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.”
"Thank you kindly," Ollivor smiles at Doran's confidence in either Ollivor's learning ability, Doran's own teaching skills, or both. It was truly reassuring to know he'd have an old hand like the halfling willing to help him learn the ropes.
Of course, he didn't realize sailor was about to break into what sounded like a foreign language.
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…”
Ollivor's eyes glaze slightly. Part of it is still recovering from his injuries, but the rest watching the proverbial words shoot past and over his head because they're going by at too quick a pace to retain. Of course, he still tries, but it's soon obvious he's not fooling Doran for one moment.
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.”
"Aye, I think I need to sit down a bit after that, but... thank you. I'll get it all straight in my head eventually, it just may take some time." Cross hitches, clove knots? or was it the other way around? he shakes his head a bit.
Arturo brings word to Vrunyar about the Captain’s meeting as the dwarf finishes cleaning the blood stains from the galley. Blood-soaked rags are in one bucket, and a brush floats in the suds of another. He slaps the cloth he was drying the floor onto his back.
”Not as clean as you could get it, I’d wager,” Vrunyar says, ”But don’t feel put out. I have experience cleaning up blood from my anatomy lessons, and you swabs have more important things to do with that ship trying to intercept us. Captain Jonas wants words with us? I’ll be there.”
Later...
After the captain finishes his speech, Vrunyar nods in appreciation for Captain Jonas’ candor. As a few of the other crew approach Jonas, Vrunyar watches the ship following them. All he wanted was to return Yennard to his family and then go on adventures. Not the other way around.
Malakay’s pitch covered feet. He shakes his head while snorting in amusement, wondering if they’ll probably start calling him “Stick-kay” or some other nickname; wondering if Riki had anything planned for him.
He sees Doran and Ollivor talking, and waits at the edge of earshot for a lull in the conversation. Seeing it, he steps forward. ”Excuse me Ollivor, Doran. I wondered when you were going to task me with some kitch— galley duty so you don’t overexert yourself. As you can imagine, I’m quite proficient with slicing and cutting meat. You weren’t planning on making dinner all on your own were you?” he asks Ollivor, his eyes studying the human’s face and body language.
Ollivor looks dubious, "Well, I was, but I was going to take it slow...use a bit of magic to speed it up, I don't know about anyone doing my job with me slacking."
”Slacking? Ha! I’m not sure what that exactly means in your sailor jargon, but I think I get the meaning. Nearly killed and back to work so quickly, who’d accuse you of slacking?” The dwarf laughs.
”Very well. Impress the crew with your tenacity and fortitude. Make sure you don’t get too warm. I’ve seen humans, and even two dwarves, pass out from blood loss and high temperatures. Don’t be surprised by my appearance in the galley to check on you while you prepare the meal. Is that satisfactory?” Vrunyar extends his right hand in order for Ollivor to shake in agreement.
Ollivor smiles and takes the hand, "Fair enough, and thank you. I'll try not to pass out on you again." The human's shake is normally firmer, but it's clear his full strength hasn't returned.
In a lower voice, Ollivor asks, "What make you of the captain? I find myself admiring the man. I truly never have been one to take orders well, but... I respect Captain Jonas. Hell, I might even think him great before all is said and done, and I've never been one busting with admiration for others."
With his sword at his side and his pistol and ammo secure in a waterproofbag on his person Iakob heads up to listen to the captain speak, just noding grimly at his words, the fight would be brutal, he knew, but Iakob knew there would be a fight. He'd rather die than be caught by chelaxians again.
Eyeing John, Iakob can't help but feel proud of the ex-marine, he'd done a good job and he knew it, but the best part was in Iakob's mind that he also didn't need any praise for his work. A marine did what a marine needed to do, end of story.
Seeing the chef that got assaulted as he followed John through the crowd, Iakob can't help but eye his throat, still a raw, red wound right across his throat, and wonder how the man had kept his voice, let alone his life, after that wound? The man must be allot tougher than he lets on, Iakob realized and felt his respect for the man growing.
Meeting up with the captain Iakob instantly agrees with John's assessment. "He's right capt'n. We'll need to know who'll swing and not freeze, sir, and find the freezers somethin' else t' do than prepare t' repel, sir."
Doran listens to Vrunyar’s offer to help in the galley with a bit of confusion and says ”Wait, what…did you work in a butcher shop before studying surgery…”, then he goes silent as a look of horror crosses his face. Like many sailors, Doran won’t hesitate in the face of blood to help or harm in the heat of the moment, but he is quite unused to such matter-of-fact discussion of cutting people like meat, or any medical subject, for that matter. He speaks up ”Aww, Doc! Do ye have to talk about cutting up people in the same sentence as ye talk about making supper? I know we’re all very glad to have you on board to tend to those that get sick or injured – and there’ll likely be plenty of that if the Hellsmouth gets much closer – but I think the hands’d be happier if you stayed out of the galley. I can just imagine some of the tales they’ll dream up about what’s for dinner if they find you’re part-time doctor and part-time cook.”
