Iscarel folds his arms, eyes fixed on the Freeport vessel as Hinsin and the crew row toward it.
The last of the sea devils are put to flight on both of the vessels and Smudge takes to the air to attempt to reccy out whether the retreat is a means of regrouping. His feathered eyes are stymied by the fact that the sahuagin stay below the water's surface... but he can't ken anything of note within his sight.
The crew on the Bride deal the last of their adrenaline out against the few fallen scaled bastards in reach before turning to backslapping and crude congratulation. The Captain lets the emotions play out for the moment, turning her eyes back on the Freeport tug. The men that turned the capstans previously seem mostly in good condition and put their attention and backs towards the task again. The strange lobsterman in the metal case still ascends as he draws closer to breaching the top of the waves.
Hinsin purses his lips as the jolly draws nearer to the Freeport vessel, wondering "Should we look to lend a hand mates? or leave the heavy lifting to them?"
Iscarel seats himself in the jolly, idling about while others do the hard work being among his favourite pasttimes. "I like the way you think, Hinsin."
Bek decides that he's seen enough for now and that the mystery will undoubtedly soon be revealed. He swims up to catch up with the lobsterman and surfaces at the same time, shifting back into his normal form and climbing up onto the ship.
Tipene shakes his head minutely at Hinsin's question, still recovering from his rage. "If they need help, they will ask."
"Ha! Let the boys have their fun. I wouldn't want to be in the way now." Despite the spoken intention, the gnome creeps closer and closer inflamed by curiosity until he is certainly in the way.
James finishes boarding the Freeport vessel, standing next to the chain and standing guard in the event that more boarders surface.
The next few minutes play out in relative peace and calm. The crews of both the Bride and the Freeport vessel lick what wounds were obtained - though thankfully most seem to be relatively minor - and work continues on the hauling of the load from beneath the waves.
Rackham finds himself recipient of a few wary nodded gestures of thanks... but there is an air of tension that he thinks might flare if he showed any closer interest in anything apart from guarding the chain.
Those in the jolly boat get close to the Freeport vessel, but don't seek to board - the oarsmen doing some hard labour to keep the smaller boat's position relatively static in the swell. Hinsin settles in, sharing a chuckle and nod with Iscarel and Tipene as the spectacle gets a bit weirder.
Even Quillin from his more distant post can see the lobsterman surface in his iron shell and get manhandled back on board the Freeport tub. Once the suit is laid down on the deck, a couple of swarthier deckhands move to drag it to one side - obscuring it from view with canvas curtains over an open deck area.
"So what the Hells is is?!" Quillin's calls from his distant post
After making sure the lobsterman will not face further harassment on the way to the surface, Bek kicks his way over to the jolly boat and climbs on board. "Interesting cargo. Can't wait to hear what's inside."
Quillin raises a long tapering blue eyebrow at the unexpected response. "Don't say. And whose would it be?"
Quillin's words are met by a smirk, but the Captain keeps her eyes distant.
Hinsin and the others in the jolly don't respond overt to Bek's words, but do show a vested and specific interest in the waters where the load is due to arise.
Straining against the capstans that are hauling true weight, the Freeport deckcrew make slow and steady progress. Eyes to the horizon and waters are wary - but apart from a few passing fish and a distant watery churn of a feeding pack of sharks... nothing emerges worthy of interest.
The item at the end of the chains then breaches surface and for the first time dry eyes can be laid upon it. It looks to be a coffin of some kind, but not sized for a man. Too high by a couple of feet and wider at the base than a normal bodyshape would suggest. It appears to be made out of solid spar-wood - lignum vitae or the like - and banded by ugly black bands of pig-iron. The bands are laid snug and into the wood and seem to be held there without fastener or nail.
Well well, looks like I wasn't wrong in thinking this journey would end with a watery grave. Iscarel thinks, darkly. "Well, what are we waiting for? Crack it open."
"It's been a great show and all, but don't you think that it's time to crack that nut?" Quillin mutters to no one in particular.
The thoughts of the crew are quelled by either the Captain or Hinsin brusquely closing "Time enough for that on the morrow"
The next few hours play out slowly, though not without some interest. The coffin is raised from the deeps to hang just above the water as the jolly retrieves Rackham and returns to the Bride. From there the two vessels are directed close together and the arduous work of transferring the coffin takes place. Ropes are rigged from the spars of the Bride and used to take the weight of the coffin from the chains. Over a nail-biting period the strain is played out and the load inexorably swings over the Bride's deck to the tune of groaning timbers and straining ropes. The hairiest moment plays out as a load rope snaps, charged end twisting away to dig a deep score in the railing... but luckily the others hold for time enough to replenish the rigging.
After the coffin is finally placed on the Bride's deck snug and secure - the day has passed into the night. Lanteri passes over to the Freeport tug with a small chest in tow - that she doesn't return with minutes later. The tug takes it's leave and Horumheb calls for the crew to take a well-needed rest... though not before making sure that a guard is set and the Bride secured with anchor a little further from the rocks and shore.
