneaks in, hiding from the ever-watchful eyes of the avian delicacy, deftly working the catch of a cage. No mere mustelid is he, as he wields an intelligence far outpacing most of his kind.
He strikes... suddenly... and grabs a nice fat hen. The room is filled with the squawking of the other birds, but he doesn't care, as he hauls his catch to a place where he can peaceful eat it...
Later, Aeslin is surprised to find that her friend seems a bit more... rotund... than normal. He is usually a light eater... and today turns his nose up at his kibble... more so than usual, that is.
Seeing The Audacious perform the crazy stunt Gratum's thoughts turn dark, "The king's engineer is needed..." Gratum says to himself as he takes another draught of ale. "Padşahın mühəndis tələb olunur" he repeats in Isle Native.
Continuing in much more broken speech, "biz istəyirik... biz istəyirik... how'd'you say 'we're underwater, we're doomed'?"
"biz sualtı, biz məhkum edirik edirik" Donal replies without looking up from his desk, much more intent on his notes as he carfully dips his quill in ink and scratches the nib across parchment.
Gratum takes what he was just told and writes it down. Course if we do make it to the island.
"Biz cannibals yeyilmiş olunur"
"Certainly. I can think of nothing that would give me more pleasure," he says with a little irony.
Bazsil nods as if he was already sure the man would accept his offer.
"Excellent, I shall awake you at first light. You will provide good sport before breakfast," Bazsil exclaims happily.
Bazsil envisions sparring to include nothing more than practice weapon play, nothing designed to cause damage, but bruising and active, painful learning is encouraged. He rarely will rage, saving that for true enemies, but seek to provide sport and learning for Ciaran to counter.
* * *
Bazsil learns Azlanti as quickly as he is able to under Donal's teachings. He puts his mind to it and even reads and studies on his own in the quiet afternoons as he sits and sways in his hammock.
It is a pleasant day when The Audacious pulls in to the bustling port of Azir - Port Godless. No towering spires to be closer to the gods, no massive displays to impress the heavens - instead, the architecture here is completely strange. The modestly sized buildings just out at odd angles, ones that would not be recommended by Gratum or any builder. They seem to hold, and some of the more opulent structures appear to defy gravity itself. All buildings are painted in bright colors, matching the clothing worn by the citizens of this godless city.
It isn't long before the two combatants find a likely arena upon which to do battle. Both men manage to find rough equivalents of their favorite weapons - or enough leather and cloth to dull the blows of their real weapons. They meet at first light as the crew looks on.
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As Barbarosa gives the orders to leave dock, Mtumbwi feels the familiar butterflies of heading out to sea. Will his design work? Will the crew know what to do?
If those trice damned wizards could make it to the isle, I sure as hell can build a boat that'd do the same
"Underwater mode."
Here it is, time to shine. Gozreh you can kiss my ass.
As the walls extend upwards, Mtumbwi sees Harlan Sparrow IV approach, a roll of parchment in his hand, and quill scribbling what the man can only assume are calculations.
Mtumbwi extends his right hand outward, palm facing Harlan.
"Don't. Say. A. Word."
Harlan, rethinking his errand, turns on his heals and walks the other way.
As The Audacious speeds forwards, Mtumbwi can be seen smiling, dreadlocks whipping in the wind. A second later he hollers at Teddy Edwardson to "Quite standing around, and prepare to climb up something when we surface."
Moments later she clears the harbor and resumes her normal sailing course.
Mtumbwi thinks to himself, 'Perfect. Just Perfect.'
From behind him he hears, "Um would this be a good time to go over over my numbers? I noticed we dove at a 27 degree angle and ...."
Barbarosa, I am going to Focking kill you.
Mtumbwi has difficulty assimilating to the specialists as his duties tend to take up much of his time. When he is not on deck, he is often supervising Nelenquessir's sailing of the ship, and avoiding Harlan Sparrow IV. Each night he tries to find a new specialist to sup with in the hopes of forming a bond.
"So.... Your own island, eh? That must be nice. Maybe if I get rich off of this expedition and survive, I'll have to try something like that. I've always wanted my own creepy, trap-laden tower to study and summon unfathomably powerful denziens of otherworldly planes, you know?" Gado says, sitting across from Mtumbwi one evening.
