Closed Pirates of the Hard Nox [archive]

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GHOSTLY

It was good to see Alys was in high spirits, or at least wanted to spread the energy about the ship. Some days it felt as if some folks aboard the ship were content with letting a cloud of gloom follow them around. News of Torrel's recovery was a relief as well, Emer had done her best to keep them alive - he'd be sure to give her his best thanks later and give Torrel a visit when they'd awake.

He wasn't a medicine man, but he could gather that life wouldn't be the same for the vila from here on out. Breathing and swallowing could be difficult at best, and speech may never be possible again. They had their life, but was that enough? That wasn't a question Ciarán had the answers to.

Alys seemed keen to make herself useful, but the girl was a mess and so was he. Not to mention hungry. Ciarán hadn't eaten breakfast before the drop, for the fear of losing it when the ship took the plunge. A meal could do him some good, and from the look of the girl - she could use it too. A "In fact, I do." Ciarán said, beckoning her with a two-finger wave.

"As your superior officer, I'm ordering you to report to the galley and get a decent meal in your stomach. I'll accompany you for questioning, preferably over a bottle of something strong - only my stores will do." Ciarán turned and walked towards the mess hall, then took a glance over his shoulder at the faerie. "I apologize, I don't believe I remember your drink of choice, Miss Alys." His cabin was ahead, and today seemed a good day for a drink.
 
ILLIRICA

The tale went deep, as deep as these things went. Wights and burials and things found in the depths of the ground that perhaps should not have been - or should have been found by someone else, at least.

Someone like her.

Sinéad picked up her spoon once more, this time prodding the medallion with it. Hester's tale had too much vitriol in it to be entirely false - too much vitriol, and too much fear. King terrified her, evidently enough - well, he terrified a lot of people. So did she, for that matter, so perhaps this wasn't the best point to be making.

The medallion didn't devour the spoon, at least not physically, and if it was going to do anything untoward on the metaphysical level, she wasn't going to figure that out with tableware. Besides, there was a line between reasonable caution and fear, and she was the captain. She feared...

...at least a few things. But none of them were here, were they?

The gold was bright in her hands, the needle steady. Her eyes followed it to the wall of the mess, as if she could see beyond it to where the Truth Teller might be.

Riches, wealth, and a map...

This tale was getting more and more interesting. She had other questions to ask, but before she could do so there was a shadow, and a speaking voice. Not one she knew. Sinéad looked up, and found herself facing a... golem?

A polite one, at least, despite the interruption that so irritated her new prize. Polite, and yet entirely unknown to her, and having apparently been invited onto the ship while she'd been away without so much as a may-I. There were only two people who might reasonably be responsible for this, and one of them was up to her elbows in other people's organs, and the other was the ship's doctor.

She'd set them both to scrubbing floors for a week, except they would probably both approve. Something else, then. She would allow herself to be creative later. For now, she had this... interruption... to deal with.

"May as well eat before it gets cold," she advised Hester, with a glance that wasn't at all apologetic, because one didn't get to be the ship's captain by apologizing to people. Still, there was an acknowledgement there, as well as what was just plain good sense. The two of them had much more to discuss, and Sinéad had a great deal of plans to make - first, she just had to figure out what her pieces were, and how they fit in.

She pointed the golem to a bench. Looking for the captain, was he? "Sit. I am. And you are?"
 
GOLDEN

Alys didn't want to appear too eager, but in her current state of mind, she was willing to take on any job as long as it provided a brief distraction - at least for a little while. She fell in step with the Master Gunner, only to be caught off guard by his order. A meal, huh? And a drink? Had her stomach grumbled that loudly? Or did she look on the verge of collapsing? She tried to hide the surprise on her face, but ended up embracing it with a breathy laugh. The more she thought about his offer, the more it began to appeal to her. What would provide a better distraction than a nice drink? Or maybe two? Especially one that she didn't have to pay for with her hard earned coin. "Yessir."

