Even for the most adept local fisherman or hardened riverman, the shock of life at sea days away from the confines of a friendly port would have been inconceivable. For Vorya, it bordered on blasphemous - especially the crew privvies. There were two in the bow of the ship, of which the crew queued up, weather permitting. The latrines themselves were nothing more than holes in the bowsprit, open to the elements and to anyone waiting in line, and the urine and excrement deposited into them dropped into the waters of the Fever Sea, which jaded by his time aboard the Jenivere Vorya was, even he had to admit were stunning; an evermoving, at times roiling mass of water that stretched out as far as the eye could see, and depending on the time of day glistened with a thousand points of sunlight or loomed unseen in the darkness below, something to be heard but definitely not experienced up close.
But, back to the crew bathrooms, such as they were - the most horrid thing, however, was the ropes that dangled into them; the frayed end of the rope dangled into the sea, and could be hauled up to wipe oneself clean. Most of the seamen did not bother however; the rope, starting from the deck and leading into the privy, and on down their lengths into the water, were streaked with dung. Flies crowded the latrines as if they were refuse pits on land, and Vorya learned quickly the wisdom of standing upwind of the ropes when he went above decks for a constitutional.
Mercifully, the situation in the Great Cabin were better. The Jenivere was one of the few passenger ships plying the route between Sargava and the north, and it was distinguished as being one of the best. The passengers’ Great Cabin was a long room, perhaps 30 feet from end to end, and flanked by five small cabins to each side, each a narrow room with a porthole window, a comfortable cot, and a small chest and bureau for possessions.
And the food! The head cook (also surgeon, if needed), one Pilts, last name unknown, was a veritable marvel, the large man able to work miracles in the galley. Vorya found the passage of time was marked by these meals, served three times a day, except to the passenger in cabin three, who was served - according to Gelik Aberwhinge, a spry gnome with blonde hair and a neat goatee, and who had a facility for gossip that belied his small size - only two meals a day, and the same as what the crew ate at that. The passenger in cabin three had become a sort of game to pass the time, or rather their identity was the game, for the passenger had been brought aboard in the dead of night when the Jenivere docked at Coentyn, and their passenger locked within, stayed quiet (or constrained). Gelik was sure they were a vampire; the noblewoman Bellet merely snorted and said, ”Someone’s enemy.” Ishirou, the rough Tien man from Bloodcove guessed they were a dangerous criminal, and Sasha, she of the perpetually tousled hair and missing finger, theorized there was no sentient being in cabin three at all; the food was an act, and something else, incredibly valuable or dangerous, lay within.
But, back to the meals! The ship’s senior officers often dined with the Jenivere’s passengers, for who could pass up the best part of the voyage; the pewter plates and tin spoons, napkins and tablecloths, and even passable wine, served by the cabin boys. Preserved meats and salted fish were common, usually accompanied by a tasty sauce spiked with liquor, butter, or even one evening, juiced oranges. Occasionally, the passengers and ship’s officers were treated to fresh meat; a small pen topside kept a few live chickens, goats, and guinea pigs, and a companion low-roofed little hutch known as the bovenhut served as a sort of greenhouse where Pilts and his assistants grew a few spindly vegetables.
The crew was not so lucky of course; they subsisted off of cask meat, legumes, and hard tack. Grog was their drink of choice. But, that was their lot in life after all, and Vorya and his companions, along with the goods in the hold, made such a life possible at all. Such was their fortune to be able to serve their betters, Vorya can imagine the Lady Bellet saying, her measured, warm voice rebound through his head as clearly as if she were whispering in his ear.
This evening is a special occasion; the Jenivere nears port, and the mood is jolly. Gathered around the large pine table in the Great Cabin are most of the paying passengers, even the reclusive Aerys Mavato; the woman, it strikes Vorya, could be considered conventionally attractive if she tried.
Next to her, the dour Ishirou, wearing his well-cared for, but cheap chain shirt, the man unable to doff his armor even miles from any coastline. Sasha Nevah sits next to him, the woman fidgeting and practically bouncing out of her chair, engaged already in an effusive conversation with Gelik to her other side. Next to Gelik, the Lady Bellet, composed and rigid, and standing behind her, her manservant Lytte, a portly little fellow wearing a prim and pressed servant’s suit of deep purple, the “in” color this season in Cheliax. The head of the table was reserved for the captain, who this evening is absent, an event becoming more and more often as the voyage wore on. In the stead of Captain Kovak, the first mate Anton Devers is in attendance. The normally garrulous sailor is quiet, his face pinched, the only sign of his usual demeanor a smile that breaks through his worry as Pilts arrives with the evening meal, large pewter serving dishes clattering atop the table; whole roasted and herb crusted goat in brown sauce, with roasted potatoes and parsnips, and even a crusty fresh-baked bread.
Not in attendance this evening, in addition to the Captain, are the Varisian scholar Ileana, and of course the mystery guest in cabin three. Vorya is the last to arrive, and Gelik raises a glass of wine to him, the gnome’s eyes twinkling in the everburning candlelight. ”Ah, nice to see you, dear Vorya! I believe that is all of us that indicated they will attend tonight. And what a night for a meal! The sky is as clear as a Quadirian window, the stars as bright as our absent scholar’s mind. Shall anyone offer a toast?”
Once, when disposing of illict books during his training, Vorya had found a strange phrase in a book. It had not been printed text, but scrawled by hand in the margin.
"Praise the sea, but keep on land."
Vorya had no idea who or when those words had been written, but he agreed more then he had ever agreed with anything else, right down to his bones. It wasn't just the dirtiness, brought about by a lack of clean water to bathe in. It wasn't the close confines, elbow to elbow with strangers. It was not even the varied and unpleasant smells.
It was that the world would not stop moving. Even now, standing in the Great Cabin, Vorya felt his world shifting. The boat rocked side to side in the gentle swell, so everything rocked. The lanterns, the chairs, the wall hangings, the people. For days and days his head had been tossed around like foam in the surf, and his stomach with it. While he no longer felt like puking every few minutes it was still enough to take the edge off even Pilts cooking. A shame because, on land, Vorya considered himself a discerning palate.
Still, there was no other way to get to where he was going, except to swim. So, as they said in Cheliax, needs must when the devil drives. He had made the best of it tonight, washing his face and hands in a rain barrel, and putting on his finest clothes. Fine silks, polished buttons, gleaming leather shoes. Overkill for this crowd perhaps....but perhaps not.
At Gelik Aberwhinge's rather effusive greeting Vorya paused and bowed in formal fashion (although it was something he had learned, Rahadoumi did not really go in for bowing).
"Well said, Master Aberwhinge. If we weren't going to be in the way, I would almost suggest we eat on deck. I find fresh air to be quite the spice for a well cooked meal."
When the gnome suggests a toast, Vorya happily takes up the challenge. Lifting up a pewter cup full of (rather nice) wine the swashbuckler says, "I think I speak for all of us when I say, 'We salute the good ship Jenivere and her crew....and hope to never make their acquaintance again. Once is enough!" And with that he starts to drain the cup.
A small smile curls upon Aberwhinge's lips. The gnome silently raises a glass to Vorya and downs it one gulp. Silence settles across the rest of the table as well; the wine glasses stay gripped in hands as the Jenivere rolls gently under them. It was not often that one offered such a backhanded compliment to their hosts. Several seconds pass, and then the barrelchested Mwangi mate rises, his chair scraping across the wooden floor.
Anton Devers is perhaps in his early thirties, if one takes into account the apparent aging a difficult life has had; first, judging from the brand upon his neck marking him as a once-enslaved property of a Sargavan house, and second of course, the life of the sea. Still, Vorya has found him mostly genial and pleasant to be around, though the mate has been quieter in recent days. Devers scratches a few days' old stubble, and then runs a hand through his greying, tightly curled hair. Giving Vorya a snarl, Devers fixes Vorya with an intent stare, his balled fists propping the first mate up. Several seconds pass, and then a small smile cracks the facade, soon followed by a hearty laugh, and Devers sits back down and raises his glass. "Ha! Had you going, didn't I? I agree whole-heartedly with what you say! Once is enough!"
The tense mood at the table lifts, an almost audible group exhalation, and glasses are raised, and a round of toasts start. Aberwhinge toasts the excellent company aboard the ship, each individual one by one, though his ebullience slips a bit when addressing Ishirou. Lady Bellet toasts the cook Pilts, and Aerys raises her glass and says something in elvish, a lilting, poetic-sounding small speech, though its meaning is lost on Vorya. The woman ends her toast, perhaps suprisingly, with a yawn.
