Open Chronicles Kuroimono - The Black One

The spyglass, like everything else of value in his homeland, had been imported from Belgrath... Or was it Alliria? Morcant took it away from his eye, briefly, to check the design. No, this was the work of Dwarves alright. Explained why he could see so far. He resumed his vigil, and now noticed that the faint outline of the so-called Dragonfly Island was barely visible through the fog.

"Aha, there it is," Morcant said aloud - to no one in particular. He was alone on the bow of the pirate vessel, chartered specifically for this expedition. The Ladyship, someone had called it. A woman - Gal she was called - had ceased trying to talk to him for the day after he said "what?" for the seventh time. Lovely girl, she hit all the right notes: utterly sinister, strikingly beautiful. Unfortunate, then, she was always on the verge of being totally incomprehensible.

Oh well. Unlike Morcant, not everyone could combine sinister attractiveness with eloquence. Certainly not as effortlessly.

Morcant turned to the right. Starboard? Whatever it was. He wasn't big on all the nautical terms. Especially poop deck. Who came up with these things? Through the ominous fog, the Blight Orc longships were barely visible. But Morcant knew enough that he didn't need to guess their presence. There were half a dozen others at least. Maybe more. Blight Orcs had a reputation for being a bit more armored and organized than their kin. Hopefully that would prove true. Otherwise this distraction would be far less distracting than it needed to be.

He collapsed the spyglass and strode away, carrying himself with perhaps more authority than someone in ragged traveler's clothing should. "Gareth? Where is Gareth?" Morcant called, being largely ignored by the hurrying crew. Preparing for a coastal raid apparently took quite a bit of effort.

“Insufferable,” Katsuyori worded behind his teeth, straying the back of a palm up the wide kimono sleeve to the paper fan folded against his forearm. “Insufferable. The child should have been granted what’s due her station. Allow the cutting of her throat, a wondrous funeral procession. Would that not be pleasing?”

He slid the fan down into his grasp and plied the bamboo slats wide, flicking sea-salt air back across his brow. Morning warmth was swelling down from behind the far crescent-peaks and pungent fish and whale unguents were chasing after sailfins catching low wind gusts spooling in with the relaxed tide. Village peasants had been busy deboning, gutting, drying, and curing the night’s net catches for mercantile sale. Katsuyori already tasked a servant with purchasing his customary pick of the choicest prawns from the wharf. His mind turned over with the wave swell lapping at the shore line, the sound of water on perfectly smoothed tidal stones, the mourning in the notes of the flute and the drumming of the small taiko.

A fanmaker, meanwhile, had been stalking along the shore’s edge. Hunched with the humping weight of a travelling basket, neatly piled with large and minuscule cutting and finishing saws, wood-carving spatula-blades, chisels, smoothing planes, washi paper. Under a seemingly heavy straw-mino were poor cloth, frayed tabi-socks, laced together with well-travelled straw sandals. Katsuyori’s entourage eyed the vagrant stalk up the pebble shore and prostrate before the rowed housemen. Wind took and fluttered the curtains hedging in the lord. Katsuyori sniffed and gestured with his fan.

One bushi, a yosei with distinctively broad features, bowed, rose, and hulked over the bowed fanmaker. “State your business.”

“My great lords,” Said the fanmaker, voice reedy-thin, without peering up from the damp shore. “Forgive an itinerant beggar, I’ve only a wish to ply my humble trade. I saw from afar your great master produce a most magnificent fan and wondered, just perhaps: would I be allowed the honour of crafting one to add to his no-doubt innumerable collection?”

The warrior paused for his lord’s confirmation or denial. Katsuyori made a brief show of consideration, before snapping his folded fan away. “So sorry, but my master has no need of your services. Perhaps the village over would appreciate your craft, to keep the heat off during their meals.”

“Ah! My apologies for begging of his time!” The fanmaker somehow sank deeper against the hard black-stone and kept bowed low over his stomach. He turned with the weight of his basket and began a hobbling march toward the shallows. Paused, cocking up the rim of a wide-brimmed straw hat. Rojirei the Ninja of the Isle of Owls wondered if perhaps her Lady would be more accommodating.

It was damned hard at times fueling travel cash when waiting on the good auspices of cheap cow-offal like Katsuyori.


Yukihime Morcant

The cut of low draft across the waves is hard to hear at the best of times. But with the fog crawling out from the open waters, into the bay, up the shore; why, the mists swallowed every sound as surely as a well-paid whore in Cerak.

It was just as well. Gal had tired of Morcant’s babbling on the first day of their journey, and they were past three weeks at sea. She would kill for fog – the sailors had laughed when she’d said it a candlemark prior.

‘Turn of phrase, right?’

