Doran is high up on the mainmast, carefully checking where the backstays attach to the mast, as successful sabotage here could bring the central mast crashing down, bringing the Lighthouse to a halt in a moment. The wind whistles and hums through the rigging around him, making him deaf to anything occurring below-decks.
Vrunyar looks around the room for a sign of Solouman, but sees nothing. As Vrunyar tries to see the extent of Ollivor's wounds, the Chelaxian spy slides from behind the wooden door to the galley. Vrunyar turns around just in time to see the short sword flash in a downward piercing strike. Fortunately for him, Solouman's angle coming from behind the door wasn't one that gave him a clear shot at the neck like he had with Ollivor. However, the deadly saboteur plunges the sword down into Vrunyar's chest, scraping his collarbone with a horrific searing pain. The dwarf keeps his feet, scrambling backwards in the close confines of the galley. Just outside the door, John and Captain Jonas hear the attack and see the wooden door shut in front of them.
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Pointing with his large katapeshi greatsword towards the door, John gave a nod towards Captain Jonas to open the door so he could rush into the room. As the door was thrown open John was horrified at the sight beyond. Lying on the ground next to the stove was young Ollivor, a pool of crimson blood slowly spreading out from a grievous wound in his neck, and in the center of the small galley was the chelish sympathizer Solouman in the midst of an attack on the dwarf. Raising his sword, John did his best to block out the coppery scent of blood that filled the tiny room. Rushing forward the red haired marine gripped the blade tight and brought it down in a long arcing curve towards the treacherous man. Whistling downward the mere weight of the blade connecting drove Solouman down to one knee before his chest and abdomen exploded in a crimson spray as the blade cleaved through bone, muscle and sinew. Snarling, the marine brought his blade around into a ready stance, eyes hard and whispered to the man, No quarter. Before preparing to strike again.
Stepping back, practically crashing against the wall and leaving a small smear of blood from his wound, Vrunyar’s left hand darts inside his vest to get an alchemical extract to heal himself. He pulls out the cork and downs the liquid, welcoming the magic that he had infused in the extract back to his body. He exhales and raises his dagger in his right hand, in a basic chest-high guard position. ”Yes, you probably can kill me. But do you think you can take the captain?”
Captain Jonas opens the door as it slams shut, clearing the way for John's heavy blade to gouge a deep cut into the deadly saboteur. The captain does not pull the blade at his own belt, which is a finely-crafted scimitar with a shining golden hilt. He either holds John's abilities in high esteem or has something else up his sleeve. He shouts in a loud, clear voice, "Spy on the ship! Get down here!"
Soloumon stumbles backwards, bleeding heavily from John's brutal attack. He reaches into his shirt and pulls out a small glass orb. Vrunyar, taking advantage of Soloumon's distriction, rakes his dagger across his back. His leather armor keeps the dwarf from slashing him wide open, but he still draws blood on some of the unarmored areas. He flings the orb onto the ground, breaking it and letting smoke hiss out. Smoke quickly fills the small kitchen, making it nearly impossible to see beyond a few feet. In the haze, Solouman tries to run past John and get free of the small room. The one-legged soldier sees him coming and rams a shoulder into the way when Solouman tries to get past. He brings his sword up and tries to slash him again, but the greatsword catches on the doorframe.
Doran has just finished checking the mainmast backstays to his satisfaction and, with a quick glance at the galley pursuing them, he steps over to the rigging. He grabs hold of the ratlines, the vertical ropes of the rigging, and curls his feet around the outside of them, laying his calloused hands out to grab hold of them as well. Just before he begins the fast slide down to the deck, he hears the captain’s voice loud and clear, warning of a spy on the ship! Sliding down at a breakneck speed, with the rope humming against his feet, Doran drops to the deck.
The instant his feet touch the deck, Doran is running across the smooth wood to the hatchway where he heard Jonas’ voice. As he moves, two knives spring into his hands as if by magic, and he calls out clearly, ”Spy on the ship, Cap’n says there’s a spy on the ship!”
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Oi where ya think you’re going mate? John growled, his Souston accent rolling off his tongue with a burr. Shoving Solouman back with a hard shoulder check John wobbled slightly on his uneven peg causing him to catch his katapeshi trophy on the doorframe. As the smoke began to billow out of the small kitchen John had something close to a smile start to form on his face in spite of the deadly situation. Being trapped on land, the loss of his leg.. well he didn’t welcome any man’s death but being in the thick of a boarding, defending your friends and your country. It was something that John had yearned for, for so long.. it was something that he thought he had lost and would never regain.. until now.
Sweeping the white cloud of smoke away with his sword, he saw for a just an instant Soloumon in the hazy cramped kitchen and for one single perfect moment everything was clear. Pointing at the spy with his sword all John could think about was Ollivor who lay dying next to the stove. The marine yelled, his voice a loud bellow and trained for leading men. Hobbling forward John adjusted his grip for a more precise strike before bringing it swinging around towards the Chelish spy. As the blade came whistling in John watched as Soloumon’s eyes grew wide. They both knew he was about to die.