Ishirou declines the invitation to toast and so Sasha Nevah stands and raises her glass. "I'd like to ment--"
And the Jenivere pitches fiercely, Sasha's words dying in her throat as her chair slides across the floor and the woman grabs hold of the table with her free hand (a smart thing to do; the table is bolted to the ship's floor.) Gelik goes tumbling as his chair tips, while Lytte stumbles forward and steadies the Lady Bellet. Ishirou has the good sense to save the platter of food from falling to the floor, but tin cups and pewter utensils clatter around the guests, wine splashing blood red across the decking. Across the room, a Conqueror board hits the deck, its round footmen scattering across the floor. The everburning torches of course stay lit with nary a flicker, their magic flames remaining perfectly upright even as their sconces tip, giving the whole scene a surreal juxtaposition.
Of all the dinner guests, Devers of course weathers the ship's sudden pitch the best. He grabs his wine off the table and downs the rest of it in one swift swipe of his hand, setting it back on the table as the Jenivere settles into a more expected rocking.
"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I'll need to check the Captain and see if he needs my help. Please enjoy the rest of your dinner."
Placing his empty wine glass atop the table, Devers turns to leave and the ship pitches violently again. Chairs tip, the Chelish Lady Bellet gasps, Gelik falls again, and Devers makes his way, as steadily as possible, above decks.
The sailor really had got Vorya going. The First Mate had proven to be a rather genial man, so far, but people could change quickly. For a second Vorya thought perhaps he had offended the ship beyond friendly banter and into real insult. He had actually winced slightly when the big Mwgani sailor had stood in front of him, fists balled up. For a wild moment he wondered if he should draw his sword? Apologize? Run?
Then the man had laughed and broken the tension. Yet, despite that, clearly something upset Devers, and not Vorya's rather lame jokes. Something altogether more serious. Something with the ship perhaps? Or maybe pay was late? That seemed something sailors would worry about.
The swashbuckler forgets about it...until the ship lurches like a laden wagon dipping into an unseen pothole.
Vorya rides the unexpected disturbance nearly as well as Devers. The Rahadoumi might not like the constant motion of the sea, but at least his reactions were good. 'Sea legs' were not his problem. Sea ear maybe....But not time for that now. Just what was going on?
For a second Vorya watches the First Mate leave the suddenly disordered Great Cabin, staggering as best he could. Was this something serious? It felt serious, as the ship jolted again.
Curious, and worried, Vorya stole after the sailor, keeping a respectful distance. He was unlikely to be able to help after all, having quickly learned just how little he knew about the strange world of ship handling. Still, he couldn't just sit in the Great Cabin, sipping port, while the ship sank or something. His mind fills with stories.
Sea monsters? Pirates? A great storm?
Vorya headed for the deck as best he could.
Stepping over Gelik, who remained prostrate on the Great Cabin floor, his eyes half-open, his breathing shallow, Vorya cast a quick glance around the room to find that Ishirou had lost his battle with the tray of food, most of which now covered the man. The Jenivere pitched again and Bellet and her manservant tumbled to the ground, joining Ishirou and Sasha Nevah in holding tight to the bolted down table. Aerys stumbled towards her cabin, an unspilt jug of wine cradled in her arms, her voice rising over room's sliding furniture, cutlery, cups and plates. "If I'm a dying today, it'll be drunk and in my room, thankyouverymuch!"
Devers vanished out the door of the Great Cabin, and Vorya followed, passing by cabin #3 as the ship bobbed in the opposite direction. Lytte the manservant screamed his mistresses' name, voice high-pitched with worry, and Vorya heard something soft thump against cabin #3's door, a sound not unlike a bag of laundry dropped down a chute.
On Vorya pressed, falling into and through the doorway of the Great Cabin and into the room beyond, a small hall that doubled as one of the Jenivere's four ballista stations. Oversized arrows and tipped chests skittered across the floor. Scrambling to his feet, Vorya hopped over an arrow sliding towards him and then slipped by the ballista as it rolled and tipped into the far wall with a crunch and splinter of wood. Beyond the other door lay the stairs to abovedecks and the ship's wheel - presumably where Devers would be headed. Below Vorya, where the crew and cargo lived, Vorya could hear commotion; shouting, voices high with adrenaline and panic, the steady thump of something heavy hitting something immovable.
Vorya realizes he is sweating profusely; hands clammy, he clambers up the stairs, slipping on a liquid - Water? Grog? Piss? and emerges topside, to find a dark sky over him, a dizzying splash of stars stretching overhead from horizon to horizon - whatever was causing the Jenivere its distress, it was not the weather. The nearly full moon casts a soft, white glow upon the deck. Beside Vorya, a slick of blood trails along the ship's deck. Vorya's keen eyes just catch the bottom half of a sailor as they go over the side of the ship, strangely with no yelp of surprise, pain, or terror. He has little time to contemplate this however; commotion on the periphery of Vorya's vision draws his attention: the snapping of a sail, rope pooling on the deck, and then with a sickening thud not unlike a melon dropped from a window, a sailor hits the deck not five feet from Vorya, dead instantly, his head exploded from the impact of his fall from the crow's nest above.
Up, atop the poop deck lay the ship's wheel. The Jenivere bobs again, this time almost like a dancer shuffling to the side, and Vorya drops to his knees in time to spy the helmsman, a bloke named Carver, collapse and drop from Vorya's view. Blood pulses through Vorya's head, the Aspis agent thinking, almost detachedly, how he can feel each pull and push of his heart, and the ship settles again for a moment even as Vorya slips and falls to his knees. Below him, Vorya can hear the splintering of wood, and a sound almost as if the Jenivere is groaning, as if coming to terms with is impending demise.
Devers stands, not fifteen feet away, his hand on the door to Captain Alizandru Kovak's stateroom. He turns back, catching Vorya's eyes as he runs the back of his hand along his forehead and drops it to his belt, drawing forth a longknife. The first mate's voice carries over to Vorya on the wind, his attention vague. Was he talking to Vorya? Himself? The Captain? "I've been a fool, a damned fool," the wind says, and Anton Devers flings the door open.
Vorya's vision tunnels and he collapses to the deck, rolling to his side. Devers steps into the stateroom, and beyond him, Alizandru Kovak turns, a mixture of suprise and rage playing across his face. Kovak, a wiry half-orc with filed tusks and elaborate, colorful tattoos covering most every inch of his body, raises a cutlass and the door to his stateroom slams shut.
Vorya closes his eyes, breath coming at once easier and more difficult than usual, and notes with interest a sensation of drifting; he must be sliding, sliding across the deck. Perhaps the Jenivere was pitching again, one final strain before the ship came apart and they all drowned. Ah well, Vorya thinks, there will be some comfort in never knowing for sure.
And with that, Vorya's world goes dark.
Snapping awake, Vorya sits up, sand drifting from his hair. He's on a beach, apparently - a band of yellow sand stretches to each side, waves gently crashing against the sand in front of him. Nausea kicks through him, like a viscous hangover, and Vorya spits up bile, clearing yet more sand from his mouth this time. A trickle of fresh blood oozes from Vorya's foot, and the Rahadoumi realizes of immediate importance is the thing that bit - or pinched - or stung - him. The size of a small dog, two large pincers snap in the air before this sleek creature, mottled ochre carapace interspersed with yellow streaks, almost tiger-like in appearance. Otherwise vaguely lobster-looking, its slick tail ends in a long, thin stinger that rises behind it. The pincers clack, the stinger waves, and creature scrabbles forward plunging its stinger towards Vorya's foot. A puff of sand flies into the air where it lands, less than an inch from Vorya's heel.
With a groan, Vorya realizes his rapier is aboard the Jenivere, wherever that may now be, locked in storage as demanded as a condition of travel.
The character takes a –2 penalty on all attack rolls, weapon damage rolls, saving throws, skill checks, and ability checks.
The character is lying on the ground. A prone attacker has a –4 penalty on melee attack rolls and cannot use a ranged weapon (except for a crossbow). A prone defender gains a +4 bonus to Armor Class against ranged attacks, but takes a –4 penalty to AC against melee attacks.
Standing up is a move-equivalent action that provokes an attack of opportunity.
"Yeaarggh!" Vorya exclaims in disgust and surprise, too startled to even properly curse. The strange lobster-creature is bearing down on him, and has, apparently, already attacked. With a speed born both of terror and long training, the swashbuckler rolls to his feet with alacrity.
No weapon, no idea where he is and no clue what this chittering mass of shiny shell is. Easy call. Time to run. Taking to his heels, Vorya does his best to put distance between him and the beast. Still getting his bearings, the swashbuckler runs backwards along the shore.
Some breathing room gained, Vorya looks around, not only for a weapon but any sign of the ship, other passengers or supplies. Where was he? What was going on?
