High Seas Shenanigans (Updated: 12/04/05)

[ThoughtfulOwl]

Question time!

Rowena couldn't find a cure for her curse even with a boatload of money at her disposal; a wizard casting fireball was a big surprise and was dubbed as 'powerful'; magic in general seems rarely taken into account by people. Which leads to the question: did magic decline in the 6 centuries since your previous story hours? Or is magic just scarce in this specific region?

 

[Emperor Valerian]

To answer your questions:

1) Rowena made the mistake of talking to a con-man, a charlatan, and paying him before any "treatment" was to begin. There probably was some magic involved in his sudden disappearance soon after (probably giggling with his stolen loot).

2) The party is still fairly low level... the only one among the three that would have seen any extensive battlefield magic would have been Siran... Viesel was, most of the time, working in salvage work after the battle had ended, and while Viktalia would have known of such spells as a bard, she likely wouldn't have seen any in action before.

Magic is still very much around... I'm just trying to capture what still low-level characters might have felt on seeing this (or, in Viesel's case, not seeing).

 

[ThoughtfulOwl]

Magic is still very much around... I'm just trying to capture what still low-level characters might have felt on seeing this (or, in Viesel's case, not seeing).

Well, you certainly succeeded. You have a good talent for immersive descriptions.

 

[HalfOrc HalfBiscuit]

Nice update Emperor V. It's just like reading Patrick O'Brian ... apart from the elves ... and the half fruit bat people ... and the animated iron men ... and the fireballs.

 

[Emperor Valerian]

A Bloody Day Part Two

I’m not dead?

Viktalia opened her eyes, and looked towards the elven ship.

The spellcaster, his robes still flowing in the wind, seemed to just hang in the air, his eyes wide in surprise. Only after a moment did her confused eyes then notice the huge spot of red spreading across his chest.

“Damn... I missed his head!” a familiar voice cursed, and Viktalia spun around.

“Hrik?”

The young teen didn’t turn his head to face her, all his energies instead were focused on reloading the musket that clearly was not his (in fact, it was almost as tall as he was). Viktalia then turned back to the elven ship as the Spotted Pinnace lurched closer. The robed spellcaster was no where to be seen, yet a bright red splotch of blood remained on the elven mainmast, just behind where he’d been standing.

Maybe Hrik has some other uses we don’t know about... she thought, reloading her pistol as quickly as she could and bullets from the elven muskets whizzed around her. Another crewman fell back just feet from her, part of his head taken away by a musketball.

We’re getting close, she realized, as the pinnace cut inside the wake of the larger elven ship. She looked towards the bow, and for a moment, watched mutely as Siran barked orders and fired his blunderbuss at the elven ship. Finally, the pinnace drew just behind the elven warship, and Siran spun around.

“Fire as she bears!”

One by one, each of the cannons on the pinnace fired as they came in line with the great windowed stern of the elven ship, spitting death and destruction down the length of the larger warship. As the guns roared, Viktalia felt her teeth click from the concussion, but she didn’t flinch... an act that surprised her. The sounds of wood splintering, screams, and shattered glass from the stern galleries melding together into a horrendous roar, before dying away in the heavy pall of smoke.

“Hard to port!” Siran called, and the Spotted Pinnace swung sharply around the larger ship, before her bow crashed into the elven ship’s starboard side, and armed with her pistol and her knives, Viktalia was among the first to clamber aboard the shattered enemy ship.

Only moments later, she shivered involuntarily at what she saw and heard.

The deck of the elven ship seemed to move, an undulating sea of arms and legs clawing around as cries of agony rose in the air. It seemed every elf on deck had been cut down in the blasts of canister, the deck swept almost clean of life. As she took another step forward, her legs slid under her, and she desperately grabbed the remains of the ship’s railing to keep from falling. It wasn’t until she looked down that she realized she’d slipped on the blood that covered the entire deck in a sticky, slippery mess.

“Keep alert,” she heard Siran growl, the cleric rudely kicking one of the dead elves out of his way. His eyes looked about quickly, hawkish, as if he expected a trap.

Alert for what? Viktalia wanted to ask, as she stepped over a headless elf. They’re all not just dead... they’re in pieces! She could feel her stomach starting to turn. Hearing of mass violence among the humans and elves was one thing, but seeing it in person...

They were slavers, she reminded herself, as the carnage engulfed her sight. They deserve far worse fates than this. Her shock slowly ebbed, and her anger returned.

Her reverie was broken by a loud shout, a call. She turned her head around, just in time to see Siran level is blunderbuss at a group of figures in the gloom. Quickly, her own pistol was aimed as well, until she noticed how slowly the figures were moving.