The meal was boiled chicken, but Felonious George had managed to uncover someone's secret stash of carrots. The brazed carrots in a light chicken sauce was worth the taste for the simple fact of its rarity after being at sea for so long, despite not needing to eat due to his ring.
Gado mumbles awkwardly through the conversation, not having a whole lot in common with the shipwright. Mtumbwi was a man who worked with his hands, and built things. Gado was an academic, through and through. If anything, he summoned creatures to help him with things he couldn't do. And Koney was always there, annoying at times, but faithful anyways. Especially when he picked out the wrong hat, which was frequent.
Gado stands on the dock, having just disembarked. He carries a pack that could possibly be a little heavy for him, but is currenly enjoying the lightened load due to his ant haul spell.
I don't even know where to go, I just know I need some time away from that ship. I swear if I have to smell that slime fish stew one more time I am going to join Gratum in the green room... he mumbles to himself.
He readjusts his pack and smooths out a few wrinkles in his robes while he stares at the brilliant colors and odd architecture.
"Lets see what they have in their library. And maybe find someplace interesting to have a drink." He turns around to see if anyone is interested in walking with him, then strolls into the city proper.
For the first time in months, he is completely at ease, any worries of Mistress Lanvi and her goons completely washed from his mind.
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Scene 1:
Try to be best
Cause you're only a man
And a mans gotta learn to take it
Bazsil arises at first light, his eyes snapping open. He arm springs out of his bunk, giving the air a quick practice kick. He moves to the corner and the bedpan, squatting to poop while flexing his arms to loosen up both his muscles and bowels.
Scene 2:
Try to believe
Though the going gets rough
That you gotta hang tough to make it
Bazsil looks at himself in the ship's mirror. His face is dark in the candlelight, but suits Bazsil's keen eyes just fine. He draws out his comb and begins to comb his oiled hair, preparing the day's re-application of his hair's greasy glory.
Bazsil dabs away the oil that falls on his muscled shoulder and chest, and he flick his hair again to get any drippings off. He mirror for the next user will need to clean it before use. Bazsil, a man of action, does not bother to clean up after himself, that is for lesser men.
Grabbing Lucy, Bazsil punches the air on the way to deck.
Scene 3:
History repeats itself
Try and youll succeed
Never doubt that youre the one
And you can have your dreams!
Bazsil runs down the deck and down the plank. He sprints by the other ships in dock, his long legs sounding loudly on the planks, his breath becoming routine and rhythmic.
Every 4th and 6th step result in a punch or a kick, left or right, with hammer in hand or without as Bazsil runs. And runs. He runs through the streets, jogs up hills, and leaps over morning merchants. He runs to train, he runs to prove he is alive. His dark curls bounce jauntily upon his shoulders as he goes.
It is morning. And he *is* man. He runs.
Scene 4:
Youre the best!
A-Round!
Nothings gonna ever keep you down
Bazsil runs through the fruit carts, punching the rare and exotic fruits he sees, then dodging them on their return arc. He bobs and weaves he way through lines of banana clumps, punching and kicking the air at unseen enemies. He races through the apple stalls, tossing one then another into the air...only to smash them with Lucy.
Scene 5:
Youre the best!
A-Round!
Nothings gonna ever keep you down
Bazsil leaves the fruit district, entering the nearby meat packing area. There is finds large fresh meat animal carcasses to punch, dangling hooks. Baz jabs and punches, punches and jabs, sometimes in quick order, other times with power and designed to break ribs. He punches and weaves, his feet always weaving.
Then he runs on.
Scene 6:
Youre the best!
A-ROUND!
Nothings gonna ever keep you dow-ow-ow-ow-own
Bazsil runs up the steps of the arena, urchins and orphans in tow. Bazsil air punches left, then right, then left again, his feet dancing in perfect rhythm to the music in his head.
He stands jogging in place, his hands over his head, exultant. He turns and enters the arena.
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Scene 1
Da. Da-da-da. Da-da-da. Da-da-duuuuum
Ciaran eats his breakfast in a quiet guesthouse away from the docks. He cuts a chunk off the sausage, dips it into the egg, spoons some beans over it, and eats it.