Vorya clambers backwards, his feet sinking into the sand, his movement rigid, little clouds of sand lifting into the air with each step. Nausea threatens to tumble Vorya back onto the beach, but the Rahadoumi keeps his feet - and his wits - and gathers a quick sense of his surroundings. To his front, the lobster-thing, which seemed to have crawled from the sea up a furrow in the sand the width of Vorya's body, as if the unconscious man been pulled from the surfline. The beach is made of a fine yellow sand that is surprisingly cool to the touch - perhaps it is morning and the sand has yet to heat up under the sun, or perhaps it is the nature of the sand itself. Vorya spins briefly, taking in jungle and mountains rising sharply behind him. The beach stretches in an arc from where Vorya stands, as if it were an arch laid flat, and where Vorya awoke being at the arc's "apex." Eventually, along the left side of the beaches' arc, the sand gives way to a crumbling cliffside, jagged rocks protruding from the churning surf. Leaning against the cliff side, a familiar site; the Jenivere, listing to port, partially submerged, her hull a gaping ruin.
But, more detailed analysis would have to wait, and besides, there are interesting things nearby. Bodies are strewn about the beach; Vorya notes immediately his fellow passengers, or most of them at least: The Lady Bellet and her servant Lytte, Aerys Mavato, tricorn hat gripped in one hand, Gelik Aberwhinge, and Sasha Nevah all lie close by. Ishirou lays further down the beach, and the man slowly rolls onto his stomach, a low groan escaping him as he moves. Next to him, a Mwangi man with coal-dark skin and expansive dreadlocks lies motionless in the sand. Just beyond Mwangi man, mostly obscured by the stranger, Vorya can make the enormous belly of the cook, Pilts, the perpetually stained apron and shirt giving the otherwise hidden man away.
Missing from the scene are the rest of the crew, including Captain Kovak, as well as first mate Devers. Among the passengers, the Varisian scholar, Ileana D'Argacy is also gone.
Of most immediate importance, about ten feet from Vorya lie a small pile of belongings; among them, Vorya spies his pack, bedroll, camping gear, and mess kit haphazardly tossed atop one another. Poking out from the bottom of the pile, the blade of Vorya's rapier lies glinting in the sun. Half-submerged in the sand at Vorya's feet, a heavy, round stone lies upon the beach.
The lobster-thing skitters toward Vorya, its claws snapping, but it is apparent the creature is better suited to the sea; it moves slowly across the beach, buying Vorya a few precious seconds.
"Sword!" Vorya says out loud, delighting at seeing the untidy pile of his supplies. Sure, maybe it is all soaked with seawater and piled with sand but still, the stuff survived! Most importantly, the blade!
"I don't think you'll like it, you nasty brute." Vorya says, still out loud. A habit of his, in tough spots. The Legion would have broken it, but the swashbuckler had spent too little time among those grim elite. The dark skinned man eyes the lobster monster, the sand and the blade. Go around or through? He dismissed a lying rock instantly. What was he, some man of the hills to bash in a pest's head with a field stone?
"Through!" He needed that blade, to feel the heavy hilt in his hand. Besides, Vorya was quick and nimble, even when lanced by some poision. How quick could a lobster be, anyway?
Vorya races past the threatening creature, cool sand again kicked up by his heels. Again his speed his true, long honed. In a moment he is standing at the low pile of salt-stained belongings. Pots, rations, blankets, all tumbled together in a mass, but the swashbuckler only has eyes for one thing.
"Sword!" Vorya shouts again in triumph, pulling the glittering shard of sunsilver free of the scabbard. It glitters like a freshly cut diamond in the tropical sun, turning into a length of sunlight. "Now, let's see how brave you are!" The man says, turning on the beast, sword first.
Vorya quickly finds his "sand-legs" - he is from Rahadoum after all, a land of arid of deserts littered with dunes the size of small castles - and sprints past his crustacean opponent, sensing one of its pincers clack shut just behind him, the lobster-thing pinching nothing but air.
Sword in hand, Vorya turns to face his opponent. It was an unconventional opponent to use a fencing style against, but surely the fundamentals were the same? And perhaps Vorya would be lucky? It could just turn its barbed tail and run back into the surf...
Alas, Desna does not smile upon the Rahadoumi. The creature skitters forward, pinchers clacking. Whether the stinging lobster-thing was brave, or rabid, or hungry was a matter for later debate. What was apparent, however, was that the beast intended to finish its meal, and no blade glinting in the morning sunlight would scare it off. Shifting sideways, the lobster-thing scuttled, crablike, with surprising quickness. It snapped with its pincher, and Vorya waved his rapier at it, realizing all too lately that the creature possessed a savage cunning. The pincer was a mere faint, and the lobster-thing's barbed stinger struck deep into Vorya's thigh, a fiery, pulsating pain spreading from the wound.
Vorya's leg suddenly burned with liquid, toxic fire. It was if someone had taken the bright sun above and poured it into his flesh. Sands below, it hurt! Onaku take this foul creature.
Vorya considered running, at least briefly. How fast could this thing really be? Still, it could be persistent and worse, might turn one of the more helpless passengers strewn across the beach. No, the swashbuckler would have to deal with it.
Somehow.
So far, his attempts had earned him little.
The blow goes so wide, the lobster doesn't even budge at the flash of steel. A handful of sand goes flying, as if Vorya was a child at the seashore, building sandcastles. Frustration builds up in the swashbuckler. Was he going to die, here? After everything, here at the hands....claws of the some weird lobster creature? His previous thoughts, while sound, had been predicated on the idea he could actually kill the creature. Apparently luck was not with him.
Pride boiling with nearly as much pain as his leg, Vorya backs up out of range of the stinger and claws.
Desna does not smile on the Rahadoumi. It was a saying coined by Rahadoum's ancient enemies, the Thuvians, a taunt that encapsulated the ages-old feud between the nations. In the eyes of the Thuvians, eventually the Rahadoumi lack of faith would be their downfall, for one needed the gods to make their way in the world. A whole nation turning their backs on their favor? Madness. It was merely a matter of time before their luck ran out, individually and collectively.
The Rahadoumi, being a resourceful people, of course had a rejoinder. We make our own luck. Vorya's keen mind put the pieces together in short order; if his strikes were errant, he would have to create more favorable conditions. The lobster-thing was slow, at least on land, slower than Vorya. Vorya would move, carefully but with purpose, and put himself out of harm's way. Make the creature clamber after him.
Slipping away from the creature's pinchers, Vorya moved back, towards the treeline and mountains at his back. The fine sand gave way to small, scrubby plants and spindly grasses, the types of flora that favored salty air.
With the wider vantage point, Vorya spied Ishirou rise to his feet and stumble towards the pile of gear in which Vorya found his rapier. Ishirou dropped to his knees and started to fling gear aside, raising his eyes toward the Rahadoumi. "My sword! Where is it?"
The lobster thing skitters forward, and although it had six legs, their pointy ends are more suited for navigating sand and sea floors. The creature struggles single-mindedly with the scrub Vorya so easily just stepped over, prensenting an advantage for Vorya's next strike.
Vorya had made his luck, now was the time to capitalize. And it needed to be soon; Vorya's leg pulsed with pain, his breath came harder, his knee buckled under his own weight.
Vorya watches the ugly crustacean struggle with the low level plant cover. This thing, that could barely handle a clump of saltgrass was going to kill him? Maybe it already had? His leg throbbed with toxic fury, and the man could feel it spreading through his bloodstream. His vision wavered slightly, stomach chunring. No, he had to kill this thing.
"I didn't see it!" he shouts at Ishirou, not taking his eyes from the menacing crab. Then, delaying no longer, strikes at it.
This time at least the steel hits the creature although the sloped, slick shell deflects most of the force. Again, after attacking, Vorya dances backward, hoping against hope he can keep the distance between them. Maybe the injury will slow it down or dissuade it?
The creature's shell deflects much of the force, but rapier blades are flexible, able to find weak points to be exploited, even if sometimes by accident. Vorya's blade skips along the lobster-thing's shell, slipping off of it, but then finding a gap in Vorya's follow-through, in the space between its thorax and tail. The sunsilver blade twists in Vorya's hand, almost as if under its own volition, and the tail of Vorya's opponent comes clean off. Vorya has made his own luck after all.
The lobster-thing's bravado, or rage, or hunger, whatever, fails, and it skitters away from Vorya as fast as its spindly legs can carry it, back towards the surfline.
By the gear pile, Ishirou grabs his head in his hands, voice manic. "IT'S. NOT. HERE!"
Vorya lets the injured lobster retreat back to the whispering surf. The last thing he needs is to chase it and get it angry again. How much more poison can he take? Indeed, his first step is more like a drunken sailor on land for the first time in a month. The usually nimble swashbuckler nearly falls over. The world swirls in lines of bright colors, his stomach no longer upset but seemingly absent.
The fire in his leg seems to grow, burning like a inferno. For the first time real fear crosses his mind, a dark shadow. Was he dying? Was it already too late? There were lethal jellyfish and mollusks, Vorya had heard that somewhere hadn't he?
Stumbling, he heads over to Ishirou , barely able to keep upright. 'I..I didn't see it." he repeats, voice slurring slightly with pain and a strange (and worrying) growing lethargy.