If they were attacking, why wouldn’t they be running, and ducking behind cover? It made no sense... until the first of the figures came close enough that she could see him entirely.

The elf was covered head to toe in blood, bits of gore still stuck in his hair, knotting its long strands. In one hand, he waved slowly a white kerchief. His other arm was bent at an odd angle, and plainly broken.

“We...s...surrender,” the elf slowly spoke, his mouth wrapping around the Common tongue as well as a wooden peg into a steel beam. As the other figures shuffled forward, she made out their pitiful state as well. All were wounded, and all shared the same look of dejection.

“Take us to your slaves,” Viktalia growled, her gun leveled.



“Good god,” Siran said a few minutes later, before quickly covering his mouth with a kerchief. The stench was overpowering after the elves, under the threat of guns, opened the hatch to the ship’s lower hold. One of them jabbered quietly in elvish to their comrade capable of Common.

“First Mate say this where slaves are,” the elf translated, gesturing towards the black hole from whence the smell came. “They taken care of,” the elf offered in a hopeful tone, his eyes speaking of fear, “we feed, care for them!”

“Somehow I don’t believe you,” Siran growled back, before stepping down into the hold. If you’ve been taking care of them, why are they all stored...

His mind stopped when his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the cleric felt bile racing up his throat. It took all the willpower in his heart to keep from retching on the spot.

Bent, chained side-by side along the edges of the hull, were the broken and bent forms of hundreds of slaves. In the gloom, they looked almost as shadows, yet the light from his lantern caught in each of their eyes, dancing in hundreds of tiny dots before him. Men, women, children, all stared at the human that now was in their midst.

Beasts! Siran’s eyes flashed upwards, where the elf was still standing, his face in a plaintively hopeful smile, a look that only made the cleric even more enraged. You grin while all these people are chained up like cattle!

“Unlock them!” the cleric hissed, his voice dangerously quiet. The elf’s hopeful face fell, and fearfully he clambered down into the darkness. As the first mutters and quiet cheers began to rise, Siran heard a series of clanks as the chains were unlocked.

“All of you that can move, come to the upper decks!” Siran called. “You’re free now, but we’re going to need the help of those of you that are able-bodied!”

As the frightened elf unlocked the last slave, Siran met his fearful green eyes. Hands began to grab for the cleric, and even as he heard the blessings and thanks, his mind was already at work.

There’s still two more elven ships to deal with, and I think the slaves would relish the chance for some revenge...



“Captain Rapp?”

Siran lowered his telescope and turned. One of the healthier slaves, a former blacksmith named Barr, stood before him, nervously fidgeting.

“What is it?” Siran replied. The healthiest slaves had spent the last hour helping Viktalia and the crew load the cannon on their new prize, while Siran had tried to help the less fortunate as best he could. He’d finally had to come on deck when crewmen came down, saying the last two elven ships were finally returning from their wild chase of a phantom cloud of fog. While they were still far off, the two elven ships were drawing closer as they spoke.

“I think them twelve elves over there, they’re plannin’ somethin’,” the ex-slave whispered, before looking to the bow of the ship. Siran followed his gaze, to the twelve elves that had lived through the devastating broadside, tied up in a small group.

“They’ve been a-whisperin’, and I thinks they’ve gots some magics,” the blacksmith continued. “When we were below, they were always a-braggin’ they could snuff us out with their magics n’such.”

Great. Elves are supposedly magical creatures... though if they were going to attack with magic, they would’ve done so already. No... they’re probably trying to think of a way to warn the other two ships.

Time to stop that plan.

“I’ll put an end to it, don’t worry,” Siran growled, before walking over to the elven group. Just as he came up, one of the elves that didn’t speak Common looked him defiantly in the eye, then spat out something harsh in elvish.

“You!” Siran kicked the elf that had been able to speak Common. When the elf looked up at him, all the cleric saw was that hopeful smile. ’We took good care of the slaves!’ it bragged. Before the hopeful smile could return, Siran levelled his pistol with the elf’s forehead.

“Tell your friends here that until I give further notice, there is to be no elvish spoken on this ship!” Siran rumbled. I won’t have you casting any magic or plotting anything behind my back. “And the next time I hear any of you speaking any elvish, so help me, I will rip out your toenails and stuff them in your eyes before I shoot you!”

The elf’s eyes widened at his words, and his thin elven mouth dropped to the deck.

“Tell them now,” Siran shoved the pistol into the elf’s head, “or, I’ll make an example out of you!”

That provoked a quick response. Siran couldn’t track what was said in elvish, but he was sure the message got across when he saw the other elves eyes widen in fear, their gazes flashing between the translator and himself.

