Open Chronicles Storm Rider

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Acts-With-Vengeance

The Evil Bird
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East of the Allir Reach's southern "horn", there was a stormy sea. And in this stormy sea was a small sloop struggling to sail. She had a gaff mainsail and two jibs. She used a tiller and had no paint job nor did she fly any identifying colors. It was a mystery as to what faction she sailed for and even her name offered no answers. It was written in an illegible flowing script that at this time had not been seen by any other than naga.

In this storm, all her sails were reefed as the waves rocked her to and fro. She appeared to not have a crew, but in truth, a single Krr'chee'aw was taking cover belowdecks. Acts-With-Vengeance was repeatedly croaking and trilling in agitation as they swore like the sailor they were in Krik, their native language. Though alone, they still did their best to keep their small unarmed fishing vessel afloat. Every now and then the ship sprung a tiny leak that Acts had to patch with whatever they could scrounge. They knew that they couldn't sail effectively on their own and this was proof of that. However, they were desperate to take refuge from the naga, the sworn enemies of their species. As far as Acts-With-Vengeance knew, naga didn't sail.

Hopefully.
 
She sailed. Her name was more than one. She was two. Nerren Harclaw was first. Her Iron Bitch was second. Her ship. A longship whose sails were white and blue and whose emblem depicted a black two-headed axe on a field of blue surrounded by grey slivers like waves, or like raindrops, or like teardrops in the rain.

Ebony was her hull, long and narrow, both cruel and fast, and at her bow was a figurehead. An iron maiden, naked and silent, with a two-headed battleaxe brandished, rigid lips, and eyes of sapphire that never blinked, like a sea that never sleeps.

Onward, she ventured, forward in her voyage, ever forward, braving the dangers that awaited the wild waters. Under sunlight whose warmth tickled the countenances of her crew; on a quiet ocean as the pelican flew; in cold nights that beckoned the cloaks tight; or in the rages of waves and rains as with today’s storm.

Brave, she was, this Iron Bitch, as was her captain, as was her sworn swords and axes, men and women, and every one of them was a raider, reaver, reaper. Nordenfiir, they were, and on land they became the bear that roars in the forest. On sea, something different, neither a lesser or greater terror, but not a bear. A kraken.

For hours on end, she sailed the pale dim grey, in whose dismal wake she proved to be not so brittle but brilliant and defiant. By the commands of her captain, who roared and cursed, her crew brought oars through the storm, wrought in iron heart, but not in black rock bound. If the land was a town, the ocean was a city surrounding it but, truly, poetry was lost on this woman.

Hers was the song of battle, blood and fire, but she saw no behemoth or dreadnought in the distance. No, what began as a pinprick on the horizon, a speck of dust under a murdered sun, proved to be a sloop as the longship moved.

“Forward!” commanded the Captain of the Iron Bitch. “Take me to that ship!” Then they would see what would happen next as she approached, quiet as a dying wind, but as loud as a storm of swords that might bite like a kraken.

Acts-With-Vengeance
 
Inside the small ship, the Krr'chee'aw was none the wiser as they struggled to keep the vessel afloat. They were not able to check their surroundings. In fact, the situation was getting worse for them.

Their ship, which could be translated to Romance Dawn in Common, was taking on water. The small sloop wasn't meant for the deep seas, which the single sailor had unfortunately blundered into with a lack of a navigator. Acts-With-Vengeance cursed with a turkey gobble that suggested their ship was a glutton. Running off, they did find a bucket and bend down to fill it while searching for the leak in the hull they'd missed. Their feet sloshed as they waded around until they finally did find it.

But there wasn't time to patch it now. Acts had to empty out the container now. Thus began several trips of bilging the sloop with a single bucket. The crew of the Iron Bitch might notice the strange bird running up and down. Eventually, as they crested a wave, Acts did notice the incoming vessel. They squinted through the rain before darting back belowdecks (with their bucket, of course) and started to arm themselves with a fishing harpoon strapped to their back and a slingshot in one hand. They filled a pouch with small slingshot pellets and strapped it to their belt before turning around to hold the fort. They didn't head back up.

Nerren Harclaw
 
Forward, ever forward, the Iron Bitch traversed the waters, slicing through waves that parted for her bow and maiden, as if to say ‘Come, go forth, for I shall not deter you and, if I do, it will only make you stronger’. There might have been an adage in there somewhere but it mattered little and less at the moment. All that mattered to her was getting ahead to that ship in the distance.

