Bryon_Soulweaver
First Post
Man, you need to finish your other one.
PS: You always got me as a reader, your stories are next to PirateCat IMO
PS: You always got me as a reader, your stories are next to PirateCat IMO
High Seas Shenanigans (Updated: 12/04/05)
Emperor Valerian
First Post
My stories are next to Piratecat's? Dayum, that's a HUGE compliment. Thank you.
And as for the Formorterans, I'd given the players the option of picking Eberron races (obviously, with a warforged running around), and Viktalia's player didn't like any of the choices really, so she made up her own race and we jointly balanced things out. She really wanted to be a foxbat-type-thingie (I've put them in the homebrew, doesn't mean I fully understand them. Perhaps drag n fly would like to explain further? ), and after the effort she put into it, I saw no reason to say no.
To further explain what they look like, dragnfly drew this picture.
Anyways, I got into a writing mood, so the second update this week got moved up. And don't worry about the other thread, drag n fly might be helping me some with the load there, so regardless there will be updates there as well
"The Baron’s Manor
Good god, these people live high and mighty.
Siran suppressed an urge to whistle at the immense manors he now passed as he traversed the wealthiest quarter of the city of Erelion. On both sides of him sat immense manor houses, their walls buttressing each other, marble columns adorning their sides and giltwork adorning their gates. Small children clad in rags no longer ran beside him, pestering him for stories of war. The few children he saw were well dressed in silks, their hands firmly in the clasp of a similarly well dressed nanny. Siran grinned and nodded towards the prettier nannies, using the motion to let himself ogle a bit.
I love the newer fashions. Cleavage is always good, a grinned at one particular example. She rather coolly nodded in return, before continuing along with her charge,
ignoring Siran’s stare.
Eh, she’ll come around, he mused, turning back to his cobblestone lined path. Venerating the Saint of War meant Siran knew his life could be shortened at any moment by an unlucky bullet, or simply bad luck. One had to always take advantage of opportunities that might arise...
A fine woman, a fine bottle of wine, and some good company... once I make my fortune privateering, that’s what I’ll have, he sung to himself quietly. Soon, he rounded another corner, and stopped.
That must be it, he thought, I don’t see any other houses with pink fronts.
When he’d asked around, everyone that knew said that Baron Dice’s house was quite distinctive... its sides painted in rich pastels, the columns by its entrance made from
expensive Kubalian pink marble. Along the eaves ran various designs finished in giltwork. If that wasn’t enough of an indication, the wrought iron gate to the estate had an enormous “D” hanging from each door.
However, Siran’s eyes quickly caught something else.
Well, hello there, he thought as he saw the thin but attractive shape of a female at the gate, looking towards the inside of the estate. Her clothes were cut perfectly to
fit, a long black cloak clinging close to her back, her hair hung long and black in back, and immediately his mind went places imaging what the face on this dark beauty must look like. As she stood there, the wind blew gently through her hair, and unseen jewelry tinkled. When serving in the armed forces, you never know if you’re going to come back. Well, Siran old boy, let’s just give this one a shot...
“Why hello there,” he put on his darkest, most mysterious voice. Good one, Siran! That was commanding and manly, yet sultry and suave at the same time! You’ve got the skills! he mentally patted himself on the back.
The woman turned slowly, her head tilted as an impish grin crossed her face. “Hello to yourself,” Her soft musical voice quivered down his spine like the notes of a windchime. “Are you here to join the Baron’s crew as well?”
For his part, Siran tried to keep his jaw closed, his mental dream smashed. The woman’s body, true enough, was more than he had imagined, but it was clearly apparent that she was going to break a singular rule he’d set for himself.
Only humans.
Dammit! he kicked himself. Damn Formorterans, looking so human from behind!
“My name’s Viktalia, Viktalia Starwynd.” She struck a pose, arms raised gracefully and provocatively, the webs of her Formorteran wings extending from her arms. Rings and bells, braided into her hair, hanging from her ears, and even gracing the edges of her wings, chimed as she did so. “Dancer extraordinaire!” Her golden eyes twinkled and her muzzle twitched slightly. At his lack of a response, she lowered her arms, and cocked an eyebrow above her fox-like face. “And you are...” she prompted, gesturing for him to speak.
“Um.” Siran quickly caught himself, and pulled free from the kicking of his ‘human/non-human snese,’ “I’m Siran Rapp... Lord Siran Rapp I suppose, though I don’t go around trumpeting it... second son of a noble and all.”
“For a churchman, your attire speaks more to fighting than praying,” the young Formorteran observed rather wryly.
“For a Formorteran, you seem to know humans pretty well,” Siran observed with an equal amount of wryness in his voice. Formorterans were not native to the Empire, and
instead lived in a small series of islands off-shore, halfway between the Imperial lands and the dread lands of the elves. They were a rare sight in either realm, and the few that Siran had met had a bad tendency to get human and elven customs confused... a very unfortunate occurrence when thousands of years of bad blood existed between humans and elves.
“I should,” she replied. “When I came here eight months ago, I thought the big city of Erelion would be the end-all of all adventures, a lovely spot where I could always find
new things to see and do. I guess I’m too inquisitive for my own good,” she laughed softly, before looking away partially. “And the fans are starting to get annoying.”
“Fans?” Siran asked slowly, before things began to dawn in his mind. “You mean, you are the Viktalia Starwynd? The dancer?”
"Of course!” she laughed slightly. “I only just said so!”
“Um, no offence, Miss Starwynd,” Siran cleared his throat. He’d never seen any of her performances, but enough of his former comrades and friends came back ranting and raving about the young Formorteran that could enthrall huge crowds with her dancing and singing. “I... I am wondering, though, exactly why you’re booking passage on a privateer?” Maybe she doesn’t know the Baron’s expedition is a privateering enterprise?
“Ha! Booking passage?” Viktalia laughed. “Oh no! I’m applying for ship’s quartermaster!”
“Quartermaster?” Siran asked again in surprise. When she nodded, the memory of all his previous ship’s quartermasters came to mind, and he snickered slightly. He saw her eyes narrow, but the more he tried to suppress it, the more he wanted to laugh, until finally a long series of giggles broke through.
“What’s so funny?” she asked rather sharply. “A quartermaster’s job is to keep supplies in line and to watch the morale of the crew! I can learn quickly how to deal with the supplies, and I can easily keep the ship’s morale up with my performances!”
Quartermasters are supposed to be huge hulking men, ready to break apart any seaman who steps out of line! Siran laughed in his mind. This girl couldn’t even bend one of my pinkies!
“In more ways than one?” Siran’s dirty mind snapped out before he could clamp his tongue. Her pretty face blanched.
“Of course not!” she snapped back. “I do not do that! Ever!. And to be honest I'm sick of you humans assuming that provocative dancing means that a woman is fair game!” She crossed her arms, clearly upset. “Besides, what is an armor clad priest like yourself going to do on a ship, with that big chain of yours? Are you going to be the ship’s anchor?”
Siran laughed again. My she’s a feisty one. “No, of course not,” he managed to say after a bit. “I understand the Baron is looking for officers, so I’m applying for any
and all available positions. And as I’m a priest of St. Heraclius, I have far more qualifications to go privateering and blowing up ships than you, madam. No disrespect intended, of course,” he added wryly.
“Of course disrespect was intended,” she shot back. “You still haven’t answered me, really. What the heck is that chain thing wrapped about your waist, or should I be
concerned about you keeping the ship’s morale high?”
“It’s a spiked chain, my dear lady,” Siran said, mock politeness in his voice. “Your eyes should notice the spikes about the chain, giving it sharp edges with which to puncture and wound. Besides,” he added, “I don’t see you carrying any arms. Privateering is a dangerous business, and...”
He stopped dead in his tracks when she raised her arms wide, opening her wings. From her belt hung a pair of small but wickedly curved knives, a pistol, and an intricately carved baton.
"Appearences can be decieving, my dear Lord." her voice was as politely mocking as his, with perhaps a touch more as she noticed that Siran could not help taking the opportunity to let his eyes further explore her figure. After a few moments, she closed her wings and gave a graceful bow that set the chimes covering her body to tinkling again.
"Now, if you are through, perhaps we should continue our business with the Baron? I myself an anxious to settle the affair of my employment." Her voice was smooth and musical again, although her eyes still flashed with a fire that caused Siran to give a grudging smile.
It appears that I have underestimated this one. If we both do get jobs on the same vessel, the results should prove...
...interesting.
Outwardly though, he merely gave a proper return bow, and gestured towards the large guilded building.
Visiel finally rounded the last corner, feeling the fine cobblestones crack under his five hundred pound weight. He ignored the gasps of the children has he lumbered by, or the hushed shrieks from their nannies, or the muttered rumblings under the voices of finely tailored men that, “that damn wizard so-and-so needs to stop sending his golems about willy-nilly.”
“You sir!” one person shouted at Visiel, and the iron behemoth found his way suddenly blocked by a far smaller man, clad in fine purple silk with gold embroidery.
He is a high ranking human, Visiel reasoned. I should be respectful to him, but I need to get by.
“Who is your master?” the human insolently demanded, crossing his arms.
“I have no master.” Visiel admitted aloud. “I am traveling towards...”
“Come come!” the little human snapped. “Tell me who your master is, golem, or I will report you to the city authorities, and by god, your master won’t be pleased to have to bail you from the Erelion Constablury!”
I have been really polite, Visiel grumbled mentally. Now I can only be nice.
“Sir, I must get through. I need to speak to Baron...”