And to top it off, Ciarán asked for her drink of choice. Usually it was anything she could get her hands on. Quantity over quality. Ale, grog, plain ol' rum - it all did the trick. Once she'd had a couple glasses of elven wine that had her seeing stars by the end of the night. In a perfect world she'd ask for that, but Ciarán was still her superior, and they still resided on a pirate ship. "You know boss, I'm partial to a good ale." Surely he'd have some of that. As they neared his cabin, she quickly added, "But I'll have whatever you're havin'. Wouldn't want to deplete your stores from the good stuff."
 
QUIRBLES

"Mm." Emryk rumbled, touching a pair of fingers to his ridged chin in a bout of rumination. He was silent as the others said their fill, adding to his plan to both encourage and disparage; finding it better to listen than to speak, the Baron took in each point and leaned back upon his knelt leg, holding up a hand as the larger fellow offered him a piece of bread. Flashing a knowing, polite smile, the Baron pulled a piece of what appeared to be dried beef from his jacket-- a score from earlier in the day, stowed with restraint for when Emryk was truly hungry. He supposed that now was as good a time as any to feast with his newfound compatriots, and the Al-Ashtavahk bit into the food with a potent grin.

"Perhaps we needn't wait until the time is right," Emryk replied, speaking only after he'd finished chewing and swallowing the first bite of his rations. "After all, they might be looking out for prisoners to try an escape while they pillage. And-- one of us may be collected before they even touch an estate again," He continued, looking to each of the prisoners he'd been put with. Of all of the folk here, only a handful had gone more than a few weeks without being taken away. How long would it be until the Truth Teller sought out further victims? Too long, he figured. Too long indeed. But the giant was certainly correct in assuming that if they were to escape, they would need to leave.

"There is, if you'd entertain me a moment, another method I've given thought to."

Idly, Emryk looked over his shoulder-- out of the cell, past the undead, and into the bowels of the Truth Teller proper. "They've sent us below decks. Yes? Where they know we'll have a hard time getting out of. Now, I've slept and ridden on many a ship in my time, as I'm sure most of you have," The Baron's head turned back to the group, and curled upon his snout was a keen smile-- potent, like his earlier grin, but with a far more devious edge to his scales. It was a smirk that could cleave metal, and it was hopeful. "And a ship like this? A raiding ship, belonging to a pirate-king? It has cannons. Many of them. And cannons need powder."

At that, the Baron stood-- inconspicuous, still, and out of earshot from the undead. Camly, he gazed back over his shoulder to the ship beyond their prison, eyes narrowing somewhat as if attempting to visualize what lay ahead. "It'd need to be central, I think. Seaships, well-- their powder rooms are below the surface of the water, harder to hit. Airships, though... their lower decks are open targets. A powder room would need to be protected by the structure of the ship, surrounded so a stray cannonball doesn't ignite the entire stock." His hand touched his chin, stroking it idly as he looked back to the group. "If we want to get off of the Truth Teller, we'll need to take it down. From the inside. Facing Solomon is a fool's gambit-- trying to escape topside, even moreso... unless we have a distraction. A distraction that we control, and that draws the crew down into the ship while we slip away." And that, with a final stroke of his fingers along the ridges of his snout, was the essence of his plan. Grand, perhaps... but certainly doable. "The disguised cultist finds and secures a lifeboat while we work on rigging the powder room to blow. When it detonates, we move-- letting the first rush of undead and workers pass by to deal with the fire and damage to the vessel. With any luck, it'll cripple her, and they'll need to abandon ship-- all the better for us to slip away in the ensuing chaos. If we move quick, and move fast, escaping prisoners will be the least of Solomon's worries."
 
GHOSTLY

"Deplete my good stuff? Alys, that's what it's here for." Ciarán gave the girl a wink and a smile over his shoulder and unlocked the door to his cabin and stepped inside. It was a single room accompanied by a small closet, more than enough for the Master Gunner and likely the smallest of the cabins but he didn't complain. The room had an earthy, yet clean scent - the kind that reminded Ciarán of home. "Excuse the mess, I wasn't planning this pleasant surprise today."

