Closed Pirates of the Hard Nox [archive]

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SHODDYPRODUCT

Despite knowing that what they were eating currently was the best thing they had had in the last few days, and likely would be the best for the foreseeable future, they hardly tasted it. Instead, their mind was far off, absently eating quickly as their thoughts wandered, somberly, to the two that had been lost today. Both of them were good people, forced into horrid circumstances. Both deserved better than to have ever crossed paths with the Hard Nox and her crew, themself included in that crew. They were pulled back to the real world, the present, by a familiar, kind voice, offering a drink. "Oh, uh, no thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I don't really mix with alcohol. Trying to swear it off after last time. Thank you though."

The last time had been just after their first raid with the crew. Things had gone perfectly, as no one had expected the band of pirates to have recruited a pyromancer, and none had prepared for one. Lives were, of course, lost, as they always are in these sorts of things, but in the grand scheme, it was a near perfect raid, and with plenty of spoils to boot. The night after, once they were free and clear of any pursuit, they held a celebration, with the changeling receiving a good deal more praise than they were used to for using their abilities. Along with the praise came drink, and following drink, poor decisions. Goaded by one of the crew, Juniper was showing off, uncharacteristically, their fire. Unfortunately, due to nearly every square inch of the mess being positively drenched in drink, it was a recipe for disaster. Emer had to treat many a burn that night, and it had taken weeks for Juniper to clean out the ash from the eatery, at Soren's behest.

As they turned back to their stew, they felt something... Change. They weren't sure what it was at first, but it made their heart speed up, a rhythmic thumping in their ears as they felt a tingling sensation in their stomach, and in their hands. The spoon grew hot in their hands, as the flames rose in response to the adrenaline. They were puzzled, but only just figured it out as they involuntarily left their seat, lifted into the air in a freefall, just as before a raid. Stew floated into the air, freed from it's bowl and it's fate to be consumed, and the sorceress scrambled to grab on to the table in front of them, chained as it was, another hand holding their glasses to their face. Why were they falling? They had just gotten away, they wouldn't do another raid minutes after attacking the...

Oh. The Truth Teller.

The impact on the water threw everything back to ground, Juniper landing stomach first on the bench they had previously been supping at. In a cruel twist of fate, and perhaps an act of revenge from the perpetual stew, it fell on them, making quite the mess of their clothes and new cloak, the one they had saved from the ghost ship. They let out a groan, a dull ache from the impact briefly overwriting their ability to speak, before they slid off the bench, to the floor, on their knees. "Is everyone okay? What was that?"
 
PAPERWORK

Hester always forgot what a tremendous beacon of necromantic energies the Truthteller was until she was away from it. The thing had been pulsing, like an angry wound, since she'd woken up, growing steadily more and more distant as the Hard Nox made good its escape. The argument had kept her attention away from it, but as Emer stomped off (or so she told herself), something changed. She wasn't sure how she'd explain it to someone who didn't know how to sense these things; it was like a growth on the side of the ship, or a change in tempo, or a blooming. There was something familiar about it, too--that part was more like a scent, or an echo, or a bad colour. She forced herself back up into a sitting position, her brow scrunching together as she tried to work out what was--

Oh.

"Brace!"

Hester had a few seconds to lunge for a table leg (oops, she thought, as the stitches in her arm tore open), and then the whole ship was in motion, tilting to the side and falling to the water below. Tea-pot, kettle, tea-tins, medicine, matts, the very large man who had been lying unconscious on one of the mats, the stools--all of it slid away, rolling down to what had once been a wall with a crash. Only the furniture stayed where it was meant to be.

Through the wildly flapping blanket on the other wall, she caught glimpses of the right wing. It was covered in garish purple filth--a spray of magical rot, vivid and hungry, which had already consumed most of the fabric. Okay. So that was why they were going down. Good to know. She held onto the table for dear life, knowing that if the ship hit the water at this angle it really wasn't going to matter. Then the tilt began to reverse, slowly, painstakingly. She began to see glimpses of water through the hole in the wall--and then there was an enormous splash, and for a moment Hester thought that the clinic was under the water line, and she, Emer, and the man were all about to drown. But no, after the initial flood, the water receded, leaving about a foot's worth of water as a parting gift.

