Private Tales What do you do with a drunken Nordenfiir?

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

The HIS Stormlance. Southeast of the Allir Reach; Asherah Ocean.



Dark, thundering storm clouds roiled overhead. Casting about in wild motions like the full, grey beard of an angry storm god. Glaring down at the comparatively puny, intrepid vessel stubbornly cutting through his wrath. A voice of thunder, booming and imperious, matched by a wrathful hand of lightning striking the sea. All of this wrath, all of this ardor from Arethil, meant nothing to one Petrus Iskandar seated in the luxurious bowels of the Stormlance. An appropriate name for such a sizable galleon meant to cut through even the worst of storms. His own enchantments bent the winds to support the sails, while calming them around the ship such that while further out to sea they could nearly tear the clothes off a man, while on and within a few feet of the Stormlance, the winds were perhaps only enough to pull an unsecured hat from your head.

Peering out the window for a brief moment Petrus would take a slow, measured sip of wine before casting his eyes heavily down to the charts upon his cabin desk. Efforts by many of his house had tracked, triangulated and scryed the wreck of a vessel known as The Shadow. A vessel that had once grabbed it's fortune's worth of wealth from the sacking of Alliria some years hence. What many did not know, or did not wish to know, is that The Shadow had also made it's escape with a supposed bevy of necromantic artifacts and, even, practitioners of the art.

With some funds reallocated and the Stormlance secured it had been as simple thing to post a bounty, a job offer, and secure the aid of a Nordenfiir woman and her crew. While their comparatively.... savage.... ways did nothing to impress the Allirian nobleman she had seemed..... adequate to the cause. Only time would tell if she was truly anything approaching impressive or, perhaps, worthy enough to avoid a renegotiation of her price once the journey was complete......

In any case Petrus had seen the woman, one Nerren Harclaw, summoned to his cabin to further discuss with her the dangers they may encounter when coming upon The Shadow. Initial Scrying efforts had revealed it dashed upon a small, rocky isle, arching and grasping into the sky like the finger bones of some gargantuan skeleton reaching for the sky. Only when this Nerren's presence was announced at his door by the guard did Petrus lift his eyes and reply in a firm, casual tone.

"Enter."


Nerren Harclaw ​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

A storm was coming. For some folk on land or at sea, those were words that they generally never wanted to hear. Rain was good for a time, and those who tilled the fields needed the water for their crops to grow. The wind shaped the climate, distributed heat in balance, and the sailor needed it to sail from the coast.

Storms, however, were the violent spawns of what was vital. They were nature’s wrath. Unbridled. Those in their homes would shut the doors and close the windows and hope that the storm would pass over them from night to dawn. Those in their ships would secure the rigging and stay in the depths and wait as the storm would pass overhead.

Yet not all of them.

There were some who welcomed the storm, beckoned it, and were so taken to the challenge that they actually tried to actively find it before it even came to them. They chased the rain, excited by the lightning, and wondered whether the thunder would crack the welkin to the beats of their drums. That was their blood.

These ones were born of salt and iron, forged for the sea, and were the mercenary company for this calm ship and its lord and captain. They were Nordenfiir, raised on ice and rock with a bite like a bear. They were trained to take to the ocean and dominate their opponents wherever they dared.

Storm? They were born for the challenge and their captain who commanded their Iron Bitch would show it.

Sword and axe on either hip amid her outfit, Captain Nerren entered the quarters of the other captain who had requested her presence. Boots tapped against the floorboards, softer against the rug which she paid no notice of. Her walk stopped before her host, her grey gaze taking in the captain’s space before landing on his face, unbroken.

“Stormlance,” Nerren spoke in a deadpan tone that matched her expression. “Have you ever had to lance your ship through a storm before, captain?”

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

As the Nordenfiir woman came to stand before him Petrus would finish writing a letter, his movements unhurried, and he left Nerren waiting for several seconds as he calmly and smoothly rolled the vellum, bound it in ribbon, then stamped it shut with his personal seal before placing it aside. Beginning to speak before his eyes even came to rest on the short woman. Well shorter than him anyways.

"You seem to be mistaken, Nerren Harclaw, I am simply the owner of this vessel, not it's Captain. Responsible for some of the enchantments currently allowing the Stormlance to live up to it's title but not the one who guides it presently."

It was then that those heavy, amber eyes would come to rest on Nerren's severe, if feminine, features and Petrus would motion to the chair across from himself with a ringed hand.