Just feel lucky that I haven’t keel-hauled you all! the cleric thought darkly as he started to turn around. Then, he stopped, another idea entering his mind.

“Barr,” he turned to the blacksmith, “on second thought. Let’s lock these elves below in their own chains.” He flashed a withering, malicious smile towards the gaggle of frightened elvish eyes. “I think that’s much more fitting.”



It took over an hour for the elven ships to close, long enough that Siran, Viktalia, the crew and the slaves were able to huddle below the railings and behind boxes. Some of the slaves had armed themselves with weapons from the dead, but far more were completely unarmed.

A broadside... then a mad rush when they try to board, Siran recited the plan to himself. It was madcap. Then again, so was this plan... and we have the biggest elven ship now.

“Steady,” Siran hissed, both to his own crew and the escaped slaves. We need them to get closer... Slowly, the two smaller elven ships drew closer to their supposedly mothership, their sails only half raised. Siran could see sailors bustling about their decks, the officers lounging, not expecting combat.

Just a few more seconds...

Just then, his eyes caught the eyes of the captain of the nearest elven ship. The elf’s eyes suddenly widened... all the encouragement Siran needed.

“Now!” he leapt up, leveling his captured elven musket. He never got a chance to fire, as below the crews let the ten elven cannon open up at nearly point blank range into their hapless targets. One second, two small elven vessels were sailing placidly on the sea. The next, the sea was obscured by a massive cloud of smoke, and Siran could hear the cracking noises of masts and timbers breaking.

Then there was a flash.

For a moment, Siran saw only white, spots coming to his eyes as if he’d been looking into the sun. The sheer noise of the explosion was so loud that Siran felt, more than heard it. The blast forced the smoke away, and even the veteran cleric’s jaw dropped.

One of the elven ships was completely gone, nothing more than a smoke pall and floating timbers to record it had ever existed. Her sistership was ablaze from bow to stern, and already rolling to the side in her death throes.

“Sonuva...” he complained, sliding his pistol back into his belt with a sigh. “I didn’t get to shoot any of them!”

 

[Emperor Valerian]

Healing

Viktalia closed her eyes, wishing as hard as she could to keep the tear she knew was forming in her eye from rolling down her cheek.

She failed.

With a sigh, she opened her eyes, and looked across the waters towards the still burning remains of the Black Joke, the battered cromster only barely afloat. The bulk of the devastating elven broadside had been directed at the larger cromster, as had the elven sorcerer’s fireball. After the destruction of the last of the elven ships, the attention of all went back to their stranded comrades on board the Black Joke, only to see the vessel awash in flames.

The last rowboat of survivors from the shattered ship had arrived only a few minutes before, and despite her furious search, Viktalia had seen no sight of Kaled. She’d gone so far as to use her wings to take aloft, to search the stern of the Black Joke... the last place any of the survivors had seen the Lieutenant... to no avail.

“The sea claimed him,”one of the sailors said quietly, as if reading her thoughts. She heard grunts of agreement from others beside her, and slowly, she nodded in silence.

“Ma’am, are you going to write a song about us?” one of the burned survivors from the Black Joke called to her. She turned and nodded sadly, even as her bardic mind was thinking of words she could use in verses about Kaled and his ‘brave death.’

This is the kind of death sailors hope for... die bravely defending others? Humans all too often worshiped a ‘brave death.’ She’d seen that by the demands of the townspeople before the battle, by the song requests of thousands in taverns she’d visited in her travels. She shook her head.

Formoteria was a land that celebrated the vibrance of life, the sanctity of living things. Killing was necessary, when one needed to defend oneself or one’s family or friends, but it was always viewed as something tragic, not something to be celebrated, and she found it troubling how easily the humans and elves seemed to be able to slaughter each other with wanton abandon. Part of her shuddered, remembering the excitement that had gone through her veins just before the fight began... and that she was the first to fire a shot.

They were slavers... they deserved this, Viktalia told herself, watching mutely as some of the escaped slaves rudely shoved elven bodies, living and dead, overboard. Despite that convinction, part of her was shattered by the bloody mess on this deck... and the burned, charred mess she found on the deck of Kaled’s ship.

“You alright?” she heard a voice ask. She wiped her eyes, then turned, to find a bloodstained Siran looking at her, worry on his face. Dark brown lines, congealed cuts, covered his face from where splinters from the elven broadside had hit him. She didn’t say anything, but turned to face Kaled’s broken ship. Wordlessly, he followed her gaze.

“He fought hard,” Siran said softly, “I’m going to miss him too.”



