After Ollivor speaks, Vrunyar clears his throat and raises his voice.
Iakob Steele was a testament to his ancestors. Any family would be honored to include him in their line. I’ve met some humans with metallic family names. Most I’ve felt were undeserved. Steele was the rare exception. He had the properties of the best tempered steel. He was strong yet flexible enough when he needed to be. He was versatile. Iakob Steele’s death has cut us deeply. Healing will not be easy, nor should it be for a man like this.
Vrunyar places one hand on the canvas cocoon, where Iakob’s head is, and spends a long, silent moment with his eyes closed.
He steps away to let the ceremony continue.
As John and the others carry out the ritual of Iakob's burial at sea, Doran sidles up to Riki and nudges him conspiratorially, then makes his way over to Plugg and his cronies.
I can't believe I have to do this to stay alive, but John's probably right. We need to know what Plugg is up to, and if he thinks I'm one of his boys, I'm more likely to have that information. But it's a bitter pill, even talking to that one, much less acting like him.
Keeping all trace of these thoughts from his face, as he draws near to Plugg, Doran lays a hand on his dagger and says in a low voice, "Nice work there with that red smile you gave the Andoran. If you've any thought of giving his friend the same treatment, let me know how I can help. Nothing I'd like better than seeing him with a stitch through his nose."
Plugg smiles at the diminutive halfling. It is a smile devoid of love, or humor, or pleasantry. It is a smile of hate and malice and a whirlpool of cruelty that can never be sated. He looks over at his brother, watching the funeral from afar, with a knowing smile. "Gotta be able to justify it to the cap'n like I was with this first one. Can't waste good manpower on a grudge, he says, but he can't argue when I did the ship a favor by dropping some dead weight." The captain is nowhere to be seen, but his presence can be felt in Plugg's fear and acquiescence. "The time'll come when the other one makes enough of a mistake, or is insolent enough to me, that the cap'll give it the nod. You be ready, get the dagger 'tween his ribs in the back, and I'll put a bullet from his friend's gun between his eyes." He strokes the holstered, stolen pistol that hangs to his side, like a macabre trophy.
It is a dark morning for the former crew of the Empty Lighthouse. With Iakob Steele, their friend and ally, murdered by Rickard Plugg, most turned to rum and hate. Nursing one begets the other, and sympathetic crewmates surreptitiously ensured that they received more than their fair share of the rum to keep the hate from boiling over. The whole of the crew speaks in hushed terms in the cots about Plugg's actions. While a few of his cronies and the more hateful crewmen seemed supportive of his actions, most wonder what would keep him from doing the same of them if they became a liability.
They go about the business of their second day on ship, much like the first and much like the rest will be. Plugg assigns John to clean the bilges, with the unspoken promise that this is his permanent, filthy assignment. The work remains difficult and onerous, and there never seems to be a lack of it. There always seems another deck to scrub, another sail to repair, another rope to lash.
On the second full day of their captivity, Cut-throat Grok approaches Doran and Vrunyar as they prepare to head their separate ways in the morning. "You two want to give me a hand?" She looks up at Plugg, just finishing his assignments for the day, and gets a nod of approval from him. "After Cog stealing from me, I want to do an inventory and need some extra hands to log everything. Can't get better than a dwarf and a halfling to count coins and goods, I say. Let's head over to my hold and make sure I ain't missing anything else."
On the fourth day on board the Wormwood, Fishguts comes up to Ollivor in a near-panic. It's been a few days since they've seen him drink, but he pulls out a hidden bottle of whiskey and takes a violent swig before speaking. "Ollie, you gotta help me. Caulky just came down and she says the captain's in a foul mood, and that he wants shark tonight. I'm no good at catching shark! You're friends with that elf, right? The one that's good with a bow? Can you get him to help spear a shark so that he don't decide to eat me? Look, Samms Toppin owes me a favor and she's got a thing, like a device, that helps trap a shark in chummed-up water. Please, you've gotta help me, you guys gotta catch the shark. I'll cook it and everything, but I can't catch one."
Doran looks up and up at the towering half-orc and thinks, Well, this is a good chance. I got to stay on Plugg's good side to stay alive and help my friends, but practically speakin', there's nobody on a ship ye need good relations with more than the cook and the quartermaster.
With this in mind, he responds with a quick nod, "Sure thing, Grok, happy to help out." As they head down into the hold, Doran continues, "I think that's as nice as I've been asked to do anything since I got on board. I've been sailing, man and boy, longer than I can remember, and I only need to be asked once do to a thing and do it right, no need to threaten me with a messy death or anything. Any rate, I appreciate your speakin' civil."
As they enter the hold and begin to look around, he adds, "Ye know, small as I am, I bet we could just take the top tier of crates down and I can scramble back and do most of the count without us havin' to shift everything, might save you some time."
Setting to work, Doran keeps an eye out for anything that might be useful, hoping to add to the stash of supplies he's begun to accumulate.
Realizing that big folks are some times handy friends, or at least folks you don't want on your bad side, Ollivor decides to see how Owlbear is doing. The folks refer to him as an 'idiot', and Ollivor must admit, the fellow seems childlike. That being the case, he figures the bigman might like sweet things. Hard to come by on a ship sometimes, but not if one knows how to cheat.
Hey there, Owlbear. I'm Ollivor. You like sweet things? I brought you a few biscuits that I figure you might like, flavored them with a bit of sweet. I can't do it often, but didn't want them to go to waste. Try one, see if you like it? He offers the biscuits without condescending. Maybe the man is an idiot, but Ollivor's had enough of folks shoving the weak around, be they weak of body or of mind.
..............
Feeling a bit lonely one day, Ollivor uses a bit of his free time to hunt down a lass he might flirt with. He's younger than much of the crew, so that's a pain and limits his options of being taken seriously. That and some of the lasses just seem to be a bit leery of any man taking heated looks. Not that he can blame them, he supposes. Pirates don't have a reputation for being gentlemen and the ladies are right to be on guard.
Instead of finding a woman of his type, if such exists on this ship, he instead walks by a sad sight. It's Giffer Tibbs. It's not her missing eye that evokes his sympathy. Hell, for all he knows she'd resent the pity. It's just the way she seems bedraggled and weary as she goes about her duty which includes, currently, lugging some buckets almost as big and heavy as she is.
Ah well, I can always just dream about an island of friendly lasses later.
"Giffer? if it don't insult you, let me lend you a hand? I've got some free time, and you know how the officers hate seeing that."
He gives a warm smile and if she's willing, helps out.
........................
On the fourth day on board the Wormwood, Fishguts comes up to Ollivor in a near-panic. It's been a few days since they've seen him drink, but he pulls out a hidden bottle of whiskey and takes a violent swig before speaking. "Ollie, you gotta help me. Caulky just came down and she says the captain's in a foul mood, and that he wants shark tonight. I'm no good at catching shark! You're friends with that elf, right? The one that's good with a bow? Can you get him to help spear a shark so that he don't decide to eat me? Look, Samms Toppin owes me a favor and she's got a thing, like a device, that helps trap a shark in chummed-up water. Please, you've gotta help me, you guys gotta catch the shark. I'll cook it and everything, but I can't catch one."