Blade colliding with the man, John’s sword swung downward with an irresistible force cleaving through Soloumon, splitting bone, blood and organs. As the man fell to one knee and then to the floor John’s eyes never left the spy. No quarter mate.. John whispered before stepping around the spy towards young Ollivor who, like a mirror reflection of the chelish man, lay bleeding in a bloody pool on the kitchen floor.
For a moment, Vrunyar holds his breath as the smoke begins to pour from Solouman’s bomb. As Professor Fajcout like to say, ”Color doesn’t correspond to effect.” It could be smoke for blinding, coughing, crying, killing, or a host of magical effects. Once he’s certain it’s mostly for covering an ecapse, the smoke reminds the dwarf of the game he and his friends would play as children, Smoke Out the Goblin, Fire the Troll.
Vrunyar hears John’s patriotic bellow and then a thud as a body drops to the deck. He’s almost positive Soloumon is the one down, but only sheathes his dagger when he takes two steps and sees the man bleeding from the brutal wound John gave him.
Quickly Vrunyar steps over to Ollivor, unwrapping his belt sash, kneels, and feels for a pulse. He smiles when he feels it, no matter how weak. ”We’re here Ollivor. We’re going to take you to sickbay,” he says loudly practically in his ear as looks down the length of his body looking for a slight rise of the chest if he’s still breathing while pressing his sash into Ollivor’s wound. His knee feels wet from the blood soaking into his pants. ”Soon, you’ll be drinking me under the table again.”
Ollivor breathes, and it is clear by the blood lost that things could have been much worse for him. However, he does not wake at this time.
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Knowing from past experience that the sooner a man could get to the surgeon the more likely he was to survive, John yelled over his shoulder to Captain Jonas. I’m going to help Ollivor, Captain. When the others get here, let em know what’s what. I don’t want them sticking me when I come outta da’ smoke thinking I’m Soloumon. Carefully placing his katapeshi blade on the deck so that the blade wouldn’t catch anyone as they came into the galley John slowly made his way through the cloud of smoke towards the last place that he saw Ollivor at.
Reaching the stove, John towered over the fallen body of Ollivor and kneeling Vrunyar who was checking for a pulse. He’s alive then? John asked, the concern apparent in his voice. Shaking his head John saw the huge gash around Ollivors neck. Right brave that was.. The one-legged former marine muttered piecing together the events that transpired up to the cooks call for help.
Kneeling down next to Ollivor, John moves to grab his feet while motioning for the dwarf to grab his arms. Right.. we taking him da your cabin or up to the top deck so you can work in the light? He should have a dammed fine scar if he makes it though.. Hopefully he can still talk after its all over..
Captain Jonas walks into the smoke to drag Ollivor out of the galley while the crew all runs downstairs to help. He pulls him out, lifting him up over his shoulder. The limp cook bleeds down the captain's back, but seems to still be breathing. As he carries Ollivor out, he starts barking out orders. "Vrunyar, let's get his wounds treated. John, get Iakob and search Solouman's room. I want to know what he was using and what else was with him. Doran, give them a hand and keep an eye out for traps. Everybody else, get above and keep this boat sailing fast. You got it?" As the chorus of ayes echoes, the sailors run back up to man the sails and lines. "And be on the lookout for any more traps or sabotages that he left!" he shouts behind them.
The captain gently places Ollivor on the table in Vrunyar's makeshift clinic. His head rolls side to side slightly with the pitch of the boat on the waves. Vrunyar takes a look at the injury, but the dim light belowdeck has him squinting. He looks side to side for a torch, but the room brightens when Jonas touches a hanging oil lamp. The lamp shines with light, but it is not firelight. It gleams with magical light, clear and steady. Vrunyar looks up at the captain with surprise, but Jonas makes no explanation. "Can you save him?"
Oddly, Ollivor seems almost more at peace as magical light's glow upon him, but he's still remarkably pale.
The Wormwood sits upon the water like a spider awaiting a meal. Harrigan has the crew fully manned and ready to spring into action as soon as they see their prey. Master Scourge and his brother have taken away the grog from the crew to ensure that they are angry and clear-headed when it comes time to fight, but scuffles have broken out left and right as the angry sailors try to wait away the time. Ambrose - Fishguts to most of the crew - and Beshra hand out food to keep their strength up. As Beshra hands out a piece of hard tack, one of the sailors, a man with a nasty scar over his left eye and badly rotting teeth, grabs her wrist tightly. "You stupid b*!#%! Give me some more or I'll cut your damn fingers off and eat those instead!"