About a half hour later, Siran gave a broad grin as the battered elven mothership was towed into the small harbor of Tarnpool by the Spotted Pinnace. The cleric had already thought of a name for the new ship... Deathblow (Yes, they picked to name the ship Deathblow. *shrug*). His expert eyes could already pick out that given a week or two, enough repairs could be done that the new vessel would be seaworthy... but that the mainmast and some of the bulkheads were so badly damaged that she’d have to put into a major port.

“You left me!” he heard a booming voice yell, and he had to smile at Viesel, despite the warforged’s scowl and crossed titanic arms. Behind and beside him stood the sharpshooters and topmen, all rather miffed at having missed the action.

“Hey, you said you do salvaging?!” Siran called back, before pointing out to sea, “We didn’t leave you behind with nothing to do! There’s three ship’s full of stuff out there that needs salvaging over the next week!”

The cleric swore he saw the warforged suppress a smile. He wants to be useful, Siran grinned back.

His eyes then looked over, and on the other side of the dock was a small gaggle of townspeople, two of their strongest carrying the linen and silk wrapped form of Rowena between them. As he watched, the lady raised a silk hand, and weakly waved.

Oh no... she hurt herself using magic I bet, Siran groaned. That fog cloud she made taxed her...

Once the Deathblow was alongside the pier, Siran clambered down, and made his way over to her through a mob of thankful townspeople. Even as she stood weakly before him, Siran heard Viktalia calling to the mob, and soon the two of them were left alone.

She looks so weak... Siran thought pitifully. I need to help her...

“Captain Rapp... I do not know how to thank you,” Rowena began slowly, her voice coming in wheezing breaths. “You and your crew saved my father’s town from the slavers before they could inflict more harm... I shall forever be in your debt. Please...” she waved weakly, “stay as long as you need...”

“Milady, is your malady bothering you?” Siran asked. “I may not be able to cure it, but perhaps I can help...”

The green eyes behind the silver mask sharpened suddenly. “Others said the same...”

“Here... let me at least try,” Siran said. “Maybe I can set you at ease, milady.”

“Are you going to be like the others?” she asked, a sniffle coming from under her silk and silver mask. “Fleece me, then do nothing?” A tinge of anger came into her wet, sickly voice.

“No,” Siran shook his head. “I have no idea if this will work, so it’d be unfair to charge you... but if I can help cure at least some of your disease, it’d be worth the effort,” he said with a smile. “Besides, it is the least I can do in return for the kindness you’ve shown me and my crew.”

She looked down for a moment, before her silver face looked up, her tired green eyes looking into his own. “Alright,” she said finally, “tell me what I have to do.”

Gently, Siran placed one head on the top of her silver mask, the other in the center of her chest, right over her heart. Part of him felt sickened as he felt the flesh slip and slide under her silk, as if there was nothing anchoring it to her muscle and bone. She’s worse off than she even showed us...

He closed his eyes. Perhaps the battlefield cure will help her... I know she hasn’t suffered in a battle, but perhaps Heraclius will be kind and intercede on our behalf...

“Repeat after me,” he commanded, before going into the ancient Prayer of the Warrior, one reputedly first said by the Emperor Valeron on the field six hundred years before. “Most Holy One, I beseech you, to guide my blade straight and true in these troubled days of war and strife.” Okay, that section wasn’t too relevant for her, but I’m working there... “Today I stand before you in a war to heal the evil that has been impregnated into my fellow warrior.” Rowena as a warrior? Ha! Only thing she’s done is make a fog cloud! “I pray you bless my efforts to purge my comrade of the disease that evilly wracks her bones, and that this campaign will make her a vessel, complete and pure, for your work.”

Suddenly, Siran stopped. He felt something warm, even hot, burning on the tips of his fingers. His eyes snapped open, expecting to witness the ends of his fingers burning as Heraclius and The Holy One expressed their anger at his use of this prayer. Instead, he saw the ends of his fingers softly glowing, the light penetrating Rowena’s silk, giving her outline a soft, yellow shine.

Hmm? He wrinkled his brow... his hands weren’t burning, but they were glowing hot. Slowly, he realized that divine healing power was flowing through him, and into her. He closed his eyes, praying harder and harder. Even if this doesn’t cure her, if it can set her more at ease, Saint Heraclius, then it will be a campaign won!

When his prayer was finished, he opened his eyes, and removed his hands. For a few moments, Rowena’s outline seemed to glow, before the yellow light surrounding her dissipated. He saw her green eyes flick wide open, surprise in their depths.

She’s surprised that even some healing happened, Siran thought sourly. Damn charlatans making honest priests look bad!

Gingerly, she reached down, and pulled off part of her glove, and for a second, Siran saw a patch of clear skin, before a muffled yelp made him look back up at her face. Her gloved hands flew upwards, and suddenly snatched off the silver mask that had covered her face for so long.

