Seeing Caerlei pull a weapon out of her arm as tall as she is, Maheem says, "Screw this! I'm not fighting that crazy b&$#*!" and backs down, heading upstairs. If he had a tail, it would have been fast between his legs. He is followed immediately by Aretta and Jape, both of which also are not interested in fighting something like that.
Only Fipps stands his ground resolutely. Upon seeing Caerlei pull out her weapon, Fipps pulls out a weapon of his own - sadly, the dagger he brings out is nothing compared to Caerlei's massive weapon.
"I ain't afraid of you, freak! You think your demon-spawned s*$$ will scare me? You got nothin' on Scourge or the Cap'n! You're nothin' but a freakshow!"
The menace is apparent in Fipp's eyes, as he looks right into Caerlei's and shows that he is not afraid of her in the slightest, and attempts to demoralize her with his resolution, all while flexing his muscles, making him seem bigger than he actually is.
However, Fipps sees that Caerlei has Osir flexing his muscles near her to back her up, and Sareivat assisting him, and has in turn, lost some of his nerve, not to mention the fact that his allies abandoned him.
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Runolf follows Osir's lead and backs up behind cover of hammocks and crates . This wasn't his first scrap and it wouldn't be his last. He knew how to use the crowded innards of the ship to his advantage. His eyes went a bit wide at Caerlei's ability to pull a 10 foot weapon out of her skin. He was grateful to have her on his side. It was in his nature to intimidate, but it seemed his companions had that under control. He had heard enough posturing, it was the time for action.
He picked up a half full glass bottle and made a show of giving it a quick toss up in the air. " Now Fipp that's no way to speak to a lady. You're too worked up, you shouldd have a drink." He says calmly, before heaving the bottle end over end square at the face of the hostile pirate.
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The bottle of alcohol flyes in a perfect arc, hitting Fipps squarely in the face and covering him with watered down rum. A few small pieces of glass are embedded in his face, and he yells in pain as a shard of glass pierces his left eye.
"Aarrgghhh" Fipps yells, as he drops his dagger and claws at his face, trying to get the glass out, while backing up and leaning against the stairwell. He's in no shape to stop anyone from going upstairs, now.
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Mabelode walks upstairs as if nothing had happened and falls into place among the crew.
Caerlei pauses warily beside Fipps as he clutches in futility at his newfound injury. Inaudibly she utters an incantation, then approaches the rum-splashed fool. "Listen here, sweet thing. We can keep at eachother until none of us are getting any sleep from fearing a knife in the night—and I assure you, I can pull plenty of those out as well—or we can dispense with the posturing and go back to only wanting to kill one another instead of trying to kill one another." As she concludes her ultimatum, she rests a hand on his shoulder, allowing the spell she had worked to course through Fipps and into his injury.
"Now let's be good little crewmen and get above deck before your Poisonous Cap'n 'Arrigan flays the lot o' us! And remember what I said." Caerlei leans in a bit closer as she finishes speaking. "I can't say what Harrigan's capable of, but I can promise you that I am very intimate with what the Kuthites of Nidal consider pleasure." With that, she smiles over an almost childish giggle and begins bounding up the stairs, her chain-tail flitting about playfully as she goes.
Runolf strolls past Caerlei healing the damage that he had caused, largely inadvertently. How could he have know it woulda took the man's eye? Robinton's lively tune had had charmed lady luck he supposed.
He took advantage of the injury and chuckled for a moment as he patted the sobbing man's shoulder"There now Fipps, that drink was just what you needed to cool you down aye?" He couldn't suppress a sudden laugh at his own remark. Making a show of catching his breath before lowering his brow and continuing, chin and beard jutted out as he spoke." Easy now mate, If this happens again I'll make sure I take both of those eyes from you." He declares, his voice unfaltering, ringing with undeniable honesty.
He smiles at Caerlei." Ah lass, Will you ever cease to amaze me? What other tricks do you have up your sleeves?" It's more of praise than actual questioning, and he makes his way up the stairs before he waits for an answer from the hell-kissed woman.
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Fipps stops clawing at his face as his wounds heal - luckily for him, the shard in his eye was small, and the spell was enough to fix any damage done before he lost eyesight in that eye. Blood still dotted his face, though, as the spell did not clean any of that up. Fipps looks at Caerlei and says, "Tryin' ter kill ye? We weren't tryin' ter kill ye! We's just meant ter rough ye up a bit, show ye yer place! You's the one who brought weapons inta this! Ye freakin' lobcocks think we'd try ter git ourselves keelhauled?" The man picks him self up off of the edge of the stairs and spits a large wad at Caerlei's foot before taking off, heading up deck.
As the group gets up deck, they are barely in time to avoid getting lashed by Plugg, who yells at everyone for being slow, regardless. Numerous other crewmates were watching the scene, and the 'fight' is talked about throughout the day, mostly to the four cronies' detriment. Scourge has taken notice of the rumormongering, and seems to be in a particularly foul mood today.
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Well, that was fun. Mabelode sarcastically wonders to himself as he scrubs the deck with a holystone. I doubt that will end those cronies' attempt at domination. Damn! That chick is scary! Pulling a polearm from where? Gotta stay friends with her.
He looks around to see who working with him to chat.