Scene 2
Da. Da-da-da. Da-da-da. Da-da-duuuuum
Ciaran stares at himself for a long time in the mirror. Eventually, he sighs, spits on the floor, and begins carefully checking his breastplate for dents or signs of corrosion.
Scene 3
Rising up, back on the street
Did my time, took my chances
Went the distance, now I'm back on my feet
Just a man and his will to survive
Ciaran stretches, joints popping, and rolls his head around on his neck. He strolls slowly across the deck of the ship, nodding to his companions, padded great sword unsheathed across his shoulder. A coughing fit doubles him over on the gangway.
Scene 4
So many times it happens too fast
You trade your passion for glory
Don't lose your grip on the dreams of the past
You must fight just to keep them alive
Ciaran munches on an apple. "Good weather today," he tells the woman behind the cart.
"Yes. I think it might rain later," she says.
Scene 5
It's the eye of the tiger
It's the thrill of the fight
Rising up to the challenge of our rival
"I'm sorry about my... companion," Ciaran tells the outraged meat vendors. "He's just like that. If there's any permanent damage, have the bill sent to Captain Barbarossa on The Audacious. Tell him to take it out Bazsil Grimalkim's pay."
Scene 6
And the last known survivor
Stalks his prey in the night
And he's watching us all with the eeeeeeyyyyyyeeeeeee
...Of the tiger
One of the Bazsil's screaming urchins wanders too close to Ciaran, who smack him on the ear. "Piss off."
He watches the Bollywood dance spectacle reach it's conclusion.
"Are you finished? Are we here to fight, or do you just want to f%$# around all day?"
"So.... Your own island, eh? That must be nice. Maybe if I get rich off of this expedition and survive, I'll have to try something like that. I've always wanted my own creepy, trap-laden tower to study and summon unfathomably powerful denziens of otherworldly planes, you know?"
"Yeah, more of a cluster fock of rocks and debris. Though I was my own lord. Didn't have to follow the strict dress code of a ship or anything. Got to just craft my own whenever I wanted to, one day work of burning, see you don't carve a boat. Tools would dull and your arms fall off. You burn the tops and chop away whatever don't burn. Lightning scorched is the best. Say Gozreh blesses it. Still use it though I know that uncaring b%&#& don't do anything to help. Habit I guess.
"Glad to have you on the ship. Hope we don't need your magics, but clad to have them here all the same."
This stew really sucks.
Bazsil and Ciaran face off against each other, weapons readied.
"You know, it's sad that you've prettied your hair and drawn a crowd who are all going to see you finish second. I am going to beat you here. I am going to beat you on the ship. I am going to beat you on the Isle of Dread. I'm going to beat you so badly you'll find Aroden."
"I'm going to beat you so badly that... um... No, I've lost it. F##& it, never mind. You're just... really irritating."
Ciaran steps up onto the platform, taking cover (and the higher ground) against Bazsil's longer reach.
"You're just...really irritating."
"Yes, men of action, like myself, often annoy those without the self-discipline to be great. It surprises me that it annoys you at all. Apparently, I have misjudged you."
Bazsil deflects the verbal attack, taking the blow off his metaphorical shield of ego. Bazsil circles Ciaran, thinking about feint, but bringing the flatside of Lucy's blade towards the legs of Ciaran when he moves within 10'.
Bazsil smugs, and flicks his dark oiled curls.
"Many of my opponents fall before me. I had hoped you would be different," Bazsils says, still without a trace of anger or rage within him. "Get to your feet. You are a man and belong on them."
Ciaran gets to his feet with a growl. He darts forwards, inside Bazsil's reach, and lashes out with the flat of his blade.
...trying to drive Bazsil back.
Exiting The Audacious, Mtumbwi grimaces at the stability of dry land. So accustomed to the gentle pitch and roll of the ship, to be on land again left a sour taste in his mouth. Hearing all the crew talk about the 'big fight', Mtumbwi can't wait to see some real action after the monotony of daily life on a ship.
Seeing Bazsil punch and kick imaginary enemies, and seeing Ciaran's coughing fit, Mtumbwi has second thoughts about the entertainment value of this so called fight. Nelenquessir comes running up to him whispering something in his ear. Mtumbwi just nods.
