Deep Water and Shoals - A Swashbuckling Campaign
- Thread starter Bob Aberton
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Tonguez
A suffusion of yellow
Bob Aberton said:
"We' at 31 west, 52 Nort' now Capitan" the Navigator replies "need t' steer a course Wes'Sou'Wes 250 alohng dhe Blue Star" he points then to a constellation now rising above the horizon, the third star in its line glowing a feint blue
(sorry about missing a day - got busy
- but yep got your mail.Just something else I noted too the Sextant wasn't invented until the 18th Century and there was no way of determining Longitude until the 19th Century ie Ships in the 15th - 17th Century will using things like cross bars, kalam and astrolabes and only following lines of latitude in their navigation - but hey just some interesting trivia
)
dead_radish
Explorer
OOC, as I know squat about sailing so far:
I'm assuming that the pilot receives the course from the Navigator, and then they are in charge of making course changes as needed to stay on course?
I'm assuming that the pilot receives the course from the Navigator, and then they are in charge of making course changes as needed to stay on course?
Bob Aberton
First Post
(OOC Malachi: Thanks for the trivia; but I had envisioned the tech level overall of The World as late 17th-early 18th century - with allowance for this being a fantasy world, of course You're right about longitude, too - until lunars were invented, sailors and captains alike relied on intuition to guess at longitude. Oh well. This is a fantasy world, after all )
Malachi, the captain, still looking out over the rail, calls out to Malthas, at the helm:
"Mr. Swifthand. Set course West-South-West 250 degrees. Follow the Blue Star, and may Calypso guide yer hand," he says.
This course puts CALYPSO'S GRACE squarely on a beam reach.
Malthas, you recieve Captain McCrenshaw's directions, and, with eyes glued to the compass inside the binnacle, you twirl the wheel slowly, and the great ship, all 950 tons of her, slowly come around, turning sideways to the wind. The compass needle slews around with the movement of ship, coming to rest at 250 degrees.
(OOC: Make a Profession Pilot skill check)
Captain McCrenshaw, meanwhile, is snapping out orders forward to Mr. Lang.
"Mr. Lang, brace yards sharp for beam reach. Trim in yer jibs'ls an' back foremast tops'l."
The response is carried back from the foredeck with a military precision that causes McCrenshaw to roll his eyes in derision ever so slightly.
"Brace yards, aye! Trim jibsails, aye! Back foremast topsail, aye! Lay aloft, men, lay aloft!"
The ship, with a groan and a rattle of rigging, settles intself onto its new course. With all sails still drawing, CALYPSO'S GRACE speeds on her way, leaving a furrow of foam in her wake.
Jonah, you quickly gulp down Mr. Arfaliunium's concoction, thinking it can't be that much worse than seasickness. It has an acrid taste, burns your tongue, and makes your eyes water, but as soon as you down it, your seasickness seems to leave you. You feel stronger already.k
Nicodemus: You see with satisfaction that your concoction seems to have worked on the strangely-colored supercargo.
Vemuz: Upon recieving orders from Mr. Lang, you spring to the nearest sheets and heave. The sail comes around, much more quickly than all the others. When it is trimmed sufficiently, you belay the sheetrope, and look around. No one was helping you. Sailors nearby look on, impressed by the feat - trimming the mainsail alone is no mean feat of strength.
You notice Arthur Orville saunter over to a sheetrope and join the seamen there. After give one or two small tugs, he straightens up and leans against the rail with a show of exhaustion. the other sailors, meanwhile, keep heaving on the rope until finally the sail is trimmed, a good fifteen minutes longer than Orville worked.
(OOC Bimzoole: care to chime in sometime soon? What are you doing while all this is going on?)
Meanwhile, the late afternoon sunlight is beginning to sink into the sea. Soon darkness will fall, and the officers will call their watches for the night.
You're right about longitude, too - until lunars were invented, sailors and captains alike relied on intuition to guess at longitude. Oh well. This is a fantasy world, after all )Malachi, the captain, still looking out over the rail, calls out to Malthas, at the helm:
"Mr. Swifthand. Set course West-South-West 250 degrees. Follow the Blue Star, and may Calypso guide yer hand," he says.
This course puts CALYPSO'S GRACE squarely on a beam reach.
Malthas, you recieve Captain McCrenshaw's directions, and, with eyes glued to the compass inside the binnacle, you twirl the wheel slowly, and the great ship, all 950 tons of her, slowly come around, turning sideways to the wind. The compass needle slews around with the movement of ship, coming to rest at 250 degrees.
(OOC: Make a Profession Pilot skill check)
Captain McCrenshaw, meanwhile, is snapping out orders forward to Mr. Lang.