“Until I know the name of your master,” the proud little human shouted, “I will not let you pass! By god Sir Halred needs to do a better job keeping these damnable wizards and their damnable pets in line! You all do nothing but-“
The man’s rant suddenly fell silent, as Visiel reached out with one of his enormous metallic paws. Gently, but forcefully, two metal fingers touched the man’s left shoulder, and applied just enough force that he could either move aside, or fall. The man stumbled aside, and for the first time, saw the shiny, newly polished barrel of Visiel’s rifle and the shining steel of his immense warhammer, both hanging off of the great man’s back.
“I am terribly sorry,” Visiel said, keeping his metallic voice respectful, yet the noise came out with a deep, thunderous growl. “But I must see Baron Rafael Dice. He has work for me,” Visiel said simply. This human is rude... he is obviously not of Baron Dice’s chain of command. He does not need to know why I see the Baron.
“I...you...” the man sputtered in surprise.
“Can you tell me where he may be found?” Visiel rumbled.
“Um... take a left at the street ahead... he’s... um... just... down there...” the man sputtered, as he backed further and further away, eyes wide in terror. Visiel watched him for a moment with some satisfaction, before returning to the task at hand. Humans always run from me. Oh well.
Visiel followed the well-dressed man’s directions, and quickly found himself facing a large mansion faced with pink. Visiel easily identified the stucco, and part of his mind calculated how easily the material would burn. His eyes then laid on the pink marble gracing the immense columns straddling the entrance to the building.
Why do humans obsess over rocks like that? he wanted to ask. He remembered seeing a dockworker get shouted down for dropping a piece of marble. It is only a rock! Why do they assign it so much value?
His eyes then traveled down further, and with a groan, he saw two smaller creatures staring up at him.
More humans. These do not looked dressed to be high-ranking, yet they wait before the Baron’s door too. Slowly Visiel shuffled just behind them, then set his feet into a waiting pose. I need to be polite. I shall wait behind these privates.
He permitted himself, however, to examine the two. The first looked something like a human, except her face was furry, looking something like a bat. Shiny trinkets hung from all parts of her body, making an obnoxious noise and dazzling shimmer of light. Her mouth was open plainly, and Visiel frowned when he wasn’t able to immediately place what species she belonged to. The second was clearly a human, clad in a breastplate, a blunderbuss on his back, a wicked spiked chain on his waist. For a minute Visiel was confused, till he saw the steel symbol hanging from the man’s neck, and the warforged permitted himself a metallic smile.
“Hello, Priest of Heraclius,” Visiel rumbled. I remember priests like you. They fought in the Navy, and always fought hard and well. You surely have seen one of my kind before!
“Hello, um... sir.”
Visiel turned, surprised at the melodic voice. While the Heraclius priest still merely stared, the smaller creature looked up at him. Her eyes were bright, and Visiel saw more curiosity than fear beaming from their brown depths. She then delivered a slow bow.
She bows to me? Hmm... I cannot be her superior... For a moment he was confused, till he remembered that humans sometimes bowed to each other as a sign of respect. The thin smile on his face grew wider. She greets me instead of running away! Awkwardly, he lowered himself as well, finishing a deep bow.
“My name is Viktalia Starwynd,” the woman said, before nodding to her still speechless companion. “And this is Siran Rapp. Soon he will be able to speak. I assure you, he means no insult to you, he is merely surprised,” she quickly added, and Visiel could see nervousness in her eyes.
These people need work too, and will likely be crewmates. They should not be nervous around me. That is not good for efficiency, or unit cohesion under fire, Visiel thought. I need to rectify this.
“Many people have not seen a warforged like me. I am used to surprise, or even disgust. You both please me with a mere greeting,” he said simply.
“Are...um...” Visiel watched the man’s eyes wander cautiously over his metallic hulk, “you applying to join the Baron’s crew also?”
“Yes,” Visiel said. I don’t know their place within the chain of command. If they are above me, I will tell them my skills. If not, I will tell them if commanded.
“What...um... do you do, Visiel?” the woman asked. As she spoke, Visiel smiled again.
“You are Formorteran,” he said simply, pleased to finally remember all the information he knew about the race. “Your people are friends with both elves and humans. Your people only rarely leave your home island, which means you are likely an adventurer.” Change the subject, until you know where they are in your command chain.
“Um...yes... that’s right,” Viktalia said, her voice awkward again.
“I have only seen three of your people before. All were hard workers and good comrades. I hope that you will be the same...”
He didn’t finish his sentence, because his ears caught yet another gasp. He would have dismissed it for a passing nanny towing a child or a woman on a nightly stroll, except his ears told him it came from the house. He swung his huge head towards the gate, and saw an immaculately dressed footman, shivering away, his eyes locked on Visiel’s large form.
Ah. Someone under the Baron’s command. I should introduce myself.
“Hello. I am Visiel, and I seek employment with your commander’s expedition,” the warforged said simply, lumbering towards the gate.
Thank you.And as for the Formorterans, I'd given the players the option of picking Eberron races (obviously, with a warforged running around), and Viktalia's player didn't like any of the choices really, so she made up her own race and we jointly balanced things out. She really wanted to be a foxbat-type-thingie (I've put them in the homebrew, doesn't mean I fully understand them. Perhaps drag n fly would like to explain further?
), and after the effort she put into it, I saw no reason to say no.To further explain what they look like, dragnfly drew this picture.
Anyways, I got into a writing mood, so the second update this week got moved up. And don't worry about the other thread, drag n fly might be helping me some with the load there, so regardless there will be updates there as well
"The Baron’s Manor
Good god, these people live high and mighty.
Siran suppressed an urge to whistle at the immense manors he now passed as he traversed the wealthiest quarter of the city of Erelion. On both sides of him sat immense manor houses, their walls buttressing each other, marble columns adorning their sides and giltwork adorning their gates. Small children clad in rags no longer ran beside him, pestering him for stories of war. The few children he saw were well dressed in silks, their hands firmly in the clasp of a similarly well dressed nanny. Siran grinned and nodded towards the prettier nannies, using the motion to let himself ogle a bit.
I love the newer fashions. Cleavage is always good, a grinned at one particular example. She rather coolly nodded in return, before continuing along with her charge,
ignoring Siran’s stare.
Eh, she’ll come around, he mused, turning back to his cobblestone lined path. Venerating the Saint of War meant Siran knew his life could be shortened at any moment by an unlucky bullet, or simply bad luck. One had to always take advantage of opportunities that might arise...
A fine woman, a fine bottle of wine, and some good company... once I make my fortune privateering, that’s what I’ll have, he sung to himself quietly. Soon, he rounded another corner, and stopped.
That must be it, he thought, I don’t see any other houses with pink fronts.
When he’d asked around, everyone that knew said that Baron Dice’s house was quite distinctive... its sides painted in rich pastels, the columns by its entrance made from
expensive Kubalian pink marble. Along the eaves ran various designs finished in giltwork. If that wasn’t enough of an indication, the wrought iron gate to the estate had an enormous “D” hanging from each door.
However, Siran’s eyes quickly caught something else.
Well, hello there, he thought as he saw the thin but attractive shape of a female at the gate, looking towards the inside of the estate. Her clothes were cut perfectly to
fit, a long black cloak clinging close to her back, her hair hung long and black in back, and immediately his mind went places imaging what the face on this dark beauty must look like. As she stood there, the wind blew gently through her hair, and unseen jewelry tinkled. When serving in the armed forces, you never know if you’re going to come back. Well, Siran old boy, let’s just give this one a shot...
“Why hello there,” he put on his darkest, most mysterious voice. Good one, Siran! That was commanding and manly, yet sultry and suave at the same time! You’ve got the skills! he mentally patted himself on the back.
The woman turned slowly, her head tilted as an impish grin crossed her face. “Hello to yourself,” Her soft musical voice quivered down his spine like the notes of a windchime. “Are you here to join the Baron’s crew as well?”
For his part, Siran tried to keep his jaw closed, his mental dream smashed. The woman’s body, true enough, was more than he had imagined, but it was clearly apparent that she was going to break a singular rule he’d set for himself.
Only humans.
Dammit! he kicked himself. Damn Formorterans, looking so human from behind!
“My name’s Viktalia, Viktalia Starwynd.” She struck a pose, arms raised gracefully and provocatively, the webs of her Formorteran wings extending from her arms. Rings and bells, braided into her hair, hanging from her ears, and even gracing the edges of her wings, chimed as she did so. “Dancer extraordinaire!” Her golden eyes twinkled and her muzzle twitched slightly. At his lack of a response, she lowered her arms, and cocked an eyebrow above her fox-like face. “And you are...” she prompted, gesturing for him to speak.
“Um.” Siran quickly caught himself, and pulled free from the kicking of his ‘human/non-human snese,’ “I’m Siran Rapp... Lord Siran Rapp I suppose, though I don’t go around trumpeting it... second son of a noble and all.”
“For a churchman, your attire speaks more to fighting than praying,” the young Formorteran observed rather wryly.
“For a Formorteran, you seem to know humans pretty well,” Siran observed with an equal amount of wryness in his voice. Formorterans were not native to the Empire, and
instead lived in a small series of islands off-shore, halfway between the Imperial lands and the dread lands of the elves. They were a rare sight in either realm, and the few that Siran had met had a bad tendency to get human and elven customs confused... a very unfortunate occurrence when thousands of years of bad blood existed between humans and elves.
“I should,” she replied. “When I came here eight months ago, I thought the big city of Erelion would be the end-all of all adventures, a lovely spot where I could always find
new things to see and do. I guess I’m too inquisitive for my own good,” she laughed softly, before looking away partially. “And the fans are starting to get annoying.”
“Fans?” Siran asked slowly, before things began to dawn in his mind. “You mean, you are the Viktalia Starwynd? The dancer?”
"Of course!” she laughed slightly. “I only just said so!”
