The Game of Kings

[Ringmereth]

As the last of the meal is consumed and the conversation turns from strategy to socializing, the cook returns with a bucket of suds and a rag to clean the table, and the adventurers quickly depart from the galley. Walking out onto the ship's main deck, the time passed at dinner is apparent in the dark night sky above the foggy sea. By this time, a few of the Thresher's crew have taken up the evening's first watch. No other passengers linger on deck.

Doral is the first to seperate from his companions after his supper; while the others spill onto the deck he quietly pads up the stairs and onto the galleon's bridge. Centered upon it is the ship's wheel, and next to it the captain sits with one hand supporting his head and the other maintaining a light hold on the helm. He raises his head and turns towards the half-elf studying the wheel. "Ah, ev'nin to yeh..." he says, a bit sleepily, and looks questioningly at Doral. "Somethin' yeh need?"

 

[Deuce Traveler]

Doral is momentarily lost in thought as he ponders looking through the captain's cabin while the man is busy. He decides against it, however, since the possible bits of information he may find would likely prove little worth the risk.

Instead he decides on the more direct approach. "No, captain. I was just enjoying the night air. You look a bit tired, so perhaps you would enjoy some conversation." Doral asks the captain about some of the basics of his work, specifically on the ship's wheel. "This must be exhausting work. I'm sure you enjoy those rare moments at port," Doral says. He then moves the conversation towards the dwarven guests, which is the subject he really is curious about. "And I'm surprised we haven't seen the other guests. At least they seem curteous. I wonder if they enjoy the outdoors at all. We really haven't seen them come up since they've arrived. And all that baggage they brought onboard! Myself, I prefer to travel light."

 

[Dark_Jackalope]

The captain blinked a bit blearily at Doral, and turned his gaze back to the choppy seas, and thin grey fog that meshed smoothly into the patchily clouded sky. Taking this to mean he could continue to converse if he so chose, the half-elf began to inquire about the workings of the ship’s steering and its wheel.

Sighing lightly, Gorbrekken swung his head slowly in Doral’s direction, and grunted, “Wilsbree a‘ready explain’d it the Carver. Jus’ ask him ‘bout it, fair?”

Unperturbed, after a momentary pause Doral continued chattily,

"This must be exhausting work. I'm sure you enjoy those rare moments at port."

The unenthusiastic captain replied only by ignoring him, as he stared towards the northeastern horizon. Another minute went by with only the sloshing of darkened wave-foam, and then the beguiler made one last attempt:

"And I'm surprised we haven't seen the other guests. At least they seem curteous. I wonder if they enjoy the outdoors--"

The harried captain stood up suddenly, and turned fully to face the half-elf, and nearly let out an angry word before biting back his lip. He then said, in a somewhat forced calm,

“Lis’n. Ah’ve been at sea fer many, many years. I’m used tah a lonely night’s shift. So why don’ you jus’ pester them yerself come mornin’?” He then looked at Doral, and seemingly realized he’d snapped too quickly. “Any’ow… those dwarves in’t sayin’ anythin’.” He smiled for the first time in their conversation. “B’lieve me… I tried all dinn’r long.” Before the beguiler could reply, Gorbrekken turned back to the wheel, now standing tall and officially. “G’night, Doral,” he said simply.
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As the last of passengers settled into sleep or solitary activity to pass time, the Thresher plowed on, pushing its hasty way through the cold grey waters. The cliffs to the east had long since fallen away below the horizon, and out on the open gulf, a constant and freezing wind sliced down from the northwest. Eventually, a timid glow of sunlight crept above the waves to the east, revealing a craggy bluish-grey mountain rising from the fog. As the sun broke, the clouds thinned, uncovering a sky of watery pinks and yellows fighting the night into the west. The mountain became a large, rock island sitting silently in the water at their starboard side, the only sign of land in the gulf.

Systematically, the crew awoke and went about their work without comment. No one disturbed the guests who remained in their quarters, however; the breakfast bell would not sound for a few more hours.
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[sblock="The Voyage Thus Far (Map)"]

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[James Heard]

Stumbling out of his bunk with his head pounding again, Dragen tried to remind himself that he wasn't still in his cups - No, just on a gods-forsaken deathrap.