As, Vorya stumbles towards the Tien man, the wounded lobster-thing moves towards the surf. It struggles, blue/black ichor oozing from its stump where its tail was mere moments before. The beast wobbles on its spindly legs slowly across the sand, pincers drooping, and then dragging along the ground as it pushes itself with dogged determination towards the surfline. Crawling sidewise, crablike, it skitters into the surf, close to freedom, and then Aerys Mavato bashes it, and then again, with a large driftwood log. The lobster-thing's carapace fractures with a sickening crunch that travels across the beach. Aerys hits the crustacean one more time for good measure, and pulls the battered - and thoroughly dead - creature from the water, and with a grunt tosses it away from the now-receding water.
Mavato leans on her driftwood staff and closes her eyes, tricorn hat somehow still staying snug on her head. Then the woman retches, once, and again, the remnants of her last (liquid) supper splattering the wet sand. Opening her eyes, Aerys looks around, sees Vorya, and shrugs. "Common brown Euryptid. Common in the Shackles at least. Poisonous, don't get get stung. At least we have food now. We'll need to brine it in salt water 'fore we cook it, draw the toxins out."
"Not usually that aggressive though. Strange." Pulling her hat almost over her eyes, Aerys wobbles up the beach toward the greenery beyond; tall, willowy palm trees stretch towards the cloudless blue sky. Closer to the ground, the shoreside vegetation, at first clumps of grasses, cedums, and similar plants, grow into a thick tangle. In short order - a hundred yards at most - the greenery crawls up the sides of a low mountain ridge, obscuring what lies beyond.
Still weak, but thankfully not getting actively weaker, Vorya sits next to Ishirou. The pile of equipment is just that - assorted gear, likely taken from the Jenivere's storage room in the Great Cabin; it all likely belonging to those scattered about the beach.
Ishirou runs a sandy hand under his nose, his voice barely a whisper. "I pulled it from the room late at night, took it back to my cabin. Couldn't bare the thought of it being locked up where I couldn't see it."
The man gives one last lingering look around the beach, his eyes settling for moment on the wreck of the Jenivere before he leans back, planting his rear in the sand and propping his wrists upon his knees, dejected. "Probably still there. Balls."
The rest of the bodies on the beach lie motionless. Dead perhaps, or asleep.
Eat them? Arys couldn't be serious. Vorya could barely stand to look at it, let alone contemplate swallowing it. Indeed, the thought made his already sickened state worse, and he nearly 'heaved to', as the sailors joked. But the swashbuckler kept it down and shook his head.
'It's just a sword." Vorya finally said to the Tian man, once he got his breath back, forgetting his own wonder and joy at finding his own blade. "Come on, we need to check for more survivors. I think I'd recognize most of the crew. See who is missing, and then, maybe, think about venturing to the ship." Vorya points to the battered Jenivere .
"And probably try to see what else is here worthwhile, pull it out of the waves. Food, mainly." The man squints at the water, 'I wonder if the tide is coming in or going out."
As near as Vorya can tell, it is mid-morning. The sun climbs higher in the sky, the wind - even this close to the shoreline, seems to be dying down. No doubt, the midday will be oppressively hot, perhaps even dangerous. The wall of greenery Vorya has begun to think of as "behind" him - south, Vorya decides based upon the placement of the sun in the sky - rises in the form of dense jungle. The calls of birds, the buzzing of insects, and occasionally other sounds - the call of an animal, even once a loud crash, can be heard within the greenery. Food lied there certainly, but also likely danger. To the east and west, ragged arms of jagged rocks reach out to embrace the wave-tossed cove that Vorya finds himself castaway upon, and to the north, the waters of the sea surge and churn between the beach and a line of razor-sharp rocks.
The Jenivere lies to the east then, damaged beyond repair. Only the fortuitous presence of a sharp ridge of rock near the side of the sheer cliff wall has prevented the wreck from sinking entirely into the sea, for only the ship's stern seems to have survived the wreck. So, the captain's cabin, the galley, the larder, the Great Cabin and its staterooms and storeroom - all are likely more or less or intact. The crew's quarters and storage areas of the ship look to be submerged.
The portion of the ship still above water is wedged at an angle between the cliff and the rocks, and each wave shakes and tosses the wreck alarmingly. It won't be long before the constant pounding of the waves dislodges the wreck and allows the hungry sea to claim the last of this once-fine ship. For now though, it will be difficult to get to the ship. Vorya notes it must be high tide, or close to it. Reaching the wreck would mean a 150-foot swim, or a climb along the cliff side. Either of which could be done by someone with some skill in those pursuits. But it would be dangerous none-the-less.
Perhaps low tide would reveal another course of action? If Vorya is correct, then low-tide would fall right smack-dab in the worst heat of the day, or in the middle of the night. The second high tide would be well into the evening, many hours after dinner.
"It is not just a sword," Ishirou says, his voice soft, as he takes in the wreck of the Jenivere alongside Vorya, though he offers no further elaboration. "I'll go with you to the ship. When it is time."
Eventually, the rest of the castaways stir. Everyone on the beach is alive, thankfully. All wake with some manner of sickness, similar to Vorya; nausea, confusion, no recollection of the Jenivere's crash. Word spreads of the pile of gear, and each castaway in turn goes through it, pulling items that Vorya assumes belong to them.
The castaways are, in order of their wakening:
Ishirou, of course, the dour Tien man who stands nearby, scratching his perpetually scruffy beard. His hair is drawn back into a braided - and now quite tangled - ponytail, crow's feet spread from the corners of the man's dark brown eyes. Ishirou wears loose cotton pants and a bosun's shirt, stained and grey from the events of the last few hours. A chain shirt glints in the sun from underneath his dirty shirt.
Aerys Mavato, a trim, athletic half-elven woman with short dark hair, tanned skin, and fierce blue eyes. She is dressed in tightly fitted leather armor under now quite dirty dark blue pants and silken shirt. Her tricorn hat, black and simple, sits perched upon her head, shielding the woman from the already punishing sun. Laid in the sand next to Aerys are a longbow, leather quiver with arrows, a pouch, ink and quills, and a waterlogged book, which Aerys hovers over, turning the pages every few minutes to dry them in the sun.
Lytte, the plump manservant of Lady Amara Bellet, a man with kind eyes, sandy brown hair, closely trimmed, and freckles that play across his pale face. He contains little possessions of his own, merely his servant's clothes and a knife tucked into his belt; however, he has already pulled the Lady into the shade and retrieved her gear by the time she wakes.
Lady Amara Bellet, tall, prim, and even in her current state of discomfort, imperious. Bellet is paler than Lytte, with wispy grey hair she has tied into a bun atop her head. Perhaps her most striking features are her eyes, their color a deep, verdant purple that seem to shift hue in the sunlight, as if they are fine amethysts. Lytte has found among the gear pile her parasol, bent but still functional, jewelry, three stained and waterlogged dresses, a carved, wooden walking cane of exceptional beauty, the cane itself tipped with bronze and carved to look as if imps rise from clouds towards a golden handle.
A man who Vorya does not know, middle-aged, plain-looking, likely a Garundi, with a dark complexion and dreadlocks that are slanted to grey. He has watery brown eyes and is dressed in rags. His hands are bound behind his back by well-made manacles.
Gelik Aberwhinge, the spry, energetic gnome Vorys had last seen knocked or passed out on the floor of the Jenivere. Gelik looks much worse for the wear, with bruises along his neck and a black eye. His dandy noble's clothes are in tatters. Like Aerys, he has a book with him, and ink and a quill, and a pouch. The dandy also has a new-looking steel buckler, a gnome-sized longsword, and a fine bow and arrows, all of which look as unused as the buckler.
Sasha Nevah, she of touseled red hair and mischievous green eyes, and she of the missing pinky finger on her left hand. Sasha removes her shirt to don her chain shirt, and Vorya catches sight of a tattoo between her shoulder blades - two barbed, insectoid limbs entwined with each other. Sasha is slender and athletic, and besides her worn sailor's outfit and chain shirt, has a fine rapier and kukri strapped to her belt.
Lastly, there is Pilts, the overweight middle-aged ship's cook and surgeon, who wears his hair closely-cropped, as he does his beard. He, for one, doesn't look worse for the wear, but mostly because Vorya had only every seen him looking disheveled, wearing stained cook's clothing and with a tinge of grog hovering on his breath. Pilts has nothing with him.
Notably missing from the beach is one passenger; the Varisian scholar Ileana D. Argacy, a bookish woman with curly black hair that belied her Varisian heritage. Vorya recalls she had a tattoo of a multi-hued butterfly that graced her right wrist, but Ileana was otherwise not terribly notable; she was not particularly attractive or conversational, at least.
Also notably missing; the half-orc Captain Alizandru Kovak and his first mate, Anton Devers, both of whom were last seen by Vorya in the captain's cabin. They were the two last people that Vorya had seen alive before he awoke on the beach, which of course was in and of itself, quite notable.