“Um, no offence, Miss Starwynd,” Siran cleared his throat. He’d never seen any of her performances, but enough of his former comrades and friends came back ranting and raving about the young Formorteran that could enthrall huge crowds with her dancing and singing. “I... I am wondering, though, exactly why you’re booking passage on a privateer?” Maybe she doesn’t know the Baron’s expedition is a privateering enterprise?
“Ha! Booking passage?” Viktalia laughed. “Oh no! I’m applying for ship’s quartermaster!”
“Quartermaster?” Siran asked again in surprise. When she nodded, the memory of all his previous ship’s quartermasters came to mind, and he snickered slightly. He saw her eyes narrow, but the more he tried to suppress it, the more he wanted to laugh, until finally a long series of giggles broke through.
“What’s so funny?” she asked rather sharply. “A quartermaster’s job is to keep supplies in line and to watch the morale of the crew! I can learn quickly how to deal with the supplies, and I can easily keep the ship’s morale up with my performances!”
Quartermasters are supposed to be huge hulking men, ready to break apart any seaman who steps out of line! Siran laughed in his mind. This girl couldn’t even bend one of my pinkies!
“In more ways than one?” Siran’s dirty mind snapped out before he could clamp his tongue. Her pretty face blanched.
“Of course not!” she snapped back. “I do not do that! Ever!. And to be honest I'm sick of you humans assuming that provocative dancing means that a woman is fair game!” She crossed her arms, clearly upset. “Besides, what is an armor clad priest like yourself going to do on a ship, with that big chain of yours? Are you going to be the ship’s anchor?”
Siran laughed again. My she’s a feisty one. “No, of course not,” he managed to say after a bit. “I understand the Baron is looking for officers, so I’m applying for any
and all available positions. And as I’m a priest of St. Heraclius, I have far more qualifications to go privateering and blowing up ships than you, madam. No disrespect intended, of course,” he added wryly.
“Of course disrespect was intended,” she shot back. “You still haven’t answered me, really. What the heck is that chain thing wrapped about your waist, or should I be
concerned about you keeping the ship’s morale high?”
“It’s a spiked chain, my dear lady,” Siran said, mock politeness in his voice. “Your eyes should notice the spikes about the chain, giving it sharp edges with which to puncture and wound. Besides,” he added, “I don’t see you carrying any arms. Privateering is a dangerous business, and...”
He stopped dead in his tracks when she raised her arms wide, opening her wings. From her belt hung a pair of small but wickedly curved knives, a pistol, and an intricately carved baton.
"Appearences can be decieving, my dear Lord." her voice was as politely mocking as his, with perhaps a touch more as she noticed that Siran could not help taking the opportunity to let his eyes further explore her figure. After a few moments, she closed her wings and gave a graceful bow that set the chimes covering her body to tinkling again.
"Now, if you are through, perhaps we should continue our business with the Baron? I myself an anxious to settle the affair of my employment." Her voice was smooth and musical again, although her eyes still flashed with a fire that caused Siran to give a grudging smile.
It appears that I have underestimated this one. If we both do get jobs on the same vessel, the results should prove...
...interesting.
Outwardly though, he merely gave a proper return bow, and gestured towards the large guilded building.
Visiel finally rounded the last corner, feeling the fine cobblestones crack under his five hundred pound weight. He ignored the gasps of the children has he lumbered by, or the hushed shrieks from their nannies, or the muttered rumblings under the voices of finely tailored men that, “that damn wizard so-and-so needs to stop sending his golems about willy-nilly.”
“You sir!” one person shouted at Visiel, and the iron behemoth found his way suddenly blocked by a far smaller man, clad in fine purple silk with gold embroidery.
He is a high ranking human, Visiel reasoned. I should be respectful to him, but I need to get by.
“Who is your master?” the human insolently demanded, crossing his arms.
“I have no master.” Visiel admitted aloud. “I am traveling towards...”
“Come come!” the little human snapped. “Tell me who your master is, golem, or I will report you to the city authorities, and by god, your master won’t be pleased to have to bail you from the Erelion Constablury!”
I have been really polite, Visiel grumbled mentally. Now I can only be nice.
“Sir, I must get through. I need to speak to Baron...”
“Until I know the name of your master,” the proud little human shouted, “I will not let you pass! By god Sir Halred needs to do a better job keeping these damnable wizards and their damnable pets in line! You all do nothing but-“
The man’s rant suddenly fell silent, as Visiel reached out with one of his enormous metallic paws. Gently, but forcefully, two metal fingers touched the man’s left shoulder, and applied just enough force that he could either move aside, or fall. The man stumbled aside, and for the first time, saw the shiny, newly polished barrel of Visiel’s rifle and the shining steel of his immense warhammer, both hanging off of the great man’s back.
“I am terribly sorry,” Visiel said, keeping his metallic voice respectful, yet the noise came out with a deep, thunderous growl. “But I must see Baron Rafael Dice. He has work for me,” Visiel said simply. This human is rude... he is obviously not of Baron Dice’s chain of command. He does not need to know why I see the Baron.
“I...you...” the man sputtered in surprise.
“Can you tell me where he may be found?” Visiel rumbled.
“Um... take a left at the street ahead... he’s... um... just... down there...” the man sputtered, as he backed further and further away, eyes wide in terror. Visiel watched him for a moment with some satisfaction, before returning to the task at hand. Humans always run from me. Oh well.
Visiel followed the well-dressed man’s directions, and quickly found himself facing a large mansion faced with pink. Visiel easily identified the stucco, and part of his mind calculated how easily the material would burn. His eyes then laid on the pink marble gracing the immense columns straddling the entrance to the building.
Why do humans obsess over rocks like that? he wanted to ask. He remembered seeing a dockworker get shouted down for dropping a piece of marble. It is only a rock! Why do they assign it so much value?
His eyes then traveled down further, and with a groan, he saw two smaller creatures staring up at him.
More humans. These do not looked dressed to be high-ranking, yet they wait before the Baron’s door too. Slowly Visiel shuffled just behind them, then set his feet into a waiting pose. I need to be polite. I shall wait behind these privates.
He permitted himself, however, to examine the two. The first looked something like a human, except her face was furry, looking something like a bat. Shiny trinkets hung from all parts of her body, making an obnoxious noise and dazzling shimmer of light. Her mouth was open plainly, and Visiel frowned when he wasn’t able to immediately place what species she belonged to. The second was clearly a human, clad in a breastplate, a blunderbuss on his back, a wicked spiked chain on his waist. For a minute Visiel was confused, till he saw the steel symbol hanging from the man’s neck, and the warforged permitted himself a metallic smile.
“Hello, Priest of Heraclius,” Visiel rumbled. I remember priests like you. They fought in the Navy, and always fought hard and well. You surely have seen one of my kind before!
“Hello, um... sir.”
Visiel turned, surprised at the melodic voice. While the Heraclius priest still merely stared, the smaller creature looked up at him. Her eyes were bright, and Visiel saw more curiosity than fear beaming from their brown depths. She then delivered a slow bow.
She bows to me? Hmm... I cannot be her superior... For a moment he was confused, till he remembered that humans sometimes bowed to each other as a sign of respect. The thin smile on his face grew wider. She greets me instead of running away! Awkwardly, he lowered himself as well, finishing a deep bow.
“My name is Viktalia Starwynd,” the woman said, before nodding to her still speechless companion. “And this is Siran Rapp. Soon he will be able to speak. I assure you, he means no insult to you, he is merely surprised,” she quickly added, and Visiel could see nervousness in her eyes.
These people need work too, and will likely be crewmates. They should not be nervous around me. That is not good for efficiency, or unit cohesion under fire, Visiel thought. I need to rectify this.
“Many people have not seen a warforged like me. I am used to surprise, or even disgust. You both please me with a mere greeting,” he said simply.
“Are...um...” Visiel watched the man’s eyes wander cautiously over his metallic hulk, “you applying to join the Baron’s crew also?”
“Yes,” Visiel said. I don’t know their place within the chain of command. If they are above me, I will tell them my skills. If not, I will tell them if commanded.
“What...um... do you do, Visiel?” the woman asked. As she spoke, Visiel smiled again.
“You are Formorteran,” he said simply, pleased to finally remember all the information he knew about the race. “Your people are friends with both elves and humans. Your people only rarely leave your home island, which means you are likely an adventurer.” Change the subject, until you know where they are in your command chain.
“Um...yes... that’s right,” Viktalia said, her voice awkward again.
“I have only seen three of your people before. All were hard workers and good comrades. I hope that you will be the same...”
He didn’t finish his sentence, because his ears caught yet another gasp. He would have dismissed it for a passing nanny towing a child or a woman on a nightly stroll, except his ears told him it came from the house. He swung his huge head towards the gate, and saw an immaculately dressed footman, shivering away, his eyes locked on Visiel’s large form.
Ah. Someone under the Baron’s command. I should introduce myself.
“Hello. I am Visiel, and I seek employment with your commander’s expedition,” the warforged said simply, lumbering towards the gate.
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Bryon_Soulweaver
First Post
Why is everyone afraid of a warforged, they are nice people.
HalfOrc HalfBiscuit
Adventurer
Best Warforged characterisation on these boards so far, I would say. Keep up the good work.
Bryon_Soulweaver
First Post
dungeon said:
Man, you too!?
Emperor Valerian
First Post
I have yet to play Halo... and I’m afraid to, because I think I’d become addicted as well.
Meeting the Baron
“Um...” the attendant stuttered, his face as white as his powdered wig with the initial fear that Viktalia had felt only minutes earlier on seeing the huge metallic man. Part of her sympathized with him, though even after spending a few moments with Visiel, she realized the warforged was not a mere iron golem, or some dangerous behemoth.
He seemed genuinely happy that I greeted him like a person and didn’t run away or complain about him, she thought, if these ‘warforged’ have feelings, I suppose.