Seeing that these two are finally going to come to blows, Mtumbwi sits cross-legged towards the edge of the circle. Turning to Harlan Sparrow IV, Mtumbwi hands him a small purse. Harlan grabs the purse, weights it in his hand, nods and produces a similarly weighted purse and he hands if over to Mtumbwi. Mtumbwi smells the pouch, and nods at Harlan.
Mtumbwi points to the greasy haired man and gives him a toothy grin and a thumbs up, before finding a particularity itchy patch on his groin and going to work on it.
"You know in contests like this the opponent that obtains the higher ground is fifty-three ..."
"Shut. The. Fock. Up. Or these men will serve as the under card while I kick your ass for the next half hour."
"Go Ciarán. Mess up his hair!"
Mtumbwi just gives his apprentice a sour look before watching the two men come to blows.
Baszil declines to take the easy AoO as Ciaran takes his feet. This is a sparring match, not bloodsport, and Bazsil wants it to last.
Bazsil watches blade sail over his head, nearly clipping his beautiful curls. Bazsil grimaces as the man does not seem to be checking his blade appropriately.
"If we are going to make this match last, I would see you check your blade, Ciaran," Bazsil smugs, regaining his fervor.
Bazsil dances 5' back, taking away the high ground advantage from Ciaran, and offers his hammer in response.
to hit; (nonlethal)
As Bazsil dances out of his reach, Ciaran steps back himself, leaving a gap of 15 ft between the combatants. Dropping his sword on to the top of chest (still within easy reach), he reaches over his shoulder, and draws his grappling hook from his handy haversack.
He throws...
That seems fair enough. It's just a disarm check:
Lucy is jerked from Bazsil's grasp and falls at his feet. The crowd goes, "Oooooooo" ("His hair, Ciaran! Mess up his hair!").
Improvised weapon, you cheating Australian:
Ciaran's conga line of humiliation continues. The grappling hook sails past Lucy, only for Ciaran to swing it back around on the edge of its rope.
Manly tug of war:
The grappling hook catches Lucy's haft. The crowd goes, "Oooooooo" ("His hair, Ciaran! Mess up his hair!") Ciaran strains against the rope, trying to drag it away from Bazsil's grip. The two men's muscles strain in their bare arms. Sweat trickles over tanned flesh. Aeslin fans herself. Gavin faints.
The crowd yells,
At some point during the day, every mission specialist gets a visit from Felonious George.
"Got a... *huff* letter for *puff* you!" he pants, clearly the boy has been running around a lot looking for the crew, "From *huff* Barbarosa... he wants *puff* all of you to*huff* join him for...*puff* dinner tonight.... erm... *huff* not... *puff* that I've *huff* ... opened it, or *puff* anything." The boy catches his breath while the specialist reads the letter.
'You, and your fellow mission specialists, are to dine with me tonight. Dinner will be at the Maiden's Head just north of the Docks, on the corner of Mill Street and Church Street (ye gods, or lack thereof, for a place with such strange buildings, their street names are highly uninventive). Be there at sunset, and not a minute later.'
"So, have you seen the captain's sextant?" asks George, finally breathing normally again, "He's been riding me about it going missing all day. I don't even know what a sextant looks like!"
"Not now George!" grunts Ciaran, muscles straining. "I'm busy!"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll be there. Harlan, you got the sextant?"
"Why would I have it?
"Cause you're a dumbass. Never mind, double or nothing the curly-headed stooge pulls it off. And if you say any numbers other than two, foot- arse."
"In a contest of strength, the person with the weight advantage, such as Ciaran, is ... never mind."
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Bazsil grunts as Ciaran's hook miraculously finds purchase in Lucy. With surprise, Bazsil attempts to keep hold of Lucy.
Str vs. Grappling Disarm
And the weapon goes flying from Bazsil's grip!
Bazsil initially grimaces, then smiles...wagging his finger at Ciaran.
"I did not expect that! That is good, very good! Maybe you are a worthy opponent!"
Bazsil walks to pick up his weapon, this time sliding it out from the hook.