Osir didn't say anything as he made his way out of the hold. He was mighty impressed with the work of his fellow press-ganged sailors, but there would be time for praise and reflection later, when it was time to relax and suffer with the effects of the rum ration. He could still feel the previous days 'rum' causing a discomfort deep in his gut.
However seeing that Fipps and everyone else had ignored the dagger the momentarily blinded Fipp's had dropped at the foot of the stairs, Osir snatched it up and tucked it into his boot, making sure that the torn and tattered pant leg covered the majority of the weapon. He didn't agree with his companion's light treatment of Fipp's. Had he made the decision, he would have beaten the ruffian into unconsciousness and let him pay for missing the days assignment.
Osir was content to be assigned the task of fixing the damage to the ship, sewing up the sails, and making certain that no other breaks occured. It was a much better prospect then more rat-catching. That had consisted of skulking about the darker corners of the ship, wrangling up filthy rodents and bashing their skulls against the deck. It was nasty and unpleasant.
The repair work however allowed Osir a chance to work under the sun and hopefully away from the more unpleasant individuals he worked alongside the other day. He was a skilled sailor and he knew his way around ropes. While sewing wasn't his expertise, he did a decent job at it. The repetitive work gave him a chance to search the skyline not only for his missing companion, but also any landmarks in the distance.
Eventually he would take time between patching a pair of sails to sneak off and take a look around the Cook and Quartermaster's cabins. It was a good place to start and he might find some ediable food or proper supplies he could squirrel away.
When Osir peeks inside of the Cook and Quartermaster's Cabin, he times it perfectly, just as the insensibly drunk Fishguts steps out to relieve himself elsewhere. Inside the small, cramped room are two beds and locked footlocker apiece - not to mention the numerous chickens about. Hanging near one of the beds is what seems to be a birdcage covered in cloth - taking a peek underneath the cloth, Osir finds none other than his companion, Pelinor, currently sleeping quietly.
The bird looks to have been well fed the past few days, and there is no sign of injury - whoever captured the bird has been taking good care of her, likely the same person who owns the chickens. The cage itself has a simple lock attached to it - however, the padlock simply hangs there unlocked, defeating its purpose entirely.
Mabelode scrubs near Rosie, the foul-mouthed halfling, and attempts to ask her a couple of questions, "How long have you been in the crew? How does it work?"
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A wave of relief comes over Osir when he discovers Pelinor. That he is well fed and barely caged also seems to indicate that the cook or the quartermaster are not so bad as much of the rest of the crew. Still, he thought it better that Pelinor be set free then caged.
Taking the lock off of the cage, he tucked it along the waist line of his pants while quietly opening the cage and pulling the cloth off. He was stuck between allowing Pelinor to stay caged here or to let the bird take to the skies.
Sareivat tried to keep his mind off the fight earlier the day. It wouldn't do to think about it too much. Besides, he'd seen plenty of fights in his time in Ilizmagorti, just never taken part in one, at least not one so... impromptu? Combat, war... That was something that one could put their heart into. This, though? He shook his head more than once while thinking about it. He looked forward to a proper battle.
Running messages for the crew was thankfully a fairly easy task on this day. A cool breeze kept the tiefling from overheating, which Sareivat thanked his luck for. The idea of getting into a raid on another ship excited him and he hoped it would be fairly soon, but a niggling thought kept bothering him. How could he fight proper without his gear. The captain was a fool to take the needed tools away from his crew.
Sareivat knocked on the quartermaster's door, intending to deliver a message and inquire about the whereabouts of his gear. Hopefully he could get his things back somehow and he figured the quartermaster would know. Afterall, the captain didn't want to speak to him and the other officers who might have some ability to do something didn't exactly seem inclined to help.
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"Four days, piss for brains." Rosie snaps at Mabelode, as she doesn't seem to appreciate the attention. "As for 'how does it work'? Anyone with a half-assed clue could figure it out. The strongest survive. The weak get their cocks chopped off and fed to the sharks. Yours included, if you keep bugging me!"
Despite being small in stature, as halflings tend to be, Rosie seems to have as much muscle mass as some of the larger men aboard, and the look in her eye shows her fierce spirit. Mabelode has a feeling she's not bluffing, and that her masterwork hand axe hanging at her belt is for more than just chopping wood or cutting rope.
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"Bugger the captain and his cronies." Osir speaks to Pellinor. "Neither you nor I were meant to be caged or enslaved. Bugger them all, you're coming with me to sail the skies once more."
Osir took the blanket and wrapped it about his wrist and upper arm, then held his limp out to Pellinor to climb onto. He'd give a second glance to the room for anything else of interest, then depart with his Osprey in hand.
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After a quick knock at the quartermaster's door - which happens to be in the galley, currently absent of anyone cooking - the muscular half-orc woman with a jagged scar along her neck answers. "Whatcha want?" She says as she opens the door, before stopping and grinning at who she sees. "Ah one of the fresh meat, eh? Let me guess - you're here to get your stuff back? Too bad. Its the Captain's now. If you want it back, I'm sure we can come to some sort of a bargain, if you've got the money for it." She leans against the frame of the open door and folders her arms, stifling a laugh. "'Course, probably isn't doing much in your favor that the Captain took what money you had too, eh?"