His cabin was tidy, but not immaculate. The bed was neatly made, as well as his desk and bookshelf - but the workbench on the opposite side of the room was a spot of cluttered projects - spare hands, firearms half-disassembled and in need of cleaning, and a multi-barreled cannon that dominated the majority of the space. Ciarán still hadn't found time to build a proper mount for the gun, and it seemed whenever he looked for Mal she was always away somewhere performing her duties in the dark spaces within the ship - places where even Ciarán had never seen.

"Liquor cabinet is there by the bookcase, I'll trust your taste. But there is a untapped keg of Dverger ale under the bed if that tickles your fancy." Ciarán said as he stepped into the room and tossed his holster down on the bed and unbuttoned his vest, biting his lip as he stretched the knife wound in his chest - it wasn't a major thing, but it was certainly painful. Dr. Knock-Me-Down would have to do until Emer and Sliocht were done with the seriously wounded.

"Good on you bringing Caleb back, I wonder what excuse he'll brew up for that gash of his when he wakes."
 
THIMBLE

"I heard Soren and Juniper didn't make it back. I suppose they're in the sky's hands now as well. Do you know what happened? I haven't heard much of the storm that came, except for that things blew southward."

Sliocht hadn't heard anything, really. Caleb was in no shape to talk about the raid, and Ciaran had left as soon as he'd come. They'd been ambushed, that much was for certain, And by the Truth Teller no less. It was almost an honour to have had an encounter with such a legendary ship. Almost.

Was it all one grand coincidence? Two notorious brigand crews chasing after the same plunder? Or had the ghost ship somehow been waiting for the the Hard Nox?

In the end, it amounted to the same thing. Soren and Juniper were gone, along with so many others.

How many was that, now? The Giant and the Sorcerer, the two from earlier, one or three or maybe more from the roaring crash of the Truth Teller's cannons. Five? Ten? Did he really want to know, to act the tallyman for the anguished dead?

Sliocht understood why pirates drank so much.

"I'm living in the same darkness you are, sister. No one's told me anything yet" he said, trying to keep his voice steady as he slumped down on a chair beside Emer. "Turns out that strange feeling was straight on the money. Mind you, I'm not sure I'd go bragging about it."

On again, went the mask, as the barber donned a sheepish grin. "And I was so sure Soren was close to finally letting me him give him a proper styling, too"
 
HIGHVOLTAGE

“Mmm. Admire the bravado, although it does lose its edge when the speaker was previously suckling on their shirt, attempting to get any drop of blood they could.” Lucien’s expression was blank as he set the glass in front of Nessa, her gaze following him even with her eyes closed. Hunger was a powerful thing, especially in those like him, like her, that needed to steal from others. He had no qualms, he took pleasure in it, pride in watching the eyes of his prey turn dull and glassy. She was still fighting it.

To Nessa’s credit, she did have something to say for herself, albeit through slightly slurred speech and eyes that couldn’t quite meet his gaze. Lucien briefly chuckled, a mirthless sound as he lifted his fingers from the glass, stepping back to let her take it.

“Ah yes, so you did not put down a wounded animal. Forgive me for not giving you a standing ovation for the bare minimum when it comes to control.” Lucien picked up his own glass, swirling it before taking a sip. He did not need this for sustenance, he had gotten plenty at the raid. This was simply for enjoyment.

“But tell me,” His gaze flicked to Nessa once more. “What would you have done if I hadn’t come along? Licked clean Emer’s operating table? Begged for members of the crew to feed you? Or would you have simply starved, wasting away until you either find a dark corner to die in or attack the crew out of crazed hunger, forcing me to put you down like a dog?”
 
FANG

Leo listened and watched, as he so often did. The gathered conspirators were cautious, calculating, taking each idea and mulling it about like the finest of wines before speaking their opinions. They fretted over their concerns; for themselves and for each other, though little familiarity was found. It was a camaraderie of coincidence, though Leo could see the similarity of minds.

All the while the flame settles in his chest with searing intensity, calling for some unnamed need along with the life of the captain that put Leo in these chains among other prisoners. The true prisons had the decency to give Leo privacy often enough, leaving him in chains in private cells that at least offered more silence than the plotting ship captives. A soft growl came from Leo’s throat.

