Deep Water and Shoals II

Malthas,

"A ride would be welcome, Mr. Swifthand," the Captain calls back. "Seein' as I'm already late fer tea with Mr. Arfaliunium!"

He wades through the river and climbs into the boat.

"We'd better be leavin' soon's we can an' still be polite," he says. "I've no idea how prone these Grugach are t' changin' their minds, an' I've no desire t' find out."

Nicodemus & Jonah,

The chief's lieutenant is clearly upset.

"O Light of our Brethren," he begins deferentially. "Is this wise? These men..."

"...are not part of our quarrel with the clam-diggers, for all that they are from Across the Sea," the chief finishes. "It is my judgement that they be allowed safe passage. Do you question my judgement?"

Faced with a clear challenge, the lieutenant is forced to back down.

"I would not dream of questioning your judgement, O Light of our Brethren," he replies, with just a hint of exasperation.

"Your chance for glory in battle will come later," the chief says, softening his chastisement. "But there is no glory in the slaughter of innocent bystanders. These men follow the sea, and only the winds of chance have brought them here. Your arrows will taste blood, my Right Hand, but it will be the blood of clamdiggers."

The chieftain knows how to handle his men. Though his lieutenant remains put-out, he offers no more direct challenge to his leader's decision.

Malachi,

The elven chieftain appears to have handled the situation admirably. His lieutenant leaves off his arguments, and appears to acquiesce to his chief's judgement, though his expression remains sullen.

The Grugach, too, seem to have been impressed by your bearing; none offer any sort of challenge to you, instead giving way a few steps in deference when you move forward.

Meanwhile, the Captain & Jonah wade into the river, attempting to be inconspicuous, and climb into the boat.

"I owe you a great deal, Mr. Legba," the Captain says, extending his hand as he passes by. "I can't get out of this place soon enough t' suit me."

All,

At long last, after yet another conversation upon which your lives quite possibly hinge, the elven chieftain, Heart-of-Ten-Thousand-Oaks mounts the riverbank and turns to you with his arms spread wide.

"I have fulfill my promise to you men of the Sea," he says. "Your Kep-tan is safe, and you have safe passage back to Standishtown. Now you go back to the clamdigger's town, and you tell them, you tell them that our word is as good as theirs. You tell the clamdiggers that we Brethren have as much honor as any round-ears.

Fare you well, men of the Sea. Perhaps we meet again in happier times, but I think not. Our sun is fading, and the light of the Men-From-Across-The-Sea is a bleak dawn to our eyes."

As the boat rounds the bend, back downriver towards Standishtown once more, you hear the chieftain's voice follow you:

"Tell them we Brethren are an honorable people..."

(OOC All: Now, how's that for some satisfactory closure to this chapter, eh? )

As the chieftain finishes his speech, Vemuz turns to him and claps him firmly on both shoulders with his hands as he grins with a deep chuckle. "Your people do not have as much honor as the people Standishtown, great chieftain. No. That would be an insult to you and your kin. The beggars and scavengers of Standishtown are scarce men at all next to one such as you. How can one compare a man of cities to a man who carves his destiny from the wild places of the world? You would have been a great man among my people, the Swordfishers, and we do not say such things lightly." Vemuz' own wild, untamed heart seems to blaze forth in an unusual show of warmth toward this savage elf chieftain. As he looks into the chieftain's eyes he sees his own reflection.

Vemuz reaches behind his ear and pulls a feather from one of his hairpins. It is a bright, flame red tapering toward a rich orange at the tip. "This is from my homeland. It has kept me well. I hope that it will keep you as well. May the blood of your enemies ever wash away the blood of your fallen kin."