"Mr. Lang, brace yards sharp for beam reach. Trim in yer jibs'ls an' back foremast tops'l."
The response is carried back from the foredeck with a military precision that causes McCrenshaw to roll his eyes in derision ever so slightly.
"Brace yards, aye! Trim jibsails, aye! Back foremast topsail, aye! Lay aloft, men, lay aloft!"
The ship, with a groan and a rattle of rigging, settles intself onto its new course. With all sails still drawing, CALYPSO'S GRACE speeds on her way, leaving a furrow of foam in her wake.
Jonah, you quickly gulp down Mr. Arfaliunium's concoction, thinking it can't be that much worse than seasickness. It has an acrid taste, burns your tongue, and makes your eyes water, but as soon as you down it, your seasickness seems to leave you. You feel stronger already.k
Nicodemus: You see with satisfaction that your concoction seems to have worked on the strangely-colored supercargo.
Vemuz: Upon recieving orders from Mr. Lang, you spring to the nearest sheets and heave. The sail comes around, much more quickly than all the others. When it is trimmed sufficiently, you belay the sheetrope, and look around. No one was helping you. Sailors nearby look on, impressed by the feat - trimming the mainsail alone is no mean feat of strength.
You notice Arthur Orville saunter over to a sheetrope and join the seamen there. After give one or two small tugs, he straightens up and leans against the rail with a show of exhaustion. the other sailors, meanwhile, keep heaving on the rope until finally the sail is trimmed, a good fifteen minutes longer than Orville worked.
(OOC Bimzoole: care to chime in sometime soon? What are you doing while all this is going on?)
Meanwhile, the late afternoon sunlight is beginning to sink into the sea. Soon darkness will fall, and the officers will call their watches for the night.
Xael
First Post
Jonah coughs couple of times, takes a deep breath, and slowly stands up. Then he looks at Nicodemus and says:
"I don't know what you put into that, but it worked. Thank you Mr. ...Arfaliunium. I must say that I have never known anybody that could cure seasickness."
*Or anybody that has bothered to cure it...*
"I don't know what you put into that, but it worked. Thank you Mr. ...Arfaliunium. I must say that I have never known anybody that could cure seasickness."
*Or anybody that has bothered to cure it...*
dead_radish
Explorer
OOC: 12+9 on Profession (Pilot).
Malthas nods at the Captain without taking his eyes off the compass. He is far more focused and serious while actually piloting - his jovial demeanor and ready smile disappear, replaced with a look of intense concentration. He marks the Blue Star carefully, and double checks against the compass.
Malthas nods at the Captain without taking his eyes off the compass. He is far more focused and serious while actually piloting - his jovial demeanor and ready smile disappear, replaced with a look of intense concentration. He marks the Blue Star carefully, and double checks against the compass.
Vemuz strides over to Arthur Orville and speaks clearly and loudly in front of all crew present. "You, Mr. Orville! If you wish to do half the work of a sailor, then mayhaps I'll have a talk with the Captain about you getting half the wages of one as well?" Without waiting for a response, Vemuz continues walking past, muttering under his breath, "'Twould have been better to carry another 160 pounds of cargo than to bring this one along."
Bob Aberton
First Post
All:
As the last traces of sunlight is drowned in the ocean, lanterns are lit at the stern, the binnacle lights kindled, the masthead lights set ablaze, and the Fo'c'sle lamp also lit.
Mr. Lang strides forward from his place and rings the ship's bell eighteen times.
"Starboard Watch ahoy! Eighteen bells, d'you hear the news?" he shouts in a vioce that reverbrates from stem to stern.
The men of Starboard Watch stand to their places - John Stout and Ben Stern as lookouts forward, Malthas Swifthand still standing at the wheel, and the other sailors lounging on convenient coils of rope or barrelheads, ready to be called for duty.
Nicodemus, Jonah, Xanaphia, and Malachi are now free to go below, as they either do not stand watch, or are on Port Watch.
Captain McCrenshaw stands impassively on the quarterdeck, nearby to the helmsman.
The night is almost silent, broken only by the creaking of sails and rigging and the periodic cries of the lookouts: "All's Well For'ard."
The ship, now swathed in darkness, glides on into the night.
Malthas, the captain, watching you expertly set CALYPSO'S GRACE on her course, nods an approval at you.
"Well done, Mr. Swifthand," he growls. The tension is still in his face, and he looks haggard. It looks as though he expects the worst to happen at any moment.
Bimzoole, this being your watch, you, having no immediate duties, decide to take a look at the guns. CALYPSO'S GRACE mounts 10 guns on her sides, 32-pounders, with polished brass barrels and up-to-date handling equipment.
