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High Seas Shenanigans (Updated: 12/04/05)
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<blockquote data-quote="Emperor Valerian" data-source="post: 2429157" data-attributes="member: 15043"><p>First post!</p><p></p><p><strong>In the Beginning</strong></p><p></p><p>Viktalia closed her eyes momentarily, allowing the sweet smells in the air to flood her nostrils. She wished there were more days like this one in Erelion, with the sun shining, the people bustling about, and the sweet smell of fresh applies hanging in the air. Her left ear twitched involuntarily, as she sighed with pleasure at the smell.</p><p></p><p>Instinctively she turned, following the delicious trail, until her hand slipped into her pockets, and she felt her money pouch. It was far lighter than it had been in a long time. It wasn’t that she couldn’t get work in Erelion... she was a rather well known dancer these days, mesmerizing audiences with perfect movements and the gentle jingle of the chimes and jewelry that hung from her ears and hair. It was more that Erelion was becoming boring.</p><p></p><p>She’d already danced in all the inns, theaters, and other locales she could in the six months since her arrival; the only places she hadn’t graced were the houses and theaters reserved for the nobility and the idle rich. Formerterans were not likely to get into those, no matter how gifted their talents.</p><p></p><p><em>Its time to move on again,</em> she thought to herself as she purchased an apple from a rather confused vendor. Formerterans were known in the Empire and the other human realms, but still rare enough that the sight of a pretty humanesque body surmounted by the long, thin head of a fruit bat was still able to make some people stare. Not to mention the leathery wings she usually kept wrapped safely close to her body.</p><p></p><p>“Do you know of any ships sailing to the New World?” she asked, her soft, melodious voice evidently surprising the shopkeep. The man took a second before a smirk came over his face.</p><p></p><p>“New here, are ye? Well ‘den,” he said in his rough accent, “I ken tell you ‘dat there more ships than cobblestone in yonder street headin’ for ‘da New World.” He stopped, and raised an eyebrow “Yous got somethin’ ta run from?”</p><p></p><p>“Nothing in particular, no,” Viktalia replied cheerfully. “I’m just looking for something new, maybe work.” She put on a disarming smile, and raised her hands. “Nothing suspicious there, right?”</p><p></p><p>“’Right suspicious,” the shopkeep said, before he shrugged. “But it nunna my business. ‘Dey say ‘dat ‘de Baron Dice be puttin’ togetha a fleet, an’ he be sailin’ to ‘da New World.”</p><p></p><p>“Baron Rafael Dice?” Viktalia asked hopefully. Her heart leapt upwards slightly when the shopkeep nodded. <em>Adventure at last!</em> Captain Rafael Dice, known since his voyage circumnavigating the world twenty years ago as Baron Dice, was a household name. It had been the Baron, in his small galleon <em>Silver Hart</em> who had single-handedly mauled the Kandoran treasure fleets returning from the New World twenty-five years ago. To this day, cartographers graced their maps of the New World with his picture in the lower corner.</p><p></p><p>“He been lookin’ fer officers, ‘dey say,” the shopkeep continued. “A Quar’ermaster for one ‘o his ships, I know.”</p><p></p><p><em>I’ve done that before...</em> Viktalia thought, remembering her original voyage to the Imperial lands a few years before. The old quartermaster of the pinnace Hopeful Returns had fallen overboard and drowned. Viktalia had been paying her way through the voyage by entertaining the crew with song and dance, and the captain asked her to continue keeping the crew content and occupied as the unofficial quartermaster, though of course he took the duties of distributing supplies. <em>Its a chance to keep my dancing in practice, as well as earn some pay!</em></p><p></p><p>“Do you know where one could sign up to be a part of this expedition?” Viktalia asked.</p><p></p><p>“”De Baron has a great mansion, in ‘de north of ‘da city. Great big, an’ pink. Go ‘dere, ‘dey tellya where ‘ta go next, I reckonin.”</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“You call this wine! You got this from the damn latrine!”</p><p></p><p>The innkeep ducked as his own ale stein suddenly became a projectile, shattering against the wall above his head. The man looked up, his eyes wide with fear as a pair of blazing red eyes, framed by a steel helm, bore down on him from above. The innkeep felt wetness spreading down his pantleg, as the far younger, far stronger man glared at him.