Right?

Now there was a man smiling ear to ear swinging from the bowsprit, long drained of blood and as pale as the milky foam that crested against the prow of the ship. High tide carried them surely towards the lee shore on a fast quarter reach. The longships either side of her brigantine cut a narrower profile still, though their cargo was anything but.

Blight Orcs.

Feared. Armed. Armored.

In other words – perfect.

When Gal had first taken up with a ship she’d quickly come to appreciate her own limited dietary needs. Meat, salted and cured and kept dry, it could last months. If all else failed, you could heave to and do a spot of fishing.

But humans, like Gareth and Morcant – an unfortunate duo if there ever was one to pay their way on a pirate vessel – they needed other things besides, else their teeth rotted and their shit ran until they keeled over in a pool of blood, or vomit, or sometimes both.

So; Blight Orcs.

Well.

There was one exception in this raiding party. When the soft gull’s caw echoed from the crow’s nest, Gal grinned and bounded up the ratlines. She hooked one foot ‘round the futtock and trained a weather eye to port.

Brandar the Burned was here.

Rojirei | Yukihime

When Gal had asked him to come along on a coastal raid, he'd been tempted to turn her down. But when she'd told him just where they were headed...? How could he? Not many made it here. It was nearly virgin territory for pirates, and that bode well for how much plunder there was to be had.

With her keen eye, though, she'd spot the massive shadow in the grey as In Irons cut through the waves. The familiar Jolly Roger on the foresail was the first thing to come into view after the bow, and from there, the tattered remnants of the rest of his rigs appeared from the fog.

Festooned with seaweed, covered in barnacles, and with a hull the color of necrotic tissue, it barreled towards the squadron with ponderous haste. It was easily the largest hammer she could bring to bear on the raid, and it hadn't taken too much convincing, either.

Standing at the bow, a spyglass in one gloved hand, the Captain raised an arm to give a wave to Gal. Two decks taller than her ship, and decidedly larger in every capacity than the longships, it was clear this vessel had once been the flagship of someone's navy. It also nearly put him even with her crow's nest, - or, rather, felt like it did - and she'd no doubt see his grin.

Below him, three decks of artillery ports were opened, and his ballistae were rolled into place.

This would be a good raid, sure as sure. At the helm, Hastings guided them into position. Along the deck, shades and spirits of sailors long dead, or soon to be dead, along with a handful of living crew, made to raise the sails so they wouldn't dash themselves on the very shore they sought to pillage.

"A shame..." He remarks, to no one in particular, "...I was almost hoping it'd be sunny."

Gareth Rojirei Yukihime Morcant

Gareth retched into a crude wooden bucket. The stench from the vomit filled the hold and lingered there, a noxious cloud that only worsened Gareth's nausea with every buck and roll of the ship.

Here, on board this flotsam wood heap, the cloth banded around his eyes made him truly blind. He could feel neither stone nor sand beneath his feet and the ocean dampened his mana. A cripple in full now, not merely in name.

Doubtless, Morcant wondered why the Lords saw fit to have Gareth accompany him. But Gareth knew. They needed his magic to locate the orb.

After a moment, Gareth made his way to the decks, falling twice, before he heard the sound of Morcant's voice.

Clinging desperately to various bits of rigging, the names of which he did not care to learn, he managed to somehow make his way to stand beside the entourage. Brandar the Burned. Gal

The albino longed for the shore, to feel solid ground beneath his feet again. At least on deck the salt spray and fresh air had swept away the lingering whiff of bile.

Ragna spat over the side. Pulling her furs about her, she glared at the other occupants of the longship. The Blight Orcs showed remarkable discipline, eschewing the traditional stereotypes of their race. They followed a rigid military structure and fought in tightly marshalled ranks. There was little room for the berserkers and woad warriors that their more tribal kin were famed for. A slave people, they feared the wrath of their lord Menelaus more than they did the blades of their enemies.

Five of her kith had come down from the hills to take service. Their chieftain had been shrewd with his bargaining and it had brought much wealth for the Stone Shields. Ragna marvelled at her new weapon. Before she'd been happy with fire hardened spears or crude stone mauls. Now she wielded iron, the killing metal. She'd tested it out in the arena at Molthal and been delighted with the effect.

She bared her teeth in challenge at one orc who dared to stare too long. She was hungry and when she got hungry, she got angry. The fare for the voyage had been poor. Salted meat and water was poor substitute for the reek of a fresh kill. It had taken supreme effort to hold back the killing rage. She consoled herself with the thought that soon she would kill, soon she would feed. The furthest she'd ever been from home, the longships were far more seaworthy than the crude rafts or dugout canoes her kind favoured.

