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The village of Souston
Dearest Yangrit, 24 Abadius 2413
How are you? My health is excellent. Please tell our parents. I fear I made a fool of myself with the local townspeople asking about peaches in the winter. They are ripe in the summer. Living underground we don’t understand the seasons like the surface dwellers. Not in our bones like they do. I had a pear, but it didn’t have a pit like a peach. You know how I like to slowly chew on those.
We leave for the next port tomorrow, and I enclose some ideas, brief sketches, and arcana theory for the creation of stone ships. You were the better student of history, has this been attempted before? I can’t imagine that I’m the first dwarf to think of using stone instead of wood for ship construction. Look over my notes, paying special attention to the propulsion. Remember when my first attempts at alchemy resulted in many bomb blasts knocking me out? Too many! Too many for me to remember. Seriously! I don’t know how many times I was knocked unconscious in those days.
Back to the stone ships, what if the force of such bombs could be directed in a way to push a ship? It would need to be a strong force, quite violent too, but it could push the ship through the water. You’re better able to answer those questions since I turned away from the making of bombs with all my fingers intact.
It’s odd in a way. I am traveling with Yennard. Just not in the way we anticipated. We would still be in Absalom, getting equipped and prepared to rescue his lover from her family, and I guess technically Yennard’s from his. Now
Vrunyar’s pen skittered across the page as the ship rocked to port. He puts the inkpen above his ear, trying to collect his thoughts when chaos erupts from outside. The screams stop any thoughts of returning to his letter. Once on the deck, at the sight of the injury, he takes a deep breath and rushes towards the ramp.
Grond nearly bumps into him, ”Doran told me to get you! With your healing gear!”
”Yes, yes,” Vrunyar points behind him, ”Get it from my backpack. In my berth. Hurry!”
Kneeling by the man, he sees that the halfling has attempted to slow the rate of bleeding by using a make-shift bandage from his shirt.
Well done Doran, he whispers inspecting the man closer. His leg looks broken in at least two places. ”I sent Grond to get my kit. Keep the pressure on the wound.” Taking the sash from around his waist and the inkpen, he fashions a tourniquet and applies it to the man’s leg, just above the wound.
Heal check =
A shudder passes through Synthia, halfway between ecstasy and pain. She marvels as she feels the wounds on her wrists close. This must be magical healing, something she's never experienced before.
She listens as the other two women, Beshra and Sandara they said their names were, have what seems to her like a lengthy conversation. She considers the likelihood of either of them having any connections in the Magnimarian underworld.
"Thank you," she mutters into the dark. "For the healing. And for the lay of the land, if that can be said on a ship." She hesitates for a long moment before adding, "My name is Synthia."
Standing with his back to John as he starts his tale Iakob slowly turns to face the man as his story progresses, so like his own, but still so different. The men's faces flash before his eyes as John lists them off. Smiling Jemti, Petri with his dice, stern faces Havershaw. Following them, the faces of those sent to Deepmar with him. Aman and Iogvan, Danac, Tolin, and Talain, along with a dozen others sent to Deepmar to rot. Iakob tenses up his shoulders and the headache stirs.
"Aye, Deepmar.." he mutters, looking away and unconsciously bringing up his hand to touch the red dots tattooed on his eyebrow.
::Torchlight flickers off natural stone walls, the dripping of water echoes through the tunnels, the *crack* of a whip is followed by screams Iakob is unable to stop. The tattooists needle sears as it pierces the skin of his brow but Iakob never flinches. Finishing his work the tattooist nods and starts packing his gear, wiping away the blood trailing into his eye Iakob stares at the figure in the shadows. "Th' promise 's made, can't ne'er be broken." he says grimly and Iakob only nods. The promise was made.::
Nodding he grimaces as he looks back up at John as he continues with his story.
'Liability? Is that what I am?' Iakob flinches at the statement. The blank stares, the silence to his questions and the dismissive way they turned down his demands for a raid on Deepmar soar through his mind, his deep scowl and obvious sign of what he though of their dismissal.
"The navy seems to stop caring allot" Iakob says as John finishes, seeing the look in the mans eye he's quick to explain. "They're still there John." he says. "An' you're right, it is a special kind of hell." Wiping sweat from his brow Iakob reaches a shaking hand behind his back and draws out a hip flask from his sash and, with nervous fingers, unscrews it and takes a hit.
Feeling the rum hit his gut a fire courses through Iakob's veins, calming him, steadying his nerves and easing the headache. Sighing he opens his eyes to stare John in the eye. "The jailers are right bastards, rationing water and whipping you on, the work will break ya, bleed ya and leave you tattered and spent, crawling through tunnels looking for crystals. Chiseling them out so's you don't brake them. The tools are bad and conditions worse." Iakob slowly rolls up his sleeves, displaying long, jagged scars running from his hands up his forearm. "An' the boys are still there. Waiting for me to come get them."
"We we're six that ran. Two of us made it ashore. We split up as we met fishermen that were willing to get us to Andoran soil and I ain't seen him since, don't right know if he made it or not. But I made those men a promise, John. I promised I'd be back for them and High Command turned me into a liar." Iakob spits the last out through clenched teeth, pointing his finger at John to accentuate his point and stepping toward him, his anger rising.
Stopping mid stride Iakob catches himself. 'He has no blame in this.' "Sorry, John. Sorry. Seeing you and hearing you're tale just makes me so angry. High Command won't have anything to do with me, told me they can't risk war with Chaliax as if we're not in one with them already, told me I needed to rest and recover, slapped me with a medal and gave me my papers."
"But I can't rest, John. And I can't recover. Not while the boys are still waiting for me. How can I sleep knowing where they are? How can I rest when all I see is the hell that I know they're living in right now! So High Command won't send the Eagle Knights, it won't even risk a covert operation. Too many risks. But there are other ways John, ways that don't involve them."
Iakob halts and looks at his flask and, with a sigh, takes another sip.