Five seconds. Ten. She let go of the table, once she was sure she'd stopped shaking, and crawled over to the man, ignoring the sting of salt water in her wounds. She had no idea what he'd been brought in for, but somehow she doubted the last half-minute(? had it been that long?) had improved his situation any.
 
ANNASIEL

A startled yelp came from behind the curtain as the ship plummeted, and after the following, bone-shaking crash, Emer burst back into the main part of the clinic, the front of her dress soaked in tea and her eyes wide. She sloshed forward in the already-receding water, pausing only once to glance at the wreckage, before hurrying over to Sliocht and Hester's side.

"Are you both alright? Unhurt?" she said, a slight tremor in her voice. She reached out as if to touch Hester, paused, then pulled her hands back under her shawl, arms tight around her torso. "Did we crash? Was it the Truth Teller?"

She stopped, looking at the floor.

"The floors are wet as a bog, and the mats are positively sopping. Come, dear, I'll help you move to my cot. I'll - need to find help to lift Sliocht. I can't have either of you laying in this. Is this - seawater?"
 
PAPERWORK

What was this woman doing on a pirate ship?

"Well, he's not daed, anyway," she said. She tried to stand, ignoring Emer's offer, but her legs immediately betrayed her intent, giving way under her again almost immediately.

Fuck. She was hardly in a position to wonder what anyone was doing anywhere, was she?
 
ANNASIEL

Emer caught her before she could collapse, helping hold her steady long enough to get her legs back under her. Then she relaxed her hold, letting Hester choose whether or not to use the wisewoman as leverage moving forward.

"He best not be dead," she murmured. "Can we not have a moment's rest? This is the third time in a span of days my clinic has been made a mess, and I am frankly growing quite tired of it."

She glanced at Hester. By the time they made it to the cot, Emer shifted back, grabbing some (thankfully still dry) towels from one of her cabinets and pressing them into the girl's hands.

"Dry yourself, please, and be thorough. I'm going to see about some help moving Sliocht before this water leaves him festering."
 
DELFI

The sailors congratulated themselves before going downstairs to let the others know what had transpired. Caleb would have to report back to the captain (as well as use it as a reminder of his usefulness as her second), but first, he'd make a quick stop by his cabin.

Caleb wasn't unhygienic, but wasn't the most organized crewmember either. He would never make his bed and sometimes had clothes laying around, but he never let his mess get to the point it was now. It was like a hurricane had entered his room. A knife had gotten stuck on the wood paneling, his clothes were crumpled all over the place and the chair to his desk laid tilted upside down on the opposite corner of the room. It was a good thing his furniture was nailed to the floorboards, or he'd have to find somewhere else to sleep - he was gonna get hammered tonight, and deal with the mess later.

Caleb searched for his basin and found it under the bed, filling it with clean water and placing it over his dressing table. With the help of a sponge he washed his face, his neck and the dry blood off his chest, and once he was all washed up, he pulled a clean linen shirt over his head and exited the room, carrying a bottle of his finest liquor.
 
ILLIRICA

For a moment, it seemed that they had made good on their escape. The Hard Nox drew steadily away from the Truth Teller, and Sinéad started her way below decks to find Nessa and get a chance to pore over that map and find out where they were going to be headed next.

Sometimes, though, things were not that easy. Even perpetually looking over her shoulder wasn't enough to give Sinéad notice of what was about to happen. The ship rocked with an unseen impact, something that was hardly felt at all - and then it started to drop. The pressure changed abruptly, and Sinéad cracked her jaw to pop her ears, hoping it would be enough to keep them clear. Her hand found the railing on the stairway, holding on as tightly as she needed to during the drop, getting herself turned around to try to head back up, though she didn't know what she'd be able to accomplish.