As he emptied his guts into the pot on the floor and wiped the filth from his mouth he wondered again, Why do I do this to myself? It's not as if it makes the stars at night any dimmer.

On unsteady feet, he collected his precious bow and tumbled down the corridors onto the deck to attempt to do his morning exercises and limber up bones that were beginning to creak and protest too much even when they whispered into the draw of the string.

I'm getting too old for this, he thought.

Lucky you, he answered silently.

 

[Deuce Traveler]

As soon as Doral feels rested, he quickly dons his clothes and heads up to the ship's deck, keeping an eye out for the dwarves. If they still seem to be in their cabin, he'll stare out at the sea and take out his spyglass and examine the nearby island, focusing on the shore and the peak of the mountain. Doral will take any mental notes on the locations of beaches and for any signs of artificial structures.

"Hmmm... I'd hate to have to use it, but it may be a good place to hide out in case we run into trouble on the return trip," he thinks to himself.

 

[stonegod]

With dawn, the kobold awoke. It spent some time rubbing oils into its skin and scraping it with a hard stone, a most unusual routine for the softer-skinned. Dressed in its usual finery, the kobold then went to a sitting chair near the dwarves' quarters, took out his usual reading, and waited. Doral best have remembered his planned subterfuge this morning, it thought. I may be talking to them blind until he does so.

With the patience of Dragons, the kobold waited.

 

[MadMaxim]

Partash rests uneasily. His sleep is disturbed time and again by the memories of his quori spirit, events that transpired eons ago on Dal Quor, the plane of dreams. It isn't a dream as such, but visions of the spirit bound to his soul being hunted by its darker kin. It narrowly escapes its pursuers and flys through a portal to some unknown destination and with a flash, it disappears.

Partash twists and turns until he falls out of his bed and onto the hard wooden floor of the ship. He wakes up, soaked in his own sweat. Those bloody memories, Tash... Why am I to be cursed with your damned memories!

He gets back into bed with a small prayer to il-Yannah on his lips and tries to get some more rest.

 

[Isida Kep'Tukari]

Morika rolls herself up on in her bedroll on deck, unless the captain decides to run her off. At the first breath of dawn, she awakens, predatory senses strained to their limits. Breathing slowly, she turns to face the dawn and murmurs her prayers to the morning. Anyone standing near her might not hear the prayers as words, but as stylized animal and weather sounds, the croak of a frog, the bark of a dog, the whistle of the wind. It's the language of the druids, and Morika calls her magic to her with its sounds. Her beast spirit within her breast agrees with Morika's unusual choice today; usually the shifter woman channels her spirit's strength, but today it seems that grace would be a better choice, if they're going to be shipboard.

Seemingly leaner and more lithe, she finally rises and rolls up her bedroll, stuffing it out of sight in her capricious backpack. With that, she trumps down to breakfast, her stomach growling fit to drown out the waves.

 

[Bront]

Carver sits on the deck, under the moonlight, carving a replica of the ship. He watches the sailors go about their business, and tries to stay out of the way.

OOC: Carver's Ship Carving (1d20+9=22)

 

[Ringmereth]

As the sky and sea grow brighter, only one of the dwarven guests rises in time with the sun--an unimportant member of the delegation, by Vhir's estimation. Dressed in a thick embroidered coat, the red-haired dwarf looks suprised by the kobold's presence outside his door. Narrowing his eyes at his fellow passenger, he sticks his meaty hands in his pockets and hurries topside.

Doral, arriving outside the dwarves' quarters a few minutes earlier, percieves no signs of life from the rooms, and goes to the Thresher's top deck to catch a glimpse of the island in the distance. Looking glass pressed to his eye, the half-elf can make out only sparse details of the distant shores and mountain; mist rises off the shores around it, obscuring any obvious harbors and beaches. He spots no signs of civilization, though the far-away isle is too far behind the galleon to be sure.

As she heads aft with newfound grace, Morika notices Doral looking intently at the island with a spyglass. More focused on her appetite, she makes for the galley. Unfortunately, the scent of fresh food she expects as she walks through the door is curiously absent. Apparently, the chef has not begun preparing the morning meal yet.