On her stern, she mounts a pair of much larger guns, facing aft over her wake. They are quite larger than her broadsides, at least 64-pound guns. These are made of cast iron and look much like vicious snouts, ready to breathe red-hot iron death on ships within their range.
From what you know of the crew, few of them have experience with guns. However, Mr. Lang was a lieutenant in the Hullish navy before being promoted to first mate on a merchantman.
Perhaps McCrenshaw could tell you a bit more about the crew's naval experience.
Jonah, you finish thanking Nicodemus, who is headed below, and stand around for a bit, revelling in the fact that the ship's rolling - a terrible, slow roll, for the ship is sailing broadside to the wind, taking the swell on her side, and consequently, the yardarms have several times dipped into the blue water on either side of the ship with each roll.
Mr. Ames, the second mate, a clean-shaven, young looking fellow with the air of a blue-water scholar about him. Moving easily with the roll of the ship, he also passes you on the way below.
"You don't have to stand up on deck, Mr...eh...Jonah. I would suggest you get some sleep. I believe we're in for a shift in the wind," he says, in a deep, loud voice that belies his scholarly air.
As the last traces of sunlight is drowned in the ocean, lanterns are lit at the stern, the binnacle lights kindled, the masthead lights set ablaze, and the Fo'c'sle lamp also lit.
Mr. Lang strides forward from his place and rings the ship's bell eighteen times.
"Starboard Watch ahoy! Eighteen bells, d'you hear the news?" he shouts in a vioce that reverbrates from stem to stern.
The men of Starboard Watch stand to their places - John Stout and Ben Stern as lookouts forward, Malthas Swifthand still standing at the wheel, and the other sailors lounging on convenient coils of rope or barrelheads, ready to be called for duty.
Nicodemus, Jonah, Xanaphia, and Malachi are now free to go below, as they either do not stand watch, or are on Port Watch.
Captain McCrenshaw stands impassively on the quarterdeck, nearby to the helmsman.
The night is almost silent, broken only by the creaking of sails and rigging and the periodic cries of the lookouts: "All's Well For'ard."
The ship, now swathed in darkness, glides on into the night.
Malthas, the captain, watching you expertly set CALYPSO'S GRACE on her course, nods an approval at you.
"Well done, Mr. Swifthand," he growls. The tension is still in his face, and he looks haggard. It looks as though he expects the worst to happen at any moment.
Bimzoole, this being your watch, you, having no immediate duties, decide to take a look at the guns. CALYPSO'S GRACE mounts 10 guns on her sides, 32-pounders, with polished brass barrels and up-to-date handling equipment.
On her stern, she mounts a pair of much larger guns, facing aft over her wake. They are quite larger than her broadsides, at least 64-pound guns. These are made of cast iron and look much like vicious snouts, ready to breathe red-hot iron death on ships within their range.
From what you know of the crew, few of them have experience with guns. However, Mr. Lang was a lieutenant in the Hullish navy before being promoted to first mate on a merchantman.
Perhaps McCrenshaw could tell you a bit more about the crew's naval experience.
Jonah, you finish thanking Nicodemus, who is headed below, and stand around for a bit, revelling in the fact that the ship's rolling - a terrible, slow roll, for the ship is sailing broadside to the wind, taking the swell on her side, and consequently, the yardarms have several times dipped into the blue water on either side of the ship with each roll.
Mr. Ames, the second mate, a clean-shaven, young looking fellow with the air of a blue-water scholar about him. Moving easily with the roll of the ship, he also passes you on the way below.
"You don't have to stand up on deck, Mr...eh...Jonah. I would suggest you get some sleep. I believe we're in for a shift in the wind," he says, in a deep, loud voice that belies his scholarly air.
dead_radish
Explorer
Malthas nods his head at the captain, acknowledging the praise. He whistles a bawdy tune under his breath as he gazes out upon the darkened sea, and sighs happily.
"This is the way of it, innit captain? A group of honorable men, the boards beneath their feet, sailing 'cross the glorious ocean. No worries that aren't within 50 yards, and all your troubles behind you, and nothing you can do about them now."
He pauses, and watches the captain for a bit. "But you seem not to feel that. Be it only the weight of the captain's duties on your brow, or is there something else?"
"This is the way of it, innit captain? A group of honorable men, the boards beneath their feet, sailing 'cross the glorious ocean. No worries that aren't within 50 yards, and all your troubles behind you, and nothing you can do about them now."
He pauses, and watches the captain for a bit. "But you seem not to feel that. Be it only the weight of the captain's duties on your brow, or is there something else?"
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