</p><p></p><p>“I don’t have time for you,” Siran Rapp growled, before turning and storming out of the tavern. <em>Damn tavernkeeps, always putting water in their ale to make an extra crown or two!</em> He reached into his pocket, and missed the copper crown he’d spent buying that terrible drink. <em>Not like I have money as it is... dammit.</em></p><p></p><p>As he stalked through the streets, the crowds parted, ever so slightly. People touched their caps as he passed, some ducked their heads slightly in reverence. Siran was used to this, it registered in his mind about as much as the incessant clank of the steel pendant of crossed swords against his breasplate. Clerics of the Saints were always respected, even the Clerics that followed the Saint of the plague of this world; war.</p><p></p><p>War with the Elves. War with Kandor. War with Lees. War with Kubalia. It seemed the list of fights and conflicts was never-ending, a never ending sacrifice of blood as the nobility jockeyed for position, and the ArchHoliness in Iskeldrun renewed calls to destroy the Elves once and for all. Siran had seen much of this world. Since his arrival at seminary eight years before, then only the lowly second-son of a minor noble, he’d seen combat of all spectrums; night raids against elven encampments, full field engagements against the expert musketeers of Kandor. Above all, however, Siran excelled at one thing; war at sea.</p><p></p><p>In the seminary of Saint Heraclius, Siran learned that chaplains were as much a part of the battleline, as much a warrior, as any sailor or captain, and in his five years of active service, he proved such again and again. Free of his initial term of service, Siran found himself bored with civilian life. Outside of the military, the clerics of St. Heraclius were rarely needed; while the populace showed him respect, they did not possess a single chapel to the Saint in the entire city of 80,000 souls.</p><p></p><p><em>Bah,</em> Siran thought as he crested one of the many hilly rises in the city. In the distance a forest of masts and sails seemed to rise directly from the sea, as hundreds, if not thousands, of ships rode at anchor. Great warships sat alongside tiny tartans, bulky galleons alongside sleek corvettes. Siran stopped, and felt yet again that familiar pull as his eyes took in the scene.</p><p></p><p><em>I need to get to sea again,</em> he thought wistfully for a moment, before the emptiness in his pocket, and the sour taste of foul ale clinging in his mouth drew him back to the present need. <em>And not just because I miss the rolling deck,</em> he growled. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the last time he’d sipped Formerteran brandy, then </p><p>opened then and frowned when he remembered it was a year prior. Fine Caladronan wine, or Formerteran brandy suited his palate, not the rough and often dubious ‘ale’ one found in the taverns he could now barely afford.</p><p></p><p>“I need work,” he mumbled to no one in particular, before marching down towards the docks, his huge spiked chain jingling and clinking against his armor-clad body. The walk was short, and soon he found himself amidst the smell of salt and unwashed bodies, dockworkers and sailors both swirling about, carrying cargoes and hurrying about business. </p><p></p><p>Carefully he looked about, watching the cargos. Who was carrying what, and where. Finally, his eyes set on a vessel only five piers down, its wooden hull garishly painted in blues, yellows and greens. Across its old but stout frame, sailors clambered, painting and loading supplies. Siran blinked, before he realized his eyes were not deceiving him.</p><p></p><p><em>The Silver Hind... Baron Dice’s ship... they’re loading her full of supplies.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Boy, that would be a dream job. Ship’s chaplain for Baron Rafael Dice? Imagine the size of the prize money when his ship returns...</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Nah... they wouldn’t want a cleric like you on board,</em> Siran told himself. <em>Dice has enough money he can probably hire out an abbot from the church to be his chaplain. He wouldn’t need a mere priest... even if I am a better war chaplain that half the abbots of St. Siabrey and St. Tesseron in this damnable city...</em></p><p></p><p>There was a growling grumble from below, and Siran touched his stomach. A few seconds later, it spoke again. He reached into his pocket, and once again frowned at its emptiness.