Open Chronicles Water Woes

[Archanae]

Spoiler: Music

Saint Mishra, a Cortosi merchant vessel carrying precious cargo and passengers alike, was hiding. Hiding minerals, ingots of silver, gold and gemstones, brought from the mines of Liadain to the opulent leaders of Cerak At'thul. That is, if she could make it there.

The captain cursed, while the Mishra creaked and groaned, spearing between reefs near the volcanic protusions of Ryan's Bane. Their cargo was invaluable - but the Mishra would rather see them dashed against the rocks than have them fall into pirate hands. The reasoning of her captain deemed that these reefs would cause more trouble for the warship on their tail than it had for their slim vessel.

Archanae knew the logic behind this deduction well, flawed as it was. It didn't account for the devil-may-care attitude of pirates or their voracious greed, and more like than not, in the span of some hours, they would come crawling among the rocks like starving crabs, when the daylight had fully dwindled and rendered the jaws of the sea invisible. Perhaps, if the passengers of the Mishra bristled enough weapons, fear might outweigh their greed. But she suspected that the privateers would far outnumber them in both arms and warriors.

All part of her design.

When the black flags and sails had appeared on the horizon, crew and captain alike quickly concluded the wind wasn't in their favour to outrun them. So through the subtle nudge of both runic spell and tongue, Archanae had bent the mind of the captain towards this cove. A cove that Archanae remembered playing amongst with fellow children of her Nazrani tribe, when she still lived under the bliss of ignorance.

If a confrontation was at hand, she would choose the ground of it. Better that than the open seas, where a sinking ship would mean a long, agonising death in the throes of the ocean.

Even here, the roiling waters lapped hungrily against the hull. The wind impetuously flung and tousled her braided hair, her bronze talismans and charms gently clinking. She gathered her bleached robes about her against the faint chill, the sand-coloured cloth whipping around her like a royal train kept aloft by invisible hands, shifting to reveal glimpses of onyx skin and cryptic, gold-coloured tattoos of geometric patterns, spiralling and circling her flesh like incomprehensible vows. Her four-fingered hand clenched tightly on the rail, watching the dark waters gurgle and reach out for her with fingers of foam.

She remembered when her childhood had ended here. When she had faced her own mortality, in the form of a sleek, grey fin drifting between the rocks. Though she had been quick, the beast had been quicker. Phantom pain shot through her stump where her ring-finger should have been, and pulsed down the old, teeth-marked scars on her wrist, underarm and side that time couldn't fully heal. It still sent shudders through her spine - the sudden splash, and the curtain of watery mystery parting to reveal a monster born of the ocean, all rows of teeth and black eyes promising a senseless end.

She could have been in the belly of a shark that day. Instead, here she was, fully grown, now flung back to this spot where the world had taught her its cruel lesson, by the whims of wind and sea. If there was anything she dreaded, it was the unknowable depths of the ocean - the black, gurgling void, endless and deep, shrouding terrors beneath.

The gods must have a sense of irony to return her here, she concluded. She could grant that much to the divine powers.

The fevered mumbles of a prayer caught her eye. A priest of the Radiant Church, his hands clenched together in supplication, on his knees, begging favours from his retreating sun.

Pathetic. Her amber eyes glared in incensed disappointment. The sight of him was enough to make her blood boil and stoke the coals of her old, slumbering rage. Such a futile action, begging favours from the gods - the same gods that allowed children to die every day, while arbitrarily sparing villains and criminals. But it was more than his vain prayers that angered her. It was the servile attitude, the crippled courage of leaving one's fate in the hands of supposedly superior beings. The same sheep-like mentality that plagued most humans.

She overheard a crewman swinging down from the mast-nets to report to the captain.

"Rocks. Rocks all around, port and starboard - we can only turn back at this point, captain."

The captain, still under the influence of her spell, had a glazed look to her. Her nod came a second too slow, acknowledging the report.

"Drop the anchors," the captain said, and Archanae's full lips followed, whispering barely audible words that the captain echoed loudly. "If they pursue us here, we will make our stand. Ready bow and arrow and round up anyone who can swing a sword. They want our ingots and gemstones, they will have to fight for it."

Even this sailor, his face exposing worry at the captain's strange demeanor, decided to trust in authority rather than his own sense. He carried out the captain's order without question. Another example of brittle weakness.