Then the ship hit, hard, with the sudden smack and buoyant bob of impact on water. The force of it tore her hand from the railing and threw her down the stairs, her head reeling as it connected with the floor. There was a moment of grey-spotted inquisition, something she had to fight through to keep herself aware, and then pull herself back to unsteady feet once more as the ship tried to right itself upon the waves. With that hole in the side, would they be taking on water? They'd have to get it patched.

Her head hurt. So did everything else, but not in the way that felt broken. Bruises, then - she'd be purple in interesting places for a few days, but that wasn't going to stop her. She surged up again, shouting orders.

"Get Mal and that new boy-" What the fuck was his name? Sinéad was good with names, but she couldn't think straight. "Fionn - get them to fix that fucking hole before we start taking on water. You and you - find out if we're leaking and get buckets and start bailing. Someone find out if Juniper's conscious and see if she can get some heat going and dry this place out without setting it on fire - do not set my fucking ship on fire. Anyone who's not busy, see if Emer needs help. Set up a secondary clinic in the mess hall, I do not care about the fucking blood when she asks, find someone who's good at cleaning and put them on scrubbing duty. If anyone needs me, I'm abovedecks."

Or she would be, shortly. There was one more stop to be made, after she'd done her time setting all of this up. One more cabin to visit. Its occupant was stumbling out, a bottle in hand, obviously intending to get himself thoroughly fucking drunk. Sinéad gave him a nod, and put a hand on his arm, just briefly. Things were challenging between them right now, but it didn't mean he didn't deserve it. He was still a member of her crew, and she was going to treat him that way until she couldn't.

"Caleb. That was a damn fine landing. Best anyone could have done, under the circumstances." She'd looked at the damage, while she was giving out orders. She knew how bad it had been, and what he'd had to do to keep them all from sudden death. She wouldn't linger, nor get between him and his bottle. She knew well the comfort it could offer to shattered nerves. Sinéad let his arm go, moving past him and starting to head up to the deck once more.

"You'll make a damn good Captain some day."
 
DELFI

The Whore herself passed by Caleb's door and he stopped to a halt, as his Captain patted him on the shoulder like one would pat a dog after they performed a trick.

"Just doing my job, captain." Caleb smiled, a smile as fake as Ciarán's fingers. He nodded, waiting for her to turn the corner to make his way down to the mess hall.
 
ILLIRICA

Pris was not sure whether or not she was a stowaway at this point. She definitely hadn't meant to be. She had meant to find Hetty and then hopefully be introduced to whoever she needed to be introduced to and then-

Well, Pris hadn't gotten very far with and then, because she was still trembling on the deck when the strange man who'd carried her over abandoned her, and there was too much sky and too much space, and then the sky and the space were filled with purple necromantic energy and then everything got very scary for a while. Pris had curled up as best she could underneath something, less because she thought it would protect her and more because she couldn't see the sky. The ship had fallen very fast and hit the ground very hard and she was pretty sure Lady Fingers had held the crate or whatever it was in place so that Pris didn't get flung overboard.

She'd have liked to stay there for a while, maybe forever or at least until she turned twelve, but she'd gotten sick when the ship had hit the water and then gotten sick again when it had been wobbling around, and suddenly forever seemed like a very long time, and so did five more minutes.

So she'd crawled out, and everyone had looked busy or at least not been looking at her, so Pris supposed that she was a stowaway after all, even if she hadn't meant to be, and figured she should go find out what stowaways did next.

Most of the people here looked like pirates, though, and that was very scary. She was vaguely aware that Mr. King was also a pirate, but that was different because he was a necromancer. Pris understood necromancy. Well, theoretically, anyway. Sometimes it didn't work. She led on to Lady Fingers tightly and edged towards the side of the ship, because she supposed if she was going to be sick again, she could at least try to do it politely.

The wings were all broken, and there was a person trying to fix them. At least, Pris thought it was a person. It might have been a people. They were all stitched up with different bits, a mishmash of stitches and flesh and bits that didn't quite fit together and had been made to work together anyway by some sort of vague unseen force.