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Osir quickly exits the chamber and returns to his assigned task, but not before letting Pellinor take to the skies to hunt properly. "Hunt, but stay close, my friend."
Rolling her eyes as she enters to find Fishguts drunk off his ass, Caerlei takes a seat next to the fool and rests her elbow on the table, chin perched atop her hand as he begins regaling her with what is no doubt an assault of exhilarating tales of adventure and ne'er-do-welling. Not wishing to earn the ire of the officers still in possession of their balls, however, she elects to prepare the crew's meals for the day. She utters a favorable blessing as she undertakes the endeavor, hoping that the divine energies will get her through the day without incident. Having absolutely no clue as to what she's doing in the kitchen, she resolves to throw a random assortment of broth, meats, and spices into the pot and hope for the best. Waiting for moments when she thinks Fishguts isn't looking, Caerlei pours small doses of her rum into his cup, hoping the man will eventually pass out and leave her to finish cooking in peace. Unfortunately, he seems to be a man of considerable constitution where imbibing alcohol is concerned...
Remembering that a spiteful demeanor got her nowhere with the man on the previous day, Caerlei instead spends this day warming up to Kroop. Not having a lot to go on, she focuses on the one thing the man has shown any amount of pride in: the chicken. The day dwindles away with myriad praises floating his way: "Oh, she is quite a magnificent bird!", "You simply must teach me how you keep her feathers so immaculately groomed."
As Fishguts makes to leave and relieve himself, Caerlei fetches a bowl of the broth with choice bits of meat and starts tracking down Grok, passing Osir on her way out of the room. She gives the man a sly wink and grin as she saunters towards the Galley. After finding the half-orc, Caerlei presses the bowl into the woman's hands before finding a delicate perch on a nearby crate. "You strike me as one of the few sensible persons on this floating catastrophe, so I thought I'd go ahead and make some formal introductions sooner than later." Caerlei flashes a wicked grin as she watches the surprise wash over Grok's face.
"I think I get how things work around here; favors for favors and finding enough people to watch your back that you don't end up as mince meat in Fishgut's foodstores. As such, consider this the first of many favors and a pact—from one half breed to another—to keep any one from managing to sneak something sharp into your back when they come trying to pilfer their belongings back. Speaking of which, I'll make sure the new faces don't try anything so brazen or stupid in the near future." Caerlei slides gracefully forward to stand creepily close to the much larger Grok, beaming upwards with a toothy grin as she offers a brief curtsy. "Caerlei, at your service!"
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Throughout the day, talking with Kroop, Caerlei is bombarded with stores of Kroop's 'glory days'. Though his speech is slurred, and stories interrupted by burps, belches, and many gulps of alcohol, Kroop describes how he used to be a chef at one of Port Peril's most popular, and expensive, restaurants; The Lobster's Armor. When asked about his chickens, he goes on about how he loves 'em, loves their eggs, and once ate an entire bucket full of boiled eggs down at the docks in a contest.
Though drunk as can be, Kroop seems amiable towards Caerlei, and her attempts at getting on his good side - fake or not - succeed. Her assistance with giving him more alcohol only further seals the deal.
Later, when Caerlei confronts Grok, her honeyed words, and promises to keep the other 'new faces' in line are met with surprising acceptance. Grok, although hard and rough on the outside, seems to have a soft spot - not for fellow half breeds, but for someone who was willing to be nice to her best friend, who Caerlei finds out to be none other than her 'boss', Kroop. As a result, Grok warmed up quickly to Caerlei, even going as far as inviting her and a few of her 'friends' to meet with her in her office after dark to discuss a possible arrangement about getting their gear back.
The second day on the Wormwood was a good day after all.
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Busy throughout the day, Robinton attempts his best not to piss anyone else off, seeing as some of the crew apparently had it out for him and the other new crewmembers. Although he and the others had handled the conflict amiably, he has a gut feeling that wasn't the end of it.
Luckily, the day's job for him, catching rats, keeps him very busy. Although not work he's particularly fond of, its a job he doesn't have to share with any of the bullies that confronted him and the others earlier. Compared to them, even the goblin seems like good company, as the little beast is usually too busy stuffing itself with all of the spiders, rats, and cockroaches it gets a hold of - and it proves to be an expert at its job indeed.
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As night finally beckons with its sweet embrace and promises of rest and food, all of the crew are gathered before the mainmast for the Bloody Hour. Today, only one person gets to taste the whip: Mabelode.
"You! Mr. Plugg points at Mabelode, trying to remember his name, but failing to do so. "I was told that you, of all people, purposely spilt your rum ration last night! Even if you are new on board, not knowing the rules is no excuse! You are sentenced to six lashes for your first offense! Scourge, if you would be so kind!"
Jape and Narwhal come from behind Mabelode and shove him to the mainmast, where they tie him tightly, arms wrapped around the mast in front of him. His shirt is pulled up, exposing his pale, tender looking skin.
Scourge, seeing the delicate flesh that he gets to carve with his whip, grins wickedly, as if excited to test his work on fresh meat. He grabs a hold of his whip hanging out his belt and uncurles it lovingly as is expected of his favored weapon. The whip itself is incredibly well made and well taken care of, despite its constant use.