Clearing his throat, Nicodemus addresses the assembed Grugach in slightly accented Elvish ' Noble People of the Wood, I would tell you a bit of the World. Yes, Noble, I said, fer each and every one of you is a far more Noble person than the greatest of those living in Standishtown and passing judgement upon all who are not as they. Many towns and cities have I seen in my travels, with folk both good and bad,noble and craven. Our first night in Standishtown, the place looked friendly and welcoming. Soon thereafter, we found ourselves the target of anger and combat, simply because we were not of their folk. When we met you good elves of the wood, we found ourselves faced with arrows and combat, only to have you decide to treat us with civility and fairness in the end. Of the two, I'll take the latter, as you have shown yourselves honorable far beyond any diggers-of-clams.'
Nico bows low (as does Artimus, doffing his cap), then turns and boards the boat.

Taking up his place in the boat and accepting the successful outcome of this adventure Malachi looks both back into the woods and the Grugach standing there and also down river to where Standishtown might lie.

The proud bearing of the Chieftain, and that determined face of the Captain merge with images of his own mother -the old Witch- and these contrast with the sullen downcast faces of the Orcish slaves in Standishtown

"Ah feel a bad win' blowin' capitan" he says as they move out "fer dhems-here' elfs an' fer us all.

Dher wos ships speedin sout' wit' half-empty hulls w'en we left dhe town, an tis plan dhem Elfs is goin t'battle. Only hope dhe Lady Calypso got som blessin fer dhem elfs so dhey don't ge' trod down lik' my orc people dun"

Malthas sighs, and shakes his head. "Ah, a boat full of dipolomats." He grins at everyone, taking any sting out of his words. To the captain, he nods. "Your orders, sir? We've got a few kegs of rum on board, if I recall right - I believe we'd best get this sorry substitute back home, and have ourselves a serious drink in celebration."

Jonah waves farewell to the chiefain and falls to sitting position on the deck/whatever, removing his backpack from his glove and replacing it with his pistol. He proceeds to dump the rest of the weapons he carries to the deck.

He waits silently, happy about their rescue, but too exhausted to take part in the conversation unless somebody asks him something first.

Vemuz,

As the longboat speeds downriver with your hand on the tiller, you think back to the chieftain's reply to your parting words;

"Truly," he says, with great respect evident in his words. "Truly, you are my Brethren in spirit if not in body." He places the feather in his headdress, the plume curving high above his forehead. "This is rare plume; a fitting adornment for one such as you. You are rare man, Swordfisher. Had I a hundred like you the clamdiggers would curse these shores for a thousand generations. I place your gift above all my other feathers; always will this feather go before me and guide me in battle. And for your generosity, I give you something of my own."

He removed a fine rich wolfskin from his shoulders, and draped it over yours.

"This is pelt of a Great-wolf, direct descendent of the First Wolves, first children of He-Who-Wrought-The-Mountains. It has ornamented my shoulders since I was first made chief, it graced the shoulders of my father and his father before him. May your arrows never miss and those of your enemies never hit."

Malachi,

"Aye, Mr. Legba. These Grugach won' strike their colors wi'out a hell of a fight, couldn't ask fer better fighters, an' I hear they've got magics thet make all the Universities in the Middle Lands seem like a bunch o' berobed charlatans, an' they'll make th' Stan - the clamdiggers - curse their mothers for bearin' 'em, but it strikes me thet their battle was decided th' moment we round-ears set foot on these shores. Us round-ears're like dry rot in th' floor timbers, sometimes, ruinin' whatever we touch...Never th' less, if the Lady wills, then they still have hope. I know I'll be sayin' a prayer for them this night.

If y' ask me, them ships what left half-empty were the smart ones. I tell y', I'd give an arm an' a leg t' be on the old GRACE right now, outward bound from this hellhole. I don't want t' be within a hundred miles o' Standishtown when the shootin' starts, though I can't say I'll spare many tears for them slave-tradin' cravens of clamdiggers."

He settles down to smoke his pipe, but he is clearly impatient to be back to his ship, every few moments whipping out his spyglass and checking and rechecking Malthas' map of the river.

Malthas,

The captain, who had been fidgeting impatiently with his pipe and peering ahead at the river constantly, brightens up at the mention of the rum.