The longship beached on the shore with a crunching sound. Ragna vaulted easily over the side, landing with a grunt. Delighted to feel solid ground under her feet again, the giant roared in triumph. She could hear the answering bellows from the other vessels. She could pick them all out, especially Grom's rumble and Thyra's undulating cries. Snarling, she pressed forward onto the shore. She barked at the orcs to move, restless now that she could smell prey.

Menelaus was happy to use his more primitive kin as shock troops. As brutish as trolls, it generally just meant pointing them at the enemy and letting them off the leash. Some of the Blight Orcs had seen it before, they were careful to give her and the others as much space as they could.

Sea mists hugged the grey shores of Dragonfly island, beading along the hawks feathers. Acid green eyes watched the ritual on the shore, Yukihime was to leave this place, banished for reasons that Kira had not yet deciphered. No matter, Kira had already scoped out the girls transport and chosen to hitch a ride to Arethil’s mainlands. It would be Kira’s second trip and she was more than eager to make headway.

She watched the Black One wade into the water, then cast her eyes seawards. Her feathers ruffled in annoyance and she shook free the water that had collected upon her wings. Keen eyes spied the shadows of masts, peeking above the mists edge. A click of her beak and Kira took flight, dropping from her high tree perch and gliding effortlessly above the water.

A beat or two brought her a little higher, and with each meter deeper into the mists, more and more of the incoming longships became visible, their decks crawling with orcs. She passed the bowsprit of one, its decorated with a corpse not old enough to smell, but to Kira’s nose it wreaked.

If this was not enough to set her heart thumping, then the sight of In Irons most certainly was. Over a hundred guns spread over three decks. She’d only heard of it it legend, and its position among the long ships did not bode well. She circled higher and let out three keening cries that cut through the fog. Kira flew for the shore, releasing three cries, pausing and calling again.

Having pulled ahead in the shallows, the longships soon made landfall on the shore. Their payload of Orcs and their towering companions spilled forward onto the shore while the two bigger vessels hung back, staggered out thanks to deeper draft.

Besides, who needed foot soldiers when you had ballistae armed and ready to go?

Gal raised her arm where she stood on the bridge, then let it fall with a roar of “Release!” In unison the shot twanged from thick hemp string, and the heavy bolts sliced through the cloying fog with an ominous whistle.

As her crew worked to reload the weapons, the Nazrani heard the song of wings sailing on the briny air. She leaned backward, keen gaze searching the white mist for any sign of the source. A large shadow flew past the foremast, ‘round the stern towards In Irons.

“Das ne bird,” the pirate grunted, watching it circle back around with a keening caw on the wind. Then, louder – “Ah want bows on dat ting!”

Kira

The Dragonfly Isles were exotic and dangerous to be sure, of a strange culture that even Ignisa had not fully wrapped her head around despite having visited several times before over the last five hundred years. The House of Aravell maintained an embassy here under the guidance of the House of Sea and Storms, led by Lord Orlénd of great renown. From time to time, as the House that was closest to the Dragonfly Isles, the Mistress of Sky and Grass would set sail from the northern shores of the Taagi Baara Steppes and cross the Ra Gnamb Sea for a time, bearing news of the main islands and receiving feedback from the Master of Sea and Storms in return to bring to the attention of Fal'Addas. It was rare that the Master of Sea and Storms would grace the Council of Aravell, for the journey south was long and ardous. Only the fact that portal stones allowed Ignisa to cross the Allirian Strait with ease meant that Sky and Grass was often represented when the Heads gathered.

And now, she stood next to the window of the room that she had rented for the next few days. The ship that was due to bring her back to the Steppes and the bounds of Sky and Grass would only arrive in the next few days, giving her ample time to recover from the strain of hard travel, and fortify herself for the rough journey ahead. The Ra Gnamb Sea was rough and cold at the best of times, though thankfully Ignisa could mitigate the travel conditions to a certain extent. Nonetheless, to interfere too sharply would be to disrupt the balance of the world. Tales abounded among the Star Elves, of mages who had overreached and forgotten to account for the balance of nature, only for their own creations to turn against them. A storm conjured in the Aberresai, not properly corrected for, spawning hurricanes in the Allirian Straits that ravaged the Taagi Baara. A current diverted in the Gulf of Liad to bring warm weather to the Seret Mountains, inciting torrential rain in the Amol-Kalit that drowned hundreds.

Nature was fickle, and would not tolerate abuse.

A bird's cry rang out through the fog from the sea, and Ignisa glanced towards the ocean, annoyed at the disturbance to her quiet contemplation of the sky, and of nature itself.