It comes at him a rush, and Ollivor tries to answer pieces at a time, "Well, I don't know if I'd presume friendship with el ...Shark? This isn't the Absolam docks where we can ...Toppin has a device? Finally Ollivor sighs and collects himself. It's pretty clear that Cookie is scared out of his wits, and maybe will Plugg knifing helpless men, there's good reason to fear the Captain being just as cruel. "Alight, Cookie. I don't leave friends in the pot and you are one. I'll track em down and we'll see if we can trap a shark for the captain. You just stay calm, don't take too much of the rum. We don't want to catch the shark only to have one of the only men who can cook it passed out, eh? We'll need the master in the chef's hat on this one." He pats the fellow on the shoulder. Truth to tell, having seen some of the ugliness on the ship, he's having a harder and harder time blaming ANY man for turning to drink.
Ollivor has been a fisherman, he's never been romantic about it the way some folks get, but he's spent many an hour casting line. But this is 'Big game' the man's talking about, and Ollivor never made much of a go at those. The sheer power involved is nothing to sneer at. He sure hopes Toppin's 'trap' is a good one. Of course, if they were lucky, it would be a smaller shark, enough to stuff the captain's gob and still keep Cookie out of trouble.
But our Luck hasn't been the best o late
Seeking out Thorn, when he finds the fellow he says, "it would seem Cookie has mission to ask of us, by means of placating the Captain. Now, I've no love for the latter, but seeing as the former's neck is in a noose if he doesn't deliver, and we've only got so many folks that give us time of day on this ship, I was hoping you might help me out with that bow of yours. Ever been shark hunting?"
Doran earns a short smile from the lanky half-orc woman. The scar on her neck - a shining, massive pale green line that runs jaggedly nearly from ear to ear - shows brightly against her dark green skin when he does. "Thank me after you've seen how much there is to go through." She brings them into the cramped hold, which is teeming with chests, barrels, lockers, and various sundry items. This will be a tedious, all-day affair - but it's likely better than the hot, backbreaking work outside. Every so often, one of the crew comes in and makes a purchase from her. The gold and silver pieces go into a small chest that she keeps, while credit purchases (or repayments) go written down into a journal that she keeps inside of the chest. While she seems fairly meticulous about the actual exchanges, she seems far less meticulous with the record-keeping about the inventory.
As Doran sorts through the pile of sundry items - as she has Vrunyar handling the items of an alchemical nature, and herself handling the expensive weapons and magical items - he notices that the items themselves that he handles aren't hardly more than scraps. But he finds enough items - leather strips, heavy wooden handles, sharpened metals - that he could attempt later to fashion a decent weapon or two out of them. She is busy humming to herself and occasionally making small talk with them. She's fairly forthcoming, explaining her story of how she was robbed by a gang of cut-throats in an alley in Port Peril when she was eleven years old. It was the gang who gave her the scar across her neck, and all for a handful of silver coins. She lets them know that she likes both a decent drink other than rum, and good song. Doran notes that her attention isn't on the two of them, giving him a decent chance to pocket the items for further use later.
Vrunyar scratches his beard briefly. ”Nothing like dwarven eyes for spotting valuables in dark places. Ha! No offense Doran. Halfling eyes aren’t half bad, especially for fine, close-up details.” He pats the halfling on the shoulder.
”Quartermaster Gruk, do you have a current inventory list or should we make our own?” He asks as she leads them to the hold. Surveying the barrels, crates, and lockers, he chuckles as realizes how much inventory there is.
As she tells her history, Vrunyar will ask questions about her family, schooling, and the various beers, ales, spirits, and wines she’s sampled. He relates to her the story of drinking at the Green Peach with Ollivor and Doran, mentioning as an aside to ask for Ramlin’s cousin’s River Kingdom’s ale if she ever gets the chance.
At one point, when he sees a crewman pay with credit, he asks her if any interest is charged.
As he catalogues the alchemical supplies, he tells Grok what the uses and value of each ingredient is.
|
The day following the burial at sea for his departed friend, John awoke with a hangover that threatened to overwhelm him. The crew had done their best to keep the rum out of John's hands, and by doing so had likely saved him from the feel of Scourges lash. Topside he could hear the crack of the whip as the man used it to punctuate points or drive the crew onward. That was perhaps the one saving grace of working the bilges below. The work was hot and tiring. Each time he stepped out of the bilge the crew generally kept their distance from the man. While the pure stench acted as a form of invisible armor, John had hoped that he would eventually grow accustomed the smell. He had not.
It was during the midday meal that John stood upon the deck. He had ceased wearing his shirt long before as the heat and rancid water below ensured that everything he wore down into the hold would be ruined by the new day. Sluicing himself off with sea water, he turned heard a growly chuckle from behind him. Turning he saw the diminutive but fierce figure of Rosie Cusswell smiling lecherously at him.
Smiling faintly, John grabbed another bucket of water before he gave her a sidelong glance and then grinning tossed it at her causing the halfling to sputter and squeak. Chuckling, John smiled and shrugged. You looked hot Rosie, John said by way of explanation. Just trying to help a shipmate out.
Rising to the yelling of the Bosun as he stomped down into the berthing area, John swung himself from the hammock and like the rest of the crew quickly stowed his belongings. Though John had not known it at the time, his decision to place himself closest to the bilges had carried with it a bit of foresight. The stink from the lowest hold had come to permanent johns clothes, hair and skin. Perhaps it was his imagination, but John also suspected his peg was starting to pick up the stench of mold and old seawater. Averting his eyes, John grabbed the latch and swung himself down the inset ladder. It was going to be another long day.
Later that evening after John had the chance to rinse himself off and rum was being handed around, he made it a point to seek out Sandra Quinn. He had not forgotten the woman's kindness on behalf of his friend Iakob and he wanted her to know that he had appreciated it. Sandra, he thought had seemed a fair sort. He had never known a priestess of Besmara before and had little to go off of. He was however a sailor and as a sailor he recognized the power of the seas. Also considering his place in the world at the moment he wouldn't begrudge any blessings he could find. Personally, John had always followed the teachings of Abadar. While he may not have agreed with all of the Golden Lords beliefs, He believed in his own form of law and order. His word, as they said was his bond. He had sworn to his friend Iakob that he would take his pistol and use it to put down the man that had killed him. And it would be so. John carried the tattoo now to prove it.
Sliding among the clumps of pirates and sailors he found himself before the woman. He raised his pewter tankard to her in greeting and hobbled his way over. Offering his hand, he nodded to the woman. I don't think I ever said thank you for laying your blessing on my friend. I don't know where you found the gold to send him off with, but I want you to know that I am in your debt.