Despite having hung around sailors and the sea for most of her life, she had never heard of, nor seen, anything like the great metallic being standing next to her. Maybe its something only here in the Empire...
“I wish to speak with the Baron. I wish to join his command as a salvage expert,” Visiel’s metallic voice boomed. “These comrades were deployed here before me. They also wish to join his command.” Viktalia felt the yellow eyes within Visiel’s steel skull looking down at her.
“Ah!” the attendant said rather nervously. “Um... let me consult with...um...my...um... I’ll return shortly!” Quickly he dashed back towards the manor, his long, garishly colored formal coat flapping behind him. A few minutes passed, before the man returned, his face composed, his gait more assured. As he drew up to the gate, he bowed.
“I have been instructed to bring you immediately forthwith to His Eminence.” His eyes, formerly wide with fear, now flashed towards Siran with the pomposity a butler would normally possess. “Sir, please make sure your boots are clean before entering the Baron’s residence.” With a similar restored air of command, he ignored the cleric’s rather foul response.
“Please, follow me.”
Visiel mustered a gigantic metallic smile as the great metal gates of the Baron’s manor swung wide. The butler had returned, not as fearful as before.
The Baron ordered him to let us in. Which may mean the Baron is ready to accept me into his command, and begin to issue orders to me.
At last, I’ll have some tasks to complete!
The attendant lead the small group along a path surrounded by well manicured flowers and trees, then underneath the immense columns of pink marble, a door made of solid ebony and rare teakwood beckoning them to enter. The doors swung wide, revealing a large entry hall, an elegant stairway at the far end, with a huge expanse of white and black chequered marble in between.
First the woman who called herself Viktalia, then the cleric calling himself Siran stepped in following the attendant. Visiel ducked his head to squeeze through the doorway, but as his foot came to rest on the first marble tile, a huge, sickening crack echoed through the hall. Immediately, Visiel halted.
This stone cannot support my weight, and it looks to be the rare stone that humans prize. While I don’t think I’ll ever understand why this stone is much more prized than iron and steel, I should not proceed any further... I might damage his floor even more, and it is never good to have a commander angry at you...
When Visiel looked up, the butler had once again stopped in dismay, staring at the lone broken tile of marble. Gently, Visiel backed away into the doorway.
“I am sorry. It appears the rock will not support my weight, so I shall wait here to minimize further damage,” he announced. The attendant nodded, and dashed off to fetch the Baron and bring him there, before anything else was accidentally destroyed.
“Baron Rafael Dice the Third, Lord of Blackmoor Manor, the Elestrean Isles, Navigator of the Kubalian Sea!”
The attendant turned aside, and bowed deeply as a rather short man, clad in a bright yellow coat, a red undershirt and red hose emerged from a doorway above. His face was round, his jet black mustache long and finely trimmed to points that ended on each side a good six inches from his face. Unlike the attendant, the Baron wore no powdered wig, but instead a full wig of dark brown hair that hug to the middle of his back in rich, luxuriant curls. As he walked towards the stairs, Siran could hear the Baron’s diamond tipped cane rap against the stone floor, a solitary noise that implied harsh dignity.
So this is the great Rafael Dice... I do have to say, he’s shorter than I expected, but at least he carries himself... Siran started to think, until the Baron reached the stairs and began to stumble downwards. Immediately the gloved hand that held the cane reached for the bannister, letting the diamond tipped item tumble downwards. Siran the drinker immediately recognized the stumbling gait as one he himself often fell into after a night filled with far too much brandy. As if to confirm his suspicions, the Baron’s other hand, formerly behind his back, shot out sideways for balance, a golden goblet likely full of whatever alcohol had made him smashed teetering precariously in its grasp.
“Greeshings and Salushayshans!” the Baron’s voice, an otherwise deep and commanding baritone, slurred with drunken abandon. “By the Seven Perfect Notes!” he swore, slipping unexpectedly down the last two stairs and barely managing to keep himself from tumbling to the ground. After taking a full minute to recover, the Baron looked up, his eyes unfocused, staring at the party.
“Whaddaya want? Juric, whadda these peoples want again?” A gloved hand went towards the wig, and scratched it so vigorously that it slid out of place.
“They are the people seeking positions on board Lord Daod’s vessel, M’lord,” the butler said, nodding and bowing as if the Baron’s luscious state was a normal occurrence.
Baron Rafael Dice... the drunk... Siran sighed, only partly because of the state of his future boss. I should have known. If he was as good as everyone said, he wouldn’t be here in Erelion... he’d be in the capital, dining with the Imperial family and other hobsnobs.
God be praised, I certainly end up with the foulest of luck, he mentally grunted. He closed his eyes momentarily. St. Heraclius, if this is going to be a test... you sure have found a doozy for me... As the Barons waddled closer, Siran couldn’t resist, and stood slightly on his tiptoes to see what was in the cup.
Rich red hue... dammit! Formorteran brandy! Why can’t I have some?
“Ah... a quarstermaster, a...um...” the Baron slowed his speech down, annunciating every word as if his life depended on it. They were still slurred. “What...um... who did Cecil need again?”
“Lord Daod required a quartermaster, and a ship’s carpenter, M’lord,” the attendant replied. “You yourself earlier today also said you were looking for someone to head salvage operations as well, M’lord.”
“Ah!” the Baron’s face lit up like a clown’s. “Yesh... who heresh the quarstermaster?”
“Um... I will be, M’lord,” Viktalia said slowly. In his drunken state, the range of emotions the Baron went through was quite apparent, his face slowly changing from surprise, to disbelief, to finally a lecherous smirk.
“Sure ya will,” he grinned, “You’ll keep morale high,” he laughed before stumbling around to face the butler. “Go an..ah... get the paper things...” The inebriated inspection continued, as the Baron reached the massive metal behemoth, still standing dutifully in the doorway.
I think our friend didn’t like that last comment much, Siran thought, trying to suppress a smirk of his own at the Baron’s comment. Viktalia for her part squirmed a bit, but to Siran’s disappointment, she kept her mouth shut.
“Eh!” the Baron stumbled to a halt, a finger shakily pointing at Visiel’s hulking arm. “You’re shiny, you know zat?”
“By polishing my exterior, I ensure that maintenance issues can be kept at a minimum,” the warforged rumbled in reply.
“’Maintenansh ishues kept at a mini...mini...minizum,” the Baron turned with a giggle. “Bring him on! Bigsh and nashty brute like him could make a good slalvager... and really mesh up someone’s day. And... oh, yoursh a cleric.”
When the noble stopped in front of Siran, the cleric’s nose was assaulted with the sweet, taunting smell of his favorite drink, only inches from his face as the Baron swayed in front of him.
“Cleric of St. Heraclius, yes, m’lord. As well as conossieur of fine liquers,” Siran added with a smile, and the Baron smiled. Take a hint, Your Sloshness...
“Con...Con... Brandy Expert! Good! Good good good... Juric... sign this man up as...”
“Do you have experience in carpentry, sir?” the attendant asked.
“Served as Ship’s Carpenter on the frigate Vynystra two years ago, and saw service at the Battle of Gravlin,” Siran replied. It’d been the first time he’d been noticed... after a Kandoran galleon swept by and raked his ship, Siran had found himself the most senior person below decks. Rather adroitly he’d managed to not only recover, but got the gun crews working again to the point they raked the galleon in return. Normally such gallantry might have got a promotion, or even the command of his own ship, but Siran had only joined the Navy months earlier... he wasn’t even an officer.
Bah... damn Navy.
The butler nodded, not knowing the background of Siran's lone sentence, and soon Siran’s name, along with the name of the each of the other party members, was inked into a crew roster list...
Meeting the Baron
“Um...” the attendant stuttered, his face as white as his powdered wig with the initial fear that Viktalia had felt only minutes earlier on seeing the huge metallic man. Part of her sympathized with him, though even after spending a few moments with Visiel, she realized the warforged was not a mere iron golem, or some dangerous behemoth.
He seemed genuinely happy that I greeted him like a person and didn’t run away or complain about him, she thought, if these ‘warforged’ have feelings, I suppose.
Despite having hung around sailors and the sea for most of her life, she had never heard of, nor seen, anything like the great metallic being standing next to her. Maybe its something only here in the Empire...
“I wish to speak with the Baron. I wish to join his command as a salvage expert,” Visiel’s metallic voice boomed. “These comrades were deployed here before me. They also wish to join his command.” Viktalia felt the yellow eyes within Visiel’s steel skull looking down at her.
“Ah!” the attendant said rather nervously. “Um... let me consult with...um...my...um... I’ll return shortly!” Quickly he dashed back towards the manor, his long, garishly colored formal coat flapping behind him. A few minutes passed, before the man returned, his face composed, his gait more assured. As he drew up to the gate, he bowed.
“I have been instructed to bring you immediately forthwith to His Eminence.” His eyes, formerly wide with fear, now flashed towards Siran with the pomposity a butler would normally possess. “Sir, please make sure your boots are clean before entering the Baron’s residence.” With a similar restored air of command, he ignored the cleric’s rather foul response.
“Please, follow me.”
Visiel mustered a gigantic metallic smile as the great metal gates of the Baron’s manor swung wide. The butler had returned, not as fearful as before.
The Baron ordered him to let us in. Which may mean the Baron is ready to accept me into his command, and begin to issue orders to me.
At last, I’ll have some tasks to complete!
The attendant lead the small group along a path surrounded by well manicured flowers and trees, then underneath the immense columns of pink marble, a door made of solid ebony and rare teakwood beckoning them to enter. The doors swung wide, revealing a large entry hall, an elegant stairway at the far end, with a huge expanse of white and black chequered marble in between.
First the woman who called herself Viktalia, then the cleric calling himself Siran stepped in following the attendant. Visiel ducked his head to squeeze through the doorway, but as his foot came to rest on the first marble tile, a huge, sickening crack echoed through the hall. Immediately, Visiel halted.