Vrunyar’s laughter lasts for at least thirty seconds. He wipes a few tears from his eyes with the sleeves of his shirt. He takes a few breaths with his hands on his knees before saying, ”Well that was well timed. One of the best ways to get rid of nervous energy if you ask me. If the hands will be happier, I’ll stay out of the galley.” He momentarily glances between Ollivor and the halfling to see if this was a scheme to keep him out of the galley developed between them, but so far as he can tell, it’s not.
Dropping his voice like Ollivor, though clearly at ease that Doran can hear him, he answers the human, ”Anyone willing to atone for his past crimes earns my respect. He appears sincere, and at least since I’ve come on board, a man of honor. I had a friend...I think he and the captain would have liked each other; especially since the captain knows magic.” He clears his voice, forces a smile to slowly appear, and claps Doran on the shoulder. ”Thanks again for the laugh, Doran.”
Ollivor also laughs, though his is still raspy and weak,"Ah, they'll be fine, Doran, as long as they don't notice a shortage of rats." And Vrunyar is right, a good laugh can make you feel better anytime even when all hell seems to be bearing down on you. Perhaps especially when it bears down
And the dwarf is right about something else, "That's the feel I get from him too. Honorable and decent, whoever he may or may not have been before. If I might ask, who was this magic friend?"
Doran can’t help but laugh along with Vrunyar and Ollivor, especially as the dwarf medic has not only not taken offense, but found such pleasure in Doran’s comments. Through his laughter, Doran agrees, ”Aye, nothing like a good laugh to take the pressure off a bit, even if it’s not what I had in mind when I started off talkin’.”
Seeing his crewmates turn back to Ollivor’s more serious question, Doran weighs in, ”Well, I haven’t sailed with him much longer than you two, but I can see greatness in the cap’n, sure as sure. And as he’s mentioned once or twice, he’s got some shadows in his past he’d like to leave there, same as some of his crew, including a witty halfling I know. Long as he can sail faster than that past, I think he’s got great things ahead for all of us. Though I’ll admit I signed on for a quieter cruise than we appear to be getting.”
"The way you move about the ship, Doran, I figured you for an old hand here. You know it well," Ollivor says, then takes a drink of water. Talking like this has its downside, but nothing in his life has kept him shut up for long, and that includes a throat injury. "Pardon me, 'her', a ship is a her. Which shows just how few women are on board I think." He says a bit wistfully before getting back on the less hormonal subject, "And aye. The Hellsmouth has our colors now. We'll get through this, but I don't doubt they and others like them will have the Lighthouse marked if they didn't already. Makes me wish we could sink them first."
The day passes into night, and the night into dawn. Every hour, the Hellsmouth has closed in on the Empty Lighthouse. Despite all their efforts to use the wind and the ship's agility to their advantage, even with skillful manipulation of the sheets and sails, the crew of Empty Lighthouse cannot break free of their pursuer. Still, the crew knows that they do not have to run forever - once they get into the truly open waters past the Arch of Aroden, they will be able to get free. Little do they know that the cruel captain of the Wormwood sits mere leagues outside the Arch, apparently with little fear of being caught by a Chelaxian patrol, waiting for them to settle a decades-old debt between himself and Captain Jonas.
John Rawkins stands at the stern of the ship, looking to the east. The spray of the sea splashes upwards, filling his nose and his mouth with salt. Iakob ambles up to him, peering to the horizon - and to the visible Chelaxian ship that looms larger each passing hour. Hardly more than a third of a mile separates them now - almost close enough to see the faces of the devil-worshippers who want to kill them. The two of them need no words to say what they are both thinking. Many a time, they were the pursuer hunting down slave ships and enemies of Andoran. Today, they are the prey. It is an odd feeling to have the roles reversed. When chasing a ship, they would stand at the bow of the ship hours before the boarding - excited and impatient for the distance to close between them. Now, they hope not to be boarded and hope to keep the distance as far as possible.
Staring off into the eastern sky together, they both draw a gasp when they see a red flash the moment the sun rises over the horizon. Their hearts both sink in superstition. While the green flash at sunset is an omen of a momentous day ahead, the red flash at sunrise is an augury of blood's spillage. It is not a good omen for the day, and gives them just enough time to each dodge to one side as a ballista bolt slams into the stern of the ship where they were standing mere moments before. The heavy bolt - coming from a ballista mounted on the bow of the ship, rather than its main battery of weapons on each side of the warship - splinters the deck where it slams. The distance kept the bolt from piercing the ship near the water line or tearing a hole in the sails, but is more than enough to send an alarm through the ship.
The dominus shouts the cadence, keeping the rowers at a fast pace. Wyn and Thorn sit together at the same oar, with the elf in the more difficult position closer to the center. After eating, the exhaustion of the twelve-hour shift caused them - along with every other slave in their group - to pass out in the barracks until the morning bell rang for breakfast. After eating a hearty meal to prepare them for the day of rowing, they replaced the half-dead and exhausted crew. Sweat drips down both of them as they pull the oars in cadence, until they hear the twang of one of the ballista above. To Thorn's ears, having heard many battles from the rower's position, he knows that it is the ballista attached to the front of the ship. The ballistae directly above them on the next-highest deck will be much louder.