Seawater, rotting wood and offal. It had become Johns life. He had begun to dream of the bilges each night as he slept, only to awake and find himself returning to the pit from which he left each evening. John had begun to suspect that if he ever found himself in hell, it would look something like this. Repeating the same act over and over and over again. Perhaps one day there might be a respite from the hard labor, but for now John took his anger, frustration and determination and focused it on one name.
.
It was during lunch up topside that he watched as the cooks were preparing a meal for the captain. Apparently the man in mind shark for the evening. For once John was glad he was assigned to the bilges. Still, he knew a bit about the creatures ever since he had lost his leg to the jigsaw bastard. They could be dangerous. And they were smart. It was best to be cautious. Hobbling over to the rail where Ollivor, Thorn, Samms and Beshra were gathered John nodded to the three, while he scowled at Thorn. It seems you have it all well in hand. John began, glancing towards Beshra. But trust me when I say that sharks can be very dangerous. There's all different types that ply these waters and some are more dangerous than others. Sand, lemon and nurse sharks arn't so bad. Hammerheads and threshers more so. Then there are the big white bastards. The jigsaws and the great whites. They are the worst. They can jump too, come clean out of the water. If you want my advice, chum the water real good and set a long hook. Let it run on the line for a while and have some gaffing poles ready for when it comes up. Keep your distance and you will do fine. Turning away, John started to hobble back to the rest of the more friendly sailors, when he glanced back and gave a serious nod to Beshra. Oh, and their eyes are the weak spot. John says seriously. Trust me.. I know.
_____________________
Owlbear takes the offered biscuit and sniffs it. He eyes Ollivor somewhat suspiciously as he takes a tentative bite, then another more forceful bite when he seems to like it. Three bites and the first one is eaten. He holds his hand out for another, but there is a wariness to him - as if he expects it to be withheld, or the first part of a cruel jape. He goes through the same ritual for the other offered snacks, never letting his guard down. When Ollivor demonstrates to him that he doesn't have any more, he lets out a sigh of sadness. With a hint of a smile at Ollivor, the lumbering simpleton wanders off.
Giffer hands one of the buckets to Ollivor, apparently willing to accept his help. She looks at him with her one good eye and quietly says, "Thanks. Gettin' kind of heavy." The pair walk in silence, giving Ollivor the opportunity to look at her. For a gnome, she has little verve or presence. He's heard of the Bleaching, but never seen it up-close. He notices that her hair and skin both seem pale and washed-out, as if the color has been draining away along with her spirit. When they arrive, she takes back the bucket and thanks him again.
When Vrunyar asks about an inventory list, she taps her head. "It's all up here. But it can't hurt to write it all down. The books are my least favorite part 'bout this job, but bein' quartermaster's a lot easier than the slog you lot gotta go through every day. Long as I don't give folks things that the captain and Plugg don't want 'em to have, it's not bad at all." Vrunyar and Doran read out items to her, which she dutifully writes out (in a barely legible script, Vrunyar notices, likely the result of self-taught literacy) in her journal.
Vrunyar and Grok get along fine with their stories of ale and drinking. Apparently, the first thing she does when they reach port is head to the strangest bar that she can find and ask for the most exotic liquor available (within a reasonable price range). She's never had Bokken's ale, but she'll put out a request next time she's at port.
In response to his question about credit, she sort of chuckles. "Only if they're late in paying what's due. And it's not money that gets taken. We don't get a lot of folks forgetting to pay what they borrowed as a result."
As the day wears on in the sweaty hold, Doran sets aside a couple of small implements and bits of things that he thinks he might find useful. After they've broken for the mid-day meal, he holds up a small handful of leather straps, a broken spring and the handle-less blade of a small knife and says to Grok, "These things don't seem like they'd be much worth to anyone, mind if I hang on to them? I like to put together little, um, devices, in my spare time..." His words taper off as he sees the unsympathetic look in Grok's eye, and he says, "I'll just put 'em back where they came from."
Rosie squeals with laughter. "If that'd been bilge water, you'd find yourself locked in one day! Remember that!" Her words are less than threatening. She seems to genuinely like John, teasing him throughout the day as one would a beloved brother. Even as most of the rest of the crew tends to avoid him because of his stench or his reputation with Plugg, she sticks by him and stands up for him.
The beautiful cleric - a quality that he notices, even as he tries not to - takes his offered handshake. "It wasn't a problem. He deserved a bit of dignity. It was the least I could do. Don't worry about the gold." She seems to notice his smell, a strong contrast to her very feminine ways. "You know, if you shaved and cut your hair, that bilge water would have less to cling to. I imagine you'd clean up nicely, too." John can't tell if she is flirting with him or not - and even if he could tell, he's not quite sure if that's okay with him or not.
Beshra looks down at his peg leg, the obvious undertone of John's speech. "I'm not helping out. I just kind of wanted to watch, but I'm not so sure about that. Thanks for the words of wisdom. If I find myself swept overboard or get stuck catching one myself, I'll know what to do. You might want to give them a hand, but I'm not going near."
Walking through the ships hold Thorn spots Vrunyar and Doran helping Grok with the inventory. Thorn figured this was a perfect time to ask Grok about his weapons while she was distracted. "Grok, If you got the time I could really use my bow to get rid of all these god forsaken rats and keep Plugg off my back. Maybe you could put in a good word for me to Plugg? It would sure speed up the extermination process and it would help you keep your inventory ship shape from rat droppings"
On the top deck Thorn walks by Tilly who appears to be lost in thought, probably thinking of her next swig of rum. Thorn walks up slowly and stands near Tilly while looking out over the sea. "What is it you do on this ship besides drink rum."
As Thorn walks past the galley and sees Cookie and Caulky talking over a plate of food. Thorn approaches them in a normal pace not to look suspicious but Caulky quickly covers the plate before Thorn can see whats on the plate. Thorn thinks to himself "Caulky sure takes her job serious." "Hello, I am Thorn Syndergaurd, You must be Caulky, I've heard you'll eat anything and everything. What's is store for ya today? No better yet what is the worst thing you managed to force down the hatch?"
Later in the day Thorn is approached by Olliver who ask's Thorn for his services and his skill with the bow. Thorn pauses briefly as he raises his arms up and apart taking the time to look at his empty hands. "It appears you have me at a disadvantage. I may not have my bow but I would be willing to help keep the Captain satisfied. Maybe then he will see fit to bestow upon me what is already mine.
Vrunyar uncorks a vial and waves his hand over the top, wafting the odor to his loudly inhaling nose. ”Fresh. With this I could make some extracts for healing. I had the insight the other day for making them for others to use. The mathematics of the formula is correct, but I haven’t made it yet, so I can’t say with certainty that it will be effective.”
After smelling another vial and tapping a pinch of powder onto his palm, the dwarf smiles. ”Now this, when mixed with the ground spice in that second jar I showed you, is useful for creating mutagens. I can make myself stronger, more adroit, or have better endurance for brief amount of time.”