The castaways seem for the most part stunned into silence and despair. They sit about the beach largely unmoving and not speaking. Lytte is an exception; even now he flits about his mistress ensuring her comfort; he tunnels at a small, jungle-facing dune as if to build a place for the lady to sit, protected from the sun and wind with her parasol. Sasha and Gelik sit huddled together, staring out to see, engaged in quiet, intent conversation.
Not as notable, perhaps, but interesting none-the-less: there was one other crew member besides Pilts and the officers that were on occasion in the Great Cabin - the cook's assistant, Piper. Piper, a young boy of early teenage years, skinny and timid, with a shock of red hair like a plume of lava erupting from his head, is not on the beach. Although he tended to be overshadowed by the ship's cook and stayed to the corners of the Great Cabin, Vorya can't say he saw Piper the night of the wreck. Piper was likely in the galley, which was off the Great Cabin.
Before anything else, Vorya held a brief mental memoriam for his clothes. The richly dyed cloth, bought at a dear price and made by the finest Azir tailors was now a total shambles. They were drenched, stained with salt and grime. A huge rent had one leg flapping in the ocean breeze. A shame and Vorya had a feeling it would be a long time until he found proper clothes again.
Alas.
Back to work, he supposed.
Vorya paced through the sand until he reached the mysterious man shackled. How had a bound man survived a shipwreck? The swashbuckler wasn't much of a swimmer but even he knew you needed to use your arms. Still, at least one thing was cleared up.
Vorya stood over the dark-skinned man, shadow overlapping him. "So, you are, or were I suppose, the resident of Cabin 3?" Vorya cocked his head, "All right, speak up then. Name and rank, if you please."[ Vorya said, in a passable imitation of an Pure Legionaries sergeant at home. He smiled though, to soften the blow. Inwardly he wondered what the man's crimes had been but surely, he was a pardon if there ever was one. There was no way anyone was remaining shackled at a time like this, regardless of what he had done. Survival loomed larger then justice.
Confusion plays across the man's face, and it occurs to Vorya that it must be a ridiculous sight, him dressed in grime-ridden, shambolic finery, blocking out the sun, smiling wildly.
The man squints, as if trying to make out Vorya's shaded features, and shrugs. "Cabin 3? Is that where I was kept? I was brought onto the ship hooded in the middle of the night, from Pezzack. Took the hood off but kept me muzzled in my cabin. Name's Jask. I'm no soldier. Have no rank."
Jask turns his head from Vorya and stares out toward the Jenivere, letting a long moment pass. "Seems we're rightly berked, yeah? See the captain about? Or the first mate? They delivered my food to me. Unshackled me so I could eat, shackled one hand to the frame of my cot. So I couldn't run." Jask laughs, a mirthless chuckle, exasperated. "Where would I run to? Anyways, they've got the keys." The man - prisoner? convict? - shakes his hands behind his back, his manacles clinking dully together. "Get me free, I can be of use."
Nearby, Sasha rises from her whispered conversation with Gelik and slowly walks the beach, staring at the sand, intent on something. Raising her head, Vorya catches a wide smile and she waves. "Oi! Vorya, yeah? You were here, right? Look, footprints. What's left of 'em anyways. And Gelik was here. A furrow in the sand. More footprints, probably footprints. And here, and here."
Animated now, the woman with the strange tattoo walks quickly across the sand, pointing as she goes. "Someone drug us from the surf. Who woke up first? Was it you, Ishirou? Did you drag us?"
Turning to the sea, she scans it, hand covering her eyes, one foot propped atop a round, polished rock. "There might be survivors on the ship. We need to get there."
"We need food, my dear!" Gelik shouts, his voice carrying on the wind.
"Shelter." Pilts grunts. "I'm going to build me a shelter. Morning's ending, the day's gonna be hot." The cook casts a wary eye towards the greenery rising up the mountain to the south. "And I don't trust that jungle's a good place to find shade."
Vorya stared down at Jask, once again wondering what he had done. The man, notably, didn't mention it himself. Strange though, to be transported after being charged with a crime. The Chelish would sell you into slavery, Taldor fine you, Aspis throw you in debotr's prison and Rahadoum would, mostly to Vorya's disdain, probably just kill you. Who would pay to ship a convict half way around the world to Sargava?
"Well, Jask, you are right about one thing. You could be of use. As the sailor says, this is a 'all hands on deck' sort of situation." Vorya bends down to look at the shackles and then shouts tot he assembled company, "Anyone who knows how to pick a lock? Or else we'll have to bash it with a rock."
At Sasha's words he stands back up and peers at the 'footprints' in the sand. It was hard to tell among tide and wind, but if they all woke up outside the tide....someone had moved them. Sasha was right.
"Well, I think we all have good ideas." The swashbuckler said easily, hoping he sounded more confident then he felt.
"In that case, let's spilt up. Sash, you me and Ishirou let's go and try to reach the ship. Like you said, there might be other survivors there. Besides, Ishirou might find his blade. Even better, maybe we can save some food."
"The rest of you here, try to build a shelter and such. Maybe under some of the bushes farther from the water? And if you have a way to start a fire, that would come in handy. " he tried to pitch them less like orders and more like 'useful suggestions'. Activity was key here, the swashbuckler felt. Someone needed to 'take charge', even if they weren't in charge.
Jask stares up at Vorya, a cavalacade of emotions passing quickly across his countenance. For a moment, Vorya realizes the look of someone making a connection, and then Jask's face grows placid, and he turns back to looking towards the ship. "Now that you know me, may I ask your name, stranger? And if I may ask, where are you from? We don't look so different, you and I. Closer cousins than the others. But your accent... I can't place it."
Vorya's request for a lockpicker is met with silence, though Ishirou wanders over, and judging Jask's bindings for a few seconds, shrugs. "I could help if I had my sword."
Activity is indeed the key, and the castaways spring to it-- for the most part. Pilts offers to gather some driftwood for a fire, and Gelik, standing, brushes his ruined clothes, tufts of sand drifting away on the breeze, before casting looks about for suitable shelter. Ishirou moves about the beach, hefting pieces of driftwood and swinging them, testing their suitability as a weapon, and Sasha checks her weapons, ensuring they are firmly attached and ready for the journey to the ship.
Bellet however, chuckles, her voice lilting, the kind of amused laugh that one finds at a dinner party or a friendly game of cards; it hangs in the air of the castaway's beach, as out of place as a polar bear or carnival troupe. "I am afraid, Vorya, that I will not be building shelter. Lytte however will be happy to help. As he is not his own person, consider his assistance my contribution. I am old, and tired, and shall need to conserve my strength." The broken parasol twirls above the noblewoman's head, purples and blues blending into a pinwheel.
Jask sits in the sand, staring out to sea, his voice flat. "Get me free and I'll help. Of little use until then."
And Aerys rises with a sigh, and looking to Vorya, offers one simple word. "No."
Stepping towards the swashbuckler, she removes her hat, and shakes it, before sticking it back on her head; Vorya notices her hair is already matted, sweat trickles down her brow. "I'm going to the ship."
Vorya decides to address Aerys first and turns to 'confront here', squinting his eyes eyes against the glaring tropical sun. 'I need a hat,' The man thought, eyes already hurting, 'Or maybe a burnoose, like the desert people wear.'
He looks over the half elf from her tri-corn hat to her black sailor shoes, then shrugs, "More is the merrier." If the woman wanted a fight, she wasn't getting one from him. "I just figured we'd leave at least one armed person here incase the crabs came back, or brought bigger cousins." he nodded toward the bow, "Wasn't sure how good that would be inside a shipwreck. But I'm no lord or priest to give orders, do what you want."
First though he looks at Jask, and again at the manacles. Well, maybe he could try breaking them with his rapier? He kneels down, wedges the blade in the chain and tries to snap the iron links.
Nope.
"Well, I tried." Vorya says, wiping sand off his hands. 'Sorry, my friend, but you seems to be tied up for a bit longer. We'll work on it again when we get back. And hey, you never know, maybe we'll find the keys."
Looking again at Aerys, Vorya bows slightly, "Shall we off to the ship, m'lady? "
Aerys holds her hands up in front of her. They are the hands of someone that has lived a hard life; scars criss-cross her knuckles and the backs of her hands, Vorya notices her left pinky is bent, as if it broke and fused back together without the aid of a splint. "Bow's for hunting. In a tight spot, I prefer these." The woman balls her hands into fists and then shakes the left fist, and then her right. "Meet Rum. And this is Punch."
"Oh, I can stay!" Sasha volunteers, her face shading a tinge of red. "When I said 'we should go to the ship,' I meant it in a kind of 'some of us here on the beach should go' kind of way, not a 'you and me' kind of war."