Scourge then reaches back, whip in hand, and throws all of his might into the throw, causing the whip to crack horribly against Mabelode's skin, leaving a long, fresh mark on the blank canvas that is his skin. Repeating this several times, Scourge leaves two more wicked looking marks before Mabelode collapses in a heap, being held up only barely thanks to the ropes keeping him bound to the mainmast.
Despite this, Scourge still owes Mabelode three more lashes - so rather than stop, he continues. Three more lashes, three more hideous marks on the man's unconcious body, before Scourge is finished. The tip of his whip is wet with the dhampir's nearly-black blood. After Scourge is satisfied, he motions for someone to untie the unconcious sailor. He seems particularly happy, a rare and creepy mood for him, as he heads towards the officer's quarters to await the night's meal.
Sandara and Robinton are the first to Mabelode. Sandara quickly stabilizes the dying man while Robinton unties him. They both haul Mabelode to the lower decks, as gently as possible, to see to his wounds more properly away from prying eyes.
Dinner is served shortly after, and consists of the usual slop topped with more slop and served with a side order of slop. The rum ration accompanies it.
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After an hour of being tended without positive healing to harm him, Mabelode regains consciousness. "That was unpleasant," he says after many moans and groans.
He whispers a brief prayer to Suziel and channels His energy.
...and he's at full health.
"Thanks for tending to me, but let's go party." Mabelode gets up like the Golarion-version of Lazarus and heads up to the deck.
Osir finished up his chores for the day and while it had been a good day, for he had been reunited with Pellinor and learned that his winged companion had suffered no great abuses, he was glad that the work for the day was completed. With a silent prayer that caused his lips to move, he uttered a thanks and a hopeful wish that things would continue the same way. It seemed that they did not.
Before grub was served Osir was forced once more to watch as the spectacle of a public flogging was performed and this time it was the unusually pale Mabelode. When he had first met Mabelode Osir had cast judgement on him as a villain and someone to watch out for, but as the hours turned to days, he had chided himself for being too quick with that judgment. He was even beginning to like the white-haired fellow prisoner. Osir stared at the scourge but made no comment and went to get the slop they called food and the required rum ration when the whipping finished. One day the scourge and all his wretched friends will get what’s coming to them. Osir thought to himself, the mental images forming in his mind causing a smile to come to his bearded and mustachioed face.
With slop and rum ration in hand Osir returned to where he had taken his meal the previous day, hopeful to find Runolf, Robinton, and especially Caerlei waiting for him. Despite being wary of the strange demon-tainted woman, her promise to bring fresh fish if able to overrode his caution at her strange behavior and sinister heritage.
Osir let his gaze wander to the sky, trying to trace the downward path of the sun to gain some better estimate of where they were going or at the very least the direction. As he watched Pellinor cross behind a cloud, Osir's thoughts went to worrisome places. Were they genuine members of the crew, even if they were press-ganged, or was this all some cruel joke and the horrid captain intended to sell them into slavery once they reached some slave port?
While he waited for the others to join him and not wanting to get lost in miserable thoughts once more, Osir distracted himself by going through the process of dealing with his rum ration. Unwilling to risk a lashing for avoiding it, but knowing all too well the dangerous potency and foul taste of the ‘rum’, Osir followed the previously offered advice and tried to dilute it with copious amounts of water. He’d drink it slowly and with a full belly.
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After a couple of hours, Mabelode appears on deck in perfect health. He receives his supper and rum ration with only a small grin of satisfaction on his face. He finds and sits with his crew of the new arrivals. He cuts the rum as instructed and toasts to a better future.
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Caerlei watches Mabelode's punishment with an unsettling level of enjoyment. She wishes no particular calamity upon the man, especially nothing that would result in his slaying, but as strip after strip of flesh is scourged away with the crack of a whip, the shackleborn lady begins making some very decidedly not ladylike moans of subdued pleasure. As Scourge concludes and makes to stride past those gathered to his quarters, Caerlei calls out to the man with a deepening grin, "Maybe I'll let you wear me out with your whip some day, love."
As Caerlei's magnificent feast of poorly assembled stew is commenced, she finds her way to where the newest batch of press-gangees are located. Daintily consuming her provided bowl, Caerlei waits until the rolling murmur of sea and other conversations is sufficient enough to lend aid to her chosen party's discretion. Smiling with self-satisfaction, she regards everyone with her unsettling eyes, "As you will all come to find out in our short period of service under the current Captain and his cronies, I am a resourceful creature. Owing to that fact, I've managed to secure the quartermaster's devotion. We'll be meeting with her this night shortly. I will be the first to leave, then the rest of you will excuse yourselves one at a time... discreetly. That is, unless you don't want your belongings back." That grin flashes across her face again. The same grin she showed Scourge when she had the man stammering on the deck during the race and the same grin she offered during the brief scuffle below decks at morning.
Rising with a small flourish, she empties the remainder of her broth into Robinton's share before allowing her finger tips to tease along the length of Mabelode's shoulders on her way below deck. One is left with an incontrovertible impression as her pleasant backside sways past and out of side: something is wrong with that one.