This trap set by the divinities of sea and sky could be transmuted into an opportunity. Her supply in sapphires, diamonds and rubies would be restocked from the shipments here. But she could use fresh material for the minds she would imbue into them. Her gaze lazily scanned her fellow passengers, the fires of their minds flickering to her sorcerer's gaze. Unfortunately, using the raw clay of these souls would raise too many questions - too many nuisances. But no one would miss the departure of a pirate, or indeed, anyone so wounded here they would be on the brink of death.

Her magic could save her chosen ones, where the gods opted for apathy. Well, partly, at least. Many minds broke and fragmented when imbued into her artifice, leaving great gaps in their former personality and spirit. She was yet to master the craft fully. But a half life was still preferable to non-existence, was it not?

A passenger near her intruded upon her attention. Different from these meek priests and sailors, certainly. She would test their resolve, glancing sidelong at this fellow traveller from the corner of her eye.

"Tell me. Do you also fear the approach of pirates, or the wrath of the seas?"

 

[Rayth Keirn]

"Tell me. Do you also fear the approach of pirates, or the wrath of the seas?"

"A bit of both!" Rayth laughed.

The young man was an experienced sailor. He was also painfully honest. Several people had draw swords, but he kept his sheathed. They were a few minutes before the possibility of boarding and arrows would be exchanged before anyone tried to lash the ships together.

"They've got to navigate through the rocks first," he declared boldly. "Whilst we put a few arrows on their deck. So right now I'm hoping they feel a bit nervous too."

Rayth had been on that side of an engagement. Even when you were the larger vessel with more hands, the first few people swinging across had a slim chance of survival.

 

[Archanae]

Archanae stood still as a statue, the only movement about her remaining the agitated flapping and swishing of robes and hair. She sized up this sailor, still not turning fully towards him, eyeing him from top to toe as one might inspect a flawed jet-stone just released from the vein. In her mind, she turned him this way and that for her inspection, mildly curious.

His humble words belied a cheerful disposition, where most of the passengers submitted to either dread or helpless worry. His sword remained assuredly tucked at his hip, a grain going against the sands of inevitability, refusing to bend, to follow. Perhaps there was some hope for humanity, after all. Or perhaps, he was merely a happy fool. She had yet to decide.

"You would be wise to exploit their fear. But you must engender it first." A single, long nail of hers scratched across the rail, subtly testing the strength of the wood. Then she turned, chin raised, mouth a flat line, eyes glinting like a panther on the prowl. "I'm afraid a sheathed blade and a pleasant smile would do little in that regard."

 

[Rayth Keirn]

"Oh you'd be surprised what a pleasant smile can achieve," Rayth replied.

He offered a grin, but his eyes narrowed. The woman seemed out of place, but then he remembered where they were headed.

The leaders of Cerak At'Thul were a strange and diverse group. They were also exceedingly dangerous. If she held sway on the peninsula then it would be unwise to cross her.

For now, however, his eyes were on the approaching ship. He could see the mast and sails on the horizon. The boy up the rigging probably had a better view of the ship to identify her class and weight.

"I might go and see if we have anything flammable we can wrap to a spear," Rayth muttered.

Flammable was a dangerous word on a ship. Foaming arrows were pointless. They were far more likely to set fire to your own deck and those that took to the air were usually extinguished by how fast they travelled. If the pirate ship closed a flaming javelin to the sails might add a little chaos to the mix.

 

[Archanae]

Archanae's eyes followed the back of the sailor as he left her. Not a fool, she decided. There had been cunning in his smile, calculation behind his eyes. His initial mirth had dampened upon speaking with her, but such things she had made peace with long ago. That was how most took to her. She was too far removed from the common world to connect to it again.

A strange, hollow sensation remained in the pit of her stomach after his departure. Why? She made a wordless sound of dismay, close to a kagh at the back of her throat, a remnant of her Nazrani heritage. She wasn't here to make new friends. Her quest exceeded the importance of all the lives on this ship, including her own. But she would have to sustain her existence to see it through.

The black Cortosi warship had angled itself up against the other side of the reefs. People were shouting - on this deck, and distantly on theirs. The sun dipped, kissing the horizon between the volcanic pillars. Darkness swathed over them all, slowly, gently, like a parent making their sickly children comfortable before their demise.

Torches lit. Javelins came upon deck. Grindstones sharpened swords. The noises intruded upon the sanctuary of her mind, so she went below deck to make her own preparations.

Hidden between crates, Archanae ferreted out a raw sapphire, still covered in chunks of stone. It winked to life in her hand, and she stalked over to a clay figure of human size, covered in a cloak and lying in a coffin of wood. Touching the stone to its forehead, the same light winked into its eyes, and Maldragos awakened, looking up at her.

"I awake to serve, Archan."