There was Gareth! He stood on the deck, a tall, pasty, blindfolded pillar. The magister was, incidentally, clinging to guardrails and rigging like he was about to fall over. Probably because he was. Poor, blind thing had no footing on decks. And the closer Morcant got, the more he detected the faint smell of vomit from Gareth, mixed in with the scent of the sea.

Clearly he had no stomach for travel. Thankfully he was at least partially more useful than his blind, puke-encrusted appearance would imply. "There you are! I've been looking all-"

Suddenly, just over Gareth's shoulder, Morcant saw In Irons break through the fog. It was unlike any ship he had seen before in his short life, and even at this distance he could sense the dead that were toiling on the vessel. The vague sensation of the animated dead at work would have normally made him homesick, but something vague and unfamiliar was at work. Nothing like Morcant and the other Acolytes dealt with.

Morcant sucked in air through his teeth at the feeling, then coughed. "Ah, the landers are ready. Follow me! Or the sound of my voice. You know the drill."

He was off again, in no small part due to wanting In Irons out of his general field of vision.

Bells began to peal, sounding out loud even through the thick fog. A belated warning to rally the militia and defend against the raiders. It spurred on the Blight orcs, eager to get to grips with their prey. The bells had the sound of panic to them, it boded well for them. Panicked peasants who'd break and run the moment Molthal's finest charged at them.

Ragna could smell them. Prey was close and it made her smile. She strode forward, easily keeping pace with the orcs. A figure became clear through the mist now, a lone one. Yukihime ran forward at the raiders with her blade held high. Ragna laughed at the sight, one against over thirty. She let the orcs swarm forward, blades drawn ready to eviscerate the lone warrior.

She gave her maul an experimental swing through the air, smashing the hull of a small fishing boat to splinters. She stomped through the remains, baring her teeth in a vicious grin. The slaughter was about to begin.

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, Ignisa had wandered the world, naively believing that she could defend herself with ease. The child within her had been unprepared for the cost of taking another life, and the first time that she had been forced to burn someone alive entirely, she had had nightmares for weeks. Only this time, she was the one who had been subjected to the wrath of Astra's fire. Perhaps it had been a message from the Queen of Stars herself, a warning of the dangers of the power that she wielded, a further reminder that not only was magic something to be wielded with caution, but also that life was never to be taken freely. Time had washed away the child, swept along with the turn of the seasons, and in the five hundred years since Ignisa could no longer remember just how many lives she had taken whilst defending herself and upholding the law and order where chaos reigned. But never had she felt Astra turn away her blessings whenever she needed them. Powerful enough she was as a mage, but with the backing of the Queen of Stars, Ignisa could perform miracles.

The black sails peeked through the mist, and though the main town itself, where the elven middle class lived, was not quite in reach just yet, it would only be a matter of time before chaos reigned. The local militia, huddled in the keep further inland, would never reach the town in time before the raid was over, unless the pirates were stalled where they stood. Already panic was spreading throughout the town, the inhabitants rushing inland like a tide as the bells clanged, echoing off the nearby hills. Orcs poured out from the ships as Ignisa watched, her keen eyes watching their every move from her vantage point at the top of the inn. In all her travels, she had only seen these particular orcs from the Blightlands, the most savage of their kind and the most warlike, a far cry from their civilized brethren of Bhaithairk. Though rare so far from the Spine, raids from the Blighted Plains did occasionally roam the Steppes, and Ignisa had fought them more than once before, defending Alirycas from their wrath and savagery.

She glanced up at the sky and raised her staff. Through the mist that cloaked the city, thunder rumbled ominously.

A bolt of lightning streaked down from the heavens and smashed into ships that threatened the town with a roar of wood and chips.

The Storm Isles had been breached by raiders it seemed. The captain of the Mystmarch naval ship watched things from a distance away with the strange tube filled with mirrors he had recently bought off of a trade ship fresh from the main land. The elves at Butterfly island seemed to be the target. Not much of a concern. Mystmarch and the Yamatakuni elves only had a peace treaty after all not a military alliance. Those talks never went well after all. Neither side had much interest it seemed given their history of conflict. The only thing that concerned the captain was how they got throw the perpetual storms that surrounded the islands on all sides. Probably grabbed a Stormcalmer or two from some trade ships that went missing. Was the easiest and most likely explanation. The individual raiders might not have even realized there was a Stormcalmer on their vessel that let them pass through. Could be a potential problem in the future for security.

The captain lowered his prized tool as his first mate arrived. "Seems the elves aren't being very nice to their guests."

The first mate, an elf who seemed half the captain's age but was likely double it, looked out at the ships in the distance. "I would say their guests aren't being very nice either."