And so it is settled; Ishirou, Aerys, and Vorya will go to the ship. As for Jask, he merely shrugs, shoulders rolling up at an awkward angle, with his hands tied behind him. "Perhaps. Both the mate and captain had keys." Still looking out to sea, Jask prods Vorya another time, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion. [b]"You never answered my question though. Where are you from?"
Vorya managed to not roll his eyes at Rum and Punch, but does note the mangled pinky. So maybe it isn't all talk...or maybe Aerys just got her hand smacked by a hammer once. Who can say?
As Jask's question the swashbuckler pauses. The man seemed oddly insistent on it. What difference did it make where Vorya was from? Did the man have some deeper reason for asking? Some grudge? Related to his unknown crime, perhaps?
Still, Vorya saw no harm in asking, "The Kingdom of Man, Rahadoum. Ever been?"
Jask grunts, his eyes trained on the distant ship, and then ducks his head, rubbing a bead of sweat from his cheek as best he can with his shoulder.
"No, never been. Probably never will, to be honest, even if we get off this... island? Or whatever this is we're marooned on. My gear -- Captain taunted me about having it. May be on his body, or in his cabin. Key to the manacles or some tools are most important of course, but my gear, need it to help. You'll know it when you see it, man of the Kingdom of Man."
The walk to the Jenivere is as Vorya suspected, not too far. Still, the walk along the beach proves difficult; Vorya's feet sink deeply into the dry sand at first, eventually forcing the small group to the surfline. "Slowly then," Aerys barks, casting a dark look towards the sea. "Eurypterids are not solitary animals. Quite social, actually."
And so, wary of the ocean and unwilling to move into the jungle behind them, the castaways move diligently up the beach, and the sun climbs higher in the sky. Sweat darkens Vorya's shirt. Ishirou ties his hair in a tight bun atop his head. Aerys pulls her hat low onto her brow, occasional curses drifting on the wind back to Vorya's ears. The woman had a gift for them, Vorya is forced to admit to himself.
The punishing heat of the early afternoon even effects the jungle that climbs the ridgeline to the group's left. Earlier, it had been rife with sounds, especially birdlife. Now, the jungle grows silent, as if its denizens are settling in for sun's ascent into the sky. Or, perhaps, they were merely curious about the newcomers, and watching intently?
At last, the Jenivere is close. The beach lining the cove comes to an end, and instead waves crash into a bluff that stretches past the wreck, until it curves out of sight. The tide is high; waves batter the ship's stern, which is wedged between the cliffside and the chain of rocks that stretch into the sea.
Ishirou slaps at his neck, an unconscious grimace of annoyance at some biting insect, a flea or a sand fly. "We could swim?" he offers, voice wavering.
"Or we could climb along the bluff," Aerys says, tracing a pointed finger along the bluffline. "Then down there, and eventually drop onto the deck."
Of course, it is high tide. You could always wait the tide out as well, and see if a better course of action presents itself in a few hours. The sun beats down upon you, bright and merciless, like the glare of vengeful god.
Vorya notes Ishirou slightly unusual placement and wonders. Some misplaced chivalry? Or did the two have a connection, perhaps formed over the long days at sea?
The swashbuckler gazes at the rather unappetizing wreck, pondering. Waiting for a poor option, they would only get weak from here on out, with little food and punishing sun. Besides, who knows what valuable items might get swept away in the meantime? No, the sooner the better.
"I think I like climbing better." Vorya gestured to the swirling blue waves, dotted with white foam. "We have no idea how deep the water is and what might be...in there, attracted by the wreck." Eurypterids, sharks and far worse.
"At least with climbing we can see what we are facing." Vorya looks around the sandy beach. "We'd do better with some rope. Anyone see anything in the surf?"
The route to the top of the bluff is circuitous and would likely take a couple of hours to wend into the treeline from the beach, then east up the craggy bluffline. Thankfully, Aerys had spotted a simpler path, one that made use of a cleave in the bluff to climb up about twenty feet and then move across at a small incline to where the ship rocks into the cliffside with each battering wave. If they don't fall, the only dangerous moment would be when the castaways were directly over the ship and would need to descend roughly thirty feet to the deck of the Jenivere.
And so, the castaways set off, wending their way up the cliffside fissure. The sun beats off the rock; exposed on the cliffside, scalding hot rock to the castaways' backs, it seems hellishly hot, hotter than even on the beach. Foot after foot, hand after hand, the castaways make their way and the sun ticks higher in the sky, and sounds from the jungle are obscured by the waves crashing into the bluffside, a continuous loud roar. Down the beach, the other castaways toil, mere dots moving along the yellow expanse of sand, like beetles scurrying across a dungheap.
Finally, the Jenivere - or what is left of it - looms below them. From this vantage, Vorya can make out the remains of one of the ship's two lifeboats. The bow of the smaller craft still lolls about in the surf, attached to a protruding timber by a thick rope, as if someone had moored the boat to the wreck, and it was subsequently crushed by the action of the waves smashing the Jenivere against it and the cliffside. Of the Jenivere's second lifeboat, there is no sign.
A debris field spreads from both the lifeboat and the Jenivere: wood, canvas, and metal intertwined upon itself, reminiscent to Vorya of tales he's heard of the River Kingdoms, where floods fell the forest trees and create sweeping wood dams that block the rivers, birthing small lakes and new tributaries every spring.
Vorya blinks, coming back to the present. The only thing left to do is to climb down a bit to then drop onto the deck of the Jenivere, and so the castaways begin their descent. The cliffside is sheer and handholds hard to come by. Ishirou, proving the most adept climber, begins the descent, with Aerys following next. They move a few feet down, followed by Vorya, when the cliffside gives way, and Aerys slips, her feet coming untethered from terrestrial rock, the woman twisting, contorting her body in an attempt to grab the cliffside. Her eyes meet Vorya's for a second, deep brown irises wide with shock, and time slows to that immediate moment when a choice must be made. Will Vorya reach for Aerys, and risk her potentially dragging him into the air with her, or will the swashbuckler let the woman fall to the deck of the Jenivere, thirty feet below?
Vorya had always had a good sense of balance, a fine inner ear. You'd think that would help with climbing....but it didn't. Not enough anyway. Scrambling down the slope made the swashbuckler feel as nimble and daring as a dog trying to climb a tree. Slowly, carefully feeling for each handhold and foothold, they managed to descend the hot, rocky slope.
Then the atheist sees his nightmare, but not to himself. Aerys slipping and falling, loosing her grip. There is an instant there, to think and react, but there is little choice. Vorya isn't going to let the woman fall. If only because helping is better then climbing (even if much risker!)
The moment draws out like wisp of smoke unfurling from a doused candle, and Vorya's instincts prove quicker than time itself. Before a thought has even crossed his mind, Vorys finds Aerys' outstretched hand, clasping it tight. Aerys' eyes widen even more, impossibly deep pools of deep brown... and then her weight pulls both of the castaways from the cliff.
Time speeds up, and both Aerys and Vorya hurtle towards the deck of the ship, the fast-approaching wood a brown blur. Still, the castaways' reactions are quicker. Twisting in the air, Vorya lands in a crouch and then lets the rocking motion of the ship guide him onto his hands, using the ship's motion in concert with his fall to distribute the force of the landing. His hands slide across the wood decking and Vorys feels a deep splinter dig into one; a feeling not unlike rope burn prickles one of the aethist's knees, hot and bright. Still, an unexpectedly good outcome for any fall.
Beside Vorya, Aerys fares even better. Aerys also lands feet first, waves her arms windmill style, and the falls backwards onto her rump. The woman looks up at the cliff and lets loose a long, howling whoop turned laugh.
Seconds pass and Ishirou lands atop the deck, catlike, dropping into a fluid crouch, a smile crossing his face. "You two are blessed. Tian acrobats in another life, no doubt."
The Jenievere levels for a moment, almost motion at all, and then shudders as the next wave hits. Vorya's gives himself a figurative pat on the back; it seems his instincts were correct and the Jenivere would be not much longer for this world.
Or what was left of it at any rate. The castaways were indeed quite lucky to be where they were when the ship... crashed? Vorya curses again the blank spot in the castaway's collective memory. Regardless, most of the bow of the ship is simply gone, and what is left is underwater. All that survives - if Vorya's mental map is correct and things are intact - are some of the upper decks: the captain's cabin and poop deck above it, the great cabin and its associated rooms, the trebuchet room, the galley, larder, and passenger's supply room.
In front of the castaways, the door to the captain's cabin rattles in its frame. The entire cabin, including the door, tilts to the left reminding Vorys of the impossible leaning towers of Jalmeray. Nearby, the stairs leading belowdecks, to the trebuchet room sit, darkness beyond it. The room certainly sat in darkness, but beyond it would be the great cabin and its braziers containing continual light torches.
From somewhere belowdecks, a racquet: long, scrabbling sounds followed by irregular thumps, repeated, and then again. And again.