This stone cannot support my weight, and it looks to be the rare stone that humans prize. While I don’t think I’ll ever understand why this stone is much more prized than iron and steel, I should not proceed any further... I might damage his floor even more, and it is never good to have a commander angry at you...
When Visiel looked up, the butler had once again stopped in dismay, staring at the lone broken tile of marble. Gently, Visiel backed away into the doorway.
“I am sorry. It appears the rock will not support my weight, so I shall wait here to minimize further damage,” he announced. The attendant nodded, and dashed off to fetch the Baron and bring him there, before anything else was accidentally destroyed.
“Baron Rafael Dice the Third, Lord of Blackmoor Manor, the Elestrean Isles, Navigator of the Kubalian Sea!”
The attendant turned aside, and bowed deeply as a rather short man, clad in a bright yellow coat, a red undershirt and red hose emerged from a doorway above. His face was round, his jet black mustache long and finely trimmed to points that ended on each side a good six inches from his face. Unlike the attendant, the Baron wore no powdered wig, but instead a full wig of dark brown hair that hug to the middle of his back in rich, luxuriant curls. As he walked towards the stairs, Siran could hear the Baron’s diamond tipped cane rap against the stone floor, a solitary noise that implied harsh dignity.
So this is the great Rafael Dice... I do have to say, he’s shorter than I expected, but at least he carries himself... Siran started to think, until the Baron reached the stairs and began to stumble downwards. Immediately the gloved hand that held the cane reached for the bannister, letting the diamond tipped item tumble downwards. Siran the drinker immediately recognized the stumbling gait as one he himself often fell into after a night filled with far too much brandy. As if to confirm his suspicions, the Baron’s other hand, formerly behind his back, shot out sideways for balance, a golden goblet likely full of whatever alcohol had made him smashed teetering precariously in its grasp.
“Greeshings and Salushayshans!” the Baron’s voice, an otherwise deep and commanding baritone, slurred with drunken abandon. “By the Seven Perfect Notes!” he swore, slipping unexpectedly down the last two stairs and barely managing to keep himself from tumbling to the ground. After taking a full minute to recover, the Baron looked up, his eyes unfocused, staring at the party.
“Whaddaya want? Juric, whadda these peoples want again?” A gloved hand went towards the wig, and scratched it so vigorously that it slid out of place.
“They are the people seeking positions on board Lord Daod’s vessel, M’lord,” the butler said, nodding and bowing as if the Baron’s luscious state was a normal occurrence.
Baron Rafael Dice... the drunk... Siran sighed, only partly because of the state of his future boss. I should have known. If he was as good as everyone said, he wouldn’t be here in Erelion... he’d be in the capital, dining with the Imperial family and other hobsnobs.
God be praised, I certainly end up with the foulest of luck, he mentally grunted. He closed his eyes momentarily. St. Heraclius, if this is going to be a test... you sure have found a doozy for me... As the Barons waddled closer, Siran couldn’t resist, and stood slightly on his tiptoes to see what was in the cup.
Rich red hue... dammit! Formorteran brandy! Why can’t I have some?
“Ah... a quarstermaster, a...um...” the Baron slowed his speech down, annunciating every word as if his life depended on it. They were still slurred. “What...um... who did Cecil need again?”
“Lord Daod required a quartermaster, and a ship’s carpenter, M’lord,” the attendant replied. “You yourself earlier today also said you were looking for someone to head salvage operations as well, M’lord.”
“Ah!” the Baron’s face lit up like a clown’s. “Yesh... who heresh the quarstermaster?”
“Um... I will be, M’lord,” Viktalia said slowly. In his drunken state, the range of emotions the Baron went through was quite apparent, his face slowly changing from surprise, to disbelief, to finally a lecherous smirk.
“Sure ya will,” he grinned, “You’ll keep morale high,” he laughed before stumbling around to face the butler. “Go an..ah... get the paper things...” The inebriated inspection continued, as the Baron reached the massive metal behemoth, still standing dutifully in the doorway.
I think our friend didn’t like that last comment much, Siran thought, trying to suppress a smirk of his own at the Baron’s comment. Viktalia for her part squirmed a bit, but to Siran’s disappointment, she kept her mouth shut.
“Eh!” the Baron stumbled to a halt, a finger shakily pointing at Visiel’s hulking arm. “You’re shiny, you know zat?”
“By polishing my exterior, I ensure that maintenance issues can be kept at a minimum,” the warforged rumbled in reply.
“’Maintenansh ishues kept at a mini...mini...minizum,” the Baron turned with a giggle. “Bring him on! Bigsh and nashty brute like him could make a good slalvager... and really mesh up someone’s day. And... oh, yoursh a cleric.”
When the noble stopped in front of Siran, the cleric’s nose was assaulted with the sweet, taunting smell of his favorite drink, only inches from his face as the Baron swayed in front of him.
“Cleric of St. Heraclius, yes, m’lord. As well as conossieur of fine liquers,” Siran added with a smile, and the Baron smiled. Take a hint, Your Sloshness...
“Con...Con... Brandy Expert! Good! Good good good... Juric... sign this man up as...”
“Do you have experience in carpentry, sir?” the attendant asked.
“Served as Ship’s Carpenter on the frigate Vynystra two years ago, and saw service at the Battle of Gravlin,” Siran replied. It’d been the first time he’d been noticed... after a Kandoran galleon swept by and raked his ship, Siran had found himself the most senior person below decks. Rather adroitly he’d managed to not only recover, but got the gun crews working again to the point they raked the galleon in return. Normally such gallantry might have got a promotion, or even the command of his own ship, but Siran had only joined the Navy months earlier... he wasn’t even an officer.
Bah... damn Navy.
The butler nodded, not knowing the background of Siran's lone sentence, and soon Siran’s name, along with the name of the each of the other party members, was inked into a crew roster list...
Emperor Valerian
First Post
Next update will be coming later tonight, hopefully.
Emperor Valerian
First Post
Captain, My Captain
A few moments of chit-chat passed by, before the Baron rather lavishly waved to the butler.
“Go and fetch... Cecil, hmmkay?” the Baron said, his brandy sloshing about in his goblet.
“Of course M’lord,” the butler said in a slightly annoyed tone of voice, before turning about and leaving the hall at a quick, precise clip.
For his part, Visiel wanted to sigh. It appears that my commander has consumed too much drink. I sincerely hope he does not plan to lead us into the field this way. Visiel couldn’t get drunk himself, but he’d seen many human comrades engage in the activity. I will never understand why most peoples... humans, orcs, elves even, all like to drink controlled amounts of poisons. They lose speech abilities, logical functions...
...a horrible state to be in during training, let alone on the battlefield. With a metallic huff, Visiel gave a slight shrug to himself as the butler reappeared, holding the door open for someone else. At least my commander’s second in command is in control of himself, as are my comrades.
When the butler bowed at the unknown figure, Visiel immediately realized that the newcomer was a higher rank, which meant only two things. Either the newcomer was the Baron’s second in command, or the Baron’s superior. Yet the Baron asked the dark officer to go fetch this person... hence this person responds to the Baron, and therefore must be his second in command. Immediately within the hierarchy being constructed in Visiel’s brain, the butler’s position shifted downward.
The newcomer also sported a large, luxuriant wig, as well as a pencil mustache and a very thin, very fine beard on his chin. He was clad in bright red and yellow silk, another sign in Visiel’s mind that he was high ranking. Finally, he carried himself with his back upright, his steps proper and precise... and Visiel frowned.
He has not seen combat.
Visiel had seen this many times before. Young, brand new officers came into his command with their backs straight, their clothes perfect, their minds arrogant. Soon, the training that was war broke their pride, made their wigs vanish, and made their smooth hands grow calluses.
“May I introdushe...” the Baron slurred as he struggled to gesture to the newcomer without stumbling, “Lord Celia Daod... son of ta Earl of Bladcore!”
“Lord Cecil Daod, son of the Earl of Edgewood,” Visiel heard the butler correct the Baron, “He commands your second ship, the pinnace Black Joke.” At the Baron’s look of confusion, the butler quietly prompted further. “The ship where these fine people will be assigned?”
“Ah, yesh, of courz!” the Baron laughed and slurred again, clapping the butler on the back.
Visiel’s mind dealt with two major thoughts from these words. In one, Visiel’s opinion of his commander decreased even more. He lets himself be this way in front of his juniors, and his juniors must correct him.
Ah well. He is a commander, a commander that will pay me metallic pieces.
The second thought was related to the ship. Black Joke. What is its displacement? How many crew? How many guns? What is her fastest speed? What point of sail does she reach that speed? Endless questions in his mind that he wanted to have answered. He knew better than to ask them all at once however. Humans tended to get annoyed at questions.
The young noble immediately extended his hand to the young cleric called Siran, and then stopped and paused before Viktalia.
“Well hello,” the young man crooned, bowing to kiss Viktalia’s hand. While she thanked him for the gesture, Visiel noticed the young man’s eyes were staring at a spot that was quite a bit below her face.
He is young. He looks for a mate, Visiel waved aside the young man’s attention to his comrade. If he is a second in command, he must look to his unit first. Looking for a mate can be done off-duty.
“My name is Viktalia?” the Formorteran said awkwardly almost a minute later, as the young man kept staring. Her voice made the young man snap his head upward, his face bright red.
“Cecil Doad,” he said quickly, his eyes drifting back down.
He is distressing her. Visiel noticed, as Viktalia uncomfortably looked at the openly gawking Cecil. It is never good when a comrade is distressed. They lose focus, something that is dangerous on the battlefield.
I should introduce myself.