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Aye, aye Captain. John replied knuckling his forehead in response and quickly turning to. Grabbing his greatsword from the deck of the galley John wiped the blood off of the blade on Solouman’s trousers before he hobbled out of the galley with a sense of urgency. Moving out into the hallway John pointed over his shoulder to the dead spy. Doran, I’ll go get Iakob. Give Solouman the once over and check for anything of interest then meet me at the entrance to this bilge-rats cabin. Smiling oddly John claped Doran on the shoulder before he hobbled up the ladderwell. We will put a round-turn on this situation mate, just wait and see.
Emerging into the light of the sun John limped his way up to the mainmast where he saw his lieutenant working the rigging. Sir! John yelled, holding a hand up to his mouth to project his voice. Captains orders, sir. He needs us to check out Solumans cabin. I’ll explain on the way down. Doran is already waiting for us. Waiting patiently for Iakob to make his way down the rigging John watched with a stab of annoyance at how easy Iakob was able to make his way down the ropes. I hope that shark choked on my leg. John muttered, grimacing at the ever present ache in his knee and touching the single sharks tooth that hanged from a leather cord around his neck.
Beshra, forces herself not to flinch back from the ghastly mouth full of rotting teeth and the stench of foul breath that strikes at her like a sledgehammer. Cannot afford to show these scum weakness, so let's see if I can throw some chum in the water and turn these sharks on this reeking ruin of a man. She turns to the rest of the crew managing a smile and quirking a brow as she asks,
"What do you think fellas, you think Fighguts here should get more than you? Course that will mean one of you has to go without... But then we could just let him eat my fingers, I'm sure Plugg will be delighted about it, he gave me a cushy job in the galley because he fancies you - right Ambrose? Then of course there's the fact that you f~+$ing touch me ever again and fingers or no fingers I'll come and castrate you next time you close your eyes. Now let...me...go."
You know Sweetling sometimes I think its a shame I inhabit you, without me to scare you away from darkness you could be truly formidable, what a waste... It seems blood runs true.
I'd have taken my chances gladly Monster.
”I will do my best,” the dwarf answers, as he opens the medical kit and starts choosing the appropriate sutures and needle. Using the sleeve of his shirt, he wipes the sweat from his forehead. ”Many people would be dead from this wound. Let’s hope Ollivor’s luck remains.”
Vrunyar’s fingers begin their task, stitching Ollivor’s wound closed. Vrunyar doesn’t notice the rocking of the ship nor the slight residual pain from his own wound. Once the sutures are in, the dwarf prepares a poultice by mixing some herbs in medicinal alcohol. He applies this liberally to the wound and then wraps it with the green bandages he purchased after drinking with Ollivor and Doran.
”Now we wait,” Vrunyar says to the captain as he washes the blood from his hands with soap and water.
When Vrunyar is done tending him, Ollivor gives a weak rasp, and then his eyes open slowly. His voice is weak, lacking force, "where... tell me you got the featherless bastard..."
Doran sees the captain hurry by carrying Ollivor’s limp form, trailed by Vrunyar with a concerned look on his face. Before Doran can ask what’s happened, he is interrupted by the series of orders from the captain, and Rawkins’ more detailed instructions on their particular duties. As Doran hurries below-decks in response, he thinks to himself, Solouman? Give him the once over? What’s going on?.
He follows the traces of smoke wafting out of the galley, and finds Solouman’s badly cut corpse spilling blood onto the deck. Ah, well, that’s a few questions answered. Here’s our spy, or what’s left of him. Short work they made of him looks like, though with the smoke smell and all the blood about, it must have been a hell of a fight. Doran squats down by Solouman’s body and methodically searches him, careful to look for secret pockets, keys in his shoes or strung about his neck, or any other spy-like tricks he can think of. When he’s done, he makes his way quickly to the passenger compartment.
At the entrance to the cabin, Doran notes the open door, and enters cautiously. He looks around for any indication of traps, as instructed, and waits for John and Iakob to join him for a more careful search of the cabin.
Vrunyar’s burst of joyful laughter signals that Ollivor will live. ”Aye,” Vrunyar says checking Ollivor’s pulse at his wrist again. ”John...John Rallins? The man with the peg-leg. He cut down Solouman. I didn’t see the act itself due to the smoke, but the wound was vicious. Good thing too. Solouman had nearly defeated me.” The dwarf indicates the slashed opening and bloodstains in his shirt.
Ollivor gives what sounds like a wheeze, but its just an attempt at a laugh, "Then I owe Rallins a thanks. What the hell mischief was Solouman up to anyway? He wasn't in the talkative mood, and seemed... annoyed that I was."
The sailor with the rotten teeth drops his hand from Beshra's wrist. The rest of the crew snickers at his expense. He hesitates and looks over at Plugg, who is busy on the other side of the ship berating another crew member. He tries his best to save some face by cursing at her. "You dumb harlot, you're not worth my time. Not with so many people watching." He stands and tries to go sit at another side, licking his wounds and resentment.