The coffin sits on the deck... unmoving and bland... though the air around it seems a few degrees colder than normal and any slight breeze is stilled to nothingness. It is unsettling and your hackles raise in tension whenever you are near to it... Even despite that though... it's been a long day, and slumber draws near beckoning with honeyed words and delicate caress...
The snapped line nearly sends Iscarel tumbling into the drink, and the elf's mood turns sour. He ignores the call below decks, and sits sullenly staring at the coffin on deck with wineskin in hand. "We came all this way for a corpse? We could have made a dozen of those with some good honest piracy. Almost enough to drive one to mutiny, if one had the stomach for it." he says, to his captive audience of whoever drew guard duty. He raises his wineskin in toast to the fresh stiff on board, and rolling his eyes, takes a long draw. "Almién."
Quillin sits a safe distance away eyeing the crypt suspiciously. "Well, I'm not be sleeping with some unknown sarcophagus aboard. We'd be lucky if it's just bones in there. What the Hells is the captain about?"
Tipene gives no sign of worrying about the coffin, and heads below at Hinsin's call.
"Would rather be done with it, but maybe she's got a good reason to wait until morning. Either that or just a love of drama. Surprised we're not opening it at midnight."
Rackham frowns at the sight of the coffin, but keeps his thoughts on the subject to himself. When the others start speculating, he chips in: Someone goes to the trouble of a buriel at sea in that, maybe throw some riches in with the dead?
The words catch the ear of Horumheb, who scowls and growls "Captain's got 'er reasons... ye'll find out like."
You waken tired and unsteady despite your well honed sea legs.
The morning comes to a mixed group of crew in the bunks, some wakening fresh and ready... and others still beset with a mind-fog...
Iscarel, typically haggard and pale most mornings after drinking to excess, looks especially wretched on this morning. More disturbingly, he dresses and makes it to the top deck without saying a word, snide or otherwise.
The Tulita seems preoccupied on waking, and is even quieter than usual during the morning's ablutions and other preparations. At some point, though, he approaches Hinsin. "Have you ever seen any of my people with the mark of Grandfather Turtle?" He traces the symbol in water on a convenient flat surface.
Quillin awakes with a start, but is relieved that he hasn't been throttled by some sea mummy during the night. He takes Smudge to task. "You sleeping too, bird? You were supposed to keep an eye on things."
He finds Iscarel's suddenly silent tongue strange, but then he hasn't known the elf that long.
Hinsin frowns and looks at the mark before shaking his head "No... not a mark I know."
James wakes in a cold sweat, steadying himself before strapping on his weapons and joining the others.
He stands within viewing distance of the coffin, eager to see what lies inside. While waiting, he taps Iscarel on the shoulder.
Friend, got anything strong to drink? Rough night...
Oblivious to the nature of the poor sleep for the others, Bek gets dressed and heads for the main deck with few comments.
Friend, got anything strong to drink? Rough night...
Overhearing, the gnome obviously butts in. "Rough night? What do you mean? I slept fine. Didn't hear a peep," he scoffs.
Making your way out onto the top deck, you find the coffin in the same place that it was last night. Though a few of the rest of the crew eye it with a slant eyed suspicion, the Captain soon makes an appearance on the fo'castle with Hinsin at her side. With a small nod to Horumheb she gives approval to the words that follow from his mouth "Right... crack it open then..."
You see that there are a few swarthy axes near the rails, as well as rope and crowbars, nails, hammers... much of the ship's stores laid bare. The rest of the crew furrow their brows a bit and look to you to take the lead.
Bek steps forward. "Do we know who is inside?" Barely waiting for an answer, he picks up a crowbar and begins his eerie song, thrusting it under the edge of lid and prying it upward.
Bek's question is treated as rhetorical by the Captain, as she looks on with some degree of interest. The attempt to force a crowbar into the very snug fit between lid and base of the coffin is defeated by an inability to get leverage due to the tightness of the fit. The area where the iron bands sit looks as though it might provide purchase... but you'd likely need to hollow a groove somewhat.
Of course, there's always the more direct approach...
Tipene follows the skald, picking up a hammer and a second crowbar. After making sure that the business end of the prying tool is reasonably sharp, he sets it against the edge of one of the bands and tries to hammer it between wood and iron.
Stowing his wineskin, he reaches for a small flask of rum, pilfered from one of his crewmates, handing it to Rackham. "Here. I haven't the stomach for it anyway." he says, answering Quillin's comment with a dark look. "Crashing waves, and that bloody chanting. Coming from that box. Didn't you hear it?"
"This had better be good." Iscarel says, as the hammering of iron on iron sends the pain in his skull ringing.
Tipene manages to see his crowbar wedged just under one of the iron bands with some small degree of effort. The wood of the lid is hard... hard as the stoutest woods used aboardships and not suffering at all for the long submerging under the salty waves. The wood deforms enough though after a few hammer blows to see the crowbar into place. Placing all his weight and effort upon it though doesn't noticeably deform either the crowbar - or the iron band around the coffin.