What Siran saw made his jaw drop to the street.

He’d hadn’t expected his magic to work... Heraclius wasn’t known for his healing powers as much as his ability to maim and kill, and Siran fully expected some boils, pus, or other maladies to remain. And even if they were all healed, Siran had seen noble women before in the Empire... inbred, not altogether that attractive, rather average save for the silks, gold, and incense that surrounded them.

Instead, he saw a pair of green eyes, deeper than the forest, gleaming at him. Supple lips vibrant and as red as the purest rose, and a perfect complexion on a face that came straight from a master sculptor. Under the silk cap covering her head, Siran could see dark strands of jet black hair poking out, hanging like a thin veil over her face.

“I...um...” Uh...um... he stammered, aloud and in his mind. Holy sisters of Anias! She’s... I...um...

The red lips parted, and a set of perfect white teeth gleamed at him as she laughed, then grabbed him, pulling him into an embrace. She cleric caught the smell of silk as she hugged him, giggling and laughing, and the cleric had to smile as he felt an ample bosom pressing against his chest.

“Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you!” she almost screamed into his ears, hopping up and down for several minutes, her voice sounding like a babbling brook... and finally, Siran’s mind caught a hold of itself.

Siran old boy! he thought to himself, as he returned the hug, and found more and more nice dimensions, JACKPOT!

When she finally pulled back from the hug, she was still beaming, glee and joy all over her face. “What can I ever do to repay you, Siran Rapp! You’ve given me back something that even the charlatans in Port Esther could not!”

Siran’s eyes momentarily went down to the chest that had been pressed against his, and his eyes got a glee of their own, even if he put on his best act to keep his face straight.

Here’s your chance, old buddy! part of his mind was jumping up and down with joy now. A catch like HER!? What do you THINK your reward should be?! She’s obviously very excited, so you shouldn’t have to do too much work!!

For a second, words hung on Siran’s lips, but then suddenly he frowned. Another, quieter voice inside him, one that he’d only heard rarely, stepped to the front. A conscience...

Siran... you’re a holy priest... even if your saint is Heraclius. You know what is right here... don’t take advantage of the poor thing! She’s obviously not thinking normally, and...

So what?! his normal brain shot back angrily. If she wants to let you see what’s under that silk right now, go for it! And you saved some gold since you didn’t have to buy dinner or flowers, or waste time writing silly poetry!

Do you know what could happen if you anger a noblewoman!? his conscience shot back. Sleep and leave her, and she’ll hunt you down like a dog! Besides... the more polite side of his mind seemed to clear its throat, You know that sleeping with her right now is most definitely not the right thing to do. Heraclius might not care, but I am certain The Holy One would...

“Siran?” Rowena’s smiling face changed into a look of confusion.

“Oh!” Her words, spoken as if from a bubbling mountain stream, broke his thoughts. “I... um... was just thinking...” he stammered, his mind still wracked with the argument. “Um... well... it was my pleasure to help... and...um...”

He paused for a moment, before smiling broadly.

“I’ll let you pick my reward,” he said in his most devilish voice, complete with a raised eyebrow. A tiny part of him though there might be a slap in reply to his question... it’d happened often enough. Instead, Rowena smiled, and pulled him down to her lips.

For several moments, Siran was in heaven. He’d never kissed someone that was that good at their art... which completely caught him by surprise. When she pulled back, all smiles, he caught himself wishing she would’ve kept kissing... and not complaining that she didn’t take off her bodice in the process.

“There is your reward, Siran Rapp,” she said with a smile, “and since you claimed no more, you shall also have my eternal gratitude and debt. Should you need anything, I shall be always more than willing to assist you.”

I certainly need something alright! Siran thought, feeling something down below that could soon prove awkward. He shifted his legs.

“Thank you milady,” he said, his mind still in conflict, “but seeing you restored is reward enough.” He watched her smile at his feigned gallantry... and he started to smirk ever so slightly.

There! Nice compromise! See Mr. Conscience, I can be good... all the while setting up the groundwork for something later on if she chooses!

Siran grinned brightly.

==============================

Siran's player asked if he could Remove Curse on Rowena... and it worked... so now he has a beautiful noble woman deeply in his debt...

 

[Emperor Valerian]

I apologize for how slow the updates are becoming... unfortunately, its approaching the end of the semester here, and papers are getting quite nerve-wracking.

Leaving Tarnpool, for war.

“Alright,” Siran growled, feeling the slimy bowels of the ship beneath his feet, “How did you get these fine cannon!”