”You may ask, of course. He was a human wizard. Yennard. Though he preferred Yenn. My best friend in Absalom. We were going to have great adventures; rescuing his betrothed from her family, sailing the Inner Sea, exploring old mines.” He clears his throat and drops his gaze.
Just before dawn, the candle provides enough light for Vrunyar to finish his morning research and study of the formulae. He packs his vials in his vest pockets and double checks the medical kit to insure that the salves, needles, tinctures, and bandages are there. Sighing in resignation, he begins to put on his armor. Hoping that the Hellsmouth is farther away today, the sound of splintering wood freezes Vrunyar for a moment. The back of the ship! What in the Five Kingdoms was that? he thinks as alarms call out. Still having to lace the left side of his armor, he grabs his medical bag and then blows out the stubby candle as he runs for the upper deck.
Ollivor isn't sure what to say about Yennard. It's clear from the dwarf's tone and body language that he had lost a good friend. Instead he just puts a hand on his crewmate's shoulder, "Sounds like a good fellow."
..........
Another night's rest works wonders, but then there can be no rest as the enemy ship closes in on the crew. It closes, and strikes! Ollivor curses, and moves to the deck to see what orders are being issued. Seeing Vrunyar with his medical bag in hand, the cook nods, "Let me know if you need help with anything. I'm battered, but I'm not useless."
Wyn looks up from her rowing at the sound of the ballista firing. She looks at Thorn, who seems to be considering this new event thoughtfully, and at the drummer, who seems to have lost his rhythm.
Something big is happening.
And it might either mean death... or a chance at freedom.
Wyn stays on the alert, ready to grab whatever opportunity she can. But for now, she's still chained to the oars...
Doran has worked feverishly to keep the hands focused on getting all possible speed out of the Lighthouse, seeming to be in several places at once. Hearing the splintering of wood as the ballista bolt crashes into the ship, he accepts the inevitable and relaxes his frantic efforts. Turning to Malakay, he says, in as light a tone as he can muster, "Carpenter's not gonna like that, shootin' a hole in her fine timbers. Hojo! Work likely needs doing at the stern, just above the cap'n's cabin."
Dropping off the rigging to the deck, Doran makes his way over towards Rawkins and Iakob, thinking to himself, but so intensely he's unsure if he is speaking aloud or not, Besmara, Gozreh, all ye wet gods - I don't ask you to save us from the Chelish bastards, we'll do our best to take care of that ourselves - but if you could at least not take this ship down, like the others before it, not take all these fine sailors by drowning and shark bite and rotting away at sea, I'd owe you a debt, and I'm a man who pays his debts.
"Row! Row! Row! Row!" The dominus maintains a steady, faster cadence as the Hellsmouth attempts to close distance with the ship it has been chasing. The rowers will exhaust themselves within a few hours at this faster pace, but clearly the ship's crew believes that they will catch up with them in time. Thorn and Wyn hear the ballista cranking as the crew reloads another bolt into the siege weapon. Much like the rest of the Chelaxian military - of which they are unwillingly part - the ballista's crew is precise and meticulous. Exactly eighteen seconds pass between the sounds of the spring-fired launching of the next missile. The other ship is far too far away to hear whether or not it struck true, but the sound of the cranking begins again immediately...
"Doran! Scamper up and pull the sheets hard to port! We've got to give 'em the zigs! Iakob, if we get boarded, you're leading the fight. Get the fighting men organized!" He pulls the steering wheel, driving the ship hard in an evasion against the oncoming ballista bolts. Fortunately, the Hellsmouth is not side-to-side with the Empty Lighthouse and can't unleash a full salvo. As the ship begins to pull to the side, a second bolt misses the stern by just a few feet. Having to evade the bolts will slow them down, but moving in a straight line will provide them with an easy target. Better to be slowed and possibly caught than shot and definitely sank.
|
Leaning against the mainmast, John watched the moon as it hung low on the horizon. The tension aboard the Lighthouse was thick enough to cut with a knife, and few had spoken after the captains speech. In the Navy, men had their training to help deal with the anxiousness, but for the untried crew of the Lighthouse they had no such advantage. Picking up his jack of grog, John took another swig. The nightly ration had run out long ago, but John had brought his own store onboard. Besides, the battle, if it was going to happen was still a ways off and John knew his limit. He wasn’t a new swab out on his first port call.
Setting the jack down between his legs, John reached for his cracked leather journal. Holding it up to his nose, the maimed sailor took a deep breath smelling the rich leather coupled with a faint hint of salt and spice. Smiling at the faint aroma of home, John carefully untied the twine that held his journal together and carefully reaching for a piece of blank parchment began to write.