A little later he tells Grok about the crushed ore that can be used in a shield extract. A few minutes later, he finds some dried roots that he can use make an extract for temporarily suppressing the effects of alcohol. ”Doran probably remembers. That’s how I helped guide him and Ollivor back to the ship after our drinking. Haven’t discovered how to make others get the same effect yet. That’s one of the veins of research I’m pursuing. Another is self-healing. Oh what’s this?” he says as he scratches his beard with his left hand as his right hand pulls a thick envelope wedged between two boxes. ”Oh. It says pepper on it. I’ll put it with the other cooking supplies.”
Later in the day Thorn is approached by Olliver who ask's Thorn for his services and his skill with the bow. Thorn pauses briefly as he raises his arms up and apart taking the time to look at his empty hands. "It appears you have me at a disadvantage. I may not have my bow but I would be willing to help keep the Captain satisfied. Maybe then he will see fit to bestow upon me what is already mine."
Ollivor nods,"Between you and me? I think 'at a disadvantage' is how some of the officers like us. Still, I appreciate the help. We can see if Grok would free up your bow, perhaps, seeing as this is for the Captain's appetite. No idea if that'd work or not. Either way, the key to the plan seems to be some trap or cage Samms Toppin has. We're supposed to meet her for help."
In between chores, Wyn made her way down to the surgeon's quarters to see how Crimson was doing. She felt responsible for him on two counts, for goading him into gambling and for doing her best to keep him from dying during the keelhauling.
If he was conscious, she would talk to him. "I don't know what made you so desperate to risk... well, this, and I won't pry into your business to ask. But if you need money, ask, as that'll make my shoulders ache a bit less." She gives him a half smile. "Ain't charity, don't mean to hurt your pride by offering... if you take the offer, you can pay me back later or with a favor if it makes you feel better. Just don't gamble it away again. Card games should be for the fun of it, not for a man's life or death. And if you'd rather me not mention it again, I can do that too."
Wyn took to scrubbing the decks again, and hauling things as needed. Once again she saw Peppery moving to and fro, and the crew subconsciously snapping to attention, as it were, as she passed.
"Begging your pardon," Wyn addresses her, "What exactly is your... well, title? Like Captain and First Mate and such, what am I supposed to call you?"
After a long day, Wyn wandered belowdecks to find some form of entertainment, and came upon Jack Scrimshaw shuffling his cards.
"Damn, but you played a good game the other night," Wyn says. "You must've been playing since you were knee high. Don't suppose you'd fancy a round, I figure I can learn better like this, even if I have to pay for it." She gives a self-deprecating smile.
After hopefully getting into conversation (and game) with him, she continues to try to see if she can pick up on his personality--and his tells.
She'll play for a bit; if she's on a losing streak she'll pull out after awhile to cut her losses.
Thorn walks past Ollivor and leans against the hull slowly picking and cleaning his finger nails while cautiously scanning the rest of the hold before responding "Funny you should ask, I brought up the very subject with Grok two days earlier while she was working Vrunyar and Doran in the ships hold. They were updating and documenting the ships inventory. Thorn paused and scanned the hold again before continuing "I attempted to convince her to speak with Plugg on my behalf. I feel she has enough pull to convince him to allow me the use of my bow. I have yet to receive a response from Grok on the matter, but I feel my efforts will bear fruit soon enough." Thorn looks down as a rat darts between crates "Until then I'll continue to catch a rat or two to keep Plugg satisfied and quietly earn his trust." Thorn smirks and looks at Ollivor before saying "You and the cookie need some new protein to cook up? I can manage to throw a few rats your way. That's if you two care to experiment!"
Thorn walks past Ollivor and leans against the hull slowly picking and cleaning his finger nails while cautiously scanning the rest of the hold before responding "Funny you should ask, I brought up the very subject with Grok two days earlier while she was working Vrunyar and Doran in the ships hold. They were updating and documenting the ships inventory. Thorn paused and scanned the hold again before continuing "I attempted to convince her to speak with Plugg on my behalf. I feel she has enough pull to convince him to allow me the use of my bow. I have yet to receive a response from Grok on the matter, but I feel my efforts will bear fruit soon enough." Thorn looks down as a rat darts between crates "Until then I'll continue to catch a rat or two to keep Plugg satisfied and quietly earn his trust." Thorn smirks and looks at Ollivor before saying "You and the cookie need some new protein to cook up? I can manage to throw a few rats your way. That's if you two care to experiment!"
Ollivor shakes his head, he appreciates the humor, but he's got too much pride to pass rat meat off as his work,"Pass on the rat, thank you. Well, you may just have to do without your bow for sharkhunting then, the way I heard it was the shark was wanted sooner rather than later. Still, I'll seek out Toppin and see when we're supposed to be heading out..." He goes to seek her out with one last nod to Thorn.
During a rare quiet moment on the deck of the busy ship, Doran catches sight of Grok. He approaches her and catches her eye with a quick wave, saying, ”Morning, Grok. Ya know, I’m always happy to help when you’ve got inventory to do in the hold. It’s not quite as fresh and breezy as working the rigging, but I always like to know a ship I’m sailing in from top to bottom, and doin’ that inventory gave me a better feel for what she’s got aboard in case there’s a need for somethin’. Like I said yesterday, ye never know when a few bits and bobs might come in handy, be jus’ what ye need to rig up a small standing tackle or a jellyfish trap. Any gate, I don’t want to keep ye – but keep me in mind when ye need help in the hold, hear?”
After the evening meal, Doran makes his way below-decks, careful to steer clear of Rosie Cusswell, who still can’t stand the sight of him. Too bad, that. I could use a little friendly music from time to time, but she'd sooner play at my funeral. Maybe I’ll have to learn to play somethin’ myself, as I used to say back on the Empty Lighthouse. Well, not much use thinkin’ about those days in this damn place. Before his sad reverie can go any deeper, his sharp ears pick up the sound of cards being shuffled, and he decides a game of cards might do if music’s not an option. He sees Wyn talking to Jack Scrimshaw and pauses, then says to himself, Jus’ cause I’ve set myself up as hating Rawkins, doesn’t mean I have to hate her too, I guess. Though I shouldn’t be over-friendly, might mix up our stories a bit.
Sitting down as Scrimshaw prepares to deal a game, Doran says ”Deal me in, would ya? I hear you’re quite a hand at cards. I’m no pro, but my touch o’ halfling luck often seems to help me out when I most need it – enough so that I’ll not likely lose to her,” he says, with a nod at Wyn. ”‘Sides, win or lose, a game’s a game, and the pleasure’s in the playin’ of it.”
Crimson smiles at her weakly. His voice is barely above a whisper "Doc Quarne says I should be dead, and that I'm getting sent back to work today. I saw what you and John did, I felt it. I know I'd be dead if not for you. You didn't have to do what you did. You don't even know me. But I won't forget it. Anything I can do for you, now or over, you just let me know. I'm not trying to make excuses for what I did, but do me a favor and knock some sense into me if you see me gambling again. I need to save for my mum back in Port Peril, send my coin to her instead of wasting it here. What about you? You sendin' money back to anyone... Family, husband?" She notes a somewhat hopeful note in the pirate's voice.