“Sir,” Visiel said in a deep metallic voice, the room shaking slightly as his brought his metal frame to perfect attention. “Visiel, at your service, sir. I am skilled in salvage work, rifle shot, and with a warhammer. I am at your service, sir.” Visiel’s heart leapt slightly, as he heard those words echo off of the metallic walls. Those words meant he was part of a command. Part of something he knew, he understood, a place he knew he would be useful.
Visiel wasn’t surprised at the young man’s look of fear, then confusion at seeing his immense form. Humans were unnecessarily scared of him. That was part of being a warforged. I hope the second in command puts me to good use.
“Um... Lord Dice?” Cecil asked rather plaintively.
“Your salvager chief, sir,” the butler replied quietly. At Cecil’s blank look, the butler added, “the person that will be looking for sunken items after you sink enemy vessels.”
This does not bode well. The officer in black had to remind the second in command of my position. Visiel allowed himself another metallic sigh. I hope he won’t forget any more.
“Ah...um... yes, well um, hello,” the young noble gingerly extended a hand, one that Visiel carefully took and gently shook. Once again, experience had taught him humans did not appreciate firm, strong handshakes from him.
“Welcome to...um... my crew. I...um... with your Lord’s permission,” Cecil gave a nod to the Baron, who tried to nod in return but instead stumbled forward almost into Viktalia, “will...um... take these people to my ship.”
“Ah! Look over there!” his clipped voice rang out yet again an hour or so later as his finger stabbed towards the forest of masts and spars that marked the city harbor. “Our ship is over there, amongst the tall poles, though,” he added thoughtfully, “our ship’s pole is smaller than the others... probably because we’re smaller than the other ships.”
Masts... they’re called masts! Viktalia wanted to complain as Cecil continued to yammer on, yet through some amazing piece of patience, she managed to keep her mouth shut... somehow. An hour with their young captain had revealed three truths to her: first, that whenever he got the chance, he oggled her chest, second, Lord Cecil Daod knew nothing of sailing, and third, he didn’t know when to stop talking.
After a few minutes of getting used to Visiel, he’d blabbered on about his life. The firstborn son of the Earl of Edgewood, Cecil was set on having a military career. He bragged that he’d graduated first in his class from the Imperial Naval Academy, a fact Viktalia guessed was a patent lie meant to impress her. He’d also claimed that important missions had kept him from behind assigned a ship until now.
Chances are your father twisted the Baron’s arm into letting you join... or your father and the Baron are good friends, or some other form of chummery, she thought. There is no way a school for warship commanders would let someone as incompetent as you through!
A sideways glance towards Visiel revealed that the metallic behemoth, now some kind of noncommissioned officer, had kept an impassive face, save for a very slight grin that she didn’t fully understand. A glance in the other direction revealed Siran was the opposite... his prospective captain’s mistakes were plainly grating him, and by his winces and grunts, Viktalia guessed it would be only a matter of time before, commission or not, he’d snap at the young nobleman.
“Is there anyone babysitting you?” the cleric growled after a moment, before Viktalia could plant an elbow into his ribs.
“Hm?” the young nobleman stopped, and twirled one of his immaculate mustachios.
“My friend asked if you have any other officers under your command, sir,” Viktalia said, forcing her sweetest smile to the front. As she expected, Cecil began to stare slightly, and the potential crisis in command, if insulting the Captain could be called such, had been easily averted.
“Um...” Cecil muttered for a moment, before realizing that Viktalia knew he was staring. “Yes! Yes, of course! Why, there’s Lieutenant Kaled, of course, my first mate, and then there’s Midshipman Felgar, the ship’s guide...”
Navigator, Viktalia thought to herself, fighting not to wince again.
“Kaled’s been very helpful. He was a ordinary sailor for the longest time, before he finally became an officer,” Cecil said, before turning around and resuming his march. “Too bad he’ll never make it above Lieutenant probably... too old, too cantankerous too,” he added, a slight tinge of resentment in his voice.
Probably more competent than you, I imagine... hence the sour look, Viktalia growled in her mind. Set you straight a few times, hopefully.
“What are the dimensions and crew capacities of the vessel?” Visiel finally asked.
“Um... its a rather small ship, though I suppose its only my first command. Maybe 20 or 30 crew... maybe 40...” Cecil’s voice trailed off into thought.
“Might be best to ask the ship’s real master,” Viktalia heard Siran hiss.
“Ask Lt. Kaled once we get on board. He deals with all the unimportant numbers stuff,” Cecil said simultaneously, waving his hand about in disdain. As the forest of masts crew closer, Cecil suddenly stopped, his brow furrowed in hard thought.
Oh great... did his mommy forget to change his diaper? Viktalia wanted to grumble.
“Now... which way was it to the ship?” Cecil said quietly, before adding a light curse. “Damnation, they should just hang huge signs on them so it’ll be easier to find. Bah!”
One Hour Later...
“Is it me, or is the captain an idiot?” Siran hissed viciously as soon as Cecil had vanished. Normally, he would’ve taken up anyone’s offer to go to a brothel, but the cleric was far, far too annoyed, and couldn’t wait till Cecil emerged from the captain’s cabin, and left the boat. Damn incompetent... I could even make a better captain than him!
Maybe we should just sail out of port without him, save us some hassle...
It had taken them another half hour to find the ship, after which Cecil had introduced them all to the ship’s crew. From the start, it was obvious the crew did not like their commander, and that their commander was oblivious to their disdain. Visiel had immediately busied himself helping to load the ship, but with his immense strength, the job took only a few minutes. He’d wandered off somewhere, Siran wasn’t sure where exactly.
Maybe he followed Viktalia’s suggestion to help load the Baron’s ship...
In front of the cleric, his conversation partner laughed. The man was short and stoutly shaped, his body heavy, but with muscle. A ragged, grizzly beard came from his chin, tattoos festooned his arms, and an eyepatch covered his left eye, where a ragged scar slashed across his face. Despite his rather fearsome look, in the half hour since they had begun talking, it was apparent that Lieutenant Kaled loved to laugh, despite the sparseness of his teeth.
What had also become immediately apparent was that Lieutenant Podris Kaled commanded the respect of the entire crew. When Cecil had boarded the ship, the crew hand’t come to attention until Kaled barked the order. It was Kaled supervising the loading of supplies, it was Kaled making sure the decks were cleared and being prepared for sail. It was Kaled who told them the state of the ship, showed them their bunks, and introduced them to the crew.
If he ever got it into his mind to kick Cecil overboard... Siran had realized immediately.
“By Tesseron’s Golden Harp, that’s true!” Kaled slapped Siran on the back, as several nearby sailors guffawed. “He’s a good thing to have... or, as I should say, his purse is!”
“Money can’t buy seamanship,” Siran countered, causing another round of laughs.
“True that is, young one. But for now,” Kaled said simply, “we must live with his presence, at least until the great Baron finds something else to do with this lively young prodigy of a commander!”
“Bah,” Siran said simply, before looking around again. Underneath his feet, the crimson deck rocked slightly in the meager waves inside Erelion’s great harbor. Even though he stood in the middle of the ship, by her mainmast, he could only walk around 25 feet in each direction before he would meet the bow and stern respectively. Above, pennants lazily flew from the ship’s two small masts, and to each side sat four cannons, their squat iron forms securely stowed for now. The sight of them made Siran smile.
Viktalia thought those cannons were so huge, he laughed, remembering his friend’s expression at seeing the 9 pounders. Between chuckles, Siran had to explain to her that these were some of the smallest cannon mounted on ships. Demi-culverins, they called them. When he mentioned that some of the big warships have cannons that fire balls five times that weight, he thought her eyes would pop out of her head.
“He seems eager... at least,” Viktalia said sadly, as she came up from below deck. Fortunately, she didn’t know what Siran was grinning about. His grin faded when he saw the look on her face, a look that seemed to resemble the face of someone who’d just been told their favorite puppy had been killed.
“What’s so bad that it makes you look like St. Siabrey just told you you’re going to die?” he asked rather immoderately. The followers of St. Heraclius had little time for other saints aside from their own.
“There’s no fruit below!” Viktalia almost plaintively whined. As if on cue, she thumped her head against the deck in theatrical anguish. “None! No apples, no pears, no oranges, not even dried fruit! They have nothing to eat below except some rancid beef, some grain for bread, and cheap ale!”
What was that?
“Cheap ale?” Siran asked, his mood changing to very concerned. “How cheap?” he asked, his eyebrow raising.
“Its like drinking water from a latrine!” Viktalia complained, raising her head. “Except its like someone also dumped some dead rats into the vat, to make it extra smelly!” She laid her head down on the deck again. “More importantly, I need fruit! I’m Formorteran!”
“You need fruit?” Siran asked, before suddenly shaking his head. “Forget the damn fruit! We’ve got an ale crisis here!”
“Aye... that’s one thing he won’t open his purse for,” Kaled said, his own voice grumpy. “He paid for this ship to be repainted... crimsons decks, no less! Paid for all the repairs I recommended... new spars, a new bowsprit, even rechristened this boat Black Joke. The joke’s on us though... he refuses to pay for any good drink, or food!” Kaled spat onto the deck. “That’s despite us telling him that fruit keeps scurvy away!”
Oh no... not on board this boat! Siran groaned. I had to put up with piss poor ale for months on land, and I’m not about to do that while I’m stuck on this raft at sea!
“Hell no!” Siran grunted. Mutinies start over things like this! “He is the son of the Earl of Blackpool, he has all this money, yet he refuses to buy decent food and drink?”
Siran put special emphasis on the word ‘drink.’
Kaled nodded, and Siran gave another curse, this one complaining about the nobility and various body parts from St. Valerian and St. Elagas. He morosely scuffed his foot back and forth on the deck, until he noticed something...
...actually someone.