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Elon hears cheering and the clangor of weapons above as he is fist deep in some soft loam. He turns his head towards the ceiling and then back to the pot. "Hmm... The herbs can wait, I guess." he figures as he quickly places the seed and douses the pot with a casting of Create Water.
He grabs the future-plant and finds his way to the deck, narrowly avoiding a flying Lucy. "What the...?!" he exclaims as he sees his tallest bunkmate chase after the piece of flying metal.
"Are we fighting the mean one, now, Baszil?" Elon asks as he puts down the pot and raises up the fists. "Let me at 'im!"
As he goes to stand next to Baszil, he cocks his head towards the man, keeping his eyes on the mean man with the sword. "I unpacked your stuff for you and some conditioner was missing! I bet he took it! His hair looks too soft and luxurious!"
"No, I haven't seen the Captain's Sextant, Felonious George. I do remember Harlan Sparrow talking about some calculations and the sun and the moon and the beam-reach or something like that. Maybe he would know? Catch your breath boy, and no worries, I will be there and make sure the Captain knows you did your job well." Gado smiles as he makes his way over to where the sparring match was to take place.
Once he arrives, he chuckles at the bravado and machismo that oozes out of the cock-fight. Deep inside he knows he could never match these men in these manly measures of manhood, but what he lacked for in physicality, he could make up for with magic.
Elon hears cheering and the clangor of weapons above as he is fist deep in some soft loam. He turns his head towards the ceiling and then back to the pot. "Hmm... The herbs can wait, I guess." he figures as he quickly places the seed and douses the pot with a casting of Create Water.
He grabs the future-plant and finds his way to the deck, narrowly avoiding a flying Lucy. "What the...?!" he exclaims as he sees his tallest bunkmate chase after the piece of flying metal.
"Are we fighting the mean one, now, Baszil?" Elon asks as he puts down the pot and raises up the fists. "Let me at 'im!"
As he goes to stand next to Baszil, he cocks his head towards the man, keeping his eyes on the mean man with the sword. "I unpacked your stuff for you and some conditioner was missing! I bet he took it! His hair looks too soft and luxurious!"
At Elon's words and sudden appearance, Ciaran draws himself up. His lips tighten and nostrils flare. Although he's obviously angered, he seems almost... hurt by Elon's words.
"Elon, this isn't the Audacious," he snaps acidly. "You've been hiding under the platform in the town arena for two days, planting plants."
Out of Bazsil's reach, Ciaran jumps down from the platform, and then, hoping that speed will get him through Bazsil's defenses, rushes at the man.
He swings his sword
"Elon! Get out of the way!"
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Bazsil is too focused on Ciaran to yell at Elon, but it clearly throws off his concentration. He grates his teeth that he has allowed a distraction to interfere with his focus.
As Ciaran charges, Bazsil spins Lucy to meet the man, trying to deliver a blow before his defenses are breached.
to hit;
non-lethal.
Bazsil barely dodges Ciaran's blade, and wishes he had thought to visit Gado before starting his morning run. Nonetheless, Bazsil turns his attention to the fight, stepping back from Ciaran so that he might swing Lucy freely...
...to his surprise, Ciaran steps up with him! His shock is quickly replaced with a grin. A mischievous smug grin.
"Ah, that is clever footwork, Ciaran. Impressive. However, you have fallen victim to one of the classic blunders - The most famous of which is 'never follow a dwarf into the latrine' - but only slightly less well-known is this: 'Never trust a Varisian who invites you to cut his throat!'"
Baszil offers a series of a kick, a punch, and a headbutt to punctuate his point.
"You see...my namesake...a 'grimalkin' is a cat...,"
to hit; knee to the kidney
nonlethal;
"...and I have offered you my furry belly to rub...,"
to hit; elbow to the solar plexus
nonlethal;
"...and much like a cat, it is a trap!" Bazsil triggers an internal reservoir of kinetic energy, delivering a headbutt to Ciaran's face.
to hit; headbutt to the face
nonlethal;
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The halfling stands nearby to the ongoing struggle, but far enough away to not be in the way of the two titans fighting in an epic clash of manliness and brawn. Slowly but surely Wrigley pulls the lute from his back, and strums a few notes then transitions to plucking the strings at an ever increasing rate. As the music drifts toward the manliest of manly men, those who fight for the hell of it and intentionally in a place where others will gather to watch, the youth cannot decide who, if either, he is rooting for.