"Privateers, John. They do what they want. No body telling them no. There must be someone who'll hear me, gods know we ain't the only disgruntled Andoran grunts sailing the inner sea, eh?" he says and hands John the flask.
The old man groans in terrible pain as the halfling sailor and dwarven surgeon rush to his aid. As Doran holds the makeshift pad against the vendor's bleeding leg, keeping him from bleeding out within seconds, Vrunyar prepares to try to repair the damage. With the bleeding slowed with the torniquet and Doran keeping pressure on the injury, Vrunyar has a chance to save his life. He eyes the damage, comparing it to his surgical training in Absalom. A sharp broken spoke sticks out of the man's leg, in addition to the physical breaking of the brittle bone in two separate locations. Vrunyar will need to remove the spoke and repair the artery before he bleeds to death. The man's life hangs in the balance. The sailor Symon Gund shouts to him and throws his kit from the ship, with the young boy running to grab it and bring it to the dwarf.
Sandara seems somewhat taken aback by Beshra's confession that she read her mind. "I can't say that I like the idea of someone poking around through my thoughts. If we are going to be anything to each other, you've got to promise me that you won't go reading my thoughts. If you do, you're going to get my delightful rendition of Aroden's Rise and Fall, complete with the tubas." Sandara rustles something out of her pocket. Sparks fly through the darkness as she uses a flint to light a candle, giving them a tiny bit of light in the cargo hold. The three women get a good look - in the light - of each other for the first time.
Sandara is a beautiful woman with deep auburn hair and lovely pale skin. She wears the traditional garb of a pirate, complete with holy symbols to Besmara. When the others look curiously at that, she shrugs to them. "If anybody asks, I'm a priestess of Besmara. I figure that of anyone, she wouldn't mind the deception." She wears leather pants with knee-high boots, a soft leather tricorn hat, and a white ruffled shirt that hugs her figure and leaves the best parts to the imagination. It's no surprise that any and all of the pirates would want to have her, but no one would want to share. She takes the hat off and bows to them. "Pleased to meet you all. Now, assuming that you want to escape the life that awaits all of us and make our own destiny, allow me to show you the ins and outs of the ship. You'd be shocked," she says with a dry smirk, "what these pirates will tell you when they want to impress you."
Sandara grabs a wooden crate and turns it over onto its side. As it turns out, the crate is hinged to the floor. A well-hidden secret passdoor to the deck below hides beneath the crate's bottom. "This leads to one of the berths. There are hidden passages through the whole of the ship, to every room except for the captain's, according to the crew. I don't know where all of them are, but I'm dying to find out. Just don't get caught using them ever. For now, stay here and enjoy the candle. Blow it out before any of them come for you. I'll see you tomorrow, most likely. Keep an eye out for opportunities, but we have to stick together." With another smile, she climbs down the hole in the floor and pulls the crate back over its hiding spot, leaving the two of them alone with each other.
Doran continues to apply pressure to the man's artery, his small hands enabling him to actually reach into the wound and squeeze the blood vessel with all his strength. He can feel his hand cramping already, and worries that if the man moves suddenly as the dwarf is working on him, he will lose his hold. Looking up, Doran sees Ollivor approaching and calls out to him "Ollivor, come quickly! Lay ahold of his leg and pin it down while the healer works! I've got the bleeding under control for the moment, but if he kicks loose, it'll start all over again. Gods, the fella looks like he's been in a cannon battle, with all the wood splinter that flies about. Well, it's to you, master dwarf. Handsomely, now!"
Gaining ground, Ollivor joins the dwarf and halfling as Vrunyar goes to work, "Look, I know next to nothing about healing, but you tell me what to hold, press, or fetch, and I'll do it." Ollivor's eyes look intense, and though it is clear he is out of his depth, he does not want this stranger to die.
He follows Vrunyar's lead in this, though he does mutter to himself, "A world with dragons in it and the man could die from a bloody fruit cart."
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Reaching for the the proffered flask John raises it into the air and whispers just loud enough for Iakob to hear. For the ones that never made it home. Taking a long slug of the rum, it burned as it rushed down his gullet. He felt the tension unwinding from between his shoulders, his nerves calm and the endless throbbing in his knee fades into the distance. For a moment he feels whole again.
Alima's going to kill me if I go on some damn fool idealistic crusade. He though to himself. But what would I have done in Iakobs place? Would I have held out hope, believing that the navy would come to rescue me, or would I have fallen into despair and given up? I don't know... I just don't know.
Lowering the flask John feels his breathing steady and he hands it back to Iakob with a nod of appreciation. Officers always did get the best rations. He jokingly mutters, trying to ease a bit of the tension. Your right though sir, you never leave a shipmate behind. Lookout for your mates and they will look out for you. Its the first thing your taught onboard, and it can be the difference between life and death at sea. Rubbing the pommel of his cutlass in thought he sits down at the edge of his seachest, considering Iakob's last words.
Privateers? Hrm, you know that sounds crazy. Not intending an offence sir, but privateers usually have things... things like a ship, and a crew. Throwing his hands up in the air in frustration, John gives a long sigh. They told us you were dead... John trails off. You know the captain, loyal to his crew. If we had known you were at Deepmar, nothing would have stopped him from coming, not hell itself. But now... now it falls on someone else. Raising himself to his feet, John slams a fist into the hull. He yells, his anger quick and violent before subsiding below the surface again. Whirling on Iakob, John gives a decisive nod. The navy might have forgot em, and left em rot, but I know you, and I know them. I ain't leaving em. Thrusting his hand out, John clasp's Iakob's firmly. You figure it out, and I'll have your back, same as it always was. Now, lets go find out what the hell that racket is above deck.
Turning to leave John turns aback to Iakob, with a wolfish smile on his face. Oh, and if you though Deepmar was bad, just wait until YOU explain to my wife why I'll be going to play pirate, instead of taking a good paying job in Sargava!
The dwarf’s right hand holds the tourniquet while his left guides the healing kit from the boy to the ground. A fresh needle and gut to suture the artery. Tincture of garlic to prevent infection. But first tincture of opium to ease the man’s pain.