Viktalia was still partially out of the ship’s hold, her own head on the deck in distress over the lack of fruit. At the angle, Siran had a perfect view of certain parts of her anatomy... and immediately, his mind jumped back to Cecil’s huge eyes some hours ago when he’d first met the Formorteran dancer. Two and two came together... well, more like one and one...
And a brilliant idea is born! Siran thought, his glower changing to a smile.
“My my, your face changed a bit there,” Kaled said, after a moment, the shorter man coming up right alongside Siran. His eyebrow raised, looking at Siran, before following the cleric’s gaze, and almost immediately, he gave a grunt. “Huh. That might work.”
“What?” Viktalia said quietly, looking up from her own pouting.
“I think we just found our twin saviors,” Siran grinned, before telling Viktalia the plan.
“That was easy,” Viktalia laughed about an hour later, crossing her arms as the sailors of the Black Joke loaded box after box of dried fruit, and barrel after barrel of fine Formorteran brandy. Five tons worth of dried fruit, as well as two tons of brandy.
“That’d better be a hell of a performance,” Kaled said in awe. “I’ve never seen him open his purse so quickly on a request.”
“You’d better ‘raise his morale,’” Siran chuckled as Viktalia turned to him with narrowed, blazing eyes.
“Shutup.” Why can’t he get the idea in his head that I don’t strip, or do whatever debauched things his foul mind thinks of?! Her scowled darkened momentarily, before she decided Siran’s dark idiocy wasn’t worth her time.
She then turned to Kaled, her expression changing to one of smiling triumph. “Well, it will be a good performance, but,” she said, her smile growing larger, “I just neglected to inform him that I have a policy of no private dances. So yes, he’ll see a dance... it’s just he’ll have to watch with the other twenty crew members.”
“So then you’re going to raise all their...” Siran started.
Viktalia hissed, and only gave the cleric a scowl, to which Siran merely laughed.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be a great help in keeping the crew occupied during their free time,” Kaled said, giving only a grin towards Siran’s joke. “Heaven’s know, some of these sailors, if they have nothing to do, see, or talk about, they get quite bored...”
“An idle hand sows trouble,” Viktalia smiled, quoting another human saint, St. Valerian the Ruler. “As the ship’s quartermaster, I’ll do my best,” she gave a flourishing bow, before turning to Siran and giving him a scowl far more playful than the previous one. “As for the Ship’s Carpenter...”
“Hey! Not my fault the ship is in good repair right now,” Siran raised his hands. “Just you wait until there’s a storm, and you need to repair a spar. Then, all the morale raising in the world won’t help!”
Viktalia slugged him in the shoulder. Hard.
"We sail tomorrow," Kaled said with a laugh. "So it'd be best to beat him up on-shore, where he can get access to the masive healing of the abbots he'll need!"
A few moments of chit-chat passed by, before the Baron rather lavishly waved to the butler.
“Go and fetch... Cecil, hmmkay?” the Baron said, his brandy sloshing about in his goblet.
“Of course M’lord,” the butler said in a slightly annoyed tone of voice, before turning about and leaving the hall at a quick, precise clip.
For his part, Visiel wanted to sigh. It appears that my commander has consumed too much drink. I sincerely hope he does not plan to lead us into the field this way. Visiel couldn’t get drunk himself, but he’d seen many human comrades engage in the activity. I will never understand why most peoples... humans, orcs, elves even, all like to drink controlled amounts of poisons. They lose speech abilities, logical functions...
...a horrible state to be in during training, let alone on the battlefield. With a metallic huff, Visiel gave a slight shrug to himself as the butler reappeared, holding the door open for someone else. At least my commander’s second in command is in control of himself, as are my comrades.
When the butler bowed at the unknown figure, Visiel immediately realized that the newcomer was a higher rank, which meant only two things. Either the newcomer was the Baron’s second in command, or the Baron’s superior. Yet the Baron asked the dark officer to go fetch this person... hence this person responds to the Baron, and therefore must be his second in command. Immediately within the hierarchy being constructed in Visiel’s brain, the butler’s position shifted downward.
The newcomer also sported a large, luxuriant wig, as well as a pencil mustache and a very thin, very fine beard on his chin. He was clad in bright red and yellow silk, another sign in Visiel’s mind that he was high ranking. Finally, he carried himself with his back upright, his steps proper and precise... and Visiel frowned.
He has not seen combat.
Visiel had seen this many times before. Young, brand new officers came into his command with their backs straight, their clothes perfect, their minds arrogant. Soon, the training that was war broke their pride, made their wigs vanish, and made their smooth hands grow calluses.
“May I introdushe...” the Baron slurred as he struggled to gesture to the newcomer without stumbling, “Lord Celia Daod... son of ta Earl of Bladcore!”
“Lord Cecil Daod, son of the Earl of Edgewood,” Visiel heard the butler correct the Baron, “He commands your second ship, the pinnace Black Joke.” At the Baron’s look of confusion, the butler quietly prompted further. “The ship where these fine people will be assigned?”
“Ah, yesh, of courz!” the Baron laughed and slurred again, clapping the butler on the back.
Visiel’s mind dealt with two major thoughts from these words. In one, Visiel’s opinion of his commander decreased even more. He lets himself be this way in front of his juniors, and his juniors must correct him.
Ah well. He is a commander, a commander that will pay me metallic pieces.
The second thought was related to the ship. Black Joke. What is its displacement? How many crew? How many guns? What is her fastest speed? What point of sail does she reach that speed? Endless questions in his mind that he wanted to have answered. He knew better than to ask them all at once however. Humans tended to get annoyed at questions.
The young noble immediately extended his hand to the young cleric called Siran, and then stopped and paused before Viktalia.
“Well hello,” the young man crooned, bowing to kiss Viktalia’s hand. While she thanked him for the gesture, Visiel noticed the young man’s eyes were staring at a spot that was quite a bit below her face.
He is young. He looks for a mate, Visiel waved aside the young man’s attention to his comrade. If he is a second in command, he must look to his unit first. Looking for a mate can be done off-duty.
“My name is Viktalia?” the Formorteran said awkwardly almost a minute later, as the young man kept staring. Her voice made the young man snap his head upward, his face bright red.
“Cecil Doad,” he said quickly, his eyes drifting back down.
He is distressing her. Visiel noticed, as Viktalia uncomfortably looked at the openly gawking Cecil. It is never good when a comrade is distressed. They lose focus, something that is dangerous on the battlefield.
I should introduce myself.
“Sir,” Visiel said in a deep metallic voice, the room shaking slightly as his brought his metal frame to perfect attention. “Visiel, at your service, sir. I am skilled in salvage work, rifle shot, and with a warhammer. I am at your service, sir.” Visiel’s heart leapt slightly, as he heard those words echo off of the metallic walls. Those words meant he was part of a command. Part of something he knew, he understood, a place he knew he would be useful.
Visiel wasn’t surprised at the young man’s look of fear, then confusion at seeing his immense form. Humans were unnecessarily scared of him. That was part of being a warforged. I hope the second in command puts me to good use.
“Um... Lord Dice?” Cecil asked rather plaintively.
“Your salvager chief, sir,” the butler replied quietly. At Cecil’s blank look, the butler added, “the person that will be looking for sunken items after you sink enemy vessels.”
This does not bode well. The officer in black had to remind the second in command of my position. Visiel allowed himself another metallic sigh. I hope he won’t forget any more.
“Ah...um... yes, well um, hello,” the young noble gingerly extended a hand, one that Visiel carefully took and gently shook. Once again, experience had taught him humans did not appreciate firm, strong handshakes from him.
“Welcome to...um... my crew. I...um... with your Lord’s permission,” Cecil gave a nod to the Baron, who tried to nod in return but instead stumbled forward almost into Viktalia, “will...um... take these people to my ship.”
“Ah! Look over there!” his clipped voice rang out yet again an hour or so later as his finger stabbed towards the forest of masts and spars that marked the city harbor. “Our ship is over there, amongst the tall poles, though,” he added thoughtfully, “our ship’s pole is smaller than the others... probably because we’re smaller than the other ships.”
Masts... they’re called masts! Viktalia wanted to complain as Cecil continued to yammer on, yet through some amazing piece of patience, she managed to keep her mouth shut... somehow. An hour with their young captain had revealed three truths to her: first, that whenever he got the chance, he oggled her chest, second, Lord Cecil Daod knew nothing of sailing, and third, he didn’t know when to stop talking.
After a few minutes of getting used to Visiel, he’d blabbered on about his life. The firstborn son of the Earl of Edgewood, Cecil was set on having a military career. He bragged that he’d graduated first in his class from the Imperial Naval Academy, a fact Viktalia guessed was a patent lie meant to impress her. He’d also claimed that important missions had kept him from behind assigned a ship until now.
Chances are your father twisted the Baron’s arm into letting you join... or your father and the Baron are good friends, or some other form of chummery, she thought. There is no way a school for warship commanders would let someone as incompetent as you through!
A sideways glance towards Visiel revealed that the metallic behemoth, now some kind of noncommissioned officer, had kept an impassive face, save for a very slight grin that she didn’t fully understand. A glance in the other direction revealed Siran was the opposite... his prospective captain’s mistakes were plainly grating him, and by his winces and grunts, Viktalia guessed it would be only a matter of time before, commission or not, he’d snap at the young nobleman.
“Is there anyone babysitting you?” the cleric growled after a moment, before Viktalia could plant an elbow into his ribs.
“Hm?” the young nobleman stopped, and twirled one of his immaculate mustachios.
“My friend asked if you have any other officers under your command, sir,” Viktalia said, forcing her sweetest smile to the front. As she expected, Cecil began to stare slightly, and the potential crisis in command, if insulting the Captain could be called such, had been easily averted.