Grok looks away from her inventory when the elf comes to her for his bow. She frowns at the request. "I'll do what I can. It's on the list, but I can't give you any promises. Maybe if Plugg..." She trails off, not willing to say what she is thinking. "I'll let you know."
The three of them remain tightly packed in the quartermaster's hold as they successfully inventory all of the items. At the end of the day, she beats the dust off her calloused hands and looks around at the newly-reorganized items. Most everything is now in a chest or trunk, neatly labeled and organized. She hands the two of them a small wooden box containing the items they asked for. She offers them a wink. "You both did good work today. Don't go telling anyone I gave you anything without charging, but I haven't had this place straightened up like this for years."
Peppery looks at Wyn for a few long moments, making her quite uncomfortable. "Not everyone needs a title. You can call me Peppery. No more, no less. My talents are not tidily defined, but I am certain that you will learn of them in time. Now, return to your work." Wyn can see that Peppery is annoyed with her attempts at kinship.
Tilly seems in a better mood than the last time he approached her. She looks over with a bit of a sneer. "Ain't a lot to do around here, unless you want to jump overboard and make a swim for it. I been givin' it some thought. Maybe one of these days I'll do it. Thanks for askin'." She wanders off, having given him more of an answer than the last time they spoke.
Grok seems quite pleased to see Doran. "Thanks for helping me out yesterday. You two did a good job on the inventory. I should be able to keep it manageable for a long while, unless we get hit with a squall that wrecks the notes. You need anything, little guy, you just let me know. I'll do what I can for you."
Try as they might, Scrimshaw seems unbeatable at cards. Whether it is the ability to read them, simple good luck, or a great bluffing face, he wins far more hands than he loses. He seems pretty difficult to read, other than the fact that he truly enjoys gambling. He seems pleased that Doran and Wyn aren't sore losers, and bows to them when the hands are finished. "Anytime, anytime, my friends. I'm always willing to take some gold off your hands in exchange for the privilege of watching my show." He laughs at his own joke, eliciting some smiles from them.
Caulky watches as the small group assembles what they need to catch the shark. Samms shows them the apparatus, which is a set of gaffing poles that can plunge into the chummed water, entrapping the shark in a net of thin rope lines and giving them a much better chance to spear it with a harpoon. It seems somewhat technical to use, and requires two people to maneuver the poles while a third throws the harpoon. Samms - barefoot as always - drops a bloody mess of leftover fish to chum the water up and attract a shark. Within a few minutes, a decent-sized thresher shark - at least 20 feet long, though most of it in its distinct long tail - arrives to gorge itself. Samms points to it. "Okay, now one of you get the lines set up like we talked about, then we can trap it!"
Caulky watches as the small group assembles what they need to catch the shark. Samms shows them the apparatus, which is a set of gaffing poles that can plunge into the chummed water, entrapping the shark in a net of thin rope lines and giving them a much better chance to spear it with a harpoon. It seems somewhat technical to use, and requires two people to maneuver the poles while a third throws the harpoon. Samms - barefoot as always - drops a bloody mess of leftover fish to chum the water up and attract a shark. Within a few minutes, a decent-sized thresher shark - at least 20 feet long, though most of it in its distinct long tail - arrives to gorge itself. Samms points to it. "Okay, now one of you get the lines set up like we talked about, then we can trap it!"
Ollivor lets loose a whistle at the sight of the thresher. 'Decent sized' some called it. I'd hate to see a truly big one then. Still, there's something about this that stirs his blood. I wonder if dragons feast on these regular? He looks to Thorn, "you up for setting up the lines? I think you're the more agile of the two of us, but I'll give it a go if you prefer."
Having finished his daily work, Vrunyar spends the early evening hour watching the stars emerge. This has become his daily activity since coming to the Wormwood.
After reaching the hold, idly scratching the crown of his head, Vrunyar notices the card game as he heads to his hammock. He brings out his formula book and writes in it for about an hour; pausing now and then to scratch his head. During that hour he increasingly scowls, mutters to himself, sighs, and shakes his head. Finally he snaps shut his book and stores it away. Grumbling he looks around the hold for diversion. He spots Tam Tate and shrugs.
Vrunyar walks up to the dwarf and says in Dwarven: ”I won’t ask you why you’re on the ship, where your gladdringgar is, or anything else of your history. I merely want to have a conversation in Dwarven. It’s been too long since I’ve spoken our language. Are these acceptable to you?”
In a confident and proud walk Thorn walks to the ships edge watching the thresher sharks dorsal fin and tail rip through the vibrant red waters. "I believe the ship is better off with a competent cook than a RAT CATCHER"
Thorn gives Ollivor a quick smirk before effortlessly leaping up to the top edge of the ship and landing softly on the balls of his feet. Thorn quickly grabs the lines as he runs back and forth across the top edge like a cat playing with a ball of yarn. After a few moments of working the lines together with the gaffing poles Thorn is successful in duplicating the device as he was shown. "Let's catch us a THREEESHER SHARK".
Ollivor chuckles, what else can he do? Then with poles in place, gets to work on reeling that monster in. It's bigger than anything else he's ever had to handle before. If he can just get it so focused on the line that it becomes an easy shot, maybe they can best this beast early on.
"Come on, you Cheliaxian faced bastard," He tells the shark, "Latch on!"
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Standing far back from the rail, John watches as the chummed water begins to stir as the long tail of the thresher shark churns the water, relying on its predatory instinct of using his fin to stun his prey. The sight of the beast with its abyssal black eye, razor sharp teeth and blunt snout sent a shiver of fear though the maimed sailor. John hated sharks. Not in the same what that he hated Plugg, but rather it was a hate tinged with viviscal fear. He knew all too well what the creatures were made of. They haunted his dreams and every second of every day he had to remember the attack whenever he would feel the sharp shooting pain in what was left of his knee.
Gripping the jigsaw tooth he wore in a leather throng about his neck with whitened knuckles, he pointed with his other hand as Ollivor attempted to entrap the beast. John shouted. He's going to cut to the left and then try to run out the lines. Ollivor go right, go right! The sailor yelled again, watching with grim fascination as the shark became entrapped in gaffing poles.
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With John's advice and Samms working the other side of the apparatus, Ollivor is able to maneuver the net before the shark can get loose. It thrashes in the net, forcing them to strain on the gaffing poles to prevent it from breaking free. The nets limit its mobility by quite a bit, but it won't last forever before the shark eventually frees itself. Caulky hands Thorn a harpoon. It is a wooden stock with a sharp metal hook on one end and a long rope on the other. It is up to the elf to throw and hit the shark before it gets away. Once he makes a proper catch with the harpoon, everyone else is poised to drop their duties and help Thorn pull up their prey with the rope.