Since their arrival in harbor, the crew had been busy repairing as much of the damage on the Deathblow and Spotted Pinnace as possible in Tarnpool’s small and poor harbor. Yet even as hammers and nails went into place above rebuilding the ship, Siran was at work below attempting to rebuild the story of why these elves were raiding this town.

And, more alarmingly, why these elves had excellent guns and excellent cannon. While pound for pound they were among the best warriors alive, elves weren’t supposed to have any weapons of either sort... they still prized their longbows, the weapons of their pagan god, Corellon Latharian. They were supposed to shun human weapons as ‘unmanly’ and ‘demeaning.’

If the elves in general had thrown their silly superstition aside, and seized on the idea of superior technology...

“They are our guns!” one of the highest ranking survivors, the ex-quartermaster of the elven ship, spat back, the chains that used to hold his slaves holding him back from doing anything further. “We don’t fear you, human! Take us to the elven embassy, immediately!”

Fat chance I’ll do that! The elves were also notorious sticklers for diplomatic protocol... if any elf in human lands went amok, the elves immediately demanded his return to their homeland, to ‘face charges.’ Every human who wasn’t an idiot knew that no punishment ever occurred. I guess I’ll just have to persuade them to talk...

With a snap of his hand, he wrapped his spiked chain around his gloved fist, and before any of the elves could even yell, he smashed the iron mass into the face of the quartermaster. There was a sickening crunch as the man went limp, his face nothing but a mass of bloody gore. When Siran turned back to the other elves, their faces had gone almost ashen white.

“The humans gave us the guns!”

“Which humans?” Siran asked sharply, before adding, “I don’t believe you.” If you’re lying to me, so help me, I’ll...

“The ones from Kandor, sir!” the same elf shrieked, shrinking back as far as his chains would allow him. “Kandor! They want us to fight against the other humans with their guns!”

Kandor hmm? Siran frowned. Kandor, indeed, was at war with the Empire in the sibling spat that had occupied human attentions for so long, and they were known as cutthroats... the ship that had been Kaled’s grave was a Kandoran ship. But to go to a level like this?! Giving our superior weapons to the elves, our common enemy!?



“So Kandor’s giving the elves guns and cannon,” Viesel rumbled. It made sense in his mind. An enemy of an enemy is my friend... and humans are notorious for recruiting allies from former foes, only to attack former allies. Elves, from his limited experience around them, were the same way. Humans and elves are comrades in more ways than they give themselves credit...

“So that means the elves are going beyond slavery?” Viktalia asked, her eyes wide.

Her eyes are always wide. She is a superior officer, but she has the mind of a recruit, Viesel sighed. Time will give her experience. Since she’s full of ambushes, she will become a good veteran someday.

“To war, it seems,” Siran replied quietly in the dim light of the captain’s cabin aboard the Deathblow. The planks beneath their feet were brand new, as were most of the wall bulkheads and supports. The previous captain, as well as most of his belongings, had been obliterated in the Spotted Pinnace’s broadside. “At least against the Empire, but I haven’t met an elf yet that wasn’t opportunistic. My guess is that they’re going to run far and wide with these new guns and cause as much trouble as they can.”

“A good soldier would seize this advantage,” Viesel agreed. Elves are very good soldiers. Disciplined and tough. I do not understand why these humans view them as cowards and ‘pansies,’ to use the Captain’s term. “They will strike hard when they are ready, and if their weakest slave-ship has cannon, their fleets will have cannon too.”

The fourth person seated at the table looked downward, worry in her blue eyes. “If the elves are here with armed slavers, I assume they will continue at least that when they head to war.” Rowena looked back up, some steel somewhere in her beautiful eyes. “Someone needs to go to Port Esther, and warn the King that an elven storm is about to descend on us!”

Viesel hadn’t known the woman long enough to form an opinion of her, but he found himself nodding. “Port Esther is a base for many salvagers. Therefore it would have many repair docks as well. We could go there and repair this ship with proper equipment while our comrade warns her superiors of the elven...”

Yet before Viesel even finished speaking, he saw his Captain staring at Rowena, and he realized he didn’t need to finish his advice. Captain Siran wishes to mate with her... and human males will sometimes do anything to do such things. Even if it is the right choice.

Viesel let out a deep, throaty snicker.

Some minutes later, the warforged watched as Siran and Rowena stood side by side on the bow of the ship, though just as Siran started to move his hands towards her for an embrace, she stepped away and darted to the ship’s side, calling out to someone on-shore. Soon she was clambering off the ship, talking with several town leaders, while Siran stood, rather dejected, at the ship’s bow.

“Do you think he’ll ever catch her?” Viesel heard Viktalia’s voice next to him.