”Ollivor was it? Hold this tourniquet while I remove the broken spoke.” The dwarf releases his hold once he is confident Ollivor’s grasp on the tourniquet will suffice.
He takes a vial from the kit and pours it into the fruitseller’s mouth. ”This will help with the pain. Opium. Once I pull the spoke out, Doran, you press down on that wound while I get the needle ready. Just grab a bandage from the kit that Grond fetched.” Vrunyar once again calls Symon Gund the wrong name. ”I’ll pull on three. One, two...three.” He eases the spoke from the man’s leg as gently as he can and places it next to him. He takes a moment to make sure the patient hasn’t gone into shock while Doran does what was asked of him.
”We’ll save this man’s life, and he’ll be selling peaches in the summer.” His eyes offer gratitude to the sailors for a moment as he threads the needle. ”Now I’ll stitch the artery closed.”
Soaking up blood from the wound to get an adequate view of the artery, Vrunyar takes a deep breath and then sutures the artery closed. He adds a few drops of tincture of garlic to the wound. Once it’s closed he takes a few seconds to assess the situation and see if there were complications. ”Ease the pressure from the tourniquet. Let’s see if the my work will hold.” He swallows nervously.
[ooc]Sorry about using the wrong name. If you don’t mind, I’ll just make Vrunyar a dwarf that forgets people’s names. Depending on the situation, it will be indicated like this post.
”Ah!” he says, feeling the man’s femoral artery. ”The dorsal side too! There’s a small opening there as well. More pressure, Ollivor.” Quickly, he readies the needle with more gut string. ”We’re almost finished with your leg, my friend. Stay focused!” With bloody but still steady fingers, he sutures the smaller tear in the man’s artery.
Ollivor just nods, hoping not to blow this. Pretty sure I'm not doing this right so just keep your hand where he tells you
The old man gasps as the morphine overtakes him, then breathes raggedly but steadily. With Ollivor and Doran trying their best to assist, Vrunyar capably repairs the damage to the leg. His first attempt in sealing the arterial wound does not go well, with blood gushing up when he lets go for a moment to test the handiwork. He redoubles his efforts, though, and spends several tense minutes with the medical kit before he decides to try again. He lets go slowly, fingers still grasping the needle tightly in case of another gush of blood. He watches as the wound oozes out blood in a trickle rather than a spray. The emergency surgery will hold his life in for some time now, but he will live for at least some extra hours.
Several minutes later, long after the man would have died, a cleric of Abadar runs behind the young boy who fetched him. The cleric's robes hang uselessly as he huffs and puffs after the run. The out of breath banker places a hand on the man's shoulder and passes magical healing through him, sealing the wound that Vrunyar patched up.
Captain Jonas, who watched the whole affair from the docks, comes up to slap the dwarf on the back. "I could use a man like you on the ship. We've got a lot of people in need of fixing, as clerics can't hold their breath long enough to get to the ship." He looks over at the portly cleric, still breathing heavily with his hands on his knees. "What say you come work on the ship once your business at your destination is complete?"
Beshra watches the space vacated by Sandara for a long time, and then turns to Synthia offering the woman a wan smile in the candlelight,
"Well Synthia it seems like we're in this together, let me know if you want me to help you get those cuffs off. I'm not sure there's much point, but you might at least be more comfortable. But for now I just need to be by by myself for a while..."
So saying she retreats from the candlelight, finding a dark corner and sitting against the wall knees pulled up to her chin as she rocks slowly back and forth. Kerith gone now to. I did not like her, but she was there, she was my mother's and now there is a little bit less of her left in this world."
Tears run down her cheeks, silent and cool, and she finds herself unconsciously humming the song her mother used to sing her to sleep with when she was tiny,
Soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur.
Soft kitty, weak kitty, filthy little cur.
Happy kitty, sleepy kitty, pur, pur, pur.
Lonely kitty, desperate kitty, give up on the world.
Leave me be Monster!
Kill the girl, and I'll leave you alone for a month. Harrigan could take to a killer Sweetling, you promised me you would become a Pirate. Pirates kill, it would be so easy, she's shackled, you could burn her alive. So easy, and then I would leave you in peace. This is a place of monsters Beshra, you see that, show them that you are predator not prey!
I am never going to buy what you are selling you impotent little ghost now go die!
Soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur.Happy kitty, sleepy kitty, pur, pur, pur.
With the old man's wounds now bleeding much less profusely, Morin lets go of the artery he has been clutching so tightly. Or tries to. He finds that he has been pinching the vessel so hard that his fingers are unable to move on their own, and he has to reach in with his left hand to pull back his right thumb and gently extricate his hand, so he won't undo all of Vrunyar's skillfull work.
Once his hand is free, he shakes it to work some feeling back into it, inadvertenly spattering blood on his face and shirt. He then turns his blood-speckled face to Vrunyar and says "You've a dab hand with that needle, friend dwarf. When I first got to 'im, I thought I was going to watch him die, and I would've for certain if not for you. You may hear this a lot, being a medico and all, but you saved a man's life today. Not every day you can say that."
After the captain has spoken to Vrunyar, Doran agrees "Aye, the cap'n speaks true. There's many ways to get hurt or worse aboard ship, and we've scarce had a loblolly boy, as might help out a ship's doctor if we had one, much less a true surgeon such as yourself. And the forecastle hands are always pleased to have a doctor afloat with 'em. Makes 'em feel they're part of a proper ship's complement, wouldn't ya say, Symon?"
Ollivor takes a deep breath, and wipes his brow, "He's the one what nearly died, but I'm the one needing a drink. Captain, I'm going out to buy some more goods for the lauders...how much coin do you give me leave to spend for the ship?"
Hearing Ollivor's comment, Doran grins and says "A drink's a fine idea. You did well in a tough spot there, and that's worth raising a glass to. I'll tell ye what, we look a bit like we've spent the day in a slaughterhouse. Why don't we get cleaned up a touch, and get out of these bloody clothes, and I'll join you for your provisioning and refreshment? I can give a hand with both of those jobs, sure enough."