“Um...” Cecil muttered for a moment, before realizing that Viktalia knew he was staring. “Yes! Yes, of course! Why, there’s Lieutenant Kaled, of course, my first mate, and then there’s Midshipman Felgar, the ship’s guide...”
Navigator, Viktalia thought to herself, fighting not to wince again.
“Kaled’s been very helpful. He was a ordinary sailor for the longest time, before he finally became an officer,” Cecil said, before turning around and resuming his march. “Too bad he’ll never make it above Lieutenant probably... too old, too cantankerous too,” he added, a slight tinge of resentment in his voice.
Probably more competent than you, I imagine... hence the sour look, Viktalia growled in her mind. Set you straight a few times, hopefully.
“What are the dimensions and crew capacities of the vessel?” Visiel finally asked.
“Um... its a rather small ship, though I suppose its only my first command. Maybe 20 or 30 crew... maybe 40...” Cecil’s voice trailed off into thought.
“Might be best to ask the ship’s real master,” Viktalia heard Siran hiss.
“Ask Lt. Kaled once we get on board. He deals with all the unimportant numbers stuff,” Cecil said simultaneously, waving his hand about in disdain. As the forest of masts crew closer, Cecil suddenly stopped, his brow furrowed in hard thought.
Oh great... did his mommy forget to change his diaper? Viktalia wanted to grumble.
“Now... which way was it to the ship?” Cecil said quietly, before adding a light curse. “Damnation, they should just hang huge signs on them so it’ll be easier to find. Bah!”
One Hour Later...
“Is it me, or is the captain an idiot?” Siran hissed viciously as soon as Cecil had vanished. Normally, he would’ve taken up anyone’s offer to go to a brothel, but the cleric was far, far too annoyed, and couldn’t wait till Cecil emerged from the captain’s cabin, and left the boat. Damn incompetent... I could even make a better captain than him!
Maybe we should just sail out of port without him, save us some hassle...
It had taken them another half hour to find the ship, after which Cecil had introduced them all to the ship’s crew. From the start, it was obvious the crew did not like their commander, and that their commander was oblivious to their disdain. Visiel had immediately busied himself helping to load the ship, but with his immense strength, the job took only a few minutes. He’d wandered off somewhere, Siran wasn’t sure where exactly.
Maybe he followed Viktalia’s suggestion to help load the Baron’s ship...
In front of the cleric, his conversation partner laughed. The man was short and stoutly shaped, his body heavy, but with muscle. A ragged, grizzly beard came from his chin, tattoos festooned his arms, and an eyepatch covered his left eye, where a ragged scar slashed across his face. Despite his rather fearsome look, in the half hour since they had begun talking, it was apparent that Lieutenant Kaled loved to laugh, despite the sparseness of his teeth.
What had also become immediately apparent was that Lieutenant Podris Kaled commanded the respect of the entire crew. When Cecil had boarded the ship, the crew hand’t come to attention until Kaled barked the order. It was Kaled supervising the loading of supplies, it was Kaled making sure the decks were cleared and being prepared for sail. It was Kaled who told them the state of the ship, showed them their bunks, and introduced them to the crew.
If he ever got it into his mind to kick Cecil overboard... Siran had realized immediately.
“By Tesseron’s Golden Harp, that’s true!” Kaled slapped Siran on the back, as several nearby sailors guffawed. “He’s a good thing to have... or, as I should say, his purse is!”
“Money can’t buy seamanship,” Siran countered, causing another round of laughs.
“True that is, young one. But for now,” Kaled said simply, “we must live with his presence, at least until the great Baron finds something else to do with this lively young prodigy of a commander!”
“Bah,” Siran said simply, before looking around again. Underneath his feet, the crimson deck rocked slightly in the meager waves inside Erelion’s great harbor. Even though he stood in the middle of the ship, by her mainmast, he could only walk around 25 feet in each direction before he would meet the bow and stern respectively. Above, pennants lazily flew from the ship’s two small masts, and to each side sat four cannons, their squat iron forms securely stowed for now. The sight of them made Siran smile.
Viktalia thought those cannons were so huge, he laughed, remembering his friend’s expression at seeing the 9 pounders. Between chuckles, Siran had to explain to her that these were some of the smallest cannon mounted on ships. Demi-culverins, they called them. When he mentioned that some of the big warships have cannons that fire balls five times that weight, he thought her eyes would pop out of her head.
“He seems eager... at least,” Viktalia said sadly, as she came up from below deck. Fortunately, she didn’t know what Siran was grinning about. His grin faded when he saw the look on her face, a look that seemed to resemble the face of someone who’d just been told their favorite puppy had been killed.
“What’s so bad that it makes you look like St. Siabrey just told you you’re going to die?” he asked rather immoderately. The followers of St. Heraclius had little time for other saints aside from their own.
“There’s no fruit below!” Viktalia almost plaintively whined. As if on cue, she thumped her head against the deck in theatrical anguish. “None! No apples, no pears, no oranges, not even dried fruit! They have nothing to eat below except some rancid beef, some grain for bread, and cheap ale!”
What was that?
“Cheap ale?” Siran asked, his mood changing to very concerned. “How cheap?” he asked, his eyebrow raising.
“Its like drinking water from a latrine!” Viktalia complained, raising her head. “Except its like someone also dumped some dead rats into the vat, to make it extra smelly!” She laid her head down on the deck again. “More importantly, I need fruit! I’m Formorteran!”
“You need fruit?” Siran asked, before suddenly shaking his head. “Forget the damn fruit! We’ve got an ale crisis here!”
“Aye... that’s one thing he won’t open his purse for,” Kaled said, his own voice grumpy. “He paid for this ship to be repainted... crimsons decks, no less! Paid for all the repairs I recommended... new spars, a new bowsprit, even rechristened this boat Black Joke. The joke’s on us though... he refuses to pay for any good drink, or food!” Kaled spat onto the deck. “That’s despite us telling him that fruit keeps scurvy away!”
Oh no... not on board this boat! Siran groaned. I had to put up with piss poor ale for months on land, and I’m not about to do that while I’m stuck on this raft at sea!
“Hell no!” Siran grunted. Mutinies start over things like this! “He is the son of the Earl of Blackpool, he has all this money, yet he refuses to buy decent food and drink?”
Siran put special emphasis on the word ‘drink.’
Kaled nodded, and Siran gave another curse, this one complaining about the nobility and various body parts from St. Valerian and St. Elagas. He morosely scuffed his foot back and forth on the deck, until he noticed something...
...actually someone.
Viktalia was still partially out of the ship’s hold, her own head on the deck in distress over the lack of fruit. At the angle, Siran had a perfect view of certain parts of her anatomy... and immediately, his mind jumped back to Cecil’s huge eyes some hours ago when he’d first met the Formorteran dancer. Two and two came together... well, more like one and one...
And a brilliant idea is born! Siran thought, his glower changing to a smile.
“My my, your face changed a bit there,” Kaled said, after a moment, the shorter man coming up right alongside Siran. His eyebrow raised, looking at Siran, before following the cleric’s gaze, and almost immediately, he gave a grunt. “Huh. That might work.”
“What?” Viktalia said quietly, looking up from her own pouting.
“I think we just found our twin saviors,” Siran grinned, before telling Viktalia the plan.
“That was easy,” Viktalia laughed about an hour later, crossing her arms as the sailors of the Black Joke loaded box after box of dried fruit, and barrel after barrel of fine Formorteran brandy. Five tons worth of dried fruit, as well as two tons of brandy.
“That’d better be a hell of a performance,” Kaled said in awe. “I’ve never seen him open his purse so quickly on a request.”
“You’d better ‘raise his morale,’” Siran chuckled as Viktalia turned to him with narrowed, blazing eyes.
“Shutup.” Why can’t he get the idea in his head that I don’t strip, or do whatever debauched things his foul mind thinks of?! Her scowled darkened momentarily, before she decided Siran’s dark idiocy wasn’t worth her time.
She then turned to Kaled, her expression changing to one of smiling triumph. “Well, it will be a good performance, but,” she said, her smile growing larger, “I just neglected to inform him that I have a policy of no private dances. So yes, he’ll see a dance... it’s just he’ll have to watch with the other twenty crew members.”
“So then you’re going to raise all their...” Siran started.
Viktalia hissed, and only gave the cleric a scowl, to which Siran merely laughed.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be a great help in keeping the crew occupied during their free time,” Kaled said, giving only a grin towards Siran’s joke. “Heaven’s know, some of these sailors, if they have nothing to do, see, or talk about, they get quite bored...”
“An idle hand sows trouble,” Viktalia smiled, quoting another human saint, St. Valerian the Ruler. “As the ship’s quartermaster, I’ll do my best,” she gave a flourishing bow, before turning to Siran and giving him a scowl far more playful than the previous one. “As for the Ship’s Carpenter...”
“Hey! Not my fault the ship is in good repair right now,” Siran raised his hands. “Just you wait until there’s a storm, and you need to repair a spar. Then, all the morale raising in the world won’t help!”
Viktalia slugged him in the shoulder. Hard.
"We sail tomorrow," Kaled said with a laugh. "So it'd be best to beat him up on-shore, where he can get access to the masive healing of the abbots he'll need!"
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Boy, that Ship's Carpenter sure has problems with his wood, doesn't he? He's my least favorite character. I even like Cecil Daod better than him!
Visiel is my favorite. I sure hope that he's as good at his job as I expect him to be... I fear that "Captain" Daod (Daid!, or at least his corpse) will be in need of salvaging, very soon!
"Salvage Daod... that does not compute!" BEEP! "Illogical, Captain!"
Visiel is my favorite. I sure hope that he's as good at his job as I expect him to be... I fear that "Captain" Daod (Daid!, or at least his corpse) will be in need of salvaging, very soon!
"Salvage Daod... that does not compute!" BEEP! "Illogical, Captain!"
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