Thorn stands on the top edge of the ship waiting and watching as Ollivor and Samms fight with the shark maneuvering and pulling their gaffing poles to bring the shark in closer. "almost there, just a little bit more" Thorn says to himself. Thorn reaches his open hand back towards John while maintaining his concentration and keeping his eyes fixed on the shark. "Throw me that harpoon John" John tosses the harpoon up to Thorn keeping it from rotating and making it an easy catch. "Pray I strike my mark or we may have to attach Doran's dagger to your peg leg for the next harpoon" Thorn laughs out loud to ease the building tension on the top deck.
Thorn flips the harpoon up and catching it with his hand now under the harpoon. Slowly raising the harpoon above his shoulder and slightly bouncing it in his hand to find the fulcrum. After a few bounces Thorn finally finds his balance point and locks his arms straight back ready to strike. Narrowing his eyes and locking in his target "NOW" Thorn roars out as he snaps his arm forward like a whip.
The harpoon puncture's through the sharks dorsal fin making a loud thump and causes the sharks to flip on his back. "AHA, GOTCH YA!" Thorn yells out while quickly grabbing the connecting rope and yanking it hard back towards him to set the hook into the sharks side. "DON"T JUST STAND THERE, GRAB A HOLD. TONIGHT WE FEAST ON THRESHER SHARK!" Thorn yells out to the on looking crew while jumping down from the top edge and pulling the rope over his shoulder to not allow any slack.
Grateful for Rawkins' advice, without which they'd surely not have set the beast up proper, Ollivor whoops as Thorn's harpoon pierces the shark's hide. There's a predatory grin on the young man's face as he grabs hold as directed and pulls. Thanks to Doran's teaching and his own lesser fishing, he's learned about lines and slack himself. He never thought he'd be one part of a shark hunting team, but the principle's not so different. "We've got him, I think!" Though it thrashes wildly, he puts his back into it with the others so the thresher gets a whole not of nothing going nowhere. "Keep it up!"
Crimson smiles at her weakly. His voice is barely above a whisper "Doc Quarne says I should be dead, and that I'm getting sent back to work today. I saw what you and John did, I felt it. I know I'd be dead if not for you. You didn't have to do what you did. You don't even know me. But I won't forget it. Anything I can do for you, now or over, you just let me know. I'm not trying to make excuses for what I did, but do me a favor and knock some sense into me if you see me gambling again. I need to save for my mum back in Port Peril, send my coin to her instead of wasting it here. What about you? You sendin' money back to anyone... Family, husband?" She notes a somewhat hopeful note in the pirate's voice.
"I may not know you well, Crimson, but I have a bad habit of trying to keep good folk alive sometimes."
Her smile fades as he asks her about having anyone back home. Part of her facade slipping is due to the worn but never lost grief over her family. Part is the hopeful hint at "husband."
Damn it all. You show kindness to a woman, she thinks you want something from her. You show kindness to a man, he wants something from you. One day, she prayed, she'd meet a soul capable of taking kindness without adding their own agenda to it. She wished she could just rub the urge for compassion out of her soul, it would make so many things easier, but she know she'd just lose her soul along with it.
And, well, she wasn't much interested in men anyway, but wasn't going to complicate the discussion with that at the moment.
She shakes her head and answers his question with the bare truth. "No, my family was killed about five years ago. Parents, siblings, cousins, friends, and fancies, all gone. Truth of it all is I haven't found it in me to want to connect to anyone since -- I'll lose them too, I'm certain of it." She pats the bed, since he's too sore to touch. "Thank the gods every day you have a ma, to send things home to. I'll be glad you've lived for her sake."
"I'll leave you to rest now. Get strong, and do as the doctors say. I don't want to see Plugg decide to cut you loose after all."
She gets up and, with a final wave, exits, letting the doctors get back to their work.
Peppery looks at Wyn for a few long moments, making her quite uncomfortable. "Not everyone needs a title. You can call me Peppery. No more, no less. My talents are not tidily defined, but I am certain that you will learn of them in time. Now, return to your work." Wyn can see that Peppery is annoyed with her attempts at kinship.
Wyn simply shrugs, and dunks her mop back into her bucket. "Suit yourself, Peppery. You do the same." She went back to scrubbing without a further look at the sorceress.
She wondered at her evasiveness--and the situation. Wyn wasn't an experienced seaman herself, but she'd interacted with enough sailors and mariners in the tavern to get the sense a ship has to be well ordered, especially at the top levels. Everything was clearly laid out, with titles and duties, even on a privately run ship, mariner or pirate alike. Captain, first mate, second mate, third, and so on, each with a specific role. So either Peppery wasn't senior like she seemed or the ship itself wasn't well organized, and perhaps that was a loophole to be explored.
Perhaps Peppery was just Harrigan's girl, and people thought she was senior staff because she was with him all the time. Given what she'd said on their arrival, however, Wyn figured it would be more than poor form to comment or ask on it further--and with her luck, wouldn't be her ass that got singed for it, but someone else's.
Their combined efforts force the thrashing predator onto the deck, oozing blood from the harpoon. Its gills flap helplessly as the shark tries to get free, unable to find the water and unable to breathe. A swift rip of the harpoon and a jab to its eye from Thorn finishes off the shark. They drag it to Kroop, who seems overjoyed at their success, who brings out his best knives (which are not particularly impressive, but at least lack rust and are reasonably sharp) to prepare the shark. Samms seems pleased with the others and their combined skill at fishing. For her part, Caulky seems as happy as her persistently-sad countenance can bear. She keeps an eye on the cooking, ably watching everything that goes into the preparation of the shark. Kroop prepares the tangy, sharp meat until it sizzles with flavor. He boils some of it into a thick soup, and throws the fin into it. If the shark's catchers were hoping for any, Caulky's watchful eye prevents them from having a taste themselves. Kroop makes enough for the captain and his cronies; with more than enough on the thickly-muscled animal remaining, he starts the process of drying it to store for the captain's future requests.
When the shark is finished, Ollivor grins widely, feeling that same primal delight in taking the prey in that was engulfing him earlier. His actions are similar to some young rooster making a show, though he also seems proud and praising of Thorn and the others who were equally involved, if not more so, and nods to them with camaraderie.
"We've done it, Cookie, you'd have been proud of us! By the heavens, I'm proud anyway. Samms set us up nice. Rawkins guided us true, and Thorn was as nimble as a godsblessed gazeelle! "
He assists as Kroop goes to work, after all, he's never prepared shark, and wants to learn how. "So that's how its done, eh?"
The young man would love to have a taste, but he supposes he will one day, even if it won't be this eve. Sides, one day he might catch another ... the idea of doing so with his teeth flashes into his head before he shakes his noggin to clear the odd notion.
Grinning at Samms, he adds, "Thanks again for helping us and cookie out on the matter. You're a grand lass to be doing so debt or no."
The ship seems calm in the night, barely rocking in the water as the crew turns in for sleep, drink, or gambling. Some sailors who would normally let the ship lull them into sleep on their cots instead stay up later. Some of the less social sailors hit the sack instead, enjoying the unusual steadiness of the Wormwood on calm seas.