My Dearest Alima,
I write you this evening in good health. Today is the 1st of Calistril and I find I cannot sleep. Since I wrote you last we have nearly reached the Arch of Aroden and we shall be making for open ocean soon. I wish I could say that all has been perfect on this journey, but I respect you far too much to lie to you. In the last few days our trip has become complicated by Cheliaxian Navy. If you are reading this letter then all is well and we have made our escape and if we have not then I will have never had the chance to send this letter home to you and Farah.
Alima, it galls me to run but I don’t know what else we can do. The ship that chases us is the Hellsmouth and there is no other option, but the thought of all of those men and women pressed into servitude against their will troubles me deeply. Alima, I know I am not in the navy anymore. I know that I don’t wear the uniform, but by the gods if Andoran can’t or won’t protect the weak then someone needs to. It’s not enough to believe in freedom, it needs to be fought for.
My love… I killed a man today, and it felt right. He was a spy that had come aboard with me at Souston. He sabotaged the ship and nearly killed two of my shipmates. After it was over, I spoke to Iakob. It wasn’t the first time I have had to do my duty and protect my shipmates and crew, but ever since I lost my leg and came home, something had felt missing. When I was in the Navy, I knew who I was. I knew what I was doing and there was solidness to my course. But ever since that day that I was wounded I have felt like I have been without a compass, cast adrift on the sea.
I don’t feel that way anymore. Or at least I don’t feel that way right now. I know that being away from you isn’t fair. It’s not fair to Farah and it’s not fair to you. But when I was home, I was a ghost of the man that you knew. Alima, if only you could see me out here. Yes, I know it’s crazy but I feel alive. I feel like I am finally regaining that part of myself that I lost. I don’t have a better way to describe it.
Alima, my wife, I love you a thousand times over and I will return to you. I will write again soon.
Your Loving Husband,
John
Sharing a single knowing glance at Iakob and nodding towards the crimson flash, John starts to make his way towards the a coil of line on the port side of the deck. As he begins to turn he watches in slow motion as a ballista bolt slams into the stern of the ship. Ok, time for armor! John curses to himself at the fact that the Hellsmouth had managed to close within range without either of the two veteran sailors noticing.
Pointing towards Kabek, John shuffles forward to the quiet swab Kabek, give me a hand here. John calmly commands his motions deliberate and efficient while gesturing to his armor that had been carefully placed inside a barrel. As the swab helps John into his armor, the former marine listens to Captain Jonas giving commands. Easing into his plate and mail armor, engraved with the stamp of the Andoran navy, John rights the cutlass at his side and then hangs his greatsword from a baldric onto his back.
Hobbling upto the Captain, John gives a quick salute. With your permission Captain, I’ll second to the lieutenant, we work better as a pair. John states matter-of-factly before stepping off towards Iakob. Cursing under his breath at the pain in his knee, John reaches Iakob’s side and gives a nod. So it’ll be a fight after all then, sir. John states while gesturing grimly with one hand towards the Hellsmouth. Looking around to make sure that none of the other crew is about John leans in close to his long time friend. This looks pretty dammed grim. I don’t know what the captain has planned, but it better be good.
Picking himself up from the deck after dodging the ballista bolt, Iakob grunts as he view the size of the bloody thing. Easily reaching his own height in length, Iakob can't help but thank his lucky stars despite the ill omen witnessed only a moment ago.
Rising he nods and gives an 'aye captain' to captain Jonas and pats himself down, making sure everything is in place, before turning to follow his orders. Viewing those on the deck he sees more than a little desperation and fear shining from the eyes of a few, but some, to Iakobs satisfaction, only show grim determination.
"Agreed. This will be bloody and one sided unless the captain has something up his sleeve, like canons or invisible balliste. Let's sort 'em out, I for one ain't going without a fight." he replies to John as he looks the crew over. Raising his voice he starts to assemble the fighting men, falling into the sailors jargon without even noticing, missing letters as he spits out his words, it had been drilled into him that allowing fear to settle on a man would paralyze him, a good and constant shouting could overrun that fear and force a frozen limb into motion.
pacing the deck Iacob starts pushing men into motion, knowing John would follow his lead, and trying to draw eyes.
Urging the men on Iakob tries to see who's least likely to drop his weapon in a brawl and set the men in lines of front and relieves, mixing newbies with experience, setting up a repel front with men ready to step into holes and to relieve where needed.
Thorn's eyes widen at the flash of a bright red light from the sunrise breaking the crests along the horizon in the far east. Normally the flash would send a shiver down a sailors back as it fore shadows a deadly day with lots of blood. Today the flash excites Thorn as he knows the Hellsmouth is in pursuit of ship it intends to board and capture. Most of the Hellsmouth battles were quick and effortless as they would capture and enslave more sailors. Today felt different and this ship they trailed after was no ordinary ship to avoid capture this long. It normally took no time at all to catch and claim a ship iwhile enslaving its crew as property of the Hellsmouth. Thorn has been waiting 9 years for a sign to direct him towards his path of freedom and then vengeance. All of these signs, Wyn, the red flash and the difficulty with this smaller ship had to be sign he had been waiting for. I will wait and seek out any opportunity to take advantage of a situation to escape these chains and sink the Hellsmouth as I kill as many of its crew if not all of them before the ship is swallowed by the sea.