Turning to Captain Jonas, he adds, with a dip of his head, "If the cap'n'll give his leave? I can advise Ollivor on what'll keep well at sea and what won't, and what the hands will eat. And I'll drop by the ropewalk on my way and see if they've any of the hawser-laid line you were after for the aft anchor, and what price they're asking."
"Dandy by me, Doran," Ollivor smiles finding himself warming yet more to the halfling, "I know somewhat how to preserve food at sea...pickling everything for starters... bet the lads love that. As for cleaning up... allow me." Ollivor gestures and the blood sloughs off both of them with ease.
Doran stares in amazement as the blood that covers him from his knees to the top of his head vanishes and he marvels aloud, "I said afore, Ollivor, that you'd make a good man to have on hand in a fight, with yer magicking - looks like you'd be mighty handy to have around after one too, cleaning up the mess! Hey! Can you use that trick to clean pots and pans in the galley? If that's so, the hands'll love not havin' to scrub up after ya cook. Life aboard the Empty Lighthouse is lookin' up, indeed."
To the captain, Doran says, "Now that we're all presentable-like, we'll head off to collect provisions, by yer leave." Then, to Ollivor he quietly adds with a grin, "First pint's on me! And what's not pickled will have to be salted, but lets see if we can't pick up some fresh meat to start the trip, and a goat fer milkin' - they'll eat whatever ye give 'em, and a bit of fresh milk in the cap'n's morning coffee always makes smoother sailing fer the rest of us."
Doran stares in amazement as the blood that covers him from his knees to the top of his head vanishes and he marvels aloud, "I said afore, Ollivor, that you'd make a good man to have on hand in a fight, with yer magicking - looks like you'd be mighty handy to have around after one too, cleaning up the mess! Hey! Can you use that trick to clean pots and pans in the galley? If that's so, the hands'll love not havin' to scrub up after ya cook. Life aboard the Empty Lighthouse is lookin' up, indeed."
"Well, let's not tell all the lads about THAT... no need for em to get lazy." a wink.
Doran laughs heartily and says "Aye, a man's gotta have his secrets, eh? Good to have a pan or two to scrub out, to teach the hands the value of hard work. Right, let's hare along to the Green Peach, it's hard by the ropewalk and on the way to the market, and they pour a fine pint."
Captain Jonas rustles Doran's hair. "You got it, kid. Make me proud." He raises his voice to the rest of the crew. "We set out tomorrow morning at dawn. If you've got business on shore, take care of it. I'll be here if you need anything. If you want your first month's pay up front, you'll get it at the docks tomorrow right before we set sail." He waves them off for the usual mayhem of shore leave. Symon nearly pushes people out of the way as he darts into town, likely seeking the nearest brothel. As the crew dissipates, Jonas returns to the ship and looks out wistfully from the rear of the Empty Lighthouse into the sea.
"I've been there," Ollivor grins, "Been in this town a day or two, so I took the time to drink there one evening. There's this pretty lass there that serves the drinks who practically dances from table to table. Her name's Myralle. I can think of worse ways to prepare for a long sea voyage than watching her work for an hour or two."
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Rising up the ladder-well from below decks John watches the tell-tell pattern of the ship's crew as liberty is granted. Always a scramble that. John thinks to himself as he watches seaman Gund practically run down the brow and off the dock towards the taverns and brothels that cater to visiting sailors. Chuckling to himself John couldn't help but compare the Lighthouse to the Eagle. A ships line may change, but the sailors don't. John mused as he watched the rest of the crew hurriedly finish last minute tasks before they too departed the ship. And a Captain, he doesn't change either. Thought John as he looked towards stern and saw Captain Jonas gazing off into the sea like it was his lost love. Command can be a lonely place, I suppose. Always surrounded, but always alone. John reflected. He had seen Lord Havershaw strike that very same pose before. Standing at the edge of the quarterdeck, the ship moored, lines taunt. Like a trap binding a great beast of war.
Shaking off his foolish musings he looked about at the Lighthouse again. What had been a bustling merchant corvette ten minutes prior had now become very nearly a ghost ship. Around him on deck were the few remaining sailors unlucky enough to draw shore duty. Next to the mainmast there was a group of three sailors rolling the bones, while another had his back to the fo'c's'le and appeared to be scrimshawing a whales tooth the size of Johns fist. *pause* Behind him, next to the ships helm a small, tanned, brown haired boy of perhaps thirteen or fourteen was ringing a polished brass bell. Golden Lord, is it really two 'clock? I didn't realize that I have been here for two hours! Putting his weight on his foot, John leans down and yells into the ladder well. Fancy a bite to eat Iakob? Common! You look too dammed skinny. Besides, I know a good place and it's only a few blocks away. Waiting momentarily for his lieutenant John knuckles his forehead to Captain Jonas. By your leave captain. I'll be here at sunrise, ready to go. Grabbing a hold of the guide rope, John limps his way down the ships brow and onto the pier. Time and tides wait for no man. The wounded sailor quietly whispers to himself as he listens to the lap of the waves. Quietly he waits for Iakob to appear, while he too stares out into the horizon and wonders where the Empty Lighthouse would take him.
Accepting the flask back from John Iakob is a little stunned at how easily John was swayed to his cause. 'That was fast! The first 'aya' and not even cast off!' A grin creeps over Iakobs face as he watches John scramble up the stairs. "Privateers, John! Not pirates! There's a distinction!" he shouts after him.
"But'ya give a man a hope, John. That you do." 'Besides, I don't plan on owning the ship, John. Just convincing the captain to follow my foolish plan.' he thinks to himself. With rising elation and visions of a war-ship cleaving the waves to Deepmar Iakob takes another hit of his flask before putting it away. At the call to food Iakob calls back an 'Aye' and clambers up the stairs to join John on the docks, clapping him on the back as he catches up and grinning widely.