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As the group heads to the Quartermaster's Store to speak with Grok, they find out the room is far too small to accomodate all of them at once - as a result, Grok instead chooses to speak with everyone in the galley. Kroop's loud snoring can be heard in the adjacent room, as he had long since drunk himself into a inebriated stupor.
"So, these are your 'friends', eh Caerlei? Looks like you got yourself a good looking batch of ruffians." Grok's usually-sour demeanor is gone, replaced with a friendlier mood - if anything, however, her smile looks more terrifying than her frown. "So. Lets hear it, then." She stands expectantly, letting each of men speak for themeselves, instead of making assumptions as to why they're here, even if she knows the answer to that already.
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Following the sociopathic tiefling towards the galley, Mabelode missed the opportunity to show is fine health to Plugg and Scourge. While that would have provided him some enjoyment, it would probably be short-lived. In his decades of living, he concluded that letting the powerful believe their power allowed one to be underestimated. The sociopathic tiefling was too young to have learned that lesson and flaunted it. He would either have to support her, in order to maintain her as a obvious distraction, or she would unmake herself. Odds are even on that outcome, he wondered to himself.
"Evening Grok. Thank you for your time. I would greatly appreciate the return of my armor. If my weapons are needed, then I suspect you would be arming the crew for battle anyway, so they can stay with you in trust. However, I would truly appreciate your friendship. What can I do to repay you and in debt myself to you knowing that I have no coin?"
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Osir wasn't here to make friends. That could wait until another day. Even if he made Grok into a helpful ally, there was no garauntee that she would put her neck on the line if he got on the bad side of the Captain or one of his cronies. His weapons however had no such objections. They would shed blood when he wanted them to without reservation.
That being said, there was no need to be rude. Osir had always had a way with women. He'd never had much difficulty in getting what he wanted from them. He'd been told that his smile was dazzling, and his complexion and muscles irresistable. Leaning forward and almost pushing the wiry Dhamphir out of the way, Osir stroked down the ends of his mustache and beard and flashed his pearly whites. His green coral colored eyes met Grok's own gaze in an almost intimate manner.
"Name's Osir. It's a right pleasure to formally become acquainted. The good captain probably told you to hold onto my equipment until I was fully adjusted to the Wormwood. I appreciate the great job you've done, dear. Now however I am ready to take possession of it all again. If you'd like, I can show you exactly what is mine.
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Arms folded, leaning against the door to the Quartermaster's office, Grok grins a toothy smile at the mens' attempt to buddy up to her. At Osir's commentary, she walks up to him, puts her muscular arm around him and leans in close. Whispering in one ear, baring her tusks in a sort of smile, she whispers, "Don't call me dear."
She snorts, and pats him hard on the back. "Alright! You swabs are alright by me. So long as you keep your heads out of trouble and don't go waving your weapons in the crews' faces, you can have your gear back. Its all crap anyways, so the Captain won't be missin' it." She had kept a list of what was gained when they searched each of the new crew, so she is able to bring each of you your gear back without missing anything.
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After a night of drinking, eating, and discussion, those aboard the Wormwood begin to fall into a deep, drunken sleep, helped further by the quiet lull of sloshing waves. The six newest crew members, after having completed the second day of their new life, sleep more peacefully now that their gear has finally been returned to them. As each falls asleep with weapons close at hand, none realize the events taking place.
One man aboard the Wormwood keeps watch. Distant thunder can be heard, as if a storm approaches - but that there are naught a cloud in the sky tells of a different story: Cannon fire. As the Wormwood sleeps peacefully, others fight for their very lives upon these same waters.
Blood will be spilled that night.
Sound of thunder erupts in the night, moments before the splash of an abnormally large cannonball rocks the Ghoul's Grasp with the waves it creates.
"All hands prepare for battle! Aft cannons, fire at will!" Ghoulbeard, the captain of the Ghoul's Grasp, barks orders at his men as he mans the helm, his already-disgusting namesake getting further covered in spit. Men scramble on the deck of the ship, hauling cannon balls, loading cannons, and working to coax as much wind in the sails as possible. Unlike the ship they are being pursued by, the Ghoul's Grasp is woefully under-armed. Two cannons sit on the poopdeck; The foredeck contains another cannon, while the main deck only holds a paltry four cannons on each the port and starboard sides.
The ships are still over five-hundred feet apart when the aft cannons of the Ghoul's Grasp open fire, their shots falling short of their pursuer. "Captain, we're still out of range! Can't hit them reliably from this distance!" The speaker is a ghoul wearing naught but a tricorne hat and pantaloons, a massive, wickedly spiked flail dangling in one hand - the First Mate and Bosun, Mister Bonemasher. The ghoul stands on the poopdeck just behind the men reloading the cannons, watching their progress. Each of the men under his watch retch at the ghoul's close proximity, his smell of rotting flesh nearly overhwelming them.
"I'm aware, Bonemasher," The captain takes a look behind him at his first mate, before looking back ahead of him, "We need to hope for a lucky shot - keep firing, aim for their forward cannon. That monster'll cause serious -" He is interrupted mid sentence as a cannonball from the cannon he just mentioned lands in the water, just barely missing the rear of the ship, splashing the poopdeck in a rain of seawater. " -damage, if it hits us. Never seen a cannon so big on a ship before."
The ghoul nods at his captain's decision, takes one more look at the ship in the distance and yells, "FIRE!"