Thorn excitedly whispers to Wyn "Today is the day Wyn, either by a Triumphant Victory or a Glorious Death we will be free from these chains and the Hellsmouth! I can feel Erastil's presence upon us as he will help us find our freedom and our vengeance as he helps the arrow find its mark." as Thorn pulls the oars a little harder and faster trying to will the Hellsmouth into battle faster than the ship can sail.
Wyn nods to Thorn, though keeps the motion small so as not to attract the attention of the dominus. Feeling no need to elaborate extensively, she whispers, simply, "I'm with you."
It was just a matter of finding the moment.
Ollivor continues to help where and when he can. He also attempts to rally the men one on one, "I'm a sorcerer, right? Listen to me when I saw Captain Jonas has some power of his own, and it is like a bonfire to my candle. He'll get us out of this if we don't panic."
Hearing Iakob’s encouragement and orders to the crew, Vrunyar is once again impressed at the volume the man can achieve. He finishes putting on his armor, as he watches Ollivor going from crew mate to crew mate, briefly saying something and moving on.
He double checks that his vials are tucked into his belt and starts warming up his body for combat. He can’t tell how much time before there is fighting, but Vrunyar is confident it will happen today.
Having finished his rather hopeless-sounding prayer to the sea gods, Doran watches Iakob and John organizing the defenders of the Lighthouse as well as they can. He then approaches Ollivor and Vrunyar and says, "I'll not be much use in a line of defense should they try to storm the ship. But if one of you two gets into it with them, I'll do what I can to get around behind 'em and take 'em by surprise - I can make pretty short work of them that way. And if I've got the stomach to sneak aboard that damn ship, I might be able to take out someone other than just a swab with a sword."
Looking up, Doran continues, "Maybe I can get from our crosstrees to theirs, and come down the rigging at them? They'll never expect an attack from above. Keep an eye out for me if ye can - there may be a moment where a good distraction would come in very handy."
"Much appreciated, Doran, and aye, I'll do what I can to draw their attention to you," Ollivor's voice is still raspy, but his eyes are glinting at the prospects. Indeed, they almost seem metallic for a moment.
The hours pass slowly, each few minutes punctuated by the loud twang of bolts launched from the Hellsmouth's ballista. Most of the shots - which come irregularly, to force the Empty Lighthouse into a maneuvering randomly and to slow the faster ship down - miss their mark, but a few strike true. The bolts that hit slow down the Lighthouse even more, though the crew does its best to patch up the tattered sails. Try as they might, the crew of the Lighthouse watches as the Chelaxian warship rows closer and closer to them until the distance is almost close enough to spit between ships.
First come the grappling hooks, launched with crossbows. The crew cuts as many as they can, but it serves to slow the ship down even more. Gangways from the Hellsmouth swing down with their hooked ladders and link the two ships. The Hellsmouth starts turning as the sides of the ships scrape up against each other, while the oars on the Hellsmouth's port side pull back in to accommodate. With a yell, the Chelaxian marines start securing the link between the ships and preparing to storm the Empty Lighthouse. Four gangways slam down on the starboard side of the ship's stern.
Seeing the Hellsmouth gaining ground steadily, Doran decides it's time to get where he can't be seen, in the hopes of gaining some advantage of surprise, if only briefly. He ducks below the rail on the side of the ship, then crawls low to the center of the maindeck, where he hides himself amongst the casks of seawater kept on hand for firefighting. Just before he vanishes into the shadows, he looks to John and Iakob as they ready the green crew for battle and says "Good luck. I'll be here ready to strike if we need to give someone a little surprise." He then steps amongst the barrels and seems to disappear. Drawing two knives from his belt, he settles down to wait.
|
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Standing on the starboard side of the Empty Lighthouse John closed his eyes briefly. He could hear the *twangs* of the boarding bolts being fired over the railing and the of the gangplanks as they fell between the two vessels. At this point John had done all he could. He had written his wife and still carried the letter over his heart. In a moment the first wave from the Hellsmouth would start their boarding. They would try to wear the crew down, force them to use resources early. Then the real marines would come in well trained and armored, they might even have a Hellknight or Asmodeian Priest among them.. either one wouldn’t surprise John.
Keeping his eyes closed, the marine looked up and felt the sun on his face as a few meager rays broke through the clouds. Fishing into his armor, John pulled out his leather throng necklace that bore a sharks tooth and a brass key. Kissing the key, John dropped it back under his armor. Your wings protected me once. And I know battle ain’t your thing Lord, but I wouldn’t mind any help you could send my way. I know I’m not perfect and I got my faults, but I do the best I can, so if it’s by your will Abadar, protect me today.