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Limping down the pier towards the harbor wharf with Iakob in tow, John grimaces at the pain in his knee and the slight roll to his hip when he puts his weight onto the crude prosthetic. Would it have been so dammed hard for the sawbones to have at least made the peg level? John inwardly curses to himself as he puts his weight onto the fitted kneecap. Stubbornly trudging along the wooden dock each step is like a dull grating pain.
Step.. pain.. step.. pain. step.. step...
Several bone grinding minutes later, John and Iakob reach Souston proper. Having both been raised within the town, the sights and sounds were familiar to the two Andoran men. The wooden walkways placed on bricks above the effluence, the noxious mud from a combination of rain and seawater. The music floating out from tap houses, cat-calls from the harbor doxies and the pungent smell of whale oil from the flensing houses. All around them the signs of a small but prosperous harbor town.
Moving past a white gloved, gem laden Druma merchant and his entourage, John hobbled his way upto the entrance of the general store. Eyeing the merchant as he passed, John sighed to himself. If I had just one of those rubies, I wouldn't have to leave. Gods know I promised the lieutenant I would help him get the boys.. but leaving Alima, it never gets easier. Is that selfish? Golden Lord, if you can hear me right now, I could really use a break. I know you sheltered and protected me when I was cradled in your wing, but dammed if things aren’t terrible right now! Shaking his head he turned to Iakob. Just picking up a few things sir, I'll be right back. John announces before stepping inside.
After several minuets John comes out of the store, his coin purse lighter and with several brown packages wrapped in twine under his arm. Alright, I got what I need sir, lets heave to.
Making their way down walkways toward the edge of town John cradles the packages in his arm like a child. As the two former shipmates near the outskirts John continues to walk with a determined but labored pace. It always hurts, ya know, sir? John utters out loud, still keeping his eyes fixed on some destination ahead. I tell you this now.. because.. well because its best for you to know. I'm a right terrible liar. Never was good at it, never tried to be good at it. But we are mate's so it's right and proper for you to hear the truth. I like to drink sir. I like to drink a lot. John quietly says. I.. I never really lost my leg. Oh, don't look at me like I'm a loon. John eyes Iakob crossly. Oh I lost it, right though I did. But, well I don't know how to describe it. I lost it, but my body doesn't know I did. I still feel it sir, every day from the morning I wake, to the final moment before I sleep, I feel it. And it hurts. Gods below does it hurt. Pausing to catch his breath John watches Iakob for any look of disgust or remorse. To his relief he finds none, just the look of a man who himself has been through hell and can perhaps understand what he was going through.
I've tried to explain it to others.. the navy.. the navy never understood, and neither did most people around here. I've told Alima. It's not like you can hide anything from your wife. Only a fool believes that. Anyhow, I think Alima understands, but understanding only gets you so far. Look.. ah.. I'm telling you this sir, so you'll understand. Or I hope you do.. just.. just think on it. Turning away and lost in his own thoughts John continues to make his way towards his house.
Step.. pain.. step.. pain. step.. step...
Captain Jonas rustles Doran's hair. "You got it, kid. Make me proud."
Doran stiffens at the contact from Jonas. His size, and his status as a slave, has made humans treat him as a child, or an animal, for much of his life. His hand moves fractionally toward one of the many knives hidden about his person before he is able to stop it and transform the movement into a more casual gesture, his thumb hooking into his belt. He tells himself the captain means well, and is a good man, and that Doran should be glad of his friendly manner.
Ye don't have to assume every man jack aims to beat ye when they put a hand out, fool! Nor do you have to stab the very man who's given ye a chance at a free life! Doran thinks to himself. He keeps his hand very still to prevent it shaking and forces himself to smile as he steps away from Captain Jonas. He turns and matches pace with Ollivor as they walk away, saying through slightly gritted teeth, "Aye, a pint and a dancing lass, that's what I need."
As they wait for the cleric to arrive, Vrunyar becomes aware of the sweat pouring from him. Not just his forehead and armpits but his lower back, legs, and forearms. After wiping his face with his left arm’s sleeve, he takes the fruitseller’s hand in his right and whispers encouragements to him.
Vrunyar breathes easy as the cleric magically heals the wound. Smiling as if he just discovered a vein of gold, he slaps the cleric on the back and crushes him in a bear hug. ”Well done! Worth a lot of huffing to save a life,” he laughs then lets the man go to recover from his run. Clasping Doran’s hand with both of his, he pumps it excitedly, ”Thanks to you...and you,” he switches the hand shake to Ollivor. Tilting his head back, he bellows a cry of triumph.
”I will think of it deeply Captain,” he says as he packs his kit up and recovers his sash and inkpen. He takes Doran’s compliments with a smile then laughs, ”A loblolly boy? If I stay you will need to teach me this dialect of common you speak.”
Vrunyar’s ears pick up the name of the tavern where Doran and Ollivor will be, raising an eyebrow in surprise when Ollivor cleans their clothes so effectively. ”I will join you for a drink in due time,” he says waving to the others as he boards the ship.
He turns and matches pace with Ollivor as they walk away, saying through slightly gritted teeth, "Aye, a pint and a dancing lass, that's what I need."
Ollivor misses the tension. While it isn't always common in small towns, halflings are a good part of Andoran's population and they work, play, pray, and vote just like anyone else. He chatters away to the man like he would any other drinking companion, "Well, I'm assuming there aren't many women on board the Lighthouse, and if there are, they have already picked a lad they like so I thought I'd fill up on future dreams even as I had a pint of spirit. What about you? Got a lass at some port o call? I hear stories of sailors having one at every port, but I always thought that was bard talk."
Vrunyar’s ears pick up the name of the tavern where Doran and Ollivor will be, raising an eyebrow in surprise when Ollivor cleans their clothes so effectively. ”I will join you for a drink in due time,” he says waving to the others as he boards the ship.
"Your first will be on me," Ollivor states feeling jovial as he and Doran walk off.
Synthia stares down the hole the priestess left through, then curses softly at the manacles still binding her hands.
The other woman—possibly also some kind of priestess—makes her peculiar requests and then proceeds to huddle in the corner.