It is not to last.
The storm starts quickly and silently, beginning with a light rain. Half an hour into the rain, the night watchman on the crow's nest goes from wet to hanging onto the wood for his life. Wind buffets the ship, rocking it hard back and forth. The Wormwood begins floating in a circle around the anchor rope, teetering back and forth as it does. It makes for a sickening experience for those who aren't used to the vagaries of the sea.
A few hours into the new day, but still hours to go until sunrise, a shout awakens the crew in their cramped quarters. "Oye, get up! Got a ragin' storm that's lookin' to sink us! Get up and get to work!" Plugg's voice seems agitated, even worried by the conditions. "Get the hatches battened down or we'll take on water! Doran, you and three or four others go up to the main deck. We got a half-dozen snapped line already, but keep the sails and sheets down! The bilges are takin' on extra water, so get to pumpin' the water overboard. Use buckets if you gotta. If I catch anyone not pitchin' in, you'll beg me to keelhaul you before my brother's done. Get to work!"
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The seas bucked and swelled. Seawater was crashing over the bow of the ship and even as John was rudely awakened by the shouting of Plugg, John had felt ill-at-ease as he lay sleeping in his hammock. In his dreams he could feel himself drowning. Instead when he awoke, he found that water from the deck above and begun to drip through the tar and pitch that plugged the deck and had started to drip onto his face. Rolling out of the hammock, John grabbed his shirt and having a second thought slipped his carefully concealed dagger behind the back of his britches. In a situation like this the seas could easily be used as an excuse to kill someone and John wasn't sure his Plugg would be willing to take the risk to try to murder him during the ensuing battle to save the Wormwood.
Nodding stoically to the others, John pointed towards the bilge and its sent of offal and sewage. Keeps your eyes sharp. You never know what can happen during a storm. John said to the small clutch of his friends. And if you get ordered to climb the mast tie yourself off. It's a hell of alot easier to get knocked off in wind like this. Nodding once more, John pointed to the bilge. I'll be down there if you need me. Good Luck. Turning his head to the right slowly, Johns neck made a loud pop before he gripped his left hand in a fist and popped his knuckles and threw open the hatch into the bottom hold.
Doran wakes when he senses a shift in the ship, her glide across the sea developing a little hitch, then a slightly stronger stutter and kick as the wind and waves pick up. He lies in his hammock for a short while, considering the state of the ship. I'm still getting to know this poor girl, but it feels like we're in for quite a ride tonight. The other sleepers will be woken soon enough.
A few minutes before Plugg descends to the crew quarters, Doran is up and dressing for rough weather, thinking about the job ahead. He knows they'll need to get every inch of canvas furled, the sheets braced and anything loose lashed down securely, if they're going to avoid the ship going over or a loose piece of cargo crushing whoever's on watch. Glad we stiffened the crosstrees yesterday, hope the new backing blocks hold. Never did get those new deadeyes in so we could douse the jib more quickly. Wonder how much sail she was wearing when this storm blew in, that we'll have to get down?
Doran takes his concerns with him as he brushes past Plugg and heads for the gangway to the main deck. He gestures at Jayce, Riki, Conch and Samms to join him, his calm confidence lending him an air of authority in spite of his small size. Stepping onto the maindeck, he takes in the scene around him, a maelstrom of wind and water with the Wormwood looking very small at the center of it, and sets to work.
Vrunyar shakes the sleep from his head, as the storm and Plukk, no Plugg wakes him from slumber. Groaning he decides now is not the time to be sick, as his stomach wonders if it should go one way and his body another.
He catches John’s comments about the bilges as he gets dressed. Seeing Doran move with such calm understanding and acceptance of the storm gives Vrunyar hope. The power in the waves and wind was magnificent; beyond a scale he had seen before.
Arms bent at the elbows, Vrunyar begins limbering his shoulders and torso. ”Hey John!” he calls down the bilge’s hatch. ”You need two dwarven hands at the pump? Ha!”
Never before had Ollivor been so grateful for the lessons others have to teach. If not for his time on ships mixed with listening to Doran and others, he'd likely be hurling his guts out over the side during such a storm. Instead, he handles it well enough as he's jolted awake.
He hears the others barking orders and advice. Mostly he listens to John, for all Plugg's bellowing, he trusts Rawkins far more to actually give a damn for the men around him. The murder of Iakob showed THAT. He grabs a bucket if the pumps are already taken.
Fortunately, months trapped below decks on the Hellsmouth had helped Wyn get used to the hideous rocking that could occur in rough weather. Blinking past momentary vertigo as the ship begins to sway, she sets immediately to motion at the warning of a storm, helping to batten the hatches.
Thorn stubbornly stays put with his head against the hull and his hammock pulled up over his head as the rest of the crew scurry about the hold. A quick rush of cold water soaks the bottom of his pants and he throws his hammock to the ground in anger. " No use in delaying the matter any further" Thorn thought to himself as he slowly rose to his feet. Thorn watched John and Vrunyar pumping the bilge and thought to himself "Looks like I'am needed else where". Thorn hurried after Doran and the last of the crew heading up the gang way. "I might as well have some fun climbing ropes in the heavy rain and gale force winds".
Vrunyar heats the needle in the candle’s flame, remembering the few times he saw a tattooing in progress and wishing he had paid more attention. If only he hadn’t spent so much time watching Brelvina drinking across the square. He glances at the ink vial, the scrap of paper with the design, the bandages for wiping the blood away, a rag-wrapped dowel, and the final bandage for wrapping John’s forehead once the tattoo was finished.
”I haven’t done a tattoo before, but I am familiar with the process. Four dots in a diamond shape, as you humans call it. That’s not beyond my abilities. You can bite down on this if you want,” he indicates the dowel.
Soon he has a rhythm of seven needle jabs, clear the blood from the wound, and re-ink the needle. While he does this he tells John a story of three brothers, or maybe two brothers and a cousin, he met in Absalom. ”They would use the gastric acid of dragons to scar patterns into their skin. Of course, acquiring such a rarity was difficult and even more expensive. I worked with an alchemist to develop a cheaper substitute, as a favor to their father, or maybe an older cousin, but it wouldn’t have mattered even if we had. The men were arrested after breaking into an alchemical supply store. One was found magically stuck to the window frame he was climbing into. The second was afflicted with a curse where he could only tell the truth. The third? Ha! He was picking the backdoor’s lock when a trap exploded in his face. He walked around with the word ‘Thief’ glowing on his forehead.” He chuckles as he wipes the blood away again.
After wrapping John’s head with a long, thumb wide bandage, he pats him on the shoulder. ”It needs time to heal. But I think you’ll be pleased with the results.”
