Open Chronicles The Ash on the Breeze

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

They sent forth men to battle,​

But the men are put to rest in the seas;​

And home, to claim their welcome,​

Come ashes on the breeze.​

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It had been 2 weeks since they began to sail down the Baal-Asha river, and towards Cerak. Even he was amazed at the force he had managed to muster for the God-Emperor; a Navy of 200 Long war-ships followed him toward the Black Bay, with him being on the largest of the Armada, the 'Jada-Empora', or 'Emperor's Jewel'. Its sails were high in the sky, the wind being with them for the majority of the trip. Probably those gods that Gerra's priests pray to, he thought.

The armour he'd asked for the court mages to complete was finished - a set of enchanted fluid-armour, as light and flexible as leather, but as strong and dense as tempered steel. They'd also crafted him a helmet - rather than a mask - so it would protect his head during battle, whilst also hiding his face. It was a beautiful thing of black-steel, put together in the royal forges of Annuakat, a work of art.

All the boats were manned with the finest soldiers the Emperor could muster, all trained sailors and proven warriors, some of the larger boats even having an Immortal or two, trained by Uvogin himself. It was a beautiful thing, seeing the sigil of the Empire embroidered into the sails, flying high in the air, against sea and sky, defiant of the order that had been put in place. As much as Gerra had sent him on this mission, only Gerra knew what it meant to him.

The years of his life wasted. The childhood that had been robbed from him. If he related to the Dreadlords in anyway, he understood what it meant to have something robbed from you, and replaced with something you didn't ask for, something you didn't choose, forced to do someone's bidding. Every night he could still feel the sores on his hands from days spent at the plow, his feet burning, his muscles aching. And he wasn't naive to the fact that most of the children who were alongside him, were now either sold, or dead. He could only hope it was the latter.

Since completing the contract, he was aware of the power he possessed. Even now, he hadn't truly taken himself to his limits - he hadn't needed to. But this time, it wasn't about killing the innocent. It wasn't about defeating Gerra's enemies. It wasn't defeating the enemies of the Empire. It was murdering the guilty. Every single one of the slave traders, owners, buyers, sellers, they'd all learn to suffer as they'd made others suffer. He will show no mercy, make no bargain, find no common ground. And anything and anyone that stood in his way would not see the eyes of a merciful man. They'd see a cold stare.

Followed by all those ships, he truly felt like it was his time to make a real difference, to shift the tides of the world. Too long had the world been complacent in their acceptance of Cerak's dark dealings, some nations even allegedly buying from them, Vel Anir being one. He would shake the world with the might of the Empire, and with the will of Gerra of Molthal, God-Emperor of Amol-Kalit, and soon Arethil.

He loved the sea, with all its freedom. The men clearly loved it too, and - since they were all veterans of the ocean - not a one didn't enjoy the breeze on their face, or the scent of salt that hung in the air. But he didn't enjoy it for long, as soon he'd heard the words he'd been waiting to hear.

"Vizier! Ships seen off of Starboard side!"

"What's their sail?"

"The sigil of the Black Bay, my lord."

"Do as we discussed."​

It was dark now. The sun had begun to sleep, as the moon raised itself high in the sky. They had, of course, expected this resistance, as almost all who sailed into Cerak were met with pirates if they did not come to sample the Bay's dark delights. The ships turned to face the force, staying as one large group. The Pirates, however, had clearly underestimated the sheer numbers he had brought, only numbering 20 or more. No strategy was needed here. Their resistance was tantamount to suicide.

Jerik's ship rode ahead, the following force become ever more massive and apparent as they began to close in on the Pirates.

No peace. No mercy.

 

[Andromeda]

Tuesday, 1900 hrs - Cerak At'Thul

The Quartermaster of the Black Keep was sat at his desk running through the latest numbers given to him by the slavers. As the most profitable point of trade for the island it took up the majority of his time, but he had to hand it to them, the numbers were always meticulous and there was barely ever a scruple. If there was it was because slaves had died before they could be officially passed over to their new owners; once those documents were signed they were not his problem. He removed the half moon glasses sat on the end of his nose and rubbed at his tired face. He had been doing this for hours. At times he truly missed the waves and the steady rock of the ship. When had he given that up for the Black Keep? It seemed a ridiculous thing for a pirate to do but the love of gold provided by the lucrative slave dealings had been his undoing. He just couldn't say no. He had no care that these were peoples lives he traded, if they were unfortunate enough to be born on this place or end up here taken from another ship it seemed that their anger should really be with fate and not with him and the others who ran the business. After all, he still had to pay for their food and clothing, if they were not here where would they be?

A confident knock at the door stirred the Quartermaster from his musings.

"En'er," he cleared his throat and shuffled his papers so the sensitive information was hidden instead under drivel about maintenance to buildings. A familiar face entered his room and he raised a greying eyebrow: it was very rare that the Gunner would gift him with her presence. She gave him a look he imagined an insect saw on a persons face before being squashed. Her gaze slid off him in disinterest and instead she moved to stand beside the large window that offered an envious view over the bay.