Opening his eyes, John ran a single hand along the red stubble on his face. Unlimbering his greatsword he gave a single resigned nod. He didn’t want a fight, but he wouldn’t back down from one. Not against these bastards. Stepping up towards the gangplank the red haired marined readied himself. They would be most venerable as they tried to cross the narrow plank. Hopefully he could knock at least one or two into the water below. Steeling himself John took a single calming breath. John shouted over the din. Knowing his friend has heard the yell, John focused. There were no more options. Now he had to fight.
Ollivor feels his throat tighten, and his heart pick up in its pace. Blast me, am I scared? Perhaps he is, and that thought angers him more than he thought it would. Seeing Doran vanish, Ollivor decides he might as well provide one of those distractions the halfling will need and he positions himself nearby, ready to use his crossbow.
Even as the enemies start to clamber on, he mutters somewords, and casts a spell.
,
Taking up position at the stern of the ship, where he knew the first boarders would attempt to access the ship, Iakob takes a stiff swig of his hip flask as he eyes the monstrosity of a ship drawing up on them. Seeing the ropes fly over the railing and the ramps ram home Iakob spares a glance at John before turning to the business at hand. "Just bloody survive this thing." he mutters through grit teeth.
Striding over to the lip of one boarding ramp, Iakob takes up his pistol and aims it down it, ready to greet the first rookie with a bullet.
he shouts, keeping his eyes on the plank, leading from the fore.
Standing on the middle top deck, Vrunyar drinks his mutagen and feels the magic change his body. His skin erupts with gray specks of stone and metal, hair and beard become brighter as if glowing, and face becoming thicker. He laughs, the tone deeper and rougher, waving his battle axe above his head.
”You kregm! My axe thirsts for your blood.”
Bard
Captain Jonas
Doran
Green Sailors
John Rawkins
Ollivor
The massive Chelaxian warship scrapes alongside the much smaller Empty Lighthouse. It looms over its prey like a shark rising from the waters to consume a helpless fish floating atop the water. Standing at the raised aftcastle of the warship is its commander. Standing with his hands clasped behind him, the commander strikes an imposing figure. His black-and-red uniform, with its black leather boots and imposing red pauldrons that hold a red-lined cloak emblazoned with the symbol of Imperial Thrune, looms imposingly over the ship. A neatly-trimmed black goatee anchors his weathered face, with uncompromising eyes looking down upon him. His mouth moves as if whispering something, but none can hear him.
The Chelish troops begin boarding the gangways to make it across to the smaller ship. Iakob points his gun at one of them, pulling the trigger to a loud crack of flame. Blood spurts from one of the boarders, who nearly falls off his gangway into the gap - but hangs on. Behind the group of boarding sailors - the least veteran, by the looks of them - stand dozens more ready to join them. Several marines stand with tower shields held high to prevent archers or other attackers from injuring the ones waiting to board. Eerily, the Chelish attackers remain quiet and disciplined; pirates would be cheering and screeching to put their prey in fear. Somehow this is worse.
With an intricate flourish, the commander of the Hellsmouth completes a summoning ritual of some sort. With a fiery circle around him, a fallen angel fades into view. She spreads long, black wings almost ten feet wide. A drummer's ominous beats adds a feel of dread and terror to the summoning. The fallen angel flexes her powerful wings and takes to the air, pulling out a fearsome black longbow with sharp razors up and down its length. With beating, dark wings keeping her aloft, a dark smile crosses her face even visible from here. She takes aim with the arrow, as the head of the arrow bursts into flame when she pulls it taut. Her cruel laugh echoes over the clash of battle and the sound of the waves as the arrow flies to the deck of the Empty Lighthouse, where it splits through the trembling body of young Malakay Carr. The boy falls to the ground, dropping the small blade he had been holding onto with fear and determination. The hole in his neck smokes from the flame as he holds onto it with one hand. He looks into nowhere with terror as the life slips from his eyes.
The war drums beat as the ships scrape together. Deep in the oarsmen's hold, the ship rumbles ominously as the two meet. The port side rowers pull their oars in at the order from the dominus, ensuring that they do not get crushed between the ships. The starboard rowers continue to pull their oars as the Hellsmouth scrapes along the side, as the ships need to be as close to parallel as possible to ensure that the boarders have enough access points and to ensure that the ballista batteries have free reign to shoot massive bolts into the side of the other ship. The dominus and a guard come by the rows of portside rowers dragging heavy shackles to prevent them from going anywhere during the battle. (As the shackles are attached to the sides of the ship, it gives the slaves an incentive to root for their masters' victory.)