Everyone on this boat is insane, Syn decides, but initially respects Beshra's request for what little privacy can be hand in this cramped hold.
Then, after going over the details of the bewildering exchange she just witnessed, she speaks after all. "Hey. If you can get me out of these, I would see you repaid. But...stay out of my thoughts."
As he walks away with Ollivor, Doran hears the dwarf healer call out that he will join them for a drink. Doran pauses and turns back to say ”Forgive me. As a foremast hand, it’s easy to invite the ship’s cook out for a pint and to take care of some ship’s business. I hadn’t thought to invite yourself, a paying passenger, and a surgeon no less, to join us. But I’d be very pleased if ye would – I’d be proud to lift a glass with you, and to teach you a few useful terms for what’s what on the ship, if you’d like. We’ll see ye at the Peach”
With that, Doran turns and heads off with Ollivor, his difficult moment with Captain Jonas behind him after the pleasant exchange with Vrunyar.
Beshra sniffs and replies, her tail curling round to wipe the tears from her cheeks,
"I told you both about it because its one of the few tools we have at our disposal. If you or Sandara need to know if we can trust someone, what they know, or how they react then I can do that. But I make no promises to stay out of your head. I don't trust either of you overmuch yet, I just hope I can and decided to take a gamble. I also hope that knowing I can read your minds will keep both of you honest, discourage either of you from selling us out for easier treatment. Hope you can understand, you seem like a practical woman. Now as to those cuffs, I can help you, and I can heal you if you get hurt, I say we get them off and take pains to hide them, they might have more, but why waste cuffs we can obviously escape?"
Iakob huddles after John as he ambles through town with the midday sun beating down on them. Keeping his pace slow, he stays a step behind the sergeant with his hands clasped behind his back, letting him lead the way to his house Iakob keeps his eyes mostly on the ground, glancing up occasionally to squint into the sun or view a passing building or person.
Walking through the town Iakob realizes that he hasn't really been out of his house since his return, breathing deep as John heads into the general store he takes in the sights, the sound, and the smells of his childhood home as he leans against the door frame to wait. When John comes back out Iakob just gives a soft smile and follows.
Listening to John as he confesses his defaults to him John nods politely and listens as he says his piece. "Well, thank you for your honesty, John, you're right; You never were much of a liar." he says, grinning at John as he draws a look from him. "But then you're forgetting that that's your most valuable asset." he says more somberly. "You're blunt, but you're honest. You're hard, but you're fair. You work hard and men will follow that lead. You're an honest andoran and men respect that." Lagging behind he forces John to stop and face him. "I can lie and I can threaten, but I'm poor at bargaining, I guess my training comes into that, but you, John, you can earn respect whereas I know only how to demand it. Frankly I couldn't dream of finding a better man to help me convince some hapless captain that my cause is just and necessary. And to think that I've had such success before even leaving port! You give me hope John, drink or no. And for that I thank you." Nodding to indicate that he's said his piece Iakob gestures with his hand, indicating that John should keep leading the way.
When they've gone a few steps he mutters; "How much do we need to tell her?" honestly not relishing the though of convincing Johns wife of letting him play privateer.
Syn nods at the last thing Beshra says. "Or we could tell them that one of the crew let us go, maybe sew some distrust among them. I doubt it would take much to convince any of them that we'd had unauthorized visitors."
She makes her way over to Beshra and holds her wrists out in front of her. "Okay," she says, "One more time."
"Damn it all, I can't get them off!"
Fresh blood rolls down Synthia's wrists.
"Try it again, I'll heal you after that, but for now use the blood as lubrication." Beshra says, holding the cuffs braced to help.
As Ollivor and Doran go between the rope walk and the market, they can see the recent incident with the cart has caused quite the stir in the small town. Those that witnessed it are being asked to tell all they saw, and those that didn't are running with the story anyway. Some of the 'local sages' are discussing how often one should replace cart parts, or the import of checking for wood rot.
The Green Peach is no different, with the local patrons within talking about the near death of the vendor, the ship that's come in, and, of course, weather and politics. Doran is right, it's a decent tavern with a welcoming air.
"The cart must have been made in Sauerton," One local wag jokes at a table with two friends.
Moving among those drinking is a pretty lass with ringlets of hair falling down to her shoulders. She does indeed move with an easy grace as sh serves drinks to one location, then swirls around obstacles to deliver another.
Ollivor isn't sure, but he'd like to imagine she flashed a smile at him for a moment.
He looks to Doran, "Where do you prefer to sit?"
Doran pauses as he steps into the the tap-room of the Peach, looking about the room contentedly. He thinks, I don’t know what my new crewmates will think of this place, but it sure is a step up for me. Hell, any step into a decent tavern is a step up for me. No chance of time to sit and sip a pint while serving House Jenidar, and the crew of the “Bride” went in for a rougher sort of place. Not to mention, getting drunk while serving on that wreck would have ended me up with a knife in my back from one of Barrow’s thugs. And she is a pretty lass, though a couple of handspans overly tall.
This thought recalls him to where he is standing, and he turns to respond to Ollivor, ”Sorry ‘bout that, got to thinkin’. Never a good idea in a pub, eh? As to seats, I’m happy to sit anywhere. But you’d do well to keep a sharper weather eye out - looks like there’s a table open hard by the bar, where your dancin’ lass will have to pass by us as she picks up drinks for folks. And we’ll have no trouble catching her eye when we need another round, or just catchin’ her eye,” he adds with a grin.
Doran and Ollivor make their way over to the table and order their drinks, Doran laying a few silver coins on the table and gesturing discreetly to the barmaid that he’ll be buying. They sit quietly, enjoying the change of scene from aboard-ship, until their pints arrive. Taking an appreciative swallow, Doran licks his lips, looks into his glass and says ”’Tis a pity beer takes up so much more room than rum, it’d be fine to have it on board. Though I expect the hands would take to it too much, and we’d have even more fights and foolery than normal.”