Archanae smiled, the pit within her fililng with some warmth.

She was in good company once again.

Rayth Keirn

 

[Rayth Keirn]

"Here they come."

It was just a few words, but it set the hairs on the back or his neck standing on end. For every minute they had waited, Rayth had started to think that they might turn away.

There was always a roll of the dice, but a good gambler tried to weigh the conditions in their favour. Attacking a ship was always risky.

Rayth moved to the shroud where he had a javelin resting. The tip was hanging over the sea, an oil soaked rag wrapped around it's head.

They wouldn't light flames until the last moment.

"They have a ballista!" someone screamed out.

Rayth swore under his breath.

"Keep your heads low as they approach," he called to the armed crew nearest to his position.

He felt the feeling low in his gut. Like an anchor dropped from his heart. No matter how many times he did this, it always came before the battle.

 

[Archanae]

Spoiler: Music

The Cortosi warship lazily curled up against the protective hide of the cove, dark sails and flags a-flutter in the wind. It brushed its back against the impassable reefs, like a great black cat, languidly awaiting the emergence of a mouse. The claw of its massive ballistae pointed straight at the Mishra, a steel finger portenting doom.

They were close enough for their voices to carry across the strait. Rough laughter. Braying hoots. Rapid, Cortosi taunts and jeers. Coarse singing and even the raucous, brassy music of a trumpet, discordant with lack of skill, sawed through the air.

The crew of the Mishra shifted, uncertain, tense in their silence. But then the captain's voice rattled across deck, competing with the clattering of wooden blocks in the rigging and the tired panting of semi-tied sails:

"Show 'em your spines, people! They're lowlives and cowards, fit for peelin' turnips and onions. They'll only cut your throats if you let 'em!"

Lacklustre battle-cries followed from the Mishra's crew, quickly swallowed by the wind. It was replied by an echo of mocking cackles, a host of demon imps grinning at the other end of the gathering darkness. Though the captain's words carried courage, independent from Archanae's subtle commands, they lacked true conviction.

Then, a monstrous twang. The air whooshed with the flight of a heavy object, brushing each cheek on deck below. Canvas shredded violently, and the splash of the released bolt arrived like a ponderous afterthought. The necks of the crew bent upwards to see one of their sails torn, snapping uselessly in the wind. A near miss, or an intentional crippling of the Mishra's speed?

Lights from torches flickered to life on the other side, descending to the water, an army of distant fire sprites filing down in rows. The oars of the enemy splashed, approaching the battlements of reefs with smaller row-boats that could maneuver between them.

Behind all this commotion, a shade crunched on deck, its heavy foot splintering through a rotten step. Draped in a cloak that barely covered its broad shoulders or towering height, it could perhaps be mistaken for a massive man in the dark. But as arrows began to rain on deck - sailors returning the favour with burning javelins soaked in oil and fire arrows - a stray shot hit the creature's face. It should have sunk into its forehead. Should have been death. Instead, the shaft snapped, the iron arrowhead ricocheting into the planks. The creature's clay face glanced in the distant archer's direction as if pestered by a fly. Ghost-fire lights of azure and white winked like candles in its eye-sockets, faint irises of pearl-white fire darting, parsing friend from foe.

Where most took cover, it strode, approaching the railing with its maul-like fists. The wind ripped off its cloak like a theatre-maestro pulling a curtain, revealing its vaguely humanoid stature, rippling with rough sculpture and jagged musculature. More arrows and sling-shot stones pinged off its clay hide. They might as well have tossed pebbles on a cliff.

Wisely, crew and passengers gave it a wide berth, spreading before it in a corridor.

Below deck, her fragile form enwrapped by the bones of the ship, Archanae allowed herself a bitter smile, seeing through the eyes of Maldragos.

This would all be a tragic waste of life and potential. But she would sacrifice a thousand more pirates for the sake of her vision. For the glory of the future she would ordain, when mankind would hold better purpose than to slay one another over petty baubles.

Rayth Keirn

 

[Rayth Keirn]

"Show 'em your spines, people! They're lowlives and cowards, fit for peelin' turnips and onions. They'll only cut your throats if you let 'em!"

Lacklustre battle-cries followed from the Mishra's crew, quickly swallowed by the wind.

Rayth remained silent. They couldn't match the battle hardened crew heading their way in battle lust. He had been on the other side of this encounter. He knew that out there were some veterans of the sea, bulked out with frightened young men. The cries and horns helped to calm their nerves.

He heard the ballista and closed his eyes. There was no point; he would not have seen the bolt coming. It struck the sails almost the instant it launched from the far vessel.