Finally, something she could relate to.

"Um... hi?" Was this how one introduced oneself? She was not sure, but if the person-people was-were fixing the ship, they were probably in charge. "I'm a stowaway."
 
QUIRBLES

Emryk had been on his way topside when the Hard Nox began to fall out of the sky.

He was no stranger to the feeling. When he had been upon the Sweet Rosegarden to travel to the Floating Isles, they'd been grounded into the water before boarding; trade ships were easy targets, after all, and clipped wings made for sitting ducks. The Baron had wondered what became of that crew after he'd been taken hostage; very few had been abducted along wih him, and those that were had been brought beyond the stairwell of the brig. The sacrificial chamber had told him all but what he had already known. And yet, despite forty-six days in captivity, Emryk Vakaan had survived.

It would be a waste, then, to die so soon after tasting freedom, wouldn't it?

"Oh, good HEAVENS-- RRGH!"

The Baron practically put a damned hole through the wall he fell against, the wood creaking as he was thrown side-to-side like a wayward leaf in the wind. Tall and mighty as he was, he was still a being bound by the laws of nature-- and what came up would most certainly come back down. At least he was afforded a moment of terrified contemplation as his feet left the ground, an 8-foot tall Al-Ashtavan rendered as light as a feather from the free-fall of the Hard Nox. Thankfully, the impact was dampened by his natural hardiness and scales. Exhaustion, however, made him slow to stand. He attempted the act regardless, getting up to one knee before a second wave of tremors threw him back onto the ground, elbow slamming into a crate and putting a hole through it.

"What in the name of..." He murmured, wrenching his limb free and relaxing upon the ground for a moment in wait of any further disruptions. When the worst had seemed to pass-- and the telltale sign of rushing water began to sound from a distant corridor-- Emryk quietly and quickly made his way topside, adjusting his impromptu toga with a look of vexation undoubtedly present. Some deckhands were rushing about, already caught in the fervor of the crash-landing-- and, for the first time in what felt like months, the Baron saw the ocean.

Hmh.

Grateful as he was to be back upon the earth, a sinking ship was hardly a ship at all-- it was a coffin. Emryk resolved to help where he could, immediately setting about to ask the nearest folk if they needed aid. That was, until his old ears caught the hint of a scream amongst the crashing waves. Not from the deck, mind you, but from over the side; moving to the railing, he came face to face with the unfortunate soul that'd been thrown overboard.

"... HOLD ON!" The Baron replied, glancing around the deck for anything to toss down to the boy. Ropes and chains were already set in motion by the crew, and there was hardly anything long enough to reach down to Leo; as he looked back over, however, it soon became apparent why his comrade in imprisonment had survived in the first place. Still over the side of the ship, and clung to by the boy, was the anchor line. Unreeled, untended to, and running along the deck back to its reel topside. How long had the anchor been dropping for? If they were still cruising at a fast speed when it pulled tight--

"YOU. YOU. YOU!" Emryk's voice boomed, pointing to three different folk who seemed to be doing nothing too important. "WITH ME. THE ANCHOR'S LOOSE-- GET READY TO MOUNT IT TO THE CATHEAD." And then he was off, staring expectantly at the men to follow him with a gaze that forced them along. Four men did not an anchor-haul make, but Emryk would bear the brunt of it. A sigh pushed out of his snout as he approached the capstand to find it already spinning-- the line unwinding at breakneck pace. The poles would need to be stopped, then, too. Assuming that the others had gotten into position, Emryk shook his head and shut his eyes to allow himself a moment of preparation.

Defy them with strength.