The dominus and the guard approach the row that Wyn and Thorn sit at on the port side. The heavy shackles jangle on the floor behind them. As they approach, the Mwangi man that they spoke to earlier in the mess hall shakes his head slowly at Thorn, pleading with his eyes. He knows that the punishment for rebellion mid-battle is death - and in all likelihood, death by decimation to one-tenth of the slaves in the galley. The dominus glares at Thorn, long identified as one of the worst and most resistant prisoners on the boat. His eyes dare the elf to act rashly and give him an excuse to add more scars to Thorn's back. For years, this dominus - so arrogant towards the slaves so as to not even tell them his name, but rather simply 'dominus,' the Chelish word for 'Master' - has beaten the barbarian, but never taken his spirit. The guard follows behind, carrying the heavy chains. He is a dull-witted man of little talent and even less ambition, slow and fat. If there is an opportunity for him, it is now while few guards are assigned.
Thorn sees his moment when he presents his hands for binding. He uses his elven reflexes to grab the chain between the shackles and pushes forward. The dominus falls off-balance and Thorn pulls back hard. He wrenches the chains free and roars as he stands to his full height. Wyn, sitting next to him, likewise rises to her feet to help in their escape.
The hours pass slowly as they await the ship that is supposed to slip through the Arch of Aroden and into Barnabas Harrigan's trap. The cruel captain of the Wormwood stands at the prow of the ship looking into the horizon, apparently unwilling to move even a moment and risk not spotting the ship upon its arrival. He stands still as a statue, to the point that the crew members mumble amongst themselves silently that he must be inhuman.
Sandara Quinn approaches Beshra on the deck where the young tiefling girl waits for something to happen. She brushes a wisp of her red hair as the sea breeze blows over the ship. "At least it's winter," she says with a smile. "Imagine if this was summer! We'd be wanting to jump in just to get some relief from the heat." The temperate temperature of the Inner Sea's winters aside, she watches for anyone turning their heads even slightly at their conversation. When no one does, she drops her voice much lower. "What will you do when the time comes to board this ship? Will you do as I do and simply slink away? Or will you do what I think Synthia plans on doing and join in?" The mercenary rogue she refers to sits with Conch laughing, but clearly is anxious for something to happen.
Action: Fire Crossbow
Ollivor takes a deep breath. Seeing that thing in the air, he wished he'd studied less of dragons and more of the infernal, if only to defend better against them. Then young Malakay dies.
"Hell b+$$#!"
In a rage, Ollivor fires at the first enemy sailor he sees, no matter how far away. He doubts very much he can hurt whatever that THING is.
Unfortunately, his bolt flies wide. "Damn it."
This was likely the only chance she'd get to get out of this, and Thorn, though rash and proud, was as solid and worthy an ally as she was going to get. Out of the corner her eye, she noted the worried Mwangi, and knew he feared punishment. But that just meant they'd have to punish their "masters" first.
In a burst of energy, purely from the rush of battle as Thorn began his assault, Wyn charged forward toward the guard, but rather than attack him directly, she attempted to push him into a spin, hoping to get the chains he carried to wrap and twist around him.
Vrunyar’s mouth opens in awe and dread as the fallen angel rises above the ship. A pang of defeat and rage hits him when Malaky drops to the deck, but he slides those feelings away by sheathing his axe and wielding his crossbow. He loads it with a bolt, whispering, ”I should have increased my coordination with a mutagen.”
Beshra's lips form a line as she ponders the question, and she does not like the choices offered,
"I'll do as I do, I'll not slink, and I'll join in, but not as everyone supposes and not as it will appear. I've a delicate line to walk, but I cannot afford to fail. I've a plan, but some things are too dangerous to set free, the surest way to keep a secret is never to speak it."
Ohhh, we are hedging our bets are we? A little healing and a lot of bravado while you curse your own shipmates and grant fortune to your foes? Dangerous in so many ways Sweetling!
Shut up Monster.
Doran remains hidden among the barrels on deck, thinking to himself, Keep calm and quiet, now, lad. Your best shot will be taking one of 'em by surprise.
The sailors of the Chelaxian warship quickly make their way across the gangways connecting the boats, immediately engaging the crew of the Empty Lighthouse while making their way forward. The last thing they want is to get bogged down near the only opening, so as to keep themselves outnumbered. The front of the ship is quickly crowded with fighting men. The sailors are not combat veterans, but they are well-trained and well-disciplined like the forces of Hell. As quickly as they make it off the gangways and onto the deck of the ship, new sailors come out from behind the tower shields and prepare to make their own move across.
To the Andoran fighters on board, the Chelaxian approach is cold and methodical, like the steady thumping of the Hellsmouth's drummer. They would be consistent and not prone to losing morale, but the Andorans could potentially face deeper odds and win thanks to their will to victory. This looks like they have little chance for success, but the fire for freedom that burns in their hearts means that they will fight to the last breath to defend themselves.
The first of the sailors across - having learned the hard way why they put the newest sailors in the first row of fire - is the same one that Iakob blasted with his firearm. He makes a beeline for the man who shot him, trying to slash him with the scimitar commonly used by seamen. His strike is slow and weak, likely because of a loss of blood, missing Iakob by a full arm's length. His comrade catches John just above his armor, sending blood flying. The two Chelaxians are shoulder-to-shoulder, just like John and Iakob. One of the other sailors surges forward and plunges his blade through Jax, the quiet and laconic steerer. He falls to the ground as the Chelaxian pulls his blade back out. His blood spreads on the deck, making it slippery as he lays there dying. Arturo dodges a slash meant to cut into his heavily-muscled - and bare - torso, roaring something in his native tongue.