“I do not know the answer,” Viesel admitted. Humans are too complex in their mating customs. It would be far simpler if they asked one another if mating was appropriate, then mate. They could then devote their time to making things more efficient. He looked down towards his arm. Like creating new warforged equipment I could use.

“What’s the matter with your arm?” Viktalia suddenly asked. “And don’t say nothing’s wrong, I saw you looking at it oddly.”

She is vigilant, Viesel admitted. “I was merely thinking that if humans used faster, more efficient mating rituals, that they could then devote some time to building new warforged components.” He saw no reason to hide that thought from a superior officer, and was taken aback when Viktalia started laughing.

“What is humorous about my statement?” Viesel asked, alarmed. Did I violate a human social code? Was I being upsetting?

“Ha!” Viktalia tried to breathe, and spoke only with difficulty, “You don’t know how many hapless young men would like it to be ‘more efficient!’” She broke into laughter again, words only coming from her mouth in a sputter. “Every time Siran looks at her, he’s wishing for ‘efficiency’!”

“I do not think I will ever understand you, or your humanoid rituals,” Viesel said quietly into the night.



“That can’t be good at all.”

“What can’t be good?” Siran asked, looking out across the bow about two weeks later. Sails filled the horizon, as a white sheet, a sign of the hundreds of ships waiting to enter the mammoth harbor of Port Esther. Where Siran saw safety, Viesel had evidently seen something alarming.

“That,” Viesel pointed, and Siran’s eyes followed the metallic arm off into the sea of sails. One particular set of sails was darting closer to them with blazing speed, her national flag obscured by the sea of white from her masts.

“Someone’s coming to greet us. So?” Siran shrugged. “News probably got here from fishermen and the like that we rescued Tarnpool from slavers. We were stuck there for a week with repairs.” They’re probably going to send us straight to some high ranking person who will shower us with gifts...

...I hope some of it is alcohol!

As the ship closed, Siran began to make out her size... she was a frigate, a royal warship.

“Hey! They’re sending a frigate towards us! Maybe the royal government sent out someone special to talk to us! Maybe a member of the royal family itself!” he happily pronounced. Otherwise, they’d keep a vessel of this size patrolling the harbor, I would think...

Sleek and low, the ship screamed an ancestry birthed in war. Gunports crowded her sides, twenty running down each side of her hull. Her trim sides were painted light blue, a slash of navy running down the length of her long gundeck. As she swept down upon them, the white and blue flag of Kubalia snapped from her masts. Siran’s excitement fell, when he noticed all along her navy gundeck, gunports flew open, and the deadly shapes of her forty cannon came into view.

“Holy...” he heard Viktalia hiss.

“They’re planning to attack us,” Viesel said dryly. “Why, I don’t understand. Perhaps you misunderstood their intentions captain. It appears they are ambushing us.”

“We’re screwed,” Siran said to himself, confusion in his mind. Forty guns! At least! A frigate like that could crush us with one broadside!

Why aren’t they greeting us with palm arms and cheers! We saved one of their towns!

The large ship drew closer to them, and finally Siran could make out the officers in charge, clad in naval braids and blue uniforms, clustered near the bow of the frigate. One of them took out a speaking trumpet.

“Heave to, and prepare for to recieve a longboat!”

“This is not good,” Siran said, watching the deadly frigate draw closer, the long black shapes of its many guns studding the length of its hull...



Viktalia sighed as the Deathblow and Spotted Pinnace complied, striking their sails and turning into the wind until they slowed to a crawl. The comparatively massive frigate pulled up between them, dropping anchor to block the two ships from each other. After a few moments, a longboat with only two rowers and a well dressed gentleman left the side of the warship, and slowly came alongside the Deathblow.

“This is a rather unusual vessel for a human crew,” the puffish envoy spoke as the longboat touched the side of the Deathblow. Up close, the man did not appear to be overly fat, but instead gave off an air of lethargic laziness as he slowly lumbered up the ladder and onto the ship’s deck. As soon as he was aboard, his eyes slowly took in the ship’s layout, then narrowed.

“How exactly did you come into possession of this vessel?” he asked, rather sharply, a tone that took Viktalia aback.

I thought Kubalia was no friend of the elves... why would anyone be concerned as to where this boat came from? ‘A good elf is a dead elf’ and all that? Something’s not right here...

“We found it,” Siran replied, crossing his arms. Viktalia groaned.

THAT didn’t sound dishonest at all! she thought sarcastically, and she flashed an angry look at the captain. We can’t make him angry! He’s an official envoy...

...and he has that huge frigate backing him up...