At the helm is a woman in her early thirties wearing an immaculate black uniform with gold trim, matching black breastplate and bicorne hat covering her short, raven-black hair. At her hip is an ornate, well polished pistol - opposite of that is a similarly ornate rapier. Her boots are in stark contrast to the rest of her, as they are of a bright red that seems to be aflame in the light. The look on the woman's face is that of a predator hunting prey, in addition to a lopsided grin.
Standing beside her is an aged elf, his short, gray hair oiled slick and his pale white skin slightly wrinkled with age. He wears a long, flowing robe of crimson and black with a pointed collar. On his shoulder sits a small, winged and horned creature of a deep red who bears a wicked stinger on the end of his long tail. The elf stands with his arms in his sleeves, watching the outcome of the battle with a mixture of boredom and impatience.
The deck of the ship is busy with action - marines, all wearing black and gold tabards - move back and forth, loading cannons, preparing their muskets, and readying themselves for combat with ruthless efficiency. A Chelish man with a black and gold uniform and matching bicorne hat turned sideways barks orders, preparing his men. Cannonfire echos from the front of the ship, where a massive cannon - a rare and masterfully forged fiend's mouth cannon - unloads its ordinance at the fleeing pirate ship ahead. Forty other cannons - twenty each on the port and starboard sides, ten on each deck - prepare for combat as well, with four more cannons in the aftcastle behind the poopdeck. This ship looks ready for war.
Calmly controlling her ship's course to catch up to the Ghoul's Grasp, Captain Paracountess Axia Lorvika glances over at her first mate, her smirk widening. "Looking bored there, Grellius. Care to have some fun? Go light them up."
The elf returns his captain's glance and sighs. "I was wondering when you'd ask." The elf snorts, then calmly walks to the front of the ship, his old bones rattling with every shot the fiend's mouth cannon lets off. When he reaches the spot next to the massive cannon, the officer in charge of the cannon looks at him and knows what is about to happen next. He orders his men to get out of the elf's way and they stand back, watching what he'll do next.
The two ships are nearly four-hundred feet apart now, as the elf pulls out a small amount of bat guano from a black leather pouch hanging on his belt beneath his robe. Speaking words of magic that the rest of the crew can't hope to understand and holding a pinch of bat guano between his middle finger and thumb, the elf points his index finger and finishes his spell with one word spoken in Common: "Burn."
"Sir! They've stopped firing!" One of the men standing behind Captain Ghoulbeard shouts, almost cheering as he does so. Moments later however, those on the deck of the Ghoul's Grasp feel a rush of searing heat along with the whooshing sound of a sudden burst of flame as a fireball erupts among the rigging of the mainmast. Four men, completely roasted, plummet to the maindeck where they land with sickening crunches - dead so fast they didn't even have time to scream. Seconds later, a second fireball - and a third - engulf the fore and aft masts, burning another three crew just as the first. The ship's sail - a black flag with white ghoul's claws grasping for a skull - is ablaze, burning quickly, causing the ship to slow down as it loses precious yards of sail.
"Spellcaster! Damn them to the hells! Cut the lines, don't let the -" Ghoulbeard's orders are interrupted by a fourth fireball aimed directly at the poopdeck, engulfs him, Bonemasher, and the four crew manning the cannons in a burst of flame. Ghoulbeard's quick reflexes saves him from the fire, as he quickly leaps over the railing and lands on the maindeck, unhurt besides his boots and hair slightly sizzling. Heading back up to the poopdeck, however, he finds his first mate, leaning against the railing, half-melted to the wood, while the four crew manning the aft cannons are completely dead, their skin and clothing melted directly to the wood and metal. "Damnit!"
The ghoul, however, still lives, and moans with annoyance more than with pain. "I'm alright, cap'n. Just.. a little.. stuck." The ghoul rips his flesh from the railing with a sickening squelch, leaving behind chunks of burnt and melted skin. Half of his face is completely black and charred, while the other half - the side aiming away from the origin of the fireball - is unburnt. The ghoul growls in annoyance of the spellcaster that hit him, and begins to rip the burnt corpses from the cannons, clearing the way for other crewmates to man them - each crewmember leaves behind melted flesh and clothing to the cannons, though he seems unphased by this.
"Everyone not manning a cannon, get below decks! Prepare to board them when they attack! We'll catch them off guard with how many crew we have visible!" Ghoulbeard looks above him at the burning rigging and grimmaces. "Get those lines cut! We need to get rid of the burning rigging and cast it off into the sea before the whole damn ship lights aflame!"
Seconds later, a crewmate screams as a winged humanoid teleports right onto the middle of the main deck - twin pairs of mangy, disease-riddled vulture wings flap in concert, keeping this lean raptor-like fiend aloft just off-deck. Twisted horns rise from a head like a monstrous skull and noxious fumes leak between its yellowed fangs. Hovering with impossible control, its vicious foot-talons clench and unclench, while its clawed hands wield a long, three-pointed ranseur that it quickly uses to skewer one of the pirates standing near it.