</p><p></p><p><em>Well,</em> he thought, turning around. <em>I do believe His Majesty, the King of My Body hath spoken. Now, if only I can find where to try to sign up for whatever endeavor the Baron is about to take. Saints Willing, I’ll come back with enough gold crowns to never have to worry about food or lowly ale again.</em></p><p></p><p>Silently Siran made the holy passings of The One, followed by the Holy Salute of Heraclius. Saints Willing, he’d have a good voyage.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Emperor Valerian, post: 2429157, member: 15043"] First post! [b]In the Beginning[/b] Viktalia closed her eyes momentarily, allowing the sweet smells in the air to flood her nostrils. She wished there were more days like this one in Erelion, with the sun shining, the people bustling about, and the sweet smell of fresh applies hanging in the air. Her left ear twitched involuntarily, as she sighed with pleasure at the smell. Instinctively she turned, following the delicious trail, until her hand slipped into her pockets, and she felt her money pouch. It was far lighter than it had been in a long time. It wasn’t that she couldn’t get work in Erelion... she was a rather well known dancer these days, mesmerizing audiences with perfect movements and the gentle jingle of the chimes and jewelry that hung from her ears and hair. It was more that Erelion was becoming boring. She’d already danced in all the inns, theaters, and other locales she could in the six months since her arrival; the only places she hadn’t graced were the houses and theaters reserved for the nobility and the idle rich. Formerterans were not likely to get into those, no matter how gifted their talents. [i]Its time to move on again,[/i] she thought to herself as she purchased an apple from a rather confused vendor. Formerterans were known in the Empire and the other human realms, but still rare enough that the sight of a pretty humanesque body surmounted by the long, thin head of a fruit bat was still able to make some people stare. Not to mention the leathery wings she usually kept wrapped safely close to her body. “Do you know of any ships sailing to the New World?” she asked, her soft, melodious voice evidently surprising the shopkeep. The man took a second before a smirk came over his face. “New here, are ye? Well ‘den,” he said in his rough accent, “I ken tell you ‘dat there more ships than cobblestone in yonder street headin’ for ‘da New World.” He stopped, and raised an eyebrow “Yous got somethin’ ta run from?” “Nothing in particular, no,” Viktalia replied cheerfully. “I’m just looking for something new, maybe work.” She put on a disarming smile, and raised her hands. “Nothing suspicious there, right?” “’Right suspicious,” the shopkeep said, before he shrugged. “But it nunna my business. ‘Dey say ‘dat ‘de Baron Dice be puttin’ togetha a fleet, an’ he be sailin’ to ‘da New World.” “Baron Rafael Dice?” Viktalia asked hopefully. Her heart leapt upwards slightly when the shopkeep nodded. [i]Adventure at last![/i] Captain Rafael Dice, known since his voyage circumnavigating the world twenty years ago as Baron Dice, was a household name. It had been the Baron, in his small galleon [i]Silver Hart[/i] who had single-handedly mauled the Kandoran treasure fleets returning from the New World twenty-five years ago. To this day, cartographers graced their maps of the New World with his picture in the lower corner. “He been lookin’ fer officers, ‘dey say,” the shopkeep continued. “A Quar’ermaster for one ‘o his ships, I know.” [i]I’ve done that before...[/i] Viktalia thought, remembering her original voyage to the Imperial lands a few years before. The old quartermaster of the pinnace Hopeful Returns had fallen overboard and drowned. Viktalia had been paying her way through the voyage by entertaining the crew with song and dance, and the captain asked her to continue keeping the crew content and occupied as the unofficial quartermaster, though of course he took the duties of distributing supplies. [i]Its a chance to keep my dancing in practice, as well as earn some pay![/i] “Do you know where one could sign up to be a part of this expedition?” Viktalia asked. “”De Baron has a great mansion, in ‘de north of ‘da city. Great big, an’ pink. Go ‘dere, ‘dey tellya where ‘ta go next, I reckonin.” “You call this wine! You got this from the damn latrine!” The innkeep ducked as his own ale stein suddenly became a projectile, shattering against the wall above his head. The man looked up, his eyes wide with fear as a pair of blazing red eyes, framed by a steel helm, bore down on him from above. The innkeep felt wetness spreading down his pantleg, as the far younger, far stronger man glared at him. “I don’t have time for you,” Siran Rapp growled, before turning and storming out of the tavern. [i]Damn tavernkeeps, always putting water in their ale to make an extra crown or two![/i] He reached into his pocket, and missed the copper crown he’d spent buying that terrible drink. [i]Not like I have money as it is... dammit.