“Ah... a prize by abandonment,” the official replied, a smirk coming onto his face before he placed his hands behind his back and slowly began to walk to the middle of the deck. “I am sure that the previous owners of this vessel would be delighted to see its return... even if it does appear to have some... damage,” he stopped and looked suspiciously at the hastily repaired mainmast. A brighter section of repairs, roughly the size of a cannonball, stood out against the darker original wood like a sore thumb.

What is he getting at? Viktalia wondered, watching the official’s eyes look over the ship closely, his gaze latching on every single section of repair. He knows we took this ship from elves...

...unless...

“We’re sure the owners wouldn’t want this vessel back,” Siran darkly said.

“Oh... and how so?” the official turned from his inspection and then took on that smirking smile yet again for a moment, before a glower came over his face. “I will have you know, sir, that the Kingdom of Kubalia is not at war with the elven nations, and we cannot tolerate such acts of piracy in our waters!”

“Piracy!” Siran started to sputter, before Viktalia raised her hand to his mouth. For a few moments the cleric continued his muffled protests, till Viktalia raised a finger to her mouth and shushed him.

“Good sir... pray... what is your name?” she asked sweetly.

“Tyral,” the official replied harshly, now looking all too long into the ship’s hold. “Are you the master of this vessel?”

“Yes,” Viktalia said quickly, without thinking. She gave a scowl at Siran’s pained expression. I can solve this mess for us... I know what he wants. The elven merchants forced us Formoterans in Cold Harbor to do this many a time. Let me do the talking!

“From just a glance, captain,” he nodded to Viktalia, “I can see you’re carrying a large quantity of elven wine and Formoteran brandy... goods that should have been reported to the tariff office before you even drew close to the harbor.” He stood up, and looked Viktalia in the eyes. “I’m afraid I’m going to require your ship be escorted into harbor, with yourselves placed in the protection of the Elven Embassy until we can resolve who is the owner of this vessel...”

“May I persuade this man to leave us alone?” Viktalia heard Viesel rumble, and quickly the Formoteran shook her head. No... your ‘persuasion’ would result in Tyral having a broken neck at best... something that won’t be good considering that frigate is sitting right next to us...

“How about I just stick my boot up his elven-loving ass?” Siran hissed... for the moment, Viktalia ignored the comment.

“Mr. Tyral, sir. I understand that there appear to be some discrepancies in our arrival and ship, but I am sure that I can explain these to your satisfaction. Would you care to accompany me below, for some wine or brandy, perhaps?”

She put into her voice just a tiny bit of musical inflection, a song the same as the chimes in her homeland. She knew her words were dangling, tickling in the wind, and she watched as the envoy’s pupils went a little wider than they were before.

“But of course, Madame...”

“Viktalia... Viktalia Starwynd,” she bowed politely, using another form of magic far less arcane and no-less effective. “Please... go ahead,” she smiled, motioning towards the cabin as she ignored the furious storm that was Siran’s face. “I shall join you shortly.”

“What. Are. You. Doing?” Siran hissed slowly as Tyral disappeared into the captain’s cabin. “This man wants to turn us over to the elves and is openly threatening us, so you invite him into the cabin for chitchat over my liquor?”

“I can make him leave us alone,” Viesel offered yet again.

“No!” Viktalia hissed. “Can’t you see? He wants a bribe!”

“A bribe?”

“Yes!” the Formoteran rolled her eyes. “He knows obviously this isn’t our ship, and just by looking at the firepower next to us, if they thought we really were pirates, they wouldn’t have sent over a single official to examine our cargo... that frigate’s crew would be boarding us right now under a hail of fire and a storm of swords!”

“So you’re going to give him how much? What if he demands our entire cargo!?” Siran replied.

“I can persuade him by means far more effective than Viesel’s...” she started, before Siran’s eyes went wide, then a look of disgust came over his face. When she realized what he was thinking, she became disgusted as well.

“No! Not in a million years!” she hissed. “I’m going to get him tipsy, then charm him like I did just now with my music!” She shuddered, images she didn’t want stuck in her mind. “No! Ew! Ew!”

 

[Emperor Valerian]

Until the next update, Viktalia's player made these song lyrics and pictures of the various sub-species of Formoteran. Enjoy!

EDIT -- No need to post anew, I suppose. All the links in this thread should be working now, FYI.

 

[drag n fly]

As you can see, some of our image hosting problems have been solved. Some of my homemade Photoshops from both this story hour and from The Celestial Empire can be found in the link in my profile. Enjoy!

 

[Emperor Valerian]

Sorry about the long wait. Updates are going to come a little slow on this one, since break has started and I'm headed home for a week or two. drag n fly is working on a series of posts for this thread, however, and they'll get posted as soon as they're available.