Beshra continues along handing out the food to the surly crew, but no one bothers her anymore. When she gets to Synthia and the gnome pirate she seems to have become friends with, the garishly-dressed Conch clacks his tongue at her. "Tsk, tsk! You'll make enemies that way, and wouldn't you rather have friends? Look at me - I make friends all the time!" He gestures to Synthia, who looks at him with a deadpan eye.
With Ollivor's grievous injury mended by Vrunyar's steady hands, Captain Jonas offers him a tip of his leather tricorne hat. "I am glad to see you make it out. Get some rest, but that was just the beginning. They're gaining on us. They must have some extra rowers. Hopefully with him gone, we can still use our sails to get away. Vrunyar, good work. I hope he's the last person you'll have to treat for a while." The captain puts a hand on thanks on the dwarf's shoulder for a moment, then makes his way back up to the main deck.
Doran is busy checking the room for traps when he hears the thump-tap-thump-tap he has come to recognize as John's gait. He and Iakob enter the tiny berth to help search. John's blade drips Soloumon's blood into the room he rented, a grisly reminder of the spy's violent death a few minutes before. The spartan room holds few belongings. The body, which Riki and Jax carried abovedeck to throw overboard, had few possessions beyond a handful of smoky orbs and his weapon and armor. (The armor bears a massive gash from Solouman's brutal death at John's hands, but would likely still be useful.) The room similarly has the hallmarks of a man who travels lightly with an eye for quick escape. His baggage - a plain case of smoothed wood - has a few sets of unremarkable clothes in it, along with a few lines of thin string and a handful of small crossbow bolts. The bolts likely were intended for use with the hand crossbow that he used to set up the impromptu trap in the room. The only item of any note is a ceramic bowl broken into two pieces. The bottom of the bowl is still wet with a reddish water. As soon as they see it, they recognize it as a small amount of blood diluted by water.
"Long as you don't think I'm shirkin' captain.." Ollivor says wearily.
The first set of rowers, exhausted beyond the limits of mortal endurance, waits for the order to stand. Each of them knows from painful experience to await the order instead of simply standing up. An unauthorized standing will result in a single lash, to be administered immediately by the dominus that keeps a watchful eye over them. The dominus also ensures that the rowers maintain equal and precise pulls in order to keep the ship at maximum efficiency. "Rowers!" The pale-skinned dominus shouts out the beginning of his order. "Stand! Turn! Turn! March!" The exhausted rowers does precisely what he demands, ensuring that they march in unison until they exit to the long tables on the second deck to receive their daily rations. As they retreat, they hear the dominus issuing orders to the next set of rowers.
Wynifred - no last name, she tells people - feels her muscles ache. Having only been in the rowers for three days, she is not yet used to the twelve-hour shifts. She happily takes the rations when one of the ship's halfling slaves serves it. Today's menu is a meticulously-measured amount of potato, bread, boiled pork, and clean water. The Chelaxians may be using them as maltreated slave labor, but they at least feed them well enough to ensure that their investments do not starve to death. She eats quietly, reflecting on how she ended up in this situation. When she had boarded the passenger ship in Absalom in pursuit of a thief, she was excited about the prospects of travel. When the Hellsmouth stopped the passenger ship a few leagues short of the Arch of Aroden, she thought nothing of it. The Chelaxians always demanded tariffs, but were far from pirates. She had joined the ship's crew in exchange for passage, so she couldn't believe her ears when the captain of that ship offered her and several other crew members up when the Admiral of the Hellsmouth demanded "volunteers" as rowers. She was forcibly seized and brought to the Chelaxian flagship, then forced to double up in a massive dormitory.
She sits directly across from an elf a few inches taller than her. He says nothing and sits in silence as he eats. She notes the callouses on his hands and the strength of the muscles on his relatively small elven frame, wondering how long he has been part of the ship. Almost before she can stop herself, she blurts out the question. "How long have you been here?"
He looks at her for a few long seconds. It seems like it has been a long time since the elf has spoken to anyone but himself in his own mind. "Nine years. I am Thorn Syndergaard."
She would offer to try to shake a hand, were it not for her aching arms. Instead, she just nods to the elf. "Wyn. So... this is a long term position then?" she sighs, a half-hearted joke. She wasn't sure what to do about her situation, but she was damned if she was going to end her life a slave.
Beshra chuckles warmly after him, chanting a quick spell to plate her tongue,
"No harm done mate, we are pirates afterall nothing wrong with having a go, you tried it and you ain't lost nothing have you, no need for us to be at each others throats. You took a chance, that's what pirates do, you've probably got leadership potential, what's your name?"
But Beshra cannot entirely keep her disgust for this rancid vermin of a man from her voice and her flattering words ring hollow, even sarcastic to her own ears - though she hopes the cretin will not pick up on such nuances.