Aerys condition: 2 damage, sickened
Vorya reflects that he has had better days. Passing out (?) on a sinking ship, washing up on a deserted beach, being attacked by a venomous sea creature and then falling nearly thirty feet onto a rough wood deck.
Yes, he has had better mornings.
Shaking his head clear, the man pulls the splinter from his foot. 'Blessed?" he says to Ishirou. "If this is divine blessing....then proves my countrymen right."
The swashbuckler looks at the swaying, slowly disintegrating ship.
It was hard to tell much due to the damage the poor Jenivere had endured. The rocks might be a temporary respite but the sea would claim her fully soon enough. They needed to hurry.
"Ishirou," Vorya says nodding to the man, "I assume you'll be looking for your sword? I'll head to the great cabins and grab a torch. Wi be useful. Then maybe belowdecks and see if I can find some food and supplies."
Vorya cocks a head toward the strange, unsettling sound from below. "Assuming whatever that is doesn't have other plans..." Visions of monsters flicked through his mind. Things drawn by the smell of prey.
He glances at Aerys, "As I said on the beach, I'm not in charge. But feel free to come with me if you want. "
Ishirou shrugs, the usually dour man still grinning. "Well, call it whatever you want. But that worked out as well as could be expected, yeah? And yeah, I'm gonna grab my sword. You're headed to the great cabin, I'll go with you."
Aerys meanwhile, leans over the side of the ship, her attention intent on the waves below. A half-minute passes and she looks up to Vorya and Ishirou, sweat beading on her brow. "The bottom of the Jenivere, it's gone. Nothing left. Like it was sheared right off. Anyone below us wouldn't have survived."
Heading towards the stairs, Aerys barks, "Anyways, I didn't come here to lollygag topdeck. What're y'all waiting on?"
---
Fears of darkness below prove overblown, as does the side of the trebuchet room. One of the trebuchets lies tipped against the back wall of the room, while the other hangs out of the blown-open hull of the ship, broken up likely from repeated pounding as the wheeled siege weapon rolled into it. Stepping over a tangle of rope, arrows, and baskets, the door to the great cabin swings open easily to find the room predictably in disarray: tipped furniture lies askance across the room, food is streaked along the floor, pungent and buzing with flies, a painted white and chipped wooden pawn from the scattered conqueror board rolls in front of Vorya along with the rocking of the ship.
Both of Vorya's companions make beelines for their cabins; Aerys emerging moments later with a bottle of rum, from which she takes a long pull and then sighs. Ishirou almost bounces from his, scabbard in hand. He draws his blade forth: a finely wrought katana, well constructed and kept by the Tian man in obviously loving care. "She's a beauty, eh? Family heirloom."
For a moment, the blade glints in the room's torchlight, and then Ishirou slides it back into its scabbard.
Ah yes, the torchlight. A total of four everburning torches once aligned the great cabin. One rocks gently against the far wall, one is still in its brazier, and two are nowhere to be found.
The shattered scraps of the ship shudder under Vorya's soles. A groan of tearing wood and twisting metal reached his ears, audible even over the crashing wash of the waves below. This was not a place to linger.
Vorya was glad the Tian man had found his blade, if only because it would make him more useful in the current survival situation. But he couldn't muster the type of obvious joy the man had in reclaiming his weapon. During his brief time with the Aspis, Vorya had met men and women who clearly really enjoyed weapons, who could talk for hours about heft and balance, about fullers and quillions. That had never been for him. His own blade was worthwhile to him, but because it was striking and beautiful (and could help him fight spiky monsters more easily). He did not love the sword for its sharpness.
Still he mustered a half smile, "Very nice, Ishirou. I'm glad it wasn't lost with the ship."
As he talks, Vorya goes and grabs two of the ever burning torches. After doing so the swashbuckler's eyes sweep the room, "Anyone have a bag or something? Hopefully we can take enough to be worthwhile. What do you think we try the galley next? I don't fancy having to live off Eury-...whatevers for dinner tonight."
The galley is predictably, and not to put too fine a point on it, a mess. A field of pewter and tin utensils lies scattered across the floor; well-used, dented, and scorched pots and pans, and a variety of tools used for food preparation: knives and cleavers, a zester, mixing bowls, wooden spoons, spatulas, a fine rolling pin with mahogany handles, and even more tools, some of which Vorya can't identify the use of. Dessert from the Jenivere's final cabin meal - a pound cake with red velvet icing, judging by its remains - lies streaked, crumbled, and splattered across a work table, the nearby backsplash, and the floor.
The galley's heavy equipment sits mostly in their place, being built into the ship to be immovable. Along the outer wall sit the two large brick ovens, each topped with a burnished bronze boiler, glinting the torchlight of two more everburning torches, still in their braziers. The wood work tables used for dicing, julienning, peeling, rolling, and other food preparations also sit unmoved, like patient beasts of burden standing resolute, awaiting their next purpose.
Only the large soaking tub - essentially a large beaten copper bathtub used to wash dishes and pots - is out of place. Pulled from its mooring - a cracked wooden frame - the tub has been propped against the larder door. Inside the tub, his legs dangling outside, just touching the floor, glassy eyes open in a final, fixed stare toward the galley's ceiling, lies the corpse of the Jenivere's First Mate, Anton Devers.
Dried blood lies pooled across the bottom of the tub and spackled across the floor. Still more has run from under the door itself, a mix of blood, some of it very dark, almost black in color. Wounds criss-cross Anton's body; deep, jagged cuts. Other wounds - punctures - pierce the mate's finely made studded leather. Anton's high-quality shortsword lies across his chest, as if the first mate was intent to keep it nearby even as he expired.
Something scrabbles along the other side of the door, somewhat regular scratches, like a hand or perhaps insect legs running across a surface. Then a thump, and another, as whatever lies beyond throws itself at the makeshift barricade. The larder's door rattles in place but holds; the tub Anton died in barely moves.
Whatever lies beyond has been kept safe by the passing of Anton Devers. Unfortunately, without opening the door, the remains of the larder will go to the bottom of the Fever Sea once the Jenivere finishes breaking apart.
Aerys runs a hand under her nose and takes another sip of rum, two long, low words escaping her. "Chiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnny us."
Vorya was reaching for a battered pot (boiling water would be useful while stranded) when he suddenly spots Devers resting place. Silently he lets his hand fall, and simply stands there, swaying slightly as the ship lurches in the wave action. His nose catches the strange mingled scent of sugar, blood and water-logged wood.
The First Mate had been a good man and a good sailor, excelling in his role. This was an important trait to the Rahadoumi, whose people often highly valued excellence in career or profession. In a worldview that prized self determination and drive, ones personal success were considered a kay part of one's inherent worth. (One reason Vorya preferred to not think about his own current life station...virtually exiled into failure).
Worse for them, obviously the man had not simply died in the wreck. Something had killed the likeable First Mate.
"Go forth, Anton Devers." Vorya said, raising his hand in traditional benediction. "May your path be of your own choice, whatever it may be, in the next step as it was in this."
And that was all they had time for right now.
Vorya looked at his two companions. "Well, here we are. The larder would be useful, we all know that. But clearly something is in there." The larder door thumps again, loudly. "Something other then hardtack. Could be something attracted by the wreck or...something to do with the wreck. So, that's our choice. Do we risk facing this thing or not?"
Vorya held up a hand, "I vote yes, but I'll stand by the general choice if I am outvoted."
Aerys drains the rest of her bottle of rum and lets it drop to the floor with a soft clink. "Yes. I'll open the door. Rush whatever is beyond, and I'll follow with Rum Punch." Leaning to the side of the door, Aerys grasps the handle and mouths one word. Ready.
Whatever Ishirou's feelings on the matter, he's been outvoted. Sliding his katana loose, Ishirou takes his place to the side of Vorya and places one hand atop the soaking tub, and with a silent nod, begins pulling.
Devers was a barrelchested sailor in life, and the soaking tub, made of beaten copper, is likely half as heavy as the dead weight within it. With one heave, Ishirou and Vorya manage to drag the tub a mere foot, the copper basin dragging across the floor with a resounding, deep scrape. Looming over the mate, Vorya notes, eyes growing wide, Devers' left hand. The First Mate's hand has been heavily damaged by whatever fight (fights?) Devers was in before his death. Small jagged punctures and slashes cross the man's knuckles and fingers, and a deep set of punctures, perhaps from teeth, spaced roughly like that of a man's though obviously sharper, run across Devers' wrist. Dried blood coats the mate's wrist, shirt, and the sides of the wash basin; the severed artery in Devers' wrist is likely what killed him, despite the numerous other wounds the man sustained since Vorya last saw him.
But, it is what Devers grasps in his hand that turns Vorya's stomach: a severed purple-black tongue, studded with ridges and measuring easily seven inches. Even now, so long after Devers' death, the tongue still twitches, a spasm of life running through it.