Iakob's scowl deepens as the bleeding sailor keeps coming, obviously grievously wounded by the shot, he should have laid down and let his comrades take over the fight, hunkering down and waiting for a medic. What would bring the man to such ferocity? Surely he had nothing to fight for, lest his masters whip, was it fear that drove him?
Startled by the ferocity of the man, Iakob brings his cutlass to bear but misses the man just as badly as he himself missed.
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John howled, eyes wide as he watched the young swab that he had begun to take under his wing fall to the deck from the she-devil’s arrow. Dam you all! John screamed, losing his poise at watching Carr die. He was just a boy, just a gods dammed boy! John yelled, shaking in anger. It wasn’t his fight!
Lost in his rage John rushed forward towards the gankplank leaving himself exposed as the chelish marine’s stomped forward to take the deck. Suddenly a stab of bright, hot pain coruscated through him as the cutting edge of a cutlass managed to find an opening in his armor. Screaming again, this time in pain instead of anger, John reeled backwards towards several barrels on deck. Shaking his head to try to focus past the pain, John felt rivulets of blood running from the gash in his side and down his good leg.
Not much time. John muttered, already starting to feel woozy from the blood loss. Blinking away the sweat that the marine had not even realized had begun to form on his forhead, John cursed. The cut would slow him down, delay his reactions. I still have time, time enough for you bastards. He thought, throwing himself forward into the fray.
Ollivor sees Jax go down and he curses again, "Hell kissing murderer!" and fires, trying to avenge a crew mate. His anger doesn't serve him well, as the bolt flies past the enemy sailor's shoulder and sinks into the ship's deck, still, the young man calls out, "Come up and face me you pox on a doxy's ass!"
As Chelish sailors flood over the sides of the ship, the beefy Arturo takes a swing at the one who tried and failed to slash him. Arturo's bulk and considerably strength make his meaty fist a dangerous weapon as any club, but he is too cautious around the blade and misses. Just as he does so, the Chelish sailors look behind him in awe. A crackle of static electricity runs through the air as Captain Henray Morgan Jonas rises into the air, unfettered by gravity. The fury in his eyes, which burn with a long-hidden power, seems to stare straight through the enemies trying to kill his crew. He rises as high as the crow's nest, using nothing but his own willpower to hold him aloft. He shouts something in a slithering, ancient language. "Sathagxa sheth jaxis!" As he says this, the members of the crew near the battle feel a surge of speed and power emanating out of him that permeates their bodies.
On the Hellsmouth, their drummer continues his steady beat even as the captain of their prey unveils himself as a powerful sorcerer. This steady drumming keeps the disciplined troops in line, making sure that they follow their instructions to the letter and do not deviate in the slightest.
The Admiral maneuvers his hands in a complex pattern as a greenish color glows around him. There is a twang in the air - more of a feeling than a sound - as an invisible cord snaps between him and the summoned, flying devil. He chants a diabolic intonation as he finishes the spell. "Ha-na cheskana tauraban dekisnay huvalla pesk ferschtanng."
Still cruelly pleased with killing the young, defenseless swab on the Empty Lighthouse, the fallen angel takes aim at the captain as he flies towards her. She strums three arrows in rapid succession, one after another. They streak in flaming arcs, fast as a single blink, towards Jonas. He dodges to one side in the air, then the other, but the third arrow scorches across his shirt and leaves a mark of soot and burned skin.
Captain Barnabas Harrigan's head pops up suddenly and without warning, as if hearing something in the distance. He roars to the crew, "They're coming! Get to the sails unless you wants to be skinned alive for defyin' me! Let's get a move on!" The crew of the pirate ship runs to complete their captain's orders, though no one can see anything beyond a cool winter's day on the horizon.
Plugg passes by Beshra and Sandara, giving them both a lecherous, sinister grin. "Let's get to moving. I want to see you both working a sail right away. Unless you need some inspiration..." He touches his sword lightly and licks the inside of his teeth as he speaks to the women, giving them an even worse impression of him than they held before.
Doran wishes he had hidden closer to where the gangways made contact with the ship. After seeing Captain Jonas fly through the air and speak in a strange language, however, Doran feels a thrill of energy run through his body, and thinks, Bet I can still get over there and get the drop on one of those damn slavers. I can't just hide here and watch the entire crew be killed.
He crouches low and, gauging the timing carefully, makes a dash for a row of wooden crates, near where a bleeding Chelish sailor is locked in battle with Iakob. Doran then steps out from the shelter of the crates and takes two quick swipes at the wounded man from behind. Doran's first strike takes the sailor by surprise, piercing his lower back and dropping the man to the deck.