Once a pinprick on the horizon, and in a storm that meant it was closer than farther, now just a small thing; a sloop, not designed like this longship in its long voyage, and that was more than apparent. Whether it had treasure did not matter. Whether it had warriors to offer a challenge, however, was yet to be determined.

Onward, closer, until the moment that the longship arrived close enough in her approach that the sloop would most certainly notice it. Yet, what the Captain of the Iron Bitch definitely noticed was that this other ship was taking on water. So she had a decision to make. Pass along, and why not, or provide assistance. And perhaps reap a reward for it.

Nerren Harclaw thought as she sucked on her lip, tasting saltwater that splashed and sloshed, though her boat rowed ever forward. Closer, she cocked her brow at what appeared to be a bird. Stranger things were seen on these seas, however, and far be it from the bear born within her to judge another beast.

Armed, armored, it didn’t matter. She didn’t care. Her crew and herself were armed and ready to raid hell itself but that was not her purpose for drawing her ship alongside the other vessel. Iron Bitch’s captain commanded her crew to ready weapons but not to attack with. A defensive measure in case the other captain decided to attack first for whatever reason, but she doubted it.

“Aye!” Nerren hailed them, roaring across the storm, standing up straight, as defiant to the rain and wind as her ship. “Captain Nerren Harclaw of the Iron Bitch!” She introduced, ever determined to first know her counterpart before lending her arms. “And who are you!?”

Acts-With-Vengeance
 
From below decks, Acts-With-Vengeance didn't head up. They weren't scared, not at all! (Okay, maybe a little) No, this was strategic. By staying near the hold with their supplies, they could use the stairs down from the hatch as a choke point.

They glared up at the closed hatch and aimed a loaded slingshot at it while screeching in Krik. Not that the others would understand, they definitely didn't recognize Common. With falcon and hawk screeches they tried to curse and threaten the others to go away in a rather unkind manner. It probably wasn't going to work though.

As they glared, their tail lashed behind them as their feathers puffed up. They flared out their dark wings in an instinctive attempt to look bigger that now really just communicated anger in their society. Yes, they were angry. Definitely not scared, where did you get that from?

Nerren Harclaw
 
Fear. That was an emotion for some but, while she wasn’t one to boast about it unless especially drunk, it meant nothing to Nerren. How could it? One did not so easily brave these seas with armor on as much as arms, whether against the violence of the storms or that of a storm of swords.

Whether it meant her death, as those men and women beside her, for to fall into the water in full armor would lead to drowning but, whatever, they were already dead!

However, apparently her quarry had mistaken this captain as an enemy. Oh, surely, she could bring hell down upon them if she wanted it but, well, that wasn’t her intention. Nerren was a raider, a reaver, a reaper, and every other adjective within the alphabet, but she had simply come along with her ship to render assistance.

If it wasn’t wanted? So be it. Violence would be promised instead. If a slingshot was tossed in her general direction then the Iron Bitch would reward the attention with arrows of her own. Anger would be met with anger and this stupid sloop would feel the wrath of a Norden warrior.

“I said who are you!?” She repeated, but she might not say it thrice. “But, uh, if you don’t want my help then, hell, we’ll happily sail away.” In truth this sloop might not be worth her time or effort either way.

Acts-With-Vengeance
 
Still not understanding the speech, and still being belowdecks, the lone sailor only stared up the hatch. When no violence was immediately given, their feathers gradually began to calm down, but they kept their aim up. At least the slingshot started to release tension with its user, making it a bit less of a threat.

Regardless, Acts kept up their combat ready stance as their wings remained spread. The hands on those wrists remained fists and their tail continued to lash. Their talons on their feet dug into the deck below as they started to question the other incoherently.

At least, at some point, they gestured briefly to themself and said something along the lines of "Krr'chee'aw" before pointing to Nerren and chattering strangely. It's... something.

Nerren Harclaw
 
Nerren narrowed her gaze at the bird-creature who pointed toward her. Evidently it could not speak her common tongue but that made no difference. This ship might decidedly not be worth her time or effort but a slingshot was never enough to deter this woman whatever she decided.

“The hell did it just say?” Asked a crewman.

“Think it’s calling you the whore of the storm, Captain Nerren,” laughed another.

“Kirchiah. I believe that’s birdspeak for bring me some mead.” And another.