Vrunyar gags. ”Even without a nose, I could smell this!” As the storm rocks and pitches the ship, the dwarf does his best to maintain his feet and the rhythm of his pumping. He takes a momentary break to wipe the sweat from his eyes and tie a sash to his forehead. Exhaling as he begins pumping again, he punctuates his continued effort with curses, grumblings, profanities and an infrequent "Ha!" in Dwarven
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Ignoring the dowel that Vrynyar had offered him, John felt the jabbing of the needle rubbing up through the thin skin of his scalp and along the ridigid bone of his skull. The death of his dear friend Iakob was one that fresh in his mind and this was pain that John could be thankful for. It took his mind off the events at hand. For a moment all that existed was the quiet soothing words of Vrunyar, the antiseptic smell of cleaner and the pinprick of the needle. John felt the seven jabs before the dwarfs rough hands rubbed the blood away and reinked the needle. He listened silently as the dwarf talked. John tried not to nod at the man’s words; he held his head steady and strong, not flinching when the needle went in deep. He took the pain and drew it in, let it simmer in the heat of his anger that still burned hot in his chest.
My first ink. John said finally after the dwarf had finished. Holding up a small pewter mirror, John surveyed the results and gave a nod to the man. Gods, what will Alima think when she sees it? Did I ever ask her what she thought about tattoos? Turning back to the doctor, John gave a nod of appreciation and handed back the mirror. My thanks Vrunyar, both for the ink as well as the kind words for my friend. I could tell they were spoken true. A crazy thing I suppose for one to use the acid from a dragons gut to scar themselves. Rare I would think, and as you said expensive. I don't think I ever asked you this, but what ever lead you into setting sail on the Empty Lighthouse?
Rising, John pressed the clean rag against his head, before frowning and looking back down at his reflection in the mirror that now lay on a nearby table. I'll be sure to tell the crew you do a bit of ink. This is my first, but it's common among sailors. There are a few popular ones. I knew a rigger who had the words tattooed across his knuckles. He believed that it would tighten his grip on a lines. I knew another that had a pig and a rooster as well, they were done on top of his feet. Thought it would help him swim better. Glancing down at his peg, John half hardily smiled. I guess with this log I won't be needing it. Patting the dwarf on the shoulder, John rested against the bench. You might be able to make a few friends aboard with your craft. Quietly John leaned in and whispered to the dwarf. In the days ahead we are going to need all of the friends we can get, mark my words mate. There's ah storm coming and with Plugg your either with him or against him, and I plan to make it out of this alive. Looking the dwarf in the eyes, John studied him carefully. Can I count on you when the time comes?
The spray of the sea storm hits the crew on the main deck like a wall of water. It seems to come from all directions at once: from above, behind, left, right, even below. Each drop of rain feels like a tiny cold dagger that cuts straight through clothes and skin alike. The wind cools the rain even more, turning it into a chilling blanket as bad as any snowstorm.
Doran leads the group of sailors as they clamber up the rigging to lash the broken ropes together and keep the sheets from blowing out. If any of the sheets break free, it could potentially pull down an entire mast down or even cause the ship to careen out of control. Lashing them tightly to reduce the wind is a vital and immediate task for the group on the main deck. At night, most of the sails are down and lashed, but in a position to be easily raised if a hostile boat - or prey - appears. When he hits the main deck, Doran looks up to see that the mainsail is starting to come loose in the rain. A few more minutes and it will tear free, likely putting the ship in a bad tailspin or tearing off completely. Doran leaps onto the rigging, starting to make the climb up with his dagger and a coil of rope at the ready to bring the sail down. Thorn follows him onto the rigging, as do Slippery Syl and Jaundiced Jape. Most of the other crew members on the deck crawl up other parts of the rigging, trying their best to do their jobs in the squall.
Wyn battens down the hatches on the top of the middle deck that normally provide light and air from the main deck above. She stands on a wooden crate of cargo, sliding it shut. The rain makes it difficult, splashing down in her face and eyes through the grating as she pulls it shut. The cover is made of heavy and hardy wood. It takes all of her strength to pull it closed. As she gets close to the end, she feels the ship rock hard to one side as she hears the howl of wind grow even stronger. She hears a scraping sound and looks over in time to see a set of barrels break free from their lashing, with snaps with a heavy crack. As they tumble towards her, she has barely any time to react and try to get out of the way.
Down in the bilges, John's experience seems to pay off. He leads Vrunyar and Ollivor down into the black water. More water drains into the bilges from all over the ship, splashing into the water like some sort of nightmarish waterfall. It is already waist-deep (and even higher for Vrunyar) before the three of them get into the water and start working the pumps and buckets. Several more people up above the bilges take the buckets from below as they are handed up, running up the stairs to try and throw them into the ocean. Even as they pump and carry out the water, it still seems to be taking on more water than they are removing. By the end of the storm, the bilges might be completely filled with water.
Covered in filth and swill, Ollivor is QUITE grateful his regular tasks involve the galley. Buckets fill and pumps go up and down, over and over again, yet it doesn't seem to end. Ollivor's been studying the ship, he's been listening to the more experienced sailors...
Plus, he's a fairly bright young man.
This is filling up too fast.
"There's damage to the hull I think, to the right side...err Starboard. We need to find the hole, patch it while we can, at least one of us."
He looks about for the damn thing.
Doran steps onto the tilting, heaving deck and eyes the situation calmly. A look of some alarm crosses his face as he realizes that the mainsail is about to lose its reefs, coming undone and providing a wide, white face to the wind. The force this storm would put on the mainmast could cause the ship to heel over completely, and certainly make steering her impossible. "Thorn, I need you and those two with me, right now!" He climbs the rigging adeptly, a coil of rope handy to reinforce the reefs that hold the mainsail tight to the mainyard, to ensure the sail stays furled.
He expertly cuts several short lengths of rope, handing them to Thorn, Syl and Jape, issuing orders in a way he wouldn't even consider in the calm light of day, but knowing their survival depends on the work being done right, and right now. "Out on the ratlines, double up the reefs 'round the mains'l, and cinch 'em tight! And hurry, no telling what'll come loose next in a blow like this!"
Wyn scrambles to get out of the way, but the slippery wood makes it difficult for her to gain any proper traction, and just as she thinks she is able to roll away, she stumbles, and braces herself as the barrels roll toward her. Fortunately she still caught the edge of the "avalanche" of barrels, and while the edge of a barrel has dug itself nastily into her side, that is the only injury she has sustained.
She carefully pulls herself out of the tangle of wood and iron rings, and whatever were inside the barrels. Indeed, she takes a moment to examine what contents have been spilled -- first to be sure there is nothing acidic or flammable or that could otherwise do damage to the ship, and second to see if foodstuffs or fresh water might have been spilled or worse, spoiled, so she can report the situation to the officers. If any of the barrels do contain water, she takes the time to set them upright, trying to preserve whatever fresh water stores they have. If any of the barrels contain immediately dangerous substances, she shouts for help so she can get someone to help her contain the problem.
Otherwise, if the spilled barrels present no disaster larger than the storm itself, she runs off to the next area where the hatches need to be battened or otherwise to wherever she's directed. After the storm she will report on the issue.