The pirate glares at Beshra with hate in her eyes as she taunts him from behind. More fearful of Plugg and Scourge than of her, he clenches his teeth. He whispers something under his breath, but she is too far to hear. Conch pipes up from the table, "Let it go. You've already made enough enemies on this boat. You don't need to keep tickin' 'em off."
Thorn quickly studies this woman who calls herself Wyn as he slowly returns a slight nod of his head never taking his eyes off of hers. Thorn observes she is exhausted from the days shift at the oars by the slight tremble in her arm as she raises bread to her mouth. Thorn also observed Wyn has Ulfen features and an Ulfen since of humor making light of her dire situation. Speaking in Skald “It’s yours as long as you want it.”
With a wry twist to the mouth, Wyn returns in Skald, "I've heard of 'job security,' but give it to Cheliax to take it to the extreme."
She forces herself to eat slowly, and not wolf down the food offered her, and let its sustenance course through its body. "Any idea where we're headed?"
Having satisfied himself that there are no additional traps about, Doran is just about to search Solouman's room when John and Iakob enter.
Looking at John's stern face and blood-smeared blade, Doran says "Well, it looks like you're the one that finished our spy. But tell me what happened while we check his kit, eh?. From the wreck he made in the galley, he must have led you all quite a dance. It smells like Ollivor burned a full watch's dinner in there, with those smoke-bombs Solouman was carrying. And speaking of Ollivor - is he all right?"
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Sharing a sidelong glance with Iakob, John shook his head. Why did people always want to know the details of the fight? John thought, recalling more than one instance of being asked about his previous boarding actions by others that had no business knowing.. and wouldn’t understand even if you tried to describe it. Killing a man wasn’t something to take lightly, even if it was someone like Solouman who attacked without provocation. Grimly musing at the thought, John remembered the fat Katapesh eunuch whom John took the blade from that he now carried. He had killed then too, and other times as well, but always in protection of himself or others.. always.
Shrugging off the dark memories John looked at his blade and then up at the diminutive halfling. Leaning his sword against the wall, John placed one hand on his navy cutlass he kept at his side running his thumb along the pommel in thought. I was with the captain and the doc. We heard Ollivor shout from the galley. I went to investigate and found Ollivor bleeding on the deck and the doc nearly the same. Shrugging again John looked back at his sword, his eyes going cold and hard. So I put him down and it was justified. Looking away from the Doran, John gave a glance towards Iakob. The lieutenant would understand. Coughing to clear his throat, John looked around the space examining, the shattered bowl and austere cabin. Trust me Doran, if today goes south then you will know how I feel by the end of it. That or we will be dead. Rising from his inspection of the room, John gave a momentary look toward Iakob. Sir, if you still got that flask on you, I would fancy a nip right about now.
Doran pauses a moment before responding, as if gathering his thoughts, then says "I had no thought of judgin' what you did, John. But if I had such, I'd say you did right, plain as day, as it was justified an' more. As to knowing how you feel, I did worse things to better folk when I sailed on the Fortune's Bride. There's rarely pleasure in killin' a man, but I'd say Solouman was one that needed killing, if only to save every life on this ship, or at least give us all a shot at surviving."
Turning to Iakob, Doran echoes Rawkins' sentiment, "Even having missed the fight itself, I could do with a bit of bracing, if you don't mind sharing a bit."
Beshra frowns,
"Mmmm, you aren't wrong, but nobody ever achieved anything worthwhile without making enemies - nobody interesting anyway. Still I should have handled that better, it would be handy if her got unlucky in the upcoming battle... Hmmm, so you are Conch right? Synthia mentioned you were taking her under your wing. Pleased to meet you, I don't suppose you know my new friend there's name do you, forewarned is forearmed as they say..?"
"Anyone still there?" Ollivor asks weakly, "When will i be able to move about? I'm sure if I take it easy, I'll be alright." the young sorcerer hates this. Laying here, doing nothing and being of no use. If it were his own idea, then sure, he'd be fine with it, but damn it, having no choice riles him. Well, as riled as a man as damaged as he is can manage.
Better dead than bored? mmm... I think I might believe it.
Wyn frowned as the elf appeared to slip, however briefly, into a reverie, but he seemed alright--doubtless being in a place like this made you a little prone to such things. His speaking in Skald made her think of long chats with her grandfather when she was a child, and had she the mental energy to, she might have been inclined to reminisce herself.
The information he offered was more than interesting to keep her in the present though, and she chose to focus on that. "Intercepting a ship? To fight? Or to..." she glowered, "Take on more 'volunteers'?"
One of the rowers - a Mwangi man with deep circles under his dark eyes - darkly whispers to Wynifred and Thorn. "Shhh. If they hear you speaking anything other than the Common tongue, you'll receive three lashes, and one for me for not reporting you! You must be quiet!"