“When it detonates, we move-- letting the first rush of undead and workers pass by to deal with the fire and damage to the vessel. With any luck, it'll cripple her, and they'll need to abandon ship-- all the better for us to slip away in the ensuing chaos. If we move quick, and move fast, escaping prisoners will be the least of Solomon's worries."

Leo growled more audibly this time, his lip curling into a grimace as he began struggling against his chains like a wild animal, kicking and rocking against what little room he had and rattling the chains in a raucous iron cacophony. “Kill King, blow the ship! Life boats, ropes, ladders and powder! TALK TALK TALK! Wiggle your arms and cross your legs and plan while these unnatural bodies whisk us all away and we re-strategize!” Leo shook his chains again and snapped at them with his teeth with little effect. “Chains first! The robes will come when I can move!”
 
SHODDYPRODUCT

Caught off guard by Soren's sudden approach, Juniper gave him a half smile and shook her head, attempting to shift the focus from themself. "I'm fine, Soren. Your wounds are worse than mine, you should rest and recover. I'll be fine after a bit of rest." They then turned their attention to their new collaborators.

The talk of powder and explosions caught Juniper's attention, but not in a way that enthused them. Already today they had used their abilities to wreak havoc on the town of Fen Manor, likely ruining the lives of many, and now they would likely be asked to ignite the powder storage of the Truth Teller, and depending on how much gunpowder was present, they were being asked to put all of them in danger. With an air of apprehension, they began to speak, intending to acknowledge but direct them away from Emryk's plan, but before the words could pass their lips, Leo broke out in a snarl. He had asked to be let free, and that he could facilitate the plan once that was done. The sorceress felt a gnawing feeling, something dreadful, in their stomach. It almost masked the entirety of the pain they felt, and it was directed to their situation.

"I'm not even sure how we could free you of those chains right now, much less how we pull this plan off safely. I can produce the flame, once we're out of this cell and the spell within, but how do we even know this vessel has lifeboats? The majority of the crew are dead, and the few who aren't likely have methods of escape that don't require them. At least, I would expect as much, anyways."

With their piece said, she looked over to the chains. How would they free him? They could with their flames, but those weren't currently available, and already Soren had tried to break them with brute force. They stood once more, going to investigate and examine his bindings closer, and spoke as they did so.

"Regardless, if we think it's the best course of action, I'll do what I can to help. I just hope it actually works."
 
SOMEGUY500

What luck that he would find the captain so quickly. Fionn bowed and took a seat on the indicated bench, placing his hands on his lap. Looking the captain dead-on in the eye as if Hester weren't even there, he answered. "I am named Fionn, and I art but a travelling craftsman who would pledge his skills to thy ship. Mine specialty lieth in woodwork, which I'm certain would ill be unappreciated onboard a ship. Indeed, I have assisted thy shipmaster in repairing the ship after the attack but a while prior. Of course, if not that, I would do what is asked of me within my power." He paused for a moment. The captain brooked no half-truth, it should be safe to assume. Perhaps it was best to be completely truthful. "I have boarded thy ship as the fates doth bid. Mine own destiny lies aboard, and it would tell of great chaos and upheaval, bounties of plenty, and finally the feeling of air, of freedom and flight. The fates spake and I would scarce ignore their call."

Fionn's stare shifted not an inch as he continued. "It would be mine honour to serve under this ship, wherever it taketh me. Pray allow mine petition due consideration."
 
PAPERWORK

From the way Hester was glowering at her stew, it would have been very difficult to tell that she was actually in a relatively good mood. She'd been expecting this interrogation to take place with her strapped into some kind of terrible rack, or with her shouting to be heard over the wind from the inside of a cage hanging below the ship. Instead, she was chatting with the captain over a bowl of stew. And the stew was excellent--not on the same level as the fare they'd had aboard the Truth Teller, obviously, but still beautifully savory, and full of chunks of unidentifiable stuff. She'd always loved stew, ever since she'd been a child. Her father'd found an old, battered pot in a midden heap that'd only needed the barest bit of patching up to be useful again; helping him fix it was one of her earliest memories. It'd gone missing sometime between the arrest and her release, of course. Along with everything else they'd ever found and mended together.