So, just as a good ambassador should do, he does not pick a side and instead aids both.
"You're both winners," Wrigley calls, exposing how simple he truly is.
Gratum watches on from a very solid chair. He closes his eyes for a moment, relishing the feeling of solid earth beneath him.
"Did you check the crows nest?" he says to George, "it's the last place I'd look, so I'd make it the first."
Then with a contented sigh, he opens eyes again.
Ciaran takes Lucy's blow to the ribs and presses forwards. Although he didn't expect the man to be quite as fulsome with his fists as he is, he manages to take Bazsil's knee on the edge of his breastplate, slap his elbow away - only to take the headbutt full in the face.
Blood streaming down his face, Ciaran roars, "I know that a grimalkin is a cat! I'm not a f!@$ing moron!
"It comes-" he punctuates his words with a darting thrust of his sword; "from a slang - word for a whore - or a weakling, Bazsil!"
Grabbing the blade of his huge sword halfway along, Ciaran rams the flat of his sword into Bazsil's face.
nonlethal
Bazsil bends over from the force of Ciaran's blow, his lungs loosing most of their air. His smug smile disappears too.
"It's true, my mother *was* a whore." Bazsil concedes, sucking in air. "But I will never be weak like her!" Baz flicks away the hair from his face, mussed by the blow to the head.
Bazsil again kicks at Ciaran, a blur of motion as his leg strikes to the rhythm of Wrigley's music.
to hit; kick to thigh
nonlethal;
to hit; kick to chest
nonlethal;
Baz marvels that the man still stands after the punishment. He gives an appreciative salute. Again, with kinetic energy, Bazsil whirls and jumps, sending his foot at Ciaran's head.
to hit; kick to head
nonlethal.
Gado grimaces at the flurry of blows to Ciarin as they spar, and cringes at the last blow to the bodyguards head.
"Oooohhh..... That's going to leave a mark..."
He shakes his head, glad that the smug anthropologist is on his side. And noting the shear amount of blows that Ciarin took, he comes to the conclusion that he is glad they are both on his side.
So I feel good we can keep the cannibals at bay... probably. Hopefully they are just as effective against gigantic creatures of death and destruction...
Gado extricates himself from the crowd now that the fight appears to be over, figuring he could wander the streets alone for a bit. It wasn't something he normally did, in fact he avoided them back in magnimar, but this place was different. He was curious what the streets and vendors and general scene was like, and set out to take it in before dinner that evening.
Bazsil kneels by Ciaran's fallen form, his fist raised to punch again should the man still have fight in him. When he realizes Ciaran is knocked out, he sits with his back against the chest taking gulps of air and waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside.
Eventually, his rises to his feet, and puts Ciaran's sword and hook in his 'sack. Then puts Ciaran over his right shoulder, carrying Lucy in his left.
He returns to the ship.
If anyone foolishly tries to heal Ciaran, Bazsil will beg off, asking the potential healer to remember where they are and to respect the laws of man. "He'll be fine in a few hours. Leave him be."
Bazsil will put Ciaran back in his bunk, returning both sword and hook, and goes to see about 2nd breakfast. He will leave a mug of Steelkeg's finest ale in a frothy mess next to Ciaran's bed.
Bazsil readies for the next blow, certain that it will be the one to drive him to his knees.
Looking smug, Mtumbwi holds his hand out to Harlan Sparrow IV. The apprentice hands over a small bag clinking with coins.
"Not to fret boy. You get to do all those maths paying up. That should take some of the sting of losing."
Mtumbwi walks up to both men, "Well fought. I am glad that both of you are on my side. Those natives don't stand a chance. Maybe they will all have bad hair and Bazsil can teach them the benefits of a man perm after he kicks their arse! So much to look forward to."
Ciaràn falls down hard, bleeding from his nose and bruised all over. He is helped by Bazsil and other crew members back to his bed to recover.
The day goes by - eventful for some, less so for others - and the crew make their way to the Maiden's Head. The tavern takes its name a little too literally - and is actually shaped like a woman's head. The door is set inside her pouting lips and patrons are seated on amphitheater style seating in (what appears from the outside to be) her long, flowing hair drifting upwards in a breeze.