“It pointed it at itself then at me,” Nerren mused aloud, barely comprehending her crew’s speech. “It’s…something.”

“Tell me we’re gonna sail away or just sink this piece of shit into the depths,” one sailor spat.

“Birds are bad luck,” mused another.

“Good luck if you pluck their feathers. Maybe this one has bounty in its belly and I don't just mean its ship.”

Captain Harclaw hardly listened to them. “I’ll take my chances,” she shrugged. “And add another death to my name if something stupid happens.” Though there was only way to find out what happened next.

“Nerren!” She pointed to herself. “Kirchiah!?” She pointed to the bird. “Help!?” She picked up a bucket from within her ship and lifted it to the bird’s vision. “Help!?” She pointed at the bird again, tapped the bucket, and waited for what happened next.

Acts-With-Vengeance
 
The dark-feathered sailor glares at each of the other sailors with suspicion as they speak. They don't understand them, no, but the Krr can tell they're not being taken seriously. In a display of agitation, they lift their tail and  slash it on the deck behind them.

Their glare becomes an unimpressed frown as they look back at the captain, this they did recognize. They grumble in Krik about the sailors' complete lack of discipline, at least in their perspective, before trying out Nerren's name. "Nrrrr'n," they manage a little awkwardly. It's as raspy as their Krik accent.

"Krr'chee'aw," they slowly correct as they gesture to themself again. They look around the hold before one wing arm extends out of sight, briefly. It comes back with a small painting of moderate skill depicting Acts with several Krr Flock members. They frown lightly at it. They're all one with the wilds now....

They gesture to the painting and repeat the name of their species, then point to the depiction of themself, then again to their own chest, and make the call of a bat hawk. Their own farname, as their close name probably would not be as easily understood they figure. It's always longer.

Finally, their tail swishes against the deck as they comprehend the offer for help. This stirs up seawater behind them and they cringe as they bring it back up. They frown at the water around them, then at Nerren, and finally reluctantly nod as they return their attention to bilging. However, they remain tense and vigilant regardless.

Nerren Harclaw
 
Finally, they were getting somewhere, this pair of captains. Nerren saw no other crewmember amid the presence of this bird but, whatever, she wasn’t worried. She and her own crew were ready to die one way or the other the moment they entered their ship, yet long before it, when the ocean was the mountain or the forest, for they were born for it.

Paintings. Nerren liked those but preferred song and poem. Perhaps lyrics could be written of this moment, this encounter between bear and bird, but later. What mattered most was rendering assistance as offered, for Nerren Harclaw kept her words and, if she did not, her crew would promptly remind her of it, with or without her ship.

“Good.” It was all Nerren said as the bird nodded its acceptance of assistance. Then it was her turn to nod to her crew as everyone began to move. They executed those movements without hesitation, without conversation, having no need to shout beneath the winds and the rains of the storm. It was the practice of sailors, habits trained in, as they moved forth and boarded the other ship.

They had swords and axes, but these weren’t brandished. Rather, they were sheathed at hips, at backs, and they did not attack. “There!” Nerren pointed for one of her raiders. “And there!” Another direction, another reaver. “You, there!” Another reaper, another position. Buckets in hands, they began to gather water and to toss it back into the waters.

“Where is the leak?” The Captain of the Iron Bitch asked the captain of this ship. “We will fix it,” she promised.

Acts-With-Vengeance
 
They turn to put the painting away and resume bailing with their own bucket after cooing at the nearby sailors. Such a sound was one of gratitude in Krik; it was the least they could do. Their long tail raises and curls against their back so they might not trip up the other sailors. They consider them clumsy and underformed.

When the other captain asks Acts another question, she only gets a blank stare in response as they fail to understand. Slowly Acts blinks at Nerren with their third eyelids and tilts their head.

Nerren Harclaw
 
Acts blinked. Nerren blinked back. After a moment, however, she remembered that, though fast to act, her endeavor to render assistance was limited by communication. So she lifted her hands.

“Leak. LEAK.” She formed a circle with one hand and poked her forefinger through it with the other. “Leeeeeeaaaaaaaaak.” Gestured toward the hull, beckoned for the bird to follow her, knocked on the wood as physically as superstitiously.

“Leak! Water! Hole!” She jabbed at the wood with her knife as if to make a hole but she didn’t. Splashed water on it. Wasn’t good at charades, especially when drunk, to be honest. Or was she better when drunk? She never remembered.

Acts-With-Vengeance
 
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