With an intensity that rivaled the waves beneath, Emryk pushed himself forward, body nearly thrown onto the deck as he grabbed onto one of the poles of the capstand and dug his heels into the deck of the ship. At first, he was nearly dragged along with the rotation, helpless to stop its pace-- slowly but surely, however, the revolutions began to slow, and the scraping of the Baron's talons along the wood began to come to a screeching halt. Bracing himself as best he could against the floor and fighting against the pull of the anchor, Emryk squared his shoulders and began to reel in the anchor, stepping forward and timing his pushes with the sway of the ship; his neck strained, his back screamed with fatigue, and his knees nearly buckled, but he held his pace and continued to step forth, continued to push. It was an agonizing fight, a nigh-impossible feat, but he bore the task without fear. Without so much as a thought given to the pain.

HEART--

Another push, another few paces forward. Another foot raised, then another. Slowly, the anchor would begin to raise, along with the man attached to its line.

-- OF STONE--

How much more could he take? Emryk could have sworn he heard a pop, but he kept his grip firm and continued to walk around the capstand, nails digging into the pole as he did. When it was high enough for the other men to begin rigging it to the cathead-- hopefully pulling Leo up, all the while-- he awaited confirmation of the anchor's security before he released the pole, gasping for air as he staggered and fell to one knee.

"HH-HHRGHH-- HHNMNHHH." He felt as if he were going to die, in that moment. Perhaps it was the determination to save his fellow man that drove him forth. Perhaps it was foolishness. In either case, his heart felt as if it would beat out of his chest, hammering with a breakneck TA-TUMP, TA-TUMP that he swore could be audible to the keen passerby. Valiantly, he tried to stand, only to stagger once more against the railing and let out a coughing wheeze.

"T-the BOY." The Baron commanded, pointing weakly at the side of the ship. Someone-- anyone. "PULL-- HIM UP!"
 
FANG

Leo clung to the anchor line and watched the waves below as the ship’s deck came alive with the sounds of busy hands. From his vantage Leo could see that something had destroyed one of the wings of the ship and driven her down to the water that had nearly swallowed him, and despite knowing the Truth Teller was a distant speck on the black horizon he knew it was the handiwork of the fetid frigate. Solomon King had the lady word in this battle, but Leo’s curses were flung from the side of the ship despite their inability to hit their target.

”I should have went back to kill him,”Leo said to the waves below. Waves that he now noticed were coming closer.

Leo climbed the links as fast as he could while they fell, his ascent too slow to match the speed of the falling chain. The sound of waves slapping the hull filled his ears as he drew closer to the water line, gaze fixed on the railing above as he mindlessly places hand over hand and foot above foot. The trailing leg splashed in the seawater as the chain came to a sudden halt, and slowly, creakingly the line began to raise again with Leo in tow. A wordless shout of elation tore from Leo’s lips as he set about climbing higher to the deck.

Once he reached the deck Leo had to leap from chain to rail, the anchor line too taut against the side of the ship for his hand to wrap properly around a link. His muscles burned as he fell to the timber, heavy breaths punctuated by exasperated groans as he levered himself up from the floor of the deck to his knees. Three men hauled at the anchor chain with great effort, someone’s feet slipping occasionally and stalling the progress for a quick moment before the toils continued. In spite of his weariness Leo stepped in behind the nearest crewman, lending his arm to the work link by link.

Sweat drenched his body, intermingling with the seawater and remnants of the challenge of his escape, but before long the anchor pulled itself free from the water, the line set before the four heaving men lifted the massive iron to the deck. Something heavy rattled the wood behind Leo, and as the strained groans reached his ears Leo spied their supplier on one knee, a hidden power behind the tedious task. A smile broke through Leo’s exhaustion as he stumbled his way to the lizard’s side. By flame, it was hard to walk when the ground below was in constant motion!

”T-the BOY,” Emryk commanded, pointing to where Leo and the anchor had been pitched from the deck. ”PULL—HIM UP!”

Leo clapped a hand on the big man’s shoulder and laughed, the action causing a sudden fit of spluttering coughs that cleared the last of the water from his chest. When he had finally caught his breath Leo met the reptile’s eyes and flashed another genuine smile his way.