The captain rolled his right shoulder as he responded, "True. Best we see to it they don't try knocking on our door after. Find the Stormcalmers and tell them to get to work on conjuring up a storm over those big ships. They probably won't sink but no one wants to fight in a storm."

With that the first mate pressed a fist over their heart and left. As the elf went to find the two mages onboard the ship to deliver their orders the captain began to take a look at the larger vessels. This scouting patrol was turning out to be just as relaxing as he was told it would be.

The pair of Stormcalmers had their orders now and moved towards the portion of the deck with the best view of the larger vessels. None of the ships were close enough to even hope to land a hit on the other, but thankfully storm magic wasn't as bothered by the limitations of military technology. The pair kept their eyes on the pirate vessels and began to pray in unison to the God of Storms. Nothing happened for a minute but soon enough a small cloud began to form. It grew in size unnaturally fast and continued to streak out beyond the dimensions of the pirates' ships. If the sudden darkening wasn't a clue or a chill now in the air, the first faint throb of thunder was would foretell of the building danger. There was still time for them to move as the winds just began to pick up in intensity.

Ignisa Aravell Ragna Morcant Yukihime Gal Kira Gareth Brandar the Burned Rojirei

Fortunately - or, perhaps, unfortunately - Kiva had blessed the Irons. The islands were naturally shrouded and hidden away, but In Irons was equally at home in that occluding fog. Most of the vessels to be found here were longships, and a smaller brig that was Gal's. The real threat was the looming hulk of In Irons, a ship with a legend as long as recorded history.

That thought never did cease to amuse Brandar, but he hadn't always been the captain.

"Bring us around." He says to the helmsman, arms folded over his chest. The crow skull hanging from the crow's nest had given the warning, and no sooner was magic being conjured up than the rotted hulk of In Irons was crashing through the waves, sails unfurled and ballista rolled out.

He didn't need wind in his sails, but he wasn't concerned with a storm. They'd survived worse, and Gal would have the capacity to buy herself the time she needed to see the raid through - Brandar was here to run off any 'assistance' that may show up. Well, within reason, that is.

"Captain!" Brandar turned his head to look to Hastings, who was battling the helm with another crewman.

"Aye?"

"What kind of magic is this?"

"The kind you shouldn't be worried about."

"Why's that?!"

"Storms are indiscriminate. Blessings are fickle. Magic is taxing. We won't reach engagement range - they'll scamper off before we reach them."

"Then why chase at all?" Brandar smiled.

"You ever try harpooning a shark aiming to ram your boat? It's like that. The shark isn't going to flinch, so you shouldn't either. Normally, we're the shark. This time, we're the fisherman."

In fact the easiest and most likely explanation for a ship getting through a storm was… an efficient crew, a skilled captain, and good knowledge of heavy weather tactics.

The sailors knew their business, and had the mate to direct them besides. Gal was instead set on the settlement ahead, where riches and folk would be plundered from the ruins once the locals had the wisdom to surrender. Most of them had fled into hiding already, but as always there was that one person stupid enough to make a target of themselves. By climbing onto a roof, in this instance.

Few were the tales of village heroes and their exploits, and for good reason; they never lasted long.

Gal raised her arm, her voice—

and was interrupted by the flash of lightning, the peal of thunder fast on its heels. Among the flock of beached longships, a sail caught fire, its mast split halfway to the base.

One look to the sky was enough to tell the gathering clouds were nothing born of nature. A tempest was building, too quickly to be anything but sorcery. The Nazrani cursed as everything started happening all at once – In Irons bearing away to intimidate a nearby scout, some mage drumming up a storm, a noble charging the Blight orcs with a fiery sword.

Well, the noble wasn’t going to be a problem for long, at least. Might fetch a nice ransom, too.

“Run oot da stern chasers!” she roared her order after the brief delay, senses now tuned to the changing weather. “Mhalgh, git a gage on dat bitch op dere an’ be redy ta’ make ‘er a pincushion when we turn. Leghtór, take in da fores’l and t’garns’ls!”

He grinned and ran aft to help the men handling the ballistae. Two pairs of triple-prod weapons that shot lighter projectiles further, one each on the bow and the stern. Usually she used them to pick off the officers of a fleeing ship – a target on land would be that much easier to strike down.

“Redy aboot!” Her next command went to the second mate as she eased down the helm. “Haul op da spanker! Ease off da jib sheets!” The brigantine rumbled as she luffed, slow to get going but quick on the turn. “Brace op da main tops’l! Haul aft da jib!”

With a feral grin, Gal lashed the helm windward and watched her ship settle, bow against the waves.

“Ye kno’ where ta’ stick yer storm, asshole.”