"Don't want t' set a bad example," he says. "But these sort of misadventures make a man thirsty. Permission granted t' splice th' main brace, Mr. Swifthand; let's have a tot o' rum all 'round. In lieu of a proper celebration on shore, o' course. But let's have no brawlin' this time, eh?"

The hands, naturally, recieve this message with raucous cheers.

Nicodemus,

Sitting in the longboat skimming downriver, you think back to your own speech to the Grugach, and its reception.

The Grugach had been a most receptive audience, and they had given a hearty cheer in your honor when you finished your speech. Indeed, when they bid you their own farewell, they said to you;

"What you lack in stature, O noble Mage, you more than recoup in wisdom and judgement. May your mind always be clear and may your tongue never falter."

All,

The return to civilization, after your brief foray into the heart of Standishtown's darkness, is startling. At first, the trees and rushes of the riverbank are the only thing that greets the eye, and the birdsong is the only thing that anwers the splashing of the oars.

The first sign of civilization is a fence, or rather a stone wall, built without mortar, running alongside the river seemingly at random. After your journey into the wilderness, this sudden sign of civilization is jarring, almost absurd. The fence is already draped in greenery and covered with moss, already being reclaimed by the hostile forest.

The next sight you see is a keg raft, a barge made of lashed-together kegs, bound upriver, where it will be filled at the plantations and floated downriver again. Its boatmen nearly drop their quants, turning and staring at you until you round the next bend and they pass out of sight.

Their conversation follows you, though;

"Did'ja see thet? Weren't they the ones what the pointy-ears killed?" "P'raps they're ghosts, mate..."

Soon enough, you are once again among the familiar taverns, inns, and counting-houses of Standishtown. Then you are down among the wharves and the great bulk of the CALYPSO'S GRACE looms up alongside. It's good to be home.

"Mates," the Captain says, standing in the bow and turning to face you all. "I would say some celebration is in order, eh? I'd get my shore-goin' rigs on if I were you; drinks are on me at th' 'White Horse Inn' t'night."

Mr. Lang is the first to greet you as the longboat is hoisted aboard. In a rare show of humanity, he mops his brow in relief upon seeing you aboard safe and sound.

"Captain," he says, shaking first the Captain's hand, then everyone else's. "Thank Calypso, Oceanus, and Davy Jones that you are safe. Mr. Legba, Mr. Swifthand, Mr. Thriceborn, Mr. Arfaliunium, Sanchez, Stout; well done, all of you. I fear I did suffer some anxiety as to the likelihood of your return." For a moment, the Navy man in him rises to the surface, as you can see a quick flash of fighting-eagerness in his eyes. "It must have been wet work, fighting your way back."

"Sorry t' disappoint y', Mr. Lang," the Captain replies drily. "But we managed t' keep the ground mostly clean of blood - ours or theirs, though we lost a Standishtowner and a new hand. We neogotiated our way back, y' see. 'S a long story. Why don't y' get y'r shore-goin' rig, Mr. Lang, we're headed t' th' 'White Horse Inn' for some well-deserved celebration."

The Captain makes a cursory inspection of the ship, then he and Mr. Lang go below, to get out their shore-going clothes. From what you've heard of the 'White Horse,' it's a higher class of tavern, with none of the clamdigging riffraff you encountered you first night ashore here.

Thoughts of his home turn over and over in Vemuz' mind. First the map from the Black Mast (the image of which was still imprinted in his mind as a hole burnt through his soul), and now the wild elves, calling him back to the place where it all began. The thought of a night spent in a stuffy building filled with men restrained by the dull gray shackles of civilization fills him with dread.

"If you don't mind, captain, I think I'll stay aboardship tonight." He plans to stare at the stars tonight. The stars under which also lie his home and his people. The stars which have guided him half way around the world and, gods willing, back again.

Malthas grins widely. "Aye, captain, I think we can manage to celebrate without too much breakage this time." He winks, and scampers down to find his finest clothes, though he is certain that they are likely out of style at this point. But hopefully there will be something he can pick up in town. He dresses quickly, and heads back to the town quick to try to find something a bit more updated....