Looking up and turning to face Ollivor, he says ”So, tell me about yerself. How’s a magicker like yerself come to be lookin’ for work as a ship’s cook?” Doran realizes he may be asked the same questions, and quickly adds ”Only if ye wish to tell yer tale. And if ye’d rather not say, that’s fine, many a man’s set to sea to make a new story for himself.” And to himself, Dammit, I want to be friendly to folks, and get to know ‘em, but sure don’t want to be telling my tale of woe every time I share a pint with someone. I’ve still not learned to get on in the normal world, do better with slaves and pirates, where ye don't talk about your past.
Synthia looks at Beshra incredulously, but then grimaces her teeth and tries to wriggle her way out of the biting manacles one last time.
"Gods above and below! They just won't come off!
This thought recalls him to where he is standing, and he turns to respond to Ollivor, ”Sorry ‘bout that, got to thinkin’. Never a good idea in a pub, eh? As to seats, I’m happy to sit anywhere. But you’d do well to keep a sharper weather eye out - looks like there’s a table open hard by the bar, where your dancin’ lass will have to pass by us as she picks up drinks for folks. And we’ll have no trouble catching her eye when we need another round, or just catchin’ her eye,” he adds with a grin.
"I can't argue with your seafarer's eye," Ollivor says and moves to the table suggested taking a seat. He does enjoy the sight of the pretty lass though he tries not to be crude about his admiration.
”’Tis a pity beer takes up so much more room than rum, it’d be fine to have it on board. Though I expect the hands would take to it too much, and we’d have even more fights and foolery than normal.”
Ollie takes a swallow of his own, and nods, "Aye. Though I may take a small supply of it for cooking purposes. Beer can flavor foods well if you know how and I'm thinking variety will be in demand for the crew. The Lighthouse crew seems nice enough, too soon for me to say, but they seem to be hard workers and easy going? Anyone on the ship I should watch out for a temper?" Not that I always have the right to chastise others moods
Looking up and turning to face Ollivor, he says ”So, tell me about yerself. How’s a magicker like yerself come to be lookin’ for work as a ship’s cook?” Doran realizes he may be asked the same questions, and quickly adds ”Only if ye wish to tell yer tale. And if ye’d rather not say, that’s fine, many a man’s set to sea to make a new story for himself.”
Ollivor considers how much to tell, "Well, I wouldn't want to bore you. My magic came to me whether I liked it or not, but before I was a 'magicker' I was but the son of a fisherman. He fished and cooked a bit, mother didn't fish but cooked a lot. I learned a little of each from both in a small town called Cyremium. It's a nice enough but very dull place with lads just itching to join the navy in order to get the hell out of there. Now, in my brother Colwin's case, well, he's more of a patriot than I'll ever be so there was that for him too. I wonder how he's doing actually sometimes. I haven't heard from him in a time..." he takes a sip wondering how much he should tell about how his boring little town almost killed him in a blind panic when his magic first came to the fore. "But that aside, when my spells came upon me, I went to Almas to try to learn more about them, then traveled even a bit to Absolam. I worked as a cook or dockside fisher at both locations just to make ends meet and pay for my limited study. Turned out I got my magic from a distant...very distant, relation. Now that relation is rumored to be where the Lighthouse is traveling, so I'm happy to work for the passage. Truth to tell, sometimes I wonder why I'm searching so hard for him." Another swig, "I've my own life, after all, but the idea of giving up, even on a silly idea, well, it doesn't sit well in my gut."
Beshra tuts, her gloves and warm with the other woman's blood,
"Look, Synthia right? They come off it just ain't easy - not be much point to them if it was. Try again, the sooner you try the sooner I heal you and the sooner the pain stops. I ain't, I mean I'm not, being cruel, but my healing can sometimes fix more than this so its a waste to use it while you are only cut up this bad when you might get worse. Now come on one more time!"
Synthia eyes the other woman warily, unsure whether she can trust this promise of healing. But her frustration at being bound wins out, and again, she rotates her wrists and pulls.
This time her curse is too low to hear, and she blinks away tears of pain and frustration.
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When they've gone a few steps he mutters; "How much do we need to tell her?" honestly not relishing the though of convincing Johns wife of letting him play privateer.
Everything Sir, we tell her everything. Looking down the dirty alley back towards the lieutenant, John gives a decisive nod. She's a tough woman, and she knows better then most about the atrocity's done to slaves. I think she will understand and besides, I gave you my word.. she will respect that. I still have a family to provide for though sir. I'm not sure what your plan entails, but I'll need some way to send home wages.. I wouldn't abandon my responsibility to them anymore then I would the boys. And.. and if this goes bad.. John pauses to take a deep breath. I don't want her wondering what happened to me. Pivoting on his peg, John turns back down the alley and begins his trudge back to his house.
As the houses and buildings get smaller, and John and Iakob get closer and closer to the edge of Sousten, a small smile begins to form on Johns face. Golden Lord knows I have reasons to complain. The one legged sailor thinks to himself. But there's something about having a home to come back to. Knowing at the end of a tour, your wife and daughter are waiting for you. Its something good. Its something pure.
Reaching a small one story wooden house with a white washed fence, John steps through the gate, the pain in his leg momentary gone. Like most houses in Sousten, John's was shingled in age weathered cedar, having turned to a silvery grey long ago from the wind and rain, and faced with stone. As John enters the yard, a curly brown haired child peaks her head out of the front window and then seconds later the front door is thrown open and a young girl of three or four rushes out.
The girl yells arms held before her, reaching out towards John. Kneeling down, John takes the child in a fierce embrace, lifting her up into the air and hugging her tight.
Giggling the child gives her father a kiss on the cheek. I missed you daddy. The young girl cheerfully replies, as John lowers her down to the ground. Once she is down on the ground John grabs one of the brown paper wrapped packages tided in twine and holds it in front of the girl.
I missed you too Farah. John softly replies, looking sadly at his daughter, knowing that on the morrow he would set for sea and it could be months before he would see her again. I got you something. Says John, the moment of sadness passed, while handing her the package. I hope you like it! John says as Farah begins to tear into the package with relish. Oh, and wheres your mother?