[/i] As he stalked through the streets, the crowds parted, ever so slightly. People touched their caps as he passed, some ducked their heads slightly in reverence. Siran was used to this, it registered in his mind about as much as the incessant clank of the steel pendant of crossed swords against his breasplate. Clerics of the Saints were always respected, even the Clerics that followed the Saint of the plague of this world; war. War with the Elves. War with Kandor. War with Lees. War with Kubalia. It seemed the list of fights and conflicts was never-ending, a never ending sacrifice of blood as the nobility jockeyed for position, and the ArchHoliness in Iskeldrun renewed calls to destroy the Elves once and for all. Siran had seen much of this world. Since his arrival at seminary eight years before, then only the lowly second-son of a minor noble, he’d seen combat of all spectrums; night raids against elven encampments, full field engagements against the expert musketeers of Kandor. Above all, however, Siran excelled at one thing; war at sea. In the seminary of Saint Heraclius, Siran learned that chaplains were as much a part of the battleline, as much a warrior, as any sailor or captain, and in his five years of active service, he proved such again and again. Free of his initial term of service, Siran found himself bored with civilian life. Outside of the military, the clerics of St. Heraclius were rarely needed; while the populace showed him respect, they did not possess a single chapel to the Saint in the entire city of 80,000 souls. [i]Bah,[/i] Siran thought as he crested one of the many hilly rises in the city. In the distance a forest of masts and sails seemed to rise directly from the sea, as hundreds, if not thousands, of ships rode at anchor. Great warships sat alongside tiny tartans, bulky galleons alongside sleek corvettes. Siran stopped, and felt yet again that familiar pull as his eyes took in the scene. [i]I need to get to sea again,[/i] he thought wistfully for a moment, before the emptiness in his pocket, and the sour taste of foul ale clinging in his mouth drew him back to the present need. [i]And not just because I miss the rolling deck,[/i] he growled. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the last time he’d sipped Formerteran brandy, then opened then and frowned when he remembered it was a year prior. Fine Caladronan wine, or Formerteran brandy suited his palate, not the rough and often dubious ‘ale’ one found in the taverns he could now barely afford. “I need work,” he mumbled to no one in particular, before marching down towards the docks, his huge spiked chain jingling and clinking against his armor-clad body. The walk was short, and soon he found himself amidst the smell of salt and unwashed bodies, dockworkers and sailors both swirling about, carrying cargoes and hurrying about business. Carefully he looked about, watching the cargos. Who was carrying what, and where. Finally, his eyes set on a vessel only five piers down, its wooden hull garishly painted in blues, yellows and greens. Across its old but stout frame, sailors clambered, painting and loading supplies. Siran blinked, before he realized his eyes were not deceiving him. [i]The Silver Hind... Baron Dice’s ship... they’re loading her full of supplies. Boy, that would be a dream job. Ship’s chaplain for Baron Rafael Dice? Imagine the size of the prize money when his ship returns... Nah... they wouldn’t want a cleric like you on board,[/i] Siran told himself. [i]Dice has enough money he can probably hire out an abbot from the church to be his chaplain. He wouldn’t need a mere priest... even if I am a better war chaplain that half the abbots of St. Siabrey and St. Tesseron in this damnable city...[/i] There was a growling grumble from below, and Siran touched his stomach. A few seconds later, it spoke again. He reached into his pocket, and once again frowned at its emptiness. [i]Well,[/i] he thought, turning around. [i]I do believe His Majesty, the King of My Body hath spoken. Now, if only I can find where to try to sign up for whatever endeavor the Baron is about to take. Saints Willing, I’ll come back with enough gold crowns to never have to worry about food or lowly ale again.[/i] Silently Siran made the holy passings of The One, followed by the Holy Salute of Heraclius. Saints Willing, he’d have a good voyage. [/QUOTE]
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