”Me too Captain. Me too,” Vrunyar says packing his medical kit for quick transport. ”I’ll be back in a few minutes Ollivor. If another fight is coming I want my armor and battleaxe. Can I get you anything? Besides the water of course.”
As he makes his way to his berth, Vrunyar threads his way between crewmates looking for traps left behind by Solouman. He assures them that Ollivor will fine.
Vrunyar rests the armor on his cot. He had bought it with Yennard for their planned adventures. Lace and cinch, lace and cinch. His leather armor fits snugly, in a comforting way. He pounds his chest once, satisfied with the hard leather knock. The battleaxe on his back is balanced and hardly feels there at all. He heads to the deck to check on the location of the Hellsmouth.
Back in the sickbay, the dwarf brings Ollivor a mug and a pitcher of water. ”I'm here. I'm here. Ha!” he says. ”You lost a fair amount of blood and need to drink water. I’ll make a deal with you, drink this over the course of the next hour and you’ll get my rum ration for the day. How does that sound? Rest is the best thing for now. If you feel fine in half an hour, I'll help you to the galley. So long as you don't strain yourself and don't overdo it.”
Ollivor smiles a bit as Vrunyar returns, and he responds in his currently ragged voice, "Thank you, Vrunyar. You're a good man to offer a fellow crewmate your rum..." He takes a small drink of the water that's been offered in a slow half slurp, before continuing, "but I wouldn't wish to put you out. Aye, I'll be good and not go running around the deck, but I'm powerful embarrassed. Here I am, the power of magic in my blood, and I end up hostage to a cut throat traitor helpless as a newborn babe. It vexes me."
Wyn turns to the Mwangi man, and answers him quietly in Common. "We're all rather tired here, maybe you just misheard." Careful to be sure no one but the Mwangi man and Thorn see her, she gives the man a wink. She will do whatever she needs to be sure the man does not get in trouble for anything she does.
"We'd best finish our meal anyway, I doubt our break will be long." She sets to doing as she says.
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Taking a quick glance at the halfling, John gave Doran a short nod before relaxing some of the tension from his wide shoulders. Apologies, mate. John gruffly replied, realizing that Doran was just trying to help the situation and recognizing for the first time just how little he knew about the competent bosun.
Sensing that Doran might not want John to pry, the large man shrugged at Doran’s words. Your right mate and I know the lieutenant will attest to it as well. Some men need killing. Saw it myself plenty of times in the Navy. Some people just can’t understand that. As to the other part, about doing worse to better… well I learned a long time ago to judge a man by his actions, not by his past… Desperation can force a good man down a bad path. I’ve watched former slaves that the Eagle rescued turn away from a life of misery and exploitation towards a better future. Gods do I know that… because Alima was one of them.
The Empty Lighthouse races through the sea as the sun rises high and begins to fall in the afternoon. The Hellsmouth follows it steadily, keeping up through its use of double-shift rowers. Through the day, their distance both ebbs and draws closer - but by the end of the first day, it seems that the Hellsmouth is a good deal closer than it was when they began. The crew of the Empty Lighthouse spends much of the day repairing the damage that the now-overboard Solouman inflicted upon the ship. His sabotage was expertly done, and likely would have gone unnoticed except for Vrunyar's warning. A sail would have come down here or a rope broken there, slowing the ship down significantly. Repairing the damage slows the Lighthouse somewhat, but they compensate well enough for them to have at least one more night of freedom.
Captain Jonas has been sending people to get rest in groups of two or three, but not taking any himself. At dusk, he calls for a meeting of the crew. As the crew, numbering slightly more than a dozen, assembles on the deck, he begins to speak. "We have made good time, and I believe that we will escape, but it will be much closer than I thought because of the sabotage. It may not be enough, though. You should be prepared to fight them should we get boarded. I will do what I can to hold them off, because the captain of a ship cannot allow its capture without doing all that he can to ward it off. Years ago, I swore an oath not to use my full talents. I did so because of the man I had become used the power he had to victimize others. I wanted to be a better man, so I swore that I would not use them again because I wanted to earn all that I had. I worked my way from where you are now to the captain of this ship, all without breaking this oath. However, I know that if I want to fulfill the duty and obligation that I have to the lot of you, I must break this oath. I will have to answer for it one day, as with all of the things I have done, but I will see that you get as much of a fighting chance as I can get you."
Ollivor's neck wound is still fresh and red, but thanks to Vrunyar's aid, he's able to come out and witness Captain Jonas' speech. The sorcerer nods softly as some of what he suspected is confirmed, and more is told than he knew. His voice is still raw and rough, it will be hard to say if it will fully recover or not, but the crew has heard about how he shouted the alarm at risk to his own life and nearly lost the same. It rather amazes the young man how many folks are clapping him on the shoulder for a 'job well done'.