Ignisa Aravell Ragna Morcant Yukihime Kaelen Silverblood Kira Gareth Brandar the Burned Rojirei

The sudden lurching of the ship nearly tossed Gareth overboard. He heard nothing but the snapping of the sails, the crash of the ocean, and the horrid groaning of the wood they stood upon.

“What’s happening?” He cried to Morcant above the shrieking of the wind and clash of thunder.

The crash of lightning, the roar of thunder! It made Morcant feel alive. Or it would have, if he were not at the mercy of the sea in a highly flammable boat. Maybe Gal and her lot were protected thanks to their blood sacrificing, but Morcant was a long way from the purview of his godhead. This made the prospect of getting into the lander somewhat less... Appealing.

Well, if Morcant only got up to things that were appealing, nothing would get done.

"Don't worry about it," Morcant called back to Gareth, shoving him towards the lander. "We're going ashore! It will be fine."

They soon arrived at where the landing craft was being lowered, and Morcant helped his blind and bumbling sidekick navigate his way over the railing and into the smaller ship.

It absolutely would not be fine.

It is not easy to get into from a larger boat into a smaller boat on the rolling waves of the ocean. It is much, much harder to do so when one is blind and sea-sick.

Gareth felt a shove from behind, then fell half the width of a ship to miraculously land on his side in the bottom of the dinghy. Pain blossomed like flowers after spring showers, or like hatching flies on corpses after a battle, or like funguses on the bodies after they began decay. Yes, those last two images seemed more apt, thought the blind poet amid the pain, wondering how he might fix them in written word.

The half-man groaned and lay like a corpse inside the dinghy.

Morcant

The captain scowled as the biggest of the vessels began to sail towards them seemingly unbothered by the growing storm. He began to yell orders for the anchor to be raised and the sails readied. His spyglass went into its pouch. That ship was the avatar of the Goddess of Death for their little scout ship. It was the Goddess of Death for even their largest ship. From the way they were sailing too it was clear the captain of their rapidly approaching doom was aware of it as well.

"Can we divert one of those mages to put winds in our sails?" The captain yelled to his first mate.

"Nah. The storm is a ritual. They stop now it stops." The elf responded back.

A few curt curses left the middle aged human's lips. The captain didn't like this situation. They could barely fight a dedicated trade ship or fishing boat let alone that sea beast charging their way. They would need to survive this too to send word back to Mystmarch of things. Seemed time was goes both ways for him right now. Too little was to be had before their death but too much was required for their goals. Left them only one real option here: evade.

As the captain took the wheel the first mate confirmed the ship was ready. He began to bark orders to prepare for evasion. Hopefully they could zig zag about enough to make an escape once the ritual was finished. The scout ship lurked as they began to sail at an angle away from the larger ship towards the shore. Hopefully the strong winds produced that way by the storm would help keep them just out of those ballistas' range.

The storm continued to increase in intensity. High winds blew towards the beach as heavy rain was turning to sleet. Thunder bellowed above like the drums of war they were. More and more flashes of lightning illuminated the world. The weather was turning more violent with every passing minute and the sea responded in kind. Waves rose higher and rolled with more force as they came to the sands and stones of the beach. It was as if the God of Storms was welcoming both those at sea and on land to the Isles of Storm.

Gal Gareth Morcant Brandar the Burned Ignisa Aravell Ragna Yukihime Kira Rojirei

The hat helped. So did the scarf. And the oiled whale-leather coat. And the boots.

But boy, was she fucking cold. And wet.

And still it didn’t matter. They were at sea – it was always cold and wet. The only difference now was that water was pouring down from the sky also, not just from the sides. Gal pitched her head back for a roll or two and let the rain wash her face free of salt. Then—

“Load op da starboard broadsayd! Aim fo’ dem soldiers!” She received a roared confirmation over the crash of the waves, and then another salvo of bolts split the thick air to fell the oncoming militia. The sailors had pulled canvas over the heads of the ballistae to protect the wound skein from the dense sleet whipping the ship. Unless it started pouring right over the deck, they could keep shooting for a while yet.

She relinquished helm watch to their cook – wheel or stove, he knew his way around both – and scaled a ways up the port ratlines. With a quick wipe of the lens, Gal raised her spyglass up to make sense of the pennants billowing at the stern of the Irons. Her mouth quirked up in delight as she directed her gaze further north.

And then she blinked.

“Slap me arse an’ call me Sally.” A nearby sailor chortled. “Dat cannae be right.”

The longer she watched, the more clear it became that it wasn’t some odd, heretofore unseen sailing ploy. Under an unknown flag, the scout ship had braced its sails and… made for the shore.

The lee shore.

“Mistah Leghtór,” she sing-songed as she swung down from the rigging. The orc turned around, pausing at the sight of her hungry grin. “Let da cru know ta’ be redy fo’ a full an’ by.”