And the golem was talking about "the fates," now. The stare turned venomous, though it was still directed downward, at a forlorn chunk of potato floating in what was left of her stew. It was right, of course. 'Chaos and upheaval.' This was going far too well. Something would break in, sooner or later, and now that she was thinking about it, having to wait for it almost made it worse. Still, she'd done enough forcing things along for one day. For now, she had a few spoons of stew left to get through.
 
UMBRASIGHT

“Have I attacked one yet?” Acid creeped into the edges of her voice as she forced herself to take a breath full. Iron hung in the air like a sweet perfume, perhaps simply from the glass but she held no doubt that Lucien had other bottles waiting to have their necks opened and drained of their worth. The man cared not a lick for the taste of restraint, that muscle was better served peeling away the sinew for his teeth to cut. For a moment longer, Nessa kept her gaze fixed on the glass, watching the roll of the liquid within as it shook with the movement of the ship, before she reached out, her thin fingers wrapping around the stem of the glassware picking it up. She raised the glass to her lips, and drew another breath as if she were simply inspecting a fine rosé for its body.

Not that she ever was one to partake in such fineries, they weren’t for poor girls.

She drew only a sip this time, though the desire remained, already having a glass already in her stomach did wonders for helping her push that gnawing desperation to an arm’s length. She placed the cup down, though cotton seemed to remain inside her head, making thoughts sluggish. “Perhaps I would have come crawling to your door.” Nessa said leaning back in her chair, her gaze rising from the glass as she looked at the older vampire. She released a sigh, a long puff of warm air. “Fine.”

Nessa picked up the glass, and took another draw. Perhaps to try to chase away that gnawing pit that never truly left, or simply to steel a nerve that was finally coming back around once her mind cleared. “If I cared much for scolding, I wouldn’t have started picking pockets.” She said, ”If you have something you want to say, then just say it straight.”
 
GOLDEN

Alys hesitated by the wooden door, briefly considering if this was, in fact, a bad idea. But the promise of alcohol and the desired effects that followed, as well as her instinct to trust Ciarán overrode her reluctance. She stepped forward, lingering by the door until the Master Gunner directed her to his supply. She strode over to the liquor cabinet, and peered through the glass, taking in his rather impressive collection. On the bottom shelf sat a couple empty glasses practically begging to be filled. Once she had made her decision, she delicately reached for two of them.

Eyes peeled on Ciarán as he began to remove his holster and vest, Alys circled around him to get to the ale beneath his bed. She didn't miss the gash on his chest; not nearly as bad as Caleb's but still noticeable enough. "I'd wager that his opponent looked worse than him in the end," she replied, her attention trained on pulling the keg out from below. "And I bet I could say the same for you," Alys said, briefly lifting her gaze to meet his, chin jutting out towards the chest wound. Once the keg was out, she slid each glass beneath the tap and twisted, watching as the delicious ale poured out, filling one glass at a time with golden liquid. Careful not to spill, Alys held one glass out to Ciarán.

"To the poor souls on the other end?" She asked, raising her own glass slightly into the air.
 
ILLIRICA

The man of clay sounded like the hero of a trashy romance novel - Sinéad was quite well acquainted with a number of them. Linguistic quirks aside, he seemed to want to help, and a skilled woodworker was always something needed on a ship that got into as much trouble as the Hard Nox.

"So be it, you're hired. Your job is to keep the ship in shape. Work with Mal and do whatever she tells you, and don't do anything else without asking one of us." She did not need any amateur improvement projects happening on her ship at inopportune times.

Her hand and her attention went back to the medallion.

"Get yourself something to eat. If you eat." Sinéad stood, every bit the captain now. "Hester, stay here. I'll be back momentarily."

She tasked a crewmate with assembling the rest of them in the mess below, then took a few minutes to return to her cabin and change back into her ship's attire, something to keep the chill out if she was going to be standing abovedecks guiding the ship through the night.

Her head was high when she returned, her plans set and ready to be put in motion. Not everyone would be there, of course, as some of them had duties to attend to or other things to be concerned about, but enough of them would be to pass the message to anyone who didn't get it.