Iscarel doesn't see any conventional means of locking or securing the lid... in fact on inspection it doesn't seem as though the lid should have physically been able to be closed and the iron placed... unless some kind of magic was involved.
The crew follow suit and try to use the crowbars to pry away at the iron bands... to similar lack of success.
The Tulita straightens up from his labors. "Quillin. Any magic to get this one--" He taps the endmost band. "--hot?"
"Not a bad thought. But if that doesn't work, I'll try using one of these axes." Bek picks up one of the axes to give it a go if none of the spellcasters has a useful spell.
Stowing his wineskin, he reaches for a small flask of rum, pilfered from one of his crewmates, handing it to Rackham. "Here. I haven't the stomach for it anyway." he says, answering Quillin's comment with a dark look. "Crashing waves, and that bloody chanting. Coming from that box. Didn't you hear it?"
"This had better be good." Iscarel says, as the hammering of iron on iron sends the pain in his skull ringing.
A look of concern crosses Rackham's face at the elf's assertion, but he has the grace to not question him about it. He takes a deep pull of the rum, wincing, then watches the others as they try to pry open the coffin.
I'd just get in the way--too many cooks spoil the broth and all that...
The Tulita straightens up from his labors. "Quillin. Any magic to get this one--" He taps the endmost band. "--hot?"
Quillin pulls up his the purple lavender sleeves of his coat. "Of course, I've got magic. Out of the way now. You're just making a mess."
The gnome inspects the iron bindings and hocking a bit, spits a loogie onto the metal, chanting until it sizzles and smokes. He repeats the maneuver and then if the metal looks weakened, commands the sarcophagus to open.
With a swipe of his palm, Quillin will weaken the metal bands further.
The application of acid unto the iron bands takes a few moments to start... but soon show signs of weakening the bonds sufficiently to make a tangible impact. The bands are weakened enough that with application of hammered crowbar and significant elbow grease they are warped out of shape to be free of the wood beneath. Without the binding constriction of iron, the gap between the lid and base presents itself more invitingly... and prone to a repositioned application of leverage.
With grunting force, the Bride's crew and yours set three levers into the lid and strain. Moments of gut bursting exertion stretch beyond reason, though with shuddering creak and strain the lid finally starts to move. When a crack opens betwixt the lid and base, a slight sucking suction can be felt and heard - the coffin breathing in air before returning same with a sigh. The air around the coffin becomes redolent with expensive spice and the musty dryness of aged death. A sweet taste of cinnamon and clove lingers on your tongue as the lid is further forced.
The coffin's interior is then laid bare. The inside is lined, not with cloth... but with a silvered and untarnished metal layer. The lid is heavier than wood would be, suggesting that the metal is less a trim, and more a tangible part of it's construction. Hesitantly you cast eyes within and find a figure laid in state - wrapped in a white opaque silk shroud devoid of iconography. Upon the shroud is laid two objects... a ruby tipped scepter with white wood handle whose head is wrought copper... and a sheathed cutlass that appears exceptionally well made, but is plain in appearance. Surprisingly to your eyes their size is as though made for human hands... though the humanoid laid in state is not. Wide and tall, to match the coffin's size, though the lay of the shroud suggests that the corpse is defleshed and skeletal.
The crew gasps at the revelation, most taking a step back and crossing themselves... though a few remain in place and look with lascivious eyes t'wards the clear and opulent wealth in play. Hinsin stands with the skeptics, Horumheb the greedy... and eyes turn to the Captain... who eyes the figure with live fire eyes of burning intent. She presses with words "See lads - wealth and more besides. Strip the shroud and see what else is in there..."
She presses with words "See lads - wealth and more besides. Strip the shroud and see what else is in there..."
The gnome surreptitiously eases his way back a safe distance. "Don't you think you should make introductions first?" he asks the captain.
Iscarel grins. "Here now. That's a pretty prize if ever I've seen one."
Derisive tone comes first from Horumheb "Why? You think it can hear you?" drawing a few chuckles from the rest of the crew.
Captain Lanteri fixes Quillin with a challenging glare from her elevated position and extends intent "Long dead prize taken from a ruin in the Shackles... that's all you need to know crewman"
Tipene murmurs to the gnome, "Any magic there?"
Quillin has a sour expression as he mumbles an arcane phrase and passes his hand before his eyes.
Quillin's eyes take a few moments to adjust to the radiance that shines forth from the casket. Scepter and cutlass both stand out as searing pinpoints of arcane might... though there are also a melange of notes playing out from beneath the shroud...
The blade looks exceptional... Rackham says, reaching into the casket to grab the hilt and draw the weapon.
The shroud itself holds abjuration magic as well, while there are other more delicate scents confined within the confines of the lined wooden box... but the side of the coffin blocks the radiance of any of them... meaning the contents would need be spilled for any more to be known.