It's like they haven't figured out I lost and had to be saved, he muses to himself as another gives a nod to him. Of course, if he hadn't cried out, more damage still to the ship might have occurred, but that eludes the proud young man at the moment.
He only wishes he could cheer for the captain at a decent volume. It seems to be any oath given that keeps you from doing what's right is an oath that should be dropped anyway, but not everyone sees things the same. This is costing the captain, that much is sure.
Doran listens to John, bristling slightly at his mention of former slaves, thinking, He’d compare that spy, who chose a life of betraying of others, with a slave, who had no choice in anything in his life! But catching the tender tone in Rawkins’ voice, and seeing the hardened marine’s face soften as he finishes speaking, Doran realizes he means no insult.
He responds, ”I agree about judging a man by his actions – it’s why Cap’n Jonas and I get on so well. We’ve both pasts we wish to put behind us, and are good at what we do. And we’d rather not dwell on the paths desperation has driven us down.”
Looking about the small cabin, he says, ”Well, I think we’re done here. Best get back to work keeping the barky sailing, if we’re to outrun that damn galley.” Doran exits the cabin and makes his way back to the deck and his duties.
In the evening, listening to the captain’s speech, Doran reflects Well, I guess I spoke true when I said the captain didn’t want to dwell on his past. He’s got some shadows behind him, sure enough.
Catching sight of Ollivor, he approaches and says, ”Glad to see you back on your feet. You didn’t look so good when last I saw you, slung over the cap’n’s shoulder and spilling blood on his boots." Pausing a moment, he adds quietly, "Hurts a man’s pride to be taken unawares, don’t it? I’ve been there, and I know it. But it’s why we sail as a crew instead of alone, have each other’s backs in a scuffle and haul together on a line when the wind is stiff. You rest as well as you can, and let me know if I can help you with anything, all right?”
Catching sight of Ollivor, he approaches and says, ”Glad to see you back on your feet. You didn’t look so good when last I saw you, slung over the cap’n’s shoulder and spilling blood on his boots."
"So you're saying sanguine isn't my color?" Ollivor gives a weak smile. He likes Doran fine after all, though the words do make him realize just how much he owes the captain. Ollivor's never been comfortable with debts. And he feels the weight of this on keenly but tries to mask it. The mask slips as the halfling goes on.
Pausing a moment, he adds quietly, "Hurts a man’s pride to be taken unawares, don’t it? I’ve been there, and I know it. But it’s why we sail as a crew instead of alone, have each other’s backs in a scuffle and haul together on a line when the wind is stiff. You rest as well as you can, and let me know if I can help you with anything, all right?”
For a moment, Ollivor stiffens as he's read all too easily, then he sighs, "Shows that much, does it? Yes, it gets my hackles up a bit to think on. Just, I was feeling not too useful to begin with as I'm no sailor...and then when I do get a chance to do something right, to take out that traitor, well, I botch it but good. Maybe..."[smaller] he considers [smaller]"Maybe when I'm healed up, you can give me a few pointers so I can help the ship as more than a cook, if you can find the time?"
Thorn looks sharply at the Mwangi man, then burst out in a roar of laughter before speaking in Skald "Fear not the lash but the rage that lay in wait for any man, beast or Chelaxian that has a debt owed to me. No man will keep me from speaking in the tongue of my FATHERS!!!"
Thorn does not flinch as the nearest guard cracks his whip violently against Thorns back several times trying to quiet Thorn and maintain control of his slaves. Thorn slowly turns and stares Maliciously eye to eye with the guard before slowly sitting down with a grin. The blood slowly trickles down his back as the sea breeze blows slightly across his back to cool the sting from the lashes.
Thorn feels his rage as a boiling heat radiating from his body, it is to the point he can not control it much longer. Thorn tells himself "I must take pause and regain control of myself emotions. The time to strike is near but I must be patient or my revenge will be left undone." Thorn looks at Wyn before sliding the rest of his rations to her "I have enough energy to last me through the night, they will never break my will or get me to forget who I am."
Wyn looks at the rations, then passes them to the Mwangi man, who was clearly fearful, and likely in more need of sustenance than any of them. The man took the plate and scampered away, having no wish to attract the guard's attention after Thorn's display.
She stood, crossing to the other side of the table to whisper in Thorn's ear. "Don't forget who you are, warrior, but get another man hurt for your pride, and I'll give you more to worry about than a Cheliaxan's whip, no matter how many days I've been rowing."
She had no issue with Thorn risking him--or her, for that matter--but the Mwangi man had been trying to do them both a favor and had risked his own punishment to do so. Responding by nearly guaranteeing the poor man would be drawn into their own mischief was not Wyn's idea of kindness or heroics.
A guard barked at her for talking to Thorn, and she glared at him, daring him to do more. Whatever it was she would take it. Perhaps it would give the Mwangi more time to get away.