Momma's in back. She's doing laundry.. Farah cries, clutching the porcelain figurine to her chest with one hand as she hugs John a second time.
I love you Farah! John quietly whispers as he holds his daughter tightly. After several heartbeats he breaks away from her, smiling. Go play with your friends, dearest. Daddy brought a friend over tonight for dinner, so make sure your washed and ready to eat by sundown. As Farah rushes off to go play with her friends, John rises and begins to make his way towards the back of the house.
"Dog's danglers and sea snakes!" Beshra hisses, you brace yourself and I'm going to try getting you out this time. She chants a quick spell calling for divine guidance, for herself, and then for Synthia, a little embarrassed she had forgotten about it previously and then yanks the cuffs down twisting them as she does.
"Gull guts and gangrene! Again damn it, we're being too gentle, this is going to hurt!" She chants her spells again, one on each of them and pushes down with her meagre strength, gritting her teeth as her paper-like skin twists and seeps blood and puss beneath her gloves. This time the barbs gash poor Synthia's flesh savagely, but they both twist perfectly despite the pain and gore and the cuffs slide free!
"Gods, sorry, sorry! Here!" Beshra gasps, seeing the bloody mess she has made of Synthia's wrists and hurriedly casting a healing spells, until the flesh is pink and new again,
"Feltae! Feltae! Feltae damn it!"
Sighing in relief as the flesh finally knits back to health Beshra, casts about for something that can be used to hold water and casts a spell to create a couple of gallons of water,
"Aquitae." Offering the water first to Synthia,
"Best get rid of the blood, it'll serve us better if it looks like we got them off effortlessly I think. I was going to suggest we hide the cuffs, but that might lead to a thorough search, which could reveal the trap door so I thought I could just hand them to the first guard that comes in and say these won't work on us... What do you think? We might earn a beating, but if the cuffs stay off it'll be worth it, worth a try?"
Doran listens raptly as Ollivor tells the story of a fairly ordinary childhood, with parents - that he lived with! - a brother he knew, a town that was nice, but that he could leave when he chose. To Doran's ears, he might as well have been describing life on another world.
When Ollivor winds down his tale, Doran says "It sounds like a wonderful place to have lived! I can't imagine ever leaving, though you must have had your reasons." He hesitates a moment, then confides "I can't imagine having so much family that ye'd leave 'em behind to go sailing off in search of more! I haven't seen my mother in close on ten years, and my father in so long I scarce remember him. My parents weren't so much married as bred, so I may have brothers or sisters out there, but half-blooded only, and none that I know. And I've left them all far behind now, left that life behind."
Doran quickly lifts his half-full glass and drinks it down, raising it over his head to catch the barmaid's attention, eager to distract the conversation from what he's just said "Ready for another? Lass! Another round here!"
"Bred? Ollivor is stunned, "Your parents were enslaved? Damn me. As an Andoran we're all about freedom this and liberty that, but I'll admit, you make me feel as if I took it all for granted."
However, Doran changes the subject and Ollivor is easily distracted by the barmaid, "Another for me, if you please?"
Exhausted from the pain and effort of the escape, and from the rapid-fire healing that followed, Synthia nonetheless musters the energy to kicks the bloody manacles against the wall. "I don't care what you do with the twice-damned things," she says before eagerly gulping down the water Beshra offers. Thirst slaked, she nods a curt thanks at her companion.
Recovered a bit, Syn looks down at the floor, clearly considering whether to follow Sandara. Then she shakes her head. "I'm a strong swimmer," she mutters, "but we are far from land."
In the flickering light of the candle, she begins a careful search of the room, hoping against hope that the crew had left something behind that could be used as a weapon.
Beshra shakes her head, conjuring some more water to clean herself up, and turning away as she removes her gloves to carefully cleanse the dry papery skin,
"Sandara seems to think we are best of seeming to be at least fairly compliant and waiting for our chance. If she's right about us being used to crew a commandered vessel then that might be our best bet. Question is whether we can hold out that long, Sandara doesn't seem to have been molested, but if anyone tries forcing me to spread my legs I'm going to melt their face. I suppose we could sneak out through the trap door and start a fire - if things get desperate and we're either close to land or another ship. I don't suppose you would be able to get the door open in a pinch?"
Once she is cleaned up to the best of her abilities she gingerly pulls her gloves back into the place and joins Synthia's search of the hold.
Iakob just nods at Johns insistence of telling his wife everything, it was his choice and Iakob was proud of his decision though he didn't look forward to the telling.
Watching him interact with his daughter brings a pang of guilt to Iakob, making him question his decision of accepting John to his mission, the damn thing was suicidal at best, attacking a stone-walled prison to break into it's iron-bared bowels to rescue men he couldn't be sure were still alive after his escape. The guards were sure to have punished them, it wouldn't take a genius to figure out that the group would never had made it as far as it did without help.
Nodding and smiling at the girl when John introduces him he watches her scurry off to play. "You sure about this." he says turning to John as he starts leading the way into his house. "I mean... Your famliy... I... Hells, John!" Iakob's voice lowers into a hiss and gains in urgency. "Look at me. I've got no one! You. You've got family man. No one will miss me, but you!?.." staring at John Iakob forces himself to relax, adopting a stern gaze he rights himself. "Are you sure?" he asks again.
"Bred? Ollivor is stunned, "Your parents were enslaved? Damn me. As an Andoran we're all about freedom this and liberty that, but I'll admit, you make me feel as if I took it all for granted."
Doran waits for the barmaid to leave their table and says "I'd no intent to make you feel bad, Ollivor. I was simply marvelling at how different lives can be. Yes, my parents were slaves, as was I. I only escaped from it by chance - and ill chance indeed, in many ways - a couple of years ago."
He looks up as a fresh pint is set before him and, once the barmaid has flashed a quick smile at Ollivor and moved on, he lifts his glass and says "I'm still not altogether sure how to live as a free man, but I'm happy to be learning to do so."