"Let's get to it. This is Fionn. He's a woodworker, so he'll be fixing the holes you lads and lasses put in my ship. This is Hester. She's a traitor." That wasn't a bad thing, in Sinéad's opinion. One always knew where they stood, with a traitor. "She came over from the Truth Teller, which means that we are solely in possession of the means to track them down and get back what's ours - and that is what I intend to do."

She didn't grace them with all the details - she'd tell some of them, to be sure, but much of that information was on a need to know basis. "We're going to take it slow. We've had a rough ride. We'll trail them at a distance. I want everyone to rest and eat up and fix my ship. We'll close in tomorrow, from below. I want the two forward cannons loaded with grapples - we'll cross over on the chains. Try not to set the ship on fire. Either ship."

The Truth Teller was a prize in and of itself, after all, even if it ended up in pieces. "There will be undead and necromancers. For the casters, hit them hard and fast. You know your business. For the undead, same thing, but as soon as you clear yourself some breathing room, I want the bodies overboard. None of us know how long it'll take them to get back up, and I'd rather they do that ten thousand feet below us."

And now, the hard part - not for her, but for some of them. "You'll have heard rumors now that they took Soren and Juniper. I don't know if they took them alive. If they did, they might not be with us any more. If you don't think you can slit their throats and toss them overboard, you better let someone else know who can. A second death's the best sympathy you can give them. We attack tomorrow, under the cover of night."
 
GHOSTLY

Ciarán let out a low laugh at Alys' comment on his wound. "Archer, she had the range but I had the..." he trailed off, not quite sure what he had been saying in the first place. He'd left Beck in that alley by herself after she killed two of his men and left the third with an arrow through the throat. "Doesn't matter now I suppose, Fen Manor is behind us and we're here standing." He took the cup of ale and took a whiff of the fresh ale, fruity and crisp, naturally cooled beneath his bed.

"Aye, may they rest where the voyage is fair and the winds blow calm." He raised his glass along with her and drank deep. The ale went down smooth and sweet, leaving a smile in its wake. The dwarves really were masters of all crafts. Ale was the art of evoking memory in a cup, to bring a fond smile to your lips and fill your belly with warm relief. Ciarán looked into the dark golden brew and then up at Alys. "Not so bad for a first tasting, thank you Alys."

"You know, today marks seven years aboard this ship... my longest service." Ciarán said, he looked idly around the cabin, then back at Alys. "It seems the longer I stay here, the more and more I realize..."

"I don't understand a fucking thing."

~ ~ ~
 
DELFI

It was only later that afternoon that Solomon King noticed one of his disciples was missing, and it made him furious. Ms. Falmouth was one of his favorites because of her natural talent, curiosity and intelligence. A testament to said intelligence was for her to be able to deceive him, something not many people had succeeded in doing and lived to tell the tale. But she wouldn’t live for long.

Not only had she escaped right from under his nose, she had stolen from him. He should’ve seen it coming due to how fascinated she’d looked when she first laid eyes on The Book, but that’s the downside of being surrounded by faithful followers - you get blinded by their supposed loyalty. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“Are we going after her, captain?” One of his white robed students asked.

“Later.” He pulled a rolled parchment from his vest’s pocket, taking another look at the map. “Stick to our route. Hetty will learn her lesson when the time’s right.”

***

All the planning and scheming sucked away the last bit of Poppy’s energy. She slept for hours that night, being woken up by her growling stomach at noon, when the third meal she’d be having aboard the Truth Teller was being served, and after having her share of the rations, she spent the rest of the day transferring energy among the ones who were in better shape to Juniper, as Soren refused her help.

It took her hours, but Juniper’s bruises turned from red to greenish yellow. She didn’t tell the group how exhausted she was, but without her plant abilities, having a pyromaniac strong enough to fight felt like a priority. Through a small crack on the wood, they could see the sun was about to set. It meant their fourth meal was about to come.

***

Enough sleep and a good meal was everything Caleb needed. After his chest had been stitched up Emer took good care of him, as she usually did whenever that sort of thing happened. The sort of thing where you get stabbed by a colleague while both parties are sober didn’t happen that often, but Caleb kept it a secret - at least until he had a chance to talk to Alys about it. No one found it particularly weird that he didn’t open up about the details on how his injury had happened, but it was easy to assume he was simply protecting his pride, and nothing else.