“Rest now, Emryk. I am safe.”Leo crouched and rested his elbows on his knees, once again below the massive man’s shadow. “You’ve a terrible habit of pushing yourself too hard, you know?” Leo’s muscles screamed at him, flaring their discomfort at his words with more than a few cramping, tensed muscles. Perhaps they both pushed themselves too hard.
 
GHOSTLY

The sudden fall sent Ciarán and his whiskey to the floor. It wasn't the first time he'd experienced a crash like this, but it was never something you could be truly ready for. The mess hall was - well, a mess once they hit the water and everything settled again. The ship was bobbing, which was a good sign, better the ocean than find themselves dashed against the rocks.

Ciarán picked up his bottle from the floor, most had spilled into the boards. He sighed and finished the last drop, then he pushed himself off his knees and onto his feet, bracing against Alys' beam to try to stay upright. "We lost altitude, somehow. Our helmsman's either due for a thank you - or the nines'." Ciarán pushed off the beam and went to straightening up the mess hall again, turning back tables and benches. The less the ship appeared a disaster, the less the crew would believe it.

There would be work to do to get the ship back in shape, but for now he'd steady himself and see what was needed. He'd heard Sinead above decks issuing orders, although they were muffled by deck and waves.
 
HIGHVOLTAGE

The Captain arrived on the ship, swinging herself up over the railing after standing on a retracting grapple, as if it had been her plan from the beginning to return in such a way. A look passed between her and Caleb before she gave the order, setting a heading to take them away from the Truth Teller. Lucien began to head below, to change his clothes. They were lightly damp and cold from the ice, spattered with small amounts of his blood, and larger ones of Naveen’s.

Solomon King, it would seem, had other plans. A cannon fired, and Lucien’s head whipped around at the noise, expecting the shattering impact of a cannon ball crashing into the deck. But that would have been too pedestrian for the necromantic captain. A festering purple substance latched onto their wing, consuming it. Lucien had no time to react, nothing to grab as the ship lurched violently, gravity claiming her due.

It was an odd sensation, flying. It was different from the plummets he took before a raid, the ground rushing to catch him as he prepared for death and destruction. This was weightlessness, nothingness. There was no goal, no destination. The vampire simply floated, rotating slowly in the air.

The impact, however, was very similar.

The ship crashed into the waves as though trying to dive through them, and Lucien followed suit. He smacked hard against the deck, his head cracking against wood as seawater swept over the ship, just enough to make its presence known before receding. He stared at the sky for a moment before drawing himself up and to his feet. That ancient bastard had shot them from the sky, and the ship now listed within the waves below.

Sinéad appeared once more, shouting orders. Lucien simply walked past her, ignoring the tasks he set the lesser crew to do. “I shall chart a course for the nearest harbor.” He muttered as he passed by. Allegria was the most likely haven, and the top priority was getting the Hard Nox repaired. Cursing King under his breath, Lucien pushed his way down the hall, ignoring the scurrying of rats to patch the holes, to bail the water, to help in the clinic. He strode directly to his cabin, slamming the door shut behind him.

A noise was released, half-growl, half-sigh, as he took stock of the damage. Fortunately, it was not much. Bedding and his maps were scattered, but not too damaged. Lucien undid his shirt, shrugging it off and tossing the wet and bloodied garment to the side. He would have to get it fixed, the hole from Naveen’s ice patched. He glanced at its fleshy counterpart, maybe millimeters smaller than before. He would need to find Mal later, but for now he had his priorities.

Lucien flicked open his cabinet, mildly relieved to see no broken glass within. When you served on a skyship for this long, you learned to protect what was valuable. He grabbed one of the smaller bottles, unopened, yanking out the cork and letting it fall to the floor. He brought it to his lips, his senses turning to fire as the liquid met his tongue. The delicious nectar, sweet and burning and all-consuming, flowed through him, revitalizing him, kindling him. He leaned back, draining the bottle in one long pull. What little color he had began to return, his eyes returning to their pale indifference. With a sigh he let the bottle fall, setting it on the table before bending low, beginning to sort through his maps to find the proper one.
 