Immediately, Captain Ghoulbeard abandons the helm, leaps onto the railing and jumps at the creature, pulling his rapier out as he does so. "Fiend, go back to the pit which you spawned!" Dancing to and fro, expertly dodging the devil's pointed ranseur, Ghoulbeard rolls underneath the fiend and stabs with his rapier from the rear, aiming for the back of the skull. The blade strikes true as the rapier pierces the devil's skull, nearly killing it outright - but the Magaav is a tough creature, and fights on, its clumsy attacks failing to connect with Ghoulbeard. Finally, however, Bonemasher joins in on the fight - following his captain's tactic, he leaps from the railing, massive flail in hands, and strikes the devil's skull, caving it in and causing the fiend to immediately vanish.
"Well that wasn't so bad." Bonemasher is grinning wickedly, having enjoyed letting off some annoyance by smashing someone's skull in. Too late, however, he and the captain notice that the Dominator has finally caught up with them - and is approaching on the starboard side, twenty cannons prepared to broadside them. Bonemasher's grin quickly fades as he sees the ship's armaments and stands dumbfounded as Ghoulbeard jumps to action.
"FIRE!" is yelled by both Ghoulbeard and someone aboard the Dominator at the same time, and both ships fire their loads - The measily four shots of the Ghoul's Grasp are lost in the chaos that ensues. Any and all screams are drowned out by the sound of two dozen cannons fire at the same time - wood splinters and flies everwhere as the Ghoul's Grasp is torn apart - a lone cannonball strikes the ship's powder stores, and just as quickly as the broadside ocurred, the Ghoul's Grasp explodes in a magnificent fireball, bodies and splintered wood both flying in all directions.
Captain Paracountess Axia Lorvika surveys the wreckage from her vantage point aboard the Dominator, pleased with the sight. "Full sails ahead! We leave these bastards for the sharks. Onward!" The Dominator quickly sails out of sight, leaving the wreckage of the Ghoul's Grasp to its own devices, confident that no one could have survived such an explosion.
But, survivors there were - three half-dead souls, floating upon the wreckage, survived through luck.. fate.. or both. Three souls cling on for their very lives. They can do naught but wait for rescue or their doom.
The last thing that Trevor could remember from The Grasp was an enormous roar of cannonfire from the massive cannon broadside of the Chelaxian vessel. A shard of railing torn free from it's normal resting place had been thrown into the side of his skull, and everything went black. He had flirted with unconciousness for who knows how long.
A particularly large splash of water roused him from his beleaguered state, and he slowly realized that he was adrift at sea, on top of some piece of his previous ship that still managed to find itself on the sea rather than beneath it. He did his best to try to raise up some to observe his surroundings, his head ringing with pain as he does so.
Adrift, at sea. Well, this is no good.
As his eyes regained their focus and functionality, he learned he was not alone on the wreckage. To his left were Sarnaja and Zenu. A small wave of relief washed over Trevor at this sight. At least it wasn't Ghoulbeard or Bonemasher. Speaking of which... Trevor looked about the other bits of wreckage, looking for the Captain and Bosun, but sees nobody else afloat amongst the carnage of The Ghoul's Grasp.
He looks over to the other survivors, stating, "Are...are we all that's left? The task of conversation seemed an enormous task, and Trevor clutches his head as he finishes his inquiry.
"Well, that was exciting!" The half-elf sorcerer smiles broadly, kicking idly in the waters of the Arcadian Ocean. "Tell me, is shipboard combat usually that fun?" He asks no one in particular. As he takes a moment to feel the pulse of the ocean's power through him, a slow smile spreads across Zenu's face. Confident in his own inevitable survival, he looks about, scratching his temple.
He was lucky, he muses idly, that he had been rather close to the water when the Ghoul's Grasp exploded. He was certain Gozreh or the ocean itself - they are rather the same in his mind - had saved him from the horrible fireball. It also occurs to him to thank Calistria that he had chosen not to take up the spellbook as his uncle had. Waterproofing those things must be hellish.
Then the adrenaline finally settles, and Zenu winces, touching the back of his head with a scowl. "Ow. What hit me?" He peers at his fingers, then smiles a little. "Good. No blood." He drops his cheek to press against the flotsam, causing it to dip perilously into the water. Instantly he jerks up, coughing and spluttering indignantly. "Hey! That was rude!" He glares at the water with an irritated frown, then brightens when he hears Trevor's question. "Are we the only ones? Perhaps. I think that under the circumstances, it is wise to assume that we are indeed the only survivors, at least until we meet others... Not that I really regret seeing the rest of them dead, honestly..." He muses aloud, considering. The captain had been a good enough sort, kind of staid, but well, what could one expect from a follower of the goddess of dead things? The bosun had been a bit of a bastard, so no regrets there, save the fact that he hadn't had a chance to light his rum on fire before the explosion. Oh well, no harm done, he supposes. While Calistria taught that slights demanded vengeance, one couldn't exactly avenge oneself on fate itself, could one? He smiles a little, then looks about. "Well, what next?"
The half-elf's words seemed as loud as the cannon fire they had recently endured, and Trevor winced at the man's overly jubilant tone regarding their situation. However, Zenu seemed to have similar viewpoints regarding their former shipmasters, and that was at least a positive note.