Another pull, another scrape across the floor, and Ishirou looks to the castaways, tapping one hand to his ear. Silence. Indeed, the thumping and scraping beyond the door has stopped, replaced by a foreboding silence. And then, a new sound from beyond: a rasping wet gurgle, that drones on and then repeats, a cadence that could be... a song? It has the repetition and structure of one, if not discernable words.
One more pull, one last scrape across the floor, and there is enough space to swing the door open. The song continues, that clogged gurgle, almost feral, almost music. One last hurried look among the castaways, one last nod of affirmation, and Aerys flings the door wide.
Torchlight filters into the larder. At first, Vorya's eyes are drawn to another corpse, this one of the cook's assistant, the skinny and timid teenager Piper, sprawled along the floor, resting against the left wall. Piper was the only other member of the crew that would have been mid-ships when the crash happened. Blood crusts a gaping slash across the boy’s throat, as if he’d been surprised from behind from a sharp blade. Poor Piper’s leg has been knawed off from below his left knee as well. A clean bone descends from a ragged stump of muscle and flesh, though little blood is on the floor under the boy. He was killed elsewhere, and the leg of the cook’s assistant was eaten after his death.
Movement draws Vorya’s eye, a slithering form shifts from the dark recesses of the larder into the torchlight: clawed hands pull a creature forward across the floor. Vorya thinks at first that she is a woman crawling across the floor, but it is quickly apparent that she is nothing of the sort. Stringy, ragged hair hangs from her scalp, draping over her bare back, which is the grey color of dirty ice. The woman’s back is criss-crossed with scars, and patches of fish-like scales grow sparingly at first, and then more frequently as Vorya’s eyes travel down the woman’s back, until her human side gives way to something more piscine; a flopping, slithering tail like that of an eel, striped gray and black. The woman raises her face to the castaway and her gurgling tune drifts with her, almost pulling Vorya toward her in the rancid air of the larder. She opens her mouth into a wide, fearsome smile; the bloody stump of a tongue rubs along sharp fangs and split, chapped lips. Blood runs from the eel-woman’s mouth, down her chin and bare chest, slicking the floor, and the abomination surges forward towards its freedom, her song turning to a gurgling, high-pitched malevolent scream.
Pungent death, sickly sweet, hangs in the air, mixed with the stench of the creature, the smell of methane bogs and body odor. To his left, Vorya can hear Aerys wretching. The swashbuckler just has time to react before she will be upon them.
Vorya had no idea what he had expected but it hadn't been a half-woman, half-eel creature. tavern tales of singing sirens and mermaids flash through his mind, although in those stores they had always been beautiful and tempting. Well, there was nothing tempting about the crawling blood creature surging toward them. One thing did seem clear.
It was probably for the best that the tongue had been removed.
Still, there was little doubt in the swashbuckler's mind on what to do. He raised the bar of razor-sharp steel in his hand and thrust it at the creature.
The steel sliced through the air but the rocking of the ship threw the swashbuckler off, and the blow went wide. Frustrated, Vorya figured they could at least surround the thing. He tries to dance past the creature, so they can flank it.
Vorya slides into the larder, sunsteel rapier thrust in one smooth motion towards their foe -- and unfortunately thrown off target by a shudder convulsing the Jenivere. While his strike is wide, the swashbuckler's sea legs don't let him down. Slipping around the eel-woman, Vorya kicks an errant pot of out his way and spins in the tight confines of the larder, ending behind their enemy in a few fluid steps.
The eel-woman for her part pays Vorya no mind, intent as she is on freedom. Her tail slides across the floor, snake-like, and propels her into Ishirou. The castaway has just the time to brace himself, and the collision ends in a wet thump, one of the woman's claws raking harmlessly across Ishirou's chain shirt. The man's katana flashes in the torchlight, but this is more a brawl then a swordfight. Ishirou struggles to stab at the creature, his blade merely deflecting off the creature's scaly hide.
Aerys fares better. The woman wades into the melee across from Vorya, using the swashbuckler's position to split the eel-woman's attention. Punch extends in a testing jab before Aerys follows up with Rum, a rocking crack across the creature's jawline.
Aerys: 2 damage
Monster: 3 damage
Vorya has enough presence of mind to reflect on the irony that where two men with swords had failed, a woman attacking with her bare fists succeeded. Maybe he and Ishirou should be less enamored with their blades. Clearly there is more out there.
Still, with the mermaid beast surrounded, they may have better luck. Already it seemed slightly confused with enemies of all sides, and the configuration let them use their numbers more effectively...
This time, even as the blade slices down, the eel-woman's tail flicks at Vorya's wrist. While soft, the blow is enough to deflect his strike, and it bounces off an iron pan like a poorly made bell.
"Onaku's left eye!" Vorya curses. Today was, clearly, not his day.
The melee in front of Vorya is just that: a brutal, no holds-barred, close-quarter tumbling of fist, claw, and blade. The beast, so close to freedom, rends and snaps at Ishirou, her claws raking across the swordsman's neck and face, her fangs biting into Ishirou's wrist, an attempt to end his life just as she had Devers'. Ishirou's blade cuts deep this time, a black-bloody slice across the eel-woman's back. Rum and Punch dig into the creature's side, and audible crack of one of her rib's resounding in the tight space.
Wounded and bloody, the creature still stands, as does Ishirou. Their momentum flags, the wounds taking their toll. There is an opening, if Vorya can take it...
Aerys: 2 damage
Ishirou: 6 damage
Monster: 18 damage
Finally. Vorya third attempt hits home, the sunsilver blade winking in the dancing light of the rocking, shattered vessel. Maybe Vorya had finally mastered the swaying ship...or just got lucky? Luck existed, even if the gods took credit for it.
In any case, it was about time to end this before one of them was horribly wounded. The last they needed was a nasty injury while stranded on an empty beach. And so with more then a little relief when he saw the blade sink deep between the eel-woman's shoulder blades. The edge grated slightly on her spine before jutting through her chest, like a fisherman's hook.
The creature fell limp and, after a moment Vorya felt safe enough to say, "Well, that was unpleasant. Ishirou, you still with us?" He glanced at Aerys, "Nice moves. Now, let's see what is here and hope it was worth it."
Aerys nods, a look Vorya hasn't seen yet settling across her features - respect. "Oi, not so bad yourself. Saw the fancy sword and yer clothes and figured you fer a bit of a dandy, but... you did well. You as well, Ishirou."
The swordsman cracks a wide grin - Vorya swears he's seen Ishirou smile more since they marooned than when they were safely aboard the Jenivere - and then runs his hand along the scratches crossing his neck and face, which comes away slick and red. "Here still. Unpleasant for sure. But, we're alive. And-- food!"
The larder was used by Pilts and Piper to store some of the more often accessible foodstuffs, as well as some of the ship's finer foods - foods that would be eaten by paying passengers and the ship's officer class. So, even though the bulk of the food would have been kept belowdecks and the Jenivere was only a few days from its final destination in Sargava, there's still a sizable store of food in the larder.
Some of that food is no good; sprayed with blood and ichor, smeared across the floor, or gone bad in the time since the ship crashed. But even so, two large boxes of oranges and mangoes, likely picked up at port in Senghor, sit enticing on a shelf. Salted cod and pork hang in baskets in the back of the larder, and a variety of grains; beans of course, but also millet and split peas, sit in small sacks. The larder once held a sizeable amount of liquor, but only three bottles remain unbroken; a fine rum from the Magic Valley distillery in the city of Quent, in the Shackles, and two clay jugs of grog. Rounding out the haul, a variety of allums and root vegetables: onions, potatoes, yams, and groundnuts. A sack of flour sits on a low shelf, a streak of blood across its burlap surface. Vorya estimates that there's enough food to feed one person for probably a month. Of course, there's nine mouths to feed on the beach...
The corpse of the cook's assistant, Piper, contains nothing of value. Devers' armor and short sword, however, are finely made.
First, despite the corpses, Vorya and his allies do focus on the food. That is why they are here after all, their own lives hang in the balance. So they grab bottles, vegetables and meat, stuffing things into sacks and bags. It isn't enough to feed them all forever, but at least keep them alive for a few days which, hopefully by that time.....well, who knows.
Soon though the looting is done and Vorya looks at the two mangled bodies of Piper and, outside the door, Devers.
"How do we want to take care of them?" Vorya says, indicating the dead. "We don't have the time or ability to do them justice." He contemplates things for a moments and offers, "Wrap them in shrouds and drop them over the side? I think that is what sailors do, at least in the stories." He looks at Aerys and Ishirou for any ideas.
"After that, I am thinking the storerooms? Tools will be useful. I don't fancy having to build a shelter without at least a hammer or a saw. Some rope might help climbing out of here, as well. Then we need to hurry, this whole wreck is coming apart." Another wave batters the stricken Jenivere , shaking it from stem to stern (or what is left of stem and stern).