With the remarkable stitchwork performed by Sliocht and the bandage wrapped around him, the quartermaster could barely feel any pain, and was back at his cabin that same night. Despite missing Sineád’s speech, it didn’t take long for him to get caught up to speed.

The following day was spent strategizing with Sineád and Ciarán how they’d approach breaking into the Truth Teller. The information the deserter gave to them seemed to be the basis of the entire plan, and Caleb wasn’t sure about any of it.

“How do you know she’s telling the truth?” He’d asked the captain when Hester was no longer around, and wasn’t fully convinced with the answer he got. He’d keep an eye on the newcomer, as a precaution.

As the sun set on the horizon the crew got their gear and weapons ready, and when the night served as a cover, the Hard Nox approached the hull of the Truth Teller from below.
 
SHODDYPRODUCT

The day and a half following the raid on Fen Manor was difficult for Juniper internally, though they would never admit it. Locked away in a cell, surrounded by the dead and dying, the diseased and the emaciated. On top of it all, all they had to truly think about was Fen Manor itself, and what Poppy had said to them when she had first exited the keep to face off against them. They knew the satyr was right, but in the same breath, they were following the captains orders, and they were a pirate aboard the Hard Nox. What else were they meant to do?

They would grapple with this moral quandary each time the druid sat down to tend to their own wounds, exhausting what little she had, and what little their cellmates had, in order to help them. The pirate. The criminal. The murderer. If it weren't for the fact that they were all at risk, they wouldn't understand it at all, as much as they appreciated it. Physically, they felt much better, but their head felt almost cloudy, half a headache coming on as they grappled with the situation they found themself in.

Complicating things further, they felt something... Odd, during the healing. Most notably, it was when Poppy was transferring energy, vital life essence, from the chained up man, Leo he said his name was. Something about it, something about the intensity, it set the changeling on edge, made them grit their teeth and want to pace around the cell, it irritated and agitated them, it made them want to...

It made them want to feed the blaze, the fire within, that had so often led to trouble, that had landed them exactly in this situation. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, and they began to apprehensively keep an eye on him, that Leo, unsure of what to make of him.

On that day specifically, leveraging their connection to Emryk, Soren, and Leo, quite possibly the three most threatening individuals in the cell, they acquired some of the meager rations for themselves, needing to keep their energy up. They had healed, but the process of healing made one hungry, even if it was magically motivated, and every god across the entire world knew they'd need the energy for the plan they were about to enact.

A stale roll in hand, they sat beside Poppy heavily, as Soren rested, and looked to her, knowing that tired look all too well. They wanted to apologize again, but knew it would be of no use. An apology couldn't get her out of this cell, it couldn't get her friends or life back. Instead, she offered the second half of her roll of bread, looking to the woman through the cracked lens of their glasses. "Here. It's thanks, for... Well, yeah. Thanks." The blood had dried, and it was a small price to pay for their life.
 
FANG

Leo’s outburst seemed to have worked as the bespectacled Juniper inspected his bindings. Before long they went to work upon the lock, using Leo’s spoon after Soren handed it over to manipulate the tumblers. Leo could tell the work wasn’t suited to them, but while they worked the Druid also went about her task, alternating between placing her hand on Leo and Emryk as she transferred energy from the heartier prisoners to Juniper and herself.

Leo disliked the feeling of the satyr’s magic, the flames rising to an inferno at her first touch that he quickly buried for the sake of the escape. Before long he had become accustomed to the experience, however, and time passed without incident. Soren had refused the Druid’s magic, passing out from his injuries at some point during their toils and breathing raggedly upon the filthy floor of the cell as he slept. When the chains finally fell away Leo could see the morning sun glancing through the timbers of the Truth Teller as he stretched his muscles slowly. It would not be long before the next meal arrived.