Rayth took a breath and opened his eyes. He left his javelin where it was. The enemy vessel was just beyond range.

In truth, he would rather have the attackers forced to climb from small boats. It shifted the odds slightly in their favour. It showed what the captain valued, his ship above his crew.

Where most took cover, it strode, approaching the railing with its maul-like fists. The wind ripped off its cloak like a theatre-maestro pulling a curtain, revealing its vaguely humanoid stature, rippling with rough sculpture and jagged musculature. More arrows and sling-shot stones pinged off its clay hide.

"What the fuck," Rayth hissed.

Someone had been transporting a golem. Better, he thought, to have it up on deck than as cargo to be claimed.

Rayth stepped behind it as a final volley of arrows arced up. People were screaming, blood was already on the deck.

Boats struck the side of their ship. The sound of wood grinding against wood came before the first metal hook was thrown up. They worked in threes. One threw the hook whilst two anchored the rope to make it difficult to dislodge.

Rayth calmly stepped back up his javelin and took it up in two hands. He waited at one of the boarding ropes. He leaned over the edge and thrust down. He struck the neck of the first climber who fell down to the boat below. Rayth grabbed the hook with both hands when the rope went slack, pulled it free and tossed it down. He aimed for the water, forcing that boat to drag it back up.

"Fuck the lot of you," he shouted at the chaotic boat below.

 

[Archanae]

The clay golem observed Rayth's actions dispassionately, its face revealing nothing. For a moment, it looked as liable to attack Rayth as to aid him, and several of his shipmates shouted for him:

"Get away from it!"

"Rayth, get here!"

The golem snapped into action. But it didn't assault Rayth, as many of his shipmates seemed to think it would. Instead, it tore its hand along deck, bundling ropes in its grasp. With a heavy yank, it ripped a handful of hooks free, some of them stubbornly sticking to the railing. The ones it loosened, it tossed back into the sea. It had learned the correct course of action.

A pirate clambered up, and the golem lifted both of its arms in the air. In all but lacking a javelin, it was a near perfect mimicry of Rayth's efforts, slamming down two, heavy fists on the attacker. A sickening crack, followed by a heavy splash, told of the pirate's fate.

Archanae had never been in a battle of ships before. Who better to imitate than a veteran sailor?

Meanwhile, the ballistae had corrected its aim. It had found a new target.

The bolt careened through the railing and smashed the arm of the golem, its path of destruction taking it through the foremast, a sailor, the priest of the Radiant Church and lodging into the railing starboard, leaving a trail of blood and splintered wood in its wake.

Thankfully, the golem had moved away from Rayth, so the bolt had found other victims. But as the golem turned ponderously towards him, its left arm was missing.

Panic spread like a plague. Many of the crew on the Mishra instinctively retreated, giving space for new hooks and climbers to make their way up, carrying hatchets, scimitars and hammers. Once aboard, they attempted to shift to the aft of the ship - the other end of where the ballistae had fired so far.

Archanae cursed. If she unleashed Maldragos on deck, it would attack anything in sight, friend or foe. She had to retain direct control, and even then it was almost impossible to tell people apart at night. At this stage, Maldragos was as like to inflict damage on either side. Too high a risk.

The captain was nowhere to be seen. But she found Rayth, through Maldragos' eyes, locked in a pitched battle. It charged across deck, trampling people and stray items underfoot, smashing bodily into his nearest assailant. The man disappeared into the darkness with a yelp, cut short from his shattered ribs and punctured lungs. Then it turned, covering Rayth with its back, deflecting a pair of whirled axes.

Thus, as a bodily shield, it looked down upon him, speaking with a monotone and resounding voice:

"I shall cripple the ballistae. Stand your ground here."

Brokering no argument, it charged the railing and crashed through it, dropping purposefully into the water. It landed with its feet on a boat - the weight of its fall tearing a hole in the dinghy, sinking more pirates into the black waters with it.

Even experienced at a distance, a shudder went up her spine at the impenetrable blackness, the dampened sound of bubbles, as Maldragos sank, and sank, and sank . . .

Finally, its feet hit the bottom. And Maldragos moved forward, slowly approaching the nearest reef to climb like an underwater mountain.

If she could get her golem on the enemy vessel, she could cut it loose and unleash it there. The ballistae and any reinforcements might be curbed, and then, she could direct her efforts towards the pirates on the Mishra.

But as long as she saw through its eyes, her own sight was blinded. Nothing but darkness and the shelter of a hammock protected her from any pirate making it below deck.