REYN

What an idiot their captain was. Picking fights with necromancers on a ship made of wood was like trying to light a torch with an arm made of kindling- suicidal. Mal was surprised the rot hadn't spread further. Perhaps they should patch it up with metal next time, but that was just inviting her to start going after lightning-casters next, wasn't it?

Someone approached them. Someone strange.

A stowaway, by admission.

Odd.

"A stowaway, hm? Well, you've picked the wrong bloody ship to do it on." They frowned, "And an even worse one to admit it on- you tell that to anyone else, and they'll have your head on a spike."

Mal sighed.

"I would as well, if I wasn't so damn busy. Bloody morons- I'm half tempted to go on strike, until they stop breaking this damn thing, but that halfwit clay man will do doubt fill the gaps for me."

They pointed accusatively with their wrench.

"And he'd do it wrong!"
 
DELFI

"Left wing is gone but we didn't die, I say we drink to that!" Caleb announced as he entered the mess hall, determined not to let his brief encounter with the captain maim his good mood. Ciarán, Juniper and Alys still seemed to be confused about what had just happened, poor Juniper with stew all over them while Ciarán held an empty bottle of liquor. The fun had started without him it seemed.

Without wasting any time, Caleb beelined to the kitchen, where he'd find cups for all, as well as a corkscrew. He put the metal cups on the counter that separated the kitchen from the hall, opening his expensive bottle of whiskey that he'd saved for a special occasion such as this one. He poured himself a cup, as well as for those who had expressed interest in joining him and lifted it up.

"To surviving another day."
 
ILLIRICA

Apparently Pris had picked the wrong ship.

"I'm sorry." That seemed like the right thing to say. "But there weren't really any other options. But thank you for the warning, I would rather not have my head on a spike. Or any other part of me. Are any of your heads on spikes? I hope that's not rude. It's just that you seem to be a lot of yous."

Pris stepped up, keeping her eyes on the stitched-together person-people, because that was a lot better than looking anywhere else right now. The stitched-together person pointed a wrench at Pris, which was a new sensation for her. She was used to bones, or knives. Wrenches were unexpected.

"Can I help? If he's not good at it? I wouldn't be good at it either, but at least I wouldn't pretend to be. I'm not really good at anything. Except necromancy. Except, no, I don't think I'm very good at that either. Hetty says I am, though. But she likes me, so she has to say that. Have you seen her? None of your parts are hers, I already looked."
 
ILLIRICA

Sinéad had never been a fan of the ocean. She'd fallen in once, and had never forgiven it. She vastly preferred the sky, with its thin air and chill winds. The air here was too heavy, too wet, tainted with salt. A bit like blood, but graceless. She wondered what Lucien thought of it sometimes, but wasn't going to ask. Mal was off to one side, cursing the ship into proper shape, or at least into a slightly more appropriate shape. It would do, for a while. They weren't sinking, and that was enough.

She scanned the deck, watching her crew, her gaze lingering on all those who weren't her crew. A tall scaled man working the capstan with some gusto. She debated offering help, but he seemed to have it handled. They pulled the anchor from the waters, another stranger with it.

Sometimes, she felt like she had no idea what was going on on this ship. No doubt Caleb was to blame. She wasn't about to interrupt his drinking, though, so she went to go rectify the situation, watching the interplay between the two men, one of them quite sodden.

"Neither of you is mine." A statement, calling out their unauthorized presence. "Are you Sol's?" She stared down at the one she could conceivably look down on, lying as he was in a soggy puddle on the deck. "Or did you just get lost on the way to the whorehouse?"
 
GOLDEN

The sensation of free falling was a little too familiar for Alys. Typically, she loved the thrill of diving through the air, the feeling of the brisk wind stinging against her face, how her heart beat wildly in her chest. This was hardly the same, and largely due to the fact that it was entirely out of her control. She didn't know what was happening, why, or when it would end. Even better, how it would end. Hopefully not with their guts splattered against the floor.