"We've had reports of a ships heading this way, I 'ave scouts followin' but this force could be with us by mornin'" The Quartermaster leaned back in his chair with a creak of his bones and the soft leather. Not unusual, Free Cities often tried their hands periodically at trying to wrest control of the Bay from Alarak's cold hands. The fact she was bringing this information to him however, was slightly concerning. Usually the only warning he had there was an attack was the thunderous sound of cannons and the wreckage that made its way to the bay.

"A drink?" He offered after she was sure she was not going to share any information. She half turned, though her gaze never left the horizon. "Yes." Well, this was a bad sign.

***​

Wednesday, 0630 hrs - Cerak At'Thul

There had been very few times the "Crew" such as it were that ran the Black Keep were called to the war room; the Quartermaster himself had only been there twice. It was an odd atmosphere. He knew the Gunner hadn't slept a wink even without seeing the dark smudges under her eyes for she had been in his room til the early hours and her little spies had reported back to her. What spies had returned. He had heard nothing until he was roused from his own bed 10 minutes prior.

No sign of the Captain, but the illusive First Mate was there. She was tall even for an elf, her skin was the colour of night itself, a blue so deep some might mistake it for black and eyes that swallowed stars. She was a cutting figure even before she smiled to reveal the teeth she meticulously filed into razor sharp points.

"The Empire is attempting to claim Cerak," The Quartermaster's eyes turned to the Gunner who spoke. "Reports we have received have varied but their numbers rank in the 100's. At least 800 men strong the lot of 'em, but I suspect there will be bigger ones in the ranks." The eyes on the room went to the First Mate but she seemed completely uninterested in the discussion, gazing instead out of the window near which she leaned. He did not doubt however she was listening with intensity to report back to her Captain. "Our fleets are split - we sent extra protection with the latest shipment of slaves to the East after the aggression we have been facing crossing the Akiva Sea. We have about 100 ships in the bay itself, our call for others to return went out as soon as we had heard the fleet was approaching but the closest is still a hard half a days sail away." She didn't need to say the bleedin' obvious: the odds were not in their favour, but 2 to 1 was not un-doable. Conversations began in a murmur as a discussion on the exact crews and their captains were batted around, some of their finest and some of their more questionable. Some were small ships of no consequence. The First Mate turned now and the room fell into a hush.

"We have, however," her voice hissed a little due to the oddness of her teeth. "Been reliably informed that the fleet is being lead by the Sparhawk." A muted hush fell over the room. She turned back to the window.

***​

Wednesday, 0715 hrs - Cerak At'Thul

The Quartermaster had found himself on one of the ships that had been reserved for the second wave of attacks. The plan was simple really: send out a small force to throw the enemy off and make them believe they were meeting with the islands main force. This was made up of the ships that they were happy to lose, crewed by slaves under the command of arrogant men other crews had been more than happy to see the back of. It would hopefully lure some of the enemy fleet into the bay. The majority of the Black Bay fleet was split into two and lurked behind some of the rocky out crop islands that made navigating into the bay harder for the more unskilled. Once the fleet was broken in half, the two halves of the main force would cut them off from one another, hopefully to disrupt communications. The first part of the fleet would be at the mercy of the ships and the trebuchet from the Fortress itself, and the second the brunt force of the Black Bay's forces.

He lit a damp cigarette and leaned against the side. Their signal would be the gong from the Fortress.

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Docks, Cerak At'Thul

The rapping on his cabin door refused to go away. Ferran squeezed his eyes shut for a moment longer before giving up. He sat up, wiping his eyes and swinging himself out of his hammock. "Enter" he said, with a groan, trying to ignore the beginning of a headache, his reward from last night.

Truan Barry's frame darkened the doorway, mercifully blocking out the bright light that threatened to sear Ferran's eyes. "Trouble Ferran". The ship captain didn't look too bothered by the news his mate had brought him. "You've known me too long to leave it at that Truan" he said, pouring himself some water and taking a grateful gulp. "What kind of trouble then?"

Barry's response was grim. "Half the ships from The Trident to Vel Anir by the looks of it". That got Ferran's attention. "How far away?" "Too damned close, they passed the outer reefs this morning". Ferran moved to clear the table, spreading the charts and keeping it flat with a couple of mugs. His finger traced the route, hangover ignored for the moment. "How many did you say?" "Many, sails covering the horizon".

Ferran swore, "They picked it right, tide's still in their favour, for a couple of hours at least. Not a chance even a sloop will make it past that blockade in this wind". He also didn't want to put his ship in between two warring fleets. "Fuck it. We'll take the shoals. I'd prefer to be ran aground than be taken". Barry was already striding out of the cabin, his voice bellowing for all hands.