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Silently agreeing with the halfling, John cast a weathered eye over the room. Aye mate, captain will likely need all hands on deck tonight. Grabbing his greatsword on the way out of the cabin, John gestured for Iakob to go first as he closed the door. After you sir, and if you don’t mind me saying, thanks for the nip.
Hobbling his way down the passageway with the others and up onto the deck John rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Not much light left. Best turn to while we still can, else there will be the devil to pay.
Standing at the gunwell, John felt the Empty Lighthouse crest another wave before riding the swell down into the ditch. Feeling the sea spray on his face, John looked off into the horizon still feeling the same sense of wonder and awe that had never left him since he was a boy. The blue of the sea, vast and wide, with all of the opportunity and freedom that any man can have if he can hold it tight. Then looking over his shoulder at the slowly advancing Hellsmouth, John frowned. Or plunder he can snatch up with a mailed fist.
Holding his jack of grog in his hand, John leaned forward against the rail watching the fading light of sunset turn the sky a deep cherry red and then dim slowly into a majestic plum-like purple. Sipping the grog while waiting for the green flash, John grimaced. While he couldn’t be sure, the captain had never proofed the rum and the grog tasted a bit watered down tonight. John couldn’t fault the captain, they were in a stern chase after all with the crew being worked port and starboard but grog was something sacred to a crew and not to be trifled with.
Heaving a sigh of relief at not seeing the green flash John listened as the crew began to assemble before the mast. Following up behind Malakay and Riki, John gave a brief smile at the two’s antics. It seemed that at some point in the last few hours Riki had managed to get cold pitch onto Malakay’s feet and the crew had started to call him Blackfoot Carr. Chuckling to himself John shook his head. A bit of joking could be good for crew morale, and even if Malakay diden’t know it, swabs getting a bit of a rub the first few weeks was tradition. It made the new sailor forget about home and bond with his shipmates. Smiling ruefully to himself John thanked Abadar that his time at sea had earned him a bit of a reprieve.
Circling around Captain Jonas, John listened along with the other members of the crew at the captain’s speech. As the speech tapered off John met Iakobs eyes and nodded to the captain before shuffling through the crowd while still sipping on his grog in thought. Feeling the ever throbbing pain shooting through his knee John made his way toward the captain with Iakob in tow. Bloody hell… John thought while watching Malakay sitting on a barrel in the back, trying to pick away at his pitch covered feet. Well, once a marine always a marine.
Captain, John began, gesturing to himself and Iakob. It was a fine speech sir, but I am concerned about the crew. I can’t speak for the others, but Iakob and myself have been in a scrap or two and you don’t need to worry about us fighting. I worry about the others though, sir. It might be a good idea to take a count of how many people have weapons and armor onboard. I don’t know what you’re planning sir, but if it comes down to a fight I want to see as many of my shipmates make it out of here alive. I think we need some sort of plan, sir.
As John waited for a reply he touched his hand to his belt pouch, feeling the tightly bound journal with Alima’s lock of hair enclosed within. Feeling the edges of the journal calmed the anxiety within him. You could call him superstitious if you wished, but John knew he hadn’t seen his wife for the last time. The Carron’s Maw hadn’t killed him. The bastard of a shark hadn’t killed him. He would be dammed if the Hellsmouth did.
Doran smiles at Ollivor’s request, saying ”I’d be happy to teach you a bit about bein’ a sailor, and the difference between a sheet bend and a sheepshank. You’ll be rated an able hand before ye know it. Having every hand on board able to work the sails and keep us sailing can make the difference in a chase like the one we’re in, so I’m glad you’re eager to learn it.”
Looking at some of their crewmates working nearby, he says ”You’re lucky the boys like you and your cooking, or they’d be like to pull a trick or two on you as a lubber – no offense intended, eh? But they’ll often try to trip up a landsman with words he don’t know. Like they’ll ask you to do something with a ‘sheet’ – and most lubbers think a sheet is a sail. But the sheets are ropes, y’see? That rope that leads up to the foresail, an’ which we use to adjust her angle to the wind? That’s a sheet. An’ so a sheet bend is a knot ye’d use to tie two ropes together, ‘cuz a bend is a knot that always joins two lines. Where a hitch is a knot you’d use to tie a rope to something else, like an eye or a cleat. But just like with your bends, there’s lots of kinds of hitches, some are crossing knots, like the clove hitch or your bill hitch – though many folk’d use a cat’s paw instead of a bill hitch, but I say it’s a finicky knot if you need to untie it in a hurry - and some hitches you just make with a round turn, like a rolling hitch, like ye may have seen us use when we haul on the anchor hawsers…”
Doran pauses and looks Ollivor in the face, and seeing the cook’s eyes somewhat glazed over, says ”Yeah, well, that’ll do for now, eh? What with your recent injury, you don’t want to strain the mind overmuch, right? But like I said, I’d be glad to teach you a bit about sailing.”