At least fate granted her that mercy. Although the impact was hard, sending shockwaves up her legs and core, she was still standing. "Fuckin' hell," she muttered beneath her breath, releasing her grip from the pole, and taking a look around at the damage sustained. Her gaze first settled on Ciaran, and his nearly empty bottle of tasty and expensive whiskey. Then it moved to the tables and benches that needed adjustment, despite the chains holding them down. Finally, she settled on poor Juniper, who ended up wearing most of their meal, rather than consuming it. Above, she heard their Captain barking out orders and the furious scuffle of feet, as the crew ran to their posts.

Suddenly, a giggle erupted from her lips, and not just at the expense of Juniper and their soiled clothes. The couple of shots she had certainly didn't help, but it was the sheer ridiculousness of the past forty-eight hours. "I'm s-sorry," she said through another fit of laughter. "It's just - things keep getting worse."

Her wrist was shot, body bruised, she had no place to sleep tonight, had about half a sip of alcohol left, they'd been shot out of the sky, and she still had to find out whether Caleb was out to get her. Life was bloody brilliant.

And to make things better, the devil himself walked in, announcing the damage the ship had sustained. At least they were still alive.

Alys' laughter slowly died down as she watched the Quarter Master disappear beyond the kitchen doors. He was in an awfully good mood, and she didn't know what to think of it. Yes, they were still alive now, but would she be tomorrow? Perhaps Sinead would stuff her in a cage for cutting her right hand man.

When he emerged, Alys hesitantly lifted her bottle, the one containing about half a sip, and silently toasted. Then she turned to Juniper. "I'll help you with drying the deck," she announced, placing the empty bottle down on the table beside them. As if she'd be much help, but she didn't feel like staying here anymore, and she certainly didn't feel like getting drunk with her two superiors. If anything, it gave them a chance to kiss and make-up. After all, they'd said some nasty things to each other earlier on the Truth Teller.
 
ANNASIEL

Things had been mostly settled. Mostly settled, in this case, was a euphemism for 'not exactly up to Emer's standards, and still a cause for stress, but not in a position to lead to anyone's imminent death.' The clinic was clear of water and Sliocht was moved to a cot, though the floors were still damp and the scent of brine caked everything. The blanket covering the hole had been better nailed down, though the hole itself probably wouldn't be fixed until the more serious repairs on the ship had been attended to. And, most dire, while he kettle had been rescued, the splash had extinguished her warmstones, and those things took hours to heat up again. And thus was Emer's pilgrimage - once she'd changed into something drier, exchanging her soaked and stained dress for a plain cotton slip, she went to the mess hall in search of something to heat her water.

The mess hall wasn't particularly busy - Alys, Ciaran, Caleb, and Juniper were all present, but much of the rest of the crew was absent, no doubt heading topside to see where exactly they had crashed. Emer gave the huddled group a nod, then moved towards the kitchen - pausing as she saw the bottle of whiskey sitting out on the window counter.

"Celebrating a safe landing, I hope?" she said through the window, setting her kettle on one of the stoves. "I'd presume that or drowning sorrows, but you folk don't seem too sorrowful."
 
DELFI

Oh… Right. They hadn't finished that conversation yet.


Caleb watched intently Alys come up with whatever excuse to leave the room while sipping on his drink. She started acting distant the minute he stepped foot on the Mess Hall, making it quite clear he'd have to deal with her hiding from him again. It was an inconvenience, but the ship was quite small and they were surrounded by miles and miles of sea - she'd have to face him eventually.

"Just us, then." Caleb said, offering Ciarán a cup. Not his favorite company, but better than nothing. Before the gun master could even reach for the drink Emer walked through the doorway, to Caleb's relief.

"Come join us! Have a cup." He gave Emer the cup he'd served for Ciarán, before the wisewoman could refuse. "Any new deaths other than Soren? May he rest in peace." The quartermaster asked casually. Losing people wasn't a new thing for the crew, and he could let himself grieve every time or grow thicker skin and get used to it. He wouldn't have been able to make it this far if he hadn't chosen the latter.
 
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