Leo relished his mobility, pacing the perimeter of the cell restlessly as he rubbed his arms and studied his coincidental compatriots in more detail. As he passed by the lizard man he would touch a scale, testing its hardness and texture as he made excuses for the contact. The flames reacted to Emryk any time Leo would lay eyes on him, rising in a blaze that did not cause pain but inspired some emptiness Leo could not determine the cure for. Juniper evoked a similar response, though muted compared to the larger of the two. Leo had been tempted upon those first few blazes to attack the subjects, but after exerting control he had only just learned existed he found himself more curious than murderous.

Poppy elicited no response from Leo’s flame without her touch, and so he mostly ignored her as he studied the others. Soren, in his sorry state, still stirred the embers while he slumbered, but Leo had not tested the bounds of his fire’s desire against the big man. Leo stopped his pacing at Soren’s side and stared down at him, arms crossed as he considered the wreck at his feet. Bruises and cuts covered the man, not to mention the arrows protruding from his knee and shoulder. In truth he looked as much a corpse as the guards outside, his life betrayed only by the occasional shiver and the uneven rise and fall of his breast.

Leo looked at the spoon in his hand, returned as soon as his chains had slipped free by one who had not even made the promise to do so. He found himself liking the one in glasses more as time went by, finding an indelible connection he couldn’t quite name. The spoon was twisted and nicked, recognizable only by its domed head. He doubted it would be of much use anymore. He turned his gaze to the chains that had held him moments ago, the nearest link left only a few inches away from Soren’s frame. With his toe he pulled the chain closer as he crouched, hovering over Soren. Slowly he looped the chain around his right hand, wrapping the length from wrist to forearm and leaving several feet of its length dangling between his fingers.

Leo glanced over his shoulder at the other three prisoners, all occupied with their own preparations and seemingly oblivious to his actions. A small grin spread across his face as he took gentle hold of the arrows in Soren’s knee and shoulder, careful not to disturb them until his fingers were looped over the shafts loosely. Then, with a savage jerk he made to tear the arrows free from flesh and use the momentum to put distance between him and the larger man with a quick roll.
 
ILLIRICA

It was almost time. The Hard Nox was close, now, and soon they'd be closing the distance. The medallion had worked well enough as a compass, odd one that it was, and they'd kept pace with the Truth Teller throughout the past day, giving her people a chance to rest and recover. Emotions were mixed, and for various reasons. Caleb was uncertain about trusting the newcomer, which was the smartest thing he'd said in a while, and she'd told him as much. He hadn't seemed to like that response, but she had a feeling he wouldn't have liked anything she'd have said at that point.

She'd slept, eventually. Waking up had not changed the situation, but she'd made her rounds all the same and made sure that her people were getting ready - as many of them as could, anyway. Some of them wouldn't be participating, whether they cared to or not. That was why one of her last stops was Emer's clinic, to make inquiries about her people who'd only made it as far as that.

She glanced around, but things seemed to be in their usual state, in as much as she could ever tell. Hopefully some of what Nessa had brought back had been useful - and hopefully they hadn't gone through it all already. She didn't waste time with pleasantries - she hadn't had nearly enough to drink for that.

"How bad is it?"
 
ANNASIEL

The bag was, unfortunately, disorganized and untouched, and yet the neat piles of paper-wrapped medicine Nessa had meticulously laid out was somehow more organized than the rest of the clinic. Bottles lay haphazard on the table, the pads and blankets in the corner remained unkempt from the guests who had had to spend the night, and - in a stool beside the only occupied mat - Emer sat, messy hair tied back in a bun, eyes dark and sunken. Still, when Sinéad entered, she looked up and smiled.

"Hello, Sinéad," she said, giving a polite nod. "Would you like tea? I can put the kettle on the warmstones."

At the inquiry about the víla, however, she glanced down at where Torrel lay on the mat. There was a moment's pause.

"Alive."

It was the best she could say. A hallmark of a job well done, yes? Out of everyone that passed through her clinic yesterday afternoon, all - even this one - were alive. But to pass through her clinic, they had to live to reach the doors, and those that had did not leave with the lives they had before. No, for many, something was taken. For most, a pity tithe.

For this one -

"They won't speak. At least, not without pain. Breathing and eating may hurt as well."
 
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