He followed her eyes towards the bow, and his face lit up like it was Turn-year rite. “Aye fuckin’ aye, Captain!”

Gal just laughed. She laughed, and laughed, and wouldn’t stop.

Kaelen Silverblood | Gareth | Morcant | Brandar the Burned | Ignisa Aravell | Ragna | Yukihime | Kira | Rojirei

Ignisa's gaze suddenly flew to the sky as the clouds darkened and the winds rose. Beyond all her expectations, a storm started to gather, the very energies mingling and clashing too fast for any mortal mage to manipulate. A force, beyond the dreams of mages, seemed to intervene - the protection of the islands had been invoked. To her senses, elemental energy boiled in the air, ready to be unleashed upon the shore, the wrath of the storm beyond anything she could think to conjure up in such a short time. A bolt of lightning here and there from the cloudless sky? Not unheard of. But summoning a hurricane was completely out of the picture, and Ignisa could only shudder at the immensity of the powers that were being brought to bear out of thin air.

She had heard the legends, of course. Having travelled back and forth between the mainland and the island where storms seemed to rage without care, providing a natural boundary, Ignisa had heard of the legends of the Storm God from the Mystmarch Kingdom to the west. Their beliefs, filtered eastwards to the Elves of the Dragonfly Isles, given less weight, but never dismissed out of hand. Ignisa had never received a visitation from the Storm God himself, and in truth Ignisa favoured the Celestials over all others, but she did not deny and had never been foolish enough to deny that there were powers beyond those of the Gods she had worshipped. After all, had Astra, Queen of Stars, not acknowledged the existence of the Dark Gods that had almost consumed the world and required the sacrifice of the Celestial Pantheon's physical forms on this world?

Right now though, Ignisa offered a small prayer of thanks to the being that had summoned the storm. For good or ill, he had made her life that much easier.

The winds, rising to new strength, screamed about her, buffeting her. Grabbing hold of a particular windstream, she twisted it about herself with an effort of magic, and found herself propelled over the buildings, the wood and stone flashing beneath her, towards the shore itself. With a spoken word and a wave of her hand, the sands that approached slowed as the winds dragged her back, preventing her from hitting the ground with terrifying force. She rolled as she landed, and stood up seemingly without problems, but then winced for a moment as pain roared across her left shoulder, and she transferred the staff to her right arm.

Out in the open, at the top of the shoreline a bit further inland from where the pirates had landed their boats, she felt the winds weaving across her very fingers, the spray of the ocean misting her face, the pouring rain soaking her robes. Whispering words in elven, a prayer to divine Astra, she lifted her staff in the face of screaming pirates and charging warriors.

Lightning flashed down from the sky, the wrath of the divine falling seemingly indiscriminately. One such bolt streaked down towards her, but Ignisa swung her staff without breaking a step, and the lightning bounced off an invisible shield and slammed into the ocean and sea spray once again. The words from her lips rose and rose, until it merged with the roar of the wind. Her hand suddenly shot out, and the winds that blew indiscriminately suddenly gathered force and hurtled back out to sea, the power of the gale stripping the sand from the shoreline and blinding the invaders, dragging at them and sending the orcs stumbling and tumbling back towards the ocean.

Thunder snapped at the heaving cloud cover and forked lightning speared and boiled the sea. Elves were fecal dainties, he thought. Humans a further rung below. Ocktharz felt the shoreline shallows cool the rashing swelling up beneath his heavy skirt plating and cursed all gods and spirits for the slating rainfall catching in the iron of his riveted war-helm. His longboat had discharged its raiding crew a quarter click south-south-west, along pebble-tracts slowly accreting into rocky silt, then sand, laced with hidden pot-holes mired ankle-deep with kelp and tidal jetsam. Ocktharz trudged with his forward pike-rank, gnashing crude boot-cleats against rimes of sludge. They were a throng of massed casement, individualized to a fighter, replete with bull-horns fixed to helmets, pauldrons nailed with jawless skulls, trophies, fetishes, charms, talismans of bone, alloy, quartz, and a few rare jade carvings, some hauling ratty clan banners against the wind, and all armed to the tusk.

Ocktharz sighted the hunched cobbler gently picking his way towards waters. Grinned for it, licking bracken off chipped incisors and punting his spear-butt into Hughnok’s ‘ditch’. Now he was the band’s fastest sprinter. Now he could take the joy of first kill, though the picking was so paltry. Ocktharz broke through the last metre of tidal pools and charged the cobbler. An old man; some hunched, lowly cretin in homespun threads weighed under a tool basket. In those insipid ‘sandals’ the islanders favoured, what with their toed socks and long-winded decorum. Not a warrior to match his grit, Ocktharz crowed. He heaved his pike level with his hip, broke into a pounding charge, ululating throatily.