Barbarosa has reserved a large table close to the bar (a circular arrangement in the center of the head proper).
"Welcome!" he calls to each specialist as they arrive, eying Ciaràn and Bazsil's bruises suspiciously, "I hope your last days on dry land for another week have been productive. We set off tomorrow at first light, directly for the Eye itself. While we may have had a pleasant cruise so far, the center of that stormy maelstrom will be anything but. I will have no slackers or layabouts on board when we reach it. The rest of the crew have their jobs, and I'd like to discuss what each of you can do to help out.
"Well, what can you offer?" The captain looks expectantly at each specialist in turn.
Elon blinks as he looks around. "Oh yeah... we are on land. I thought the sturdiness of the under-arena area was quite odd." he comments. "Either way, you lot can't have any of my plants! And don't play with my mice!" he yells as he is rebuked by Baszil and he marches away with his potted future-plant.
Sad with himself for getting angry, Elon turns and apologizes. "That was rude of me. You can play with Pips, BUT NONE OF THE OTHERS!"
---
After a few more days and a few more planting sessions under the arena, Elon is satisfied that the future-plants will be healthy.
He fills the room with plant life and waters them daily with Create Water. He brings his plants to the surface of the ship everyday around noon to let the dirt warm in the sunlight. "Should be about twenty days before sprouts will need constant sunlight, but we should be there by then, right?" Elon asks nobody in particular.
---
Barbarosa looks a Elon with a scary expression and the dwarf rapidly salutes. "I can provide aid to any injured member of the ship, even the mean one." he says hurriedly.
"Pfft... like I would tend to the mean one." he says under his breath, but realizes that Barbarosa heard him. "EVEN THE MEAN ONE, SIR!"
Platonius laughs from a hammock on the deck. "You lot are hilarious. First, you sledge me over the head and now I'm to escort you to some island? Where's my pay in this? Elon had a giant sack of gold and I get lumps. Not today!" he says as he stands stoically in his hammock.
"Well, what can you offer?" The captain looks expectantly at each specialist in turn.
Bazsil stands when it is his turn to speak. He presses a large slab of red meat (probably flumph meat advertized as cow) against the side of his face. He holds it against the ugly black eye delivered by Ciaran's blade. He has refused healing, both in honoring the 'spirit' of Port Godless but also because pain is a mechanism towards learning...and Bazsil wanted to remember the moment he let his guard down against Ciaran so he wouldn't repeat the folly.
"I have not spent much time on board before. I have learned what I can learn over the last month," Bazsil says honestly. He dabs gingerly around his eyesore, grimacing. "I have keen eyes, Captain, and you are welcome to them. I can swim and climb like a rat, should you require that. I am happy to learn what others may teach."
Bazsil makes a motion to sit back down, but then stands up again.
"Also, I am a skilled fisherman. Not sure how that would help now, but let it be noted."
"Do it... again... some time..." says Ciaran muzzily as Bazsil helps him from the arena.
Later...
"I have sharp eyes, I'm steady on my feet, and I am not afraid of injury," says Ciaran around a broken nose, two black eyes and some cracked ribs. "If you need someone in the crow's nest to help direct the ship, I will do that. It's likely too dangerous to risk anyone else."
"Well, what can you offer?" The captain looks expectantly at each specialist in turn.
Mtumbwi looks at Barbarosa with a look that the most loyal dog in the world would give his master after a lifelong of servitude and then getting kicked in the chops.
"Captain. I. The Audacious. I mean. She is everything. I will be there. Right by your side through the entire voyage. She shows the slightest quiver, I will be there. You need me over the side, I'll be there. There is nothing I won't do to make sure that she does you proud Captain."
He must be talking about these other so-called-specialists.
"EVEN THE MEAN ONE, SIR!"
Mtumbwi turns to Bazsil. "Is the dwarf always that grumpy? Other one seems nice enough. No matter, you get hurt and I can heal you. You don't have to go to that one for a heal. No one seems to have manners these days."
Mtumbwi finds a particularly troublesome area of his groin to scratch enthusiastically.