"What next? What we do now matters very little. Our lives are in the hands of Fate and Luck, now. If there were an island within sight, we could hope to swim there and figure something out, but that is not the case here. The best thing we can do is stay near the smoke and wreckage and hope for some inquisitive captain to come by, before the ocean's predators arrive." Trevor looks at the floating bodies and burning wreckage around them. Either could be very soon, unfortunately. "Even if we are rescued, we still could either be enslaved or murdered. Or worse, just left here. We can ony hope that, if a ship arrives, they are willing to take us on."
<< | | | | >>
The next day, the crew of the Wormwood is greeted in the morning by a thick blanket of fog, obscuring vision past a few dozen feet. Captain Harrigan, and by extension Mister Plugg, is grumpy this morning, cursing about the weather and poor visibility as he mans the helm. As the crew are given their jobs for the day, Plugg warns them to be on the lookout - cannon fire was heard during the night, and anything could be hiding in this damnable fog. All crew are to be on high alert so long as this fog persists.
After giving the crew this lecture, Plugg assigns everyone their usual tasks, followed shortly by Harrigan yelling for a half-sail so they can be on their way. Plugg quickly takes his usual spot next to the Captain on the poopdeck as they set sail.
The three survivors of the Ghoul's Grasp wake up after a rough night's rest, floating near the wreckage of their ship. The water is eerily calm, and a thick fog obscures everything, though the looming hull of whats left of their ship can be seen, still smoldering from the explosion. Most of the ship has sunk, but enough of it remains afloat to provide plenty of fuel for the slow fire, which is likely part of the cause of the morning's fog.
Each of the three are floating on their own piece of flotsam - their wounds are painful, and despite getting some sleep in the night, each are tired from the previous night's events. As they take a note of their surroundings, one thing is realized:
They're not alone. Four small hammerhead sharks, a dwarf variety of the larger, more well known species, are lazily swimming around the wreckage, their fins sticking out of the water ominously. With the number of bodies floating in the water, it is little surprise these beasts have approached - though for some reason, they're mostly ignoring the dead bodies. Perhaps.. they seek fresher meat. Meat that still squirms.
"Theres something up ahead!" Ratline Ratsberger is the primary lookout for the day as he yells from up in the crow's nest. Those down below on the main deck can hear his voice from up above, even if they can't see him due to the fog.
The call for the sails to be raised so the ship can come to a stop is given as Captain Harrigan spots what Ratline was mentioning. Off in the distance, about two-hundred feet off the starboard side of the Wormwood, a large object can be barely seen, the light from the fires upon it visible as well.
"Mister Plugg! Send a few men to check it out! This is probably what we were hearin' last night. See if they can't find anything of value to scavenge.. or perhaps some survivors! Could always be usin' more crew!" Captain Harrigan stands on the poopdeck near the railing, examining the view with a spyglass as Plugg moves to bark orders.
Just before he can do so, however, Scourge comes up from behind him and whispers something in his ear. Nodding, Plugg agrees. "Launch the jolly boat! Caerlei, Robinton, Mabelode and Osir -" Apparently, Plugg has finally learned their names, " - you're up! Get down there and look for survivors or salvage. Get moving!"
As the jolly boat is launched, the four climb down into it - they have to row two-hundred feet to get to the wreckage. Meanwhile, the rest of the crew, Runolf and Sareivat included, remain on high alert, keeping watch.
With the fog showing no end in sight, Trevor, Zenu, and Saranaja wait on their wreckage, avoiding the water like the plague with their four companions swimming around in it - that is, until they hear yelling coming from nearby in the fog. Are they rescuers? Or perhaps the Dominator returned to finish the job? Only time will tell.
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Wormwood's Jolly Boat CR --
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Xp: --
Large Ship
Wormwood's Jolly Boat (Ship's Boat)
Init (Same as Pilot)
Squares 1 (10 ft by 20 ft)
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AC 9 + Piloting Skill; Touch 9; Hardness 5
Hp 120 (Oars 60[Hardness 5], Sails 40[Hardness 0])
Base Save +2; Save 2 + 1/2 Piloting Skill
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Maximum Speed 30ft (Muscle or Wind); Acceleration: 30ft
Base CMB +1; Base CMD 11 (Add Piloting Skill to Each to determine actual CMB/CMD)
Ramming Damage 1d8
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Propulsion Muscle, Wind, or Current
Sailing Check Profession (Sailor)(Wind or Current); Diplomacy or Intimidate(Muscle)
Control Device Oars
Means of Propulsion 6 oars, 10 squares of sails (One mast)
Crew 4 to 10 Medium Rowers
Decks 1
Cargo/Passengers 2 Tons/up to 12 Passengers
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Gear None
Cargo
Trevor eerily watches the sharks swimming amongst the remains of his previous ship, seemingly ignoring the dead. Great. We would get the only picky eaters in the sea.
"Mind yourselves! Don't let any bleeding parts into the water, we've got company of the shark variety."
Hearing shouting nearby through the smoke and fog, Trevor carefully raises up as best he can on his bit of wreckage. He places two fingers in his dry lips and lets out a whistle, or at least tries. He then musters what little saliva he has left and moistens his mouth and tries again. This time, a loud, shrill whistle calls out into the mist.
"Over here! Help us before the sharks find us!". He continues to whistle to give whoever is out there a beacon, should they choose to save them that is...