The fanmaker cocked his cone straw-hat, produced a sharpened wood-saw from inside his kimono, and waited. The grey orc dug his toes against the sand and, finally within pole reach, jousted the pike-end for the local’s belly. Struck through emptied, cold air. Ocktharz glimpsed a pirouette blur in his peripheral and paused, standing transfixed with facial rictus; a permanent, blood-hungry smile. The pike fell and sank into wet sand. The fanmaker left the wood-saw jammed through Ocktharz’ voice-box, throat, and spine.

-


He no longer tripped and stumbled at a geriatric pace. Rojirei broke into a trim walk, undoing the cloth-binds knotting the tool basket to his shoulders. He pulled a furrowed chisel out of the basket weave, lancing his arm forward. The chisel winged and buried through an Orc helm, splitting the facial plate and sputtering bone and wet brain onto the body next in rank. War cries now pulsated up the beach-head, as the warband made tracks to bury their pikes into sole ‘fanmaker’ defying their raid.

Rojirei freed a long handsaw and partnered it with a well-worn chisel, rainfall chasing down his straw hat. Blight Orcs were famed for their iron industry, bragging toughened cuirasses and chainmail-and-cotton undercoats, martialed discipline, and perhaps the most singular hate for everything that did not fall beneath their hegemony. The ninja worded a small prayer to the local shrine god, fell into the ‘willow’ mindset, and watched the bristle of pike and spear-ends poke through the raindrops. He stepped forward, slapping poleshafts down and away with the flat of the handsaw, slicing its tooth-blades where the Orc cuirasses paused at the collarbone, jabbing out with the chisel-point. Took an Orc through a helmet-slit and turned, whipping the handsaw across an unguarded throat, pressing and guarding through a half-dozen spear assaults before a spear-blade punched in and stuck above his hip.

The ninja shuddered and hurled the chisel away, catching an Orc through his brow-plate. His hands broke the spear shaft quilling through his side, gripping the blood-warmed spear-head and shunting it free. Dark carmine rivulets soaked down to his shin. Rojirei snapped forward, piercing the spear-head through steel, flesh and ribs, and into the Orc heart beyond, dropping another body. Exhaling the pain, he dove and rolled through soggy kelp flotsam, reaching for that discarded tool basket. A long, straight-edged uchigatana found his grip and swung free of its bamboo scabbard. Swung, around and with the power of his twisting hip, cleaving through an exposed waist.

Laughing, admiring the spectacle, the storm gods hailed the rain down harder across the ninja’s sagged frame.

Yukihime Morcant Gal Brandar the Burned Gareth Ragna Kira Ignisa Aravell Kaelen Silverblood

The nobleman stood at the edges of the village with his two guards, looking at the oncoming raiders. He had long, seemingly damp or wet hair which was varying various shades of blue. To those who looked close enough, the ocean blue color of his eyes seemingly moved like a current. Chimalus Azurewyne was a noble from Mystemarche, having been on a diplomatic mission in the city for weeks. Often he would go down to the lower residences, where humans and the like lived- he found it more comforting than sitting and dining with Elves, despite his Noble status.

The elves will never be able to sustain a defense against a surprise attack like this, He thought to himself before he was interrupted by one of his guards.

"My Lord, we should retreat into the safety of the city before they get any closer." The man said, a buff human with full plate armor with a sword and shield. Beside him was an Elvish woman, while not as physically buff as the human, she was skilled. She wore leather armor and carried daggers and with a bow and arrows.

"No," Chimalus said, as he turned around to face his two guardsmen, looking at them both.

"We were sent here to sustain diplomatic ties and find our information, and helping to defend their city will grow trust between us..." He said as his eyes glanced at a group of turtle-looking men gathered behind his guards. There was a long line of them rushing into the city. Torgans...they must be on their pilgrimage, He thought, starting to walk towards them to ask them to help defend before he was grabbed by one of his guards.

"Wha-" He began before being interrupted by one of them.

"My Lord, that is a Mystemarche scouting vessel out there being chased by the enemy ships!" He exclaimed, pointing towards the ocean to the ship getting ever closer.

"I was not told of any ships coming to this part of the isles..." He said, the guard letting go of him.

The trio began walking swiftly farther into the beach towards the battles and ever-dangerous storm. As lightning cracked all around them, Chimalus was seemingly unphased as he strolled into the chaos- his guards looking around and flinching every time a strike of lightning hit the beach. This was not a simple task to aid their diplomatic effort anymore- it was about helping that crew of Mystemarche men.