"You may sit, if you like, I called you here to discuss what my mages have scried of The Shadow's wreckage and how your people may best aid me in recovering what is of value."

Petrus would, whether Nerren sat or not, retrieve a bottle of heavy drink from beneath his desk and set it atop the wood with a generous 'THUNK' before giving Nerren a questioning look to silently ask if she wished to drink.


Nerren Harclaw ​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

Untroubled, the woman watched as this man gave his subtle display of power. He seemed the type to always be doing something when speaking to somebody to show them it. Granted, this was their very first meeting, but his kind had been seen a thousand times from seas to mountains and the trees in between.

Then it was her turn to take a moment of quiet, only the Nordenfiir had no need or means to compose a letter. It might not be the first time she was mistaken in her speech, her demeanor never betraying her prejudice for creatures like him, but such were the presumptions as much as superstitions of a sailor at sea.

One who had no time for pomposity but plenty of time for drink.

“Owner, indeed.”

As bidden or invited, whatever he might like to think, Nerren took a seat. Tempted to place her feet on the desk, cross one boot over the other, she thought better of it but accepted the offer.

“Please,” she nodded. Maybe it was whiskey, maybe it was mead. It was not grog and that was a certainty.

“Forgive me,” she suddenly spoke eloquently but not mockingly. “But whoever is the owner of the ship and sits in it…” Nerren sipped her drink and licked her lips. “Is its captain and damn the rank. Just my opinion.” She shrugged.

“Come. Let’s discuss business.” She curled her fingers in toward His Lordship as if to beckon him. “I run with a crew of sailors, warriors, explorers, and I have trained divers in my midst.” Nerren shifted her eyes between his. “But it’s more than golden fortune and silver treasure you wish to recover, isn’t it?”

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

Bringing up two glasses Petrus would uncork the bottle of what smelled like a very fine whiskey. Likely with some infusion of honey and small, brown motes of cinnamon to add a bit more of a dull sweetness to it's 'kick'. Pouring a glass for Nerren first he would pause at her verbose statement and he would give a small, dry chuckle before pouring his own glass. He then recorked the bottle and, lifting his glass in a brief, silent toast he would take a drink and hiss out a small breathe between clenched teeth. Agreeing with her as he eyed the dark, sweet liquid and nodded.

"Captain it is then."

Staying silent at the woman's guess he paused as he considered his heavily distorted reflection in the whiskey before his amber eyes, a similar but darker hue than the whiskey itself, would raise to meet Nerren's own as he gave a tight smile.

"Correct."

A slow, measured exhale would be given that caused his nostrils to flare briefly.

"Given recent prospects even that comparatively obvious guess is refreshingly...... competent."

He grimaced an odd, dissatisfied expression.

"Perhaps my standards are withering away......"

Taking another drink he would drain the rest of his glass before setting it upon the desk.

"But yes, I've enough gold and silver to last me several lifetimes. To never have to worry about comfort or material means again. To support countless men and women in my employ for their lives as well..... But no. What I seek from the wreckage of The Shadow is a lingering artifact from the despoiling of Alliria or.... rather... the attempt at such by creatures as such as Vardan and Geladryx with their.... craft."

Petrus waited to see if Nerren had any knowledge of the Lich and the Necromancer dragon before deciding to share in case she did not.

"There have been lingering effects of their potent necromancy in the area. Given my connection to nature I have felt it quite intimately and will not abide it's influence on my home. As such any artifact that drank of their power that I can recover to study will aid me in this effort."


Nerren Harclaw ​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

This drink definitely was not grog at the least or from a giant's teat. It wasn’t honeyed mead exactly, neither was it highlander whiskey. Nerren had tasted the beverages of Edenham and this wasn’t it. Rather, it was simply if admittedly delicious and made her lick her lips after another sip. The cinnamon was quaint. The ‘kick’ was great.

The captain gave his explanation next so the other captain listened. She was his guest as much as hired hand by way of contract. That was if she decided to sign it of course and sign onboard. He might be a lord but his lordship and majesty needed more than whiskey, fancy words and a rich doublet to win her over.

Unfortunately, his pompous position wasn’t doing him any favors.

Sometimes you had to recognize when someone was stating the obvious.

Obfuscating stupidity? So goes the trope.

Petrus spoke. Nerren listened. He mentioned the wreckage of The Shadow. She blinked. Skeletons and dragons. Waited to see if she knew what the shit he was talking about. She met his gaze with a straight face and gave nothing away.

“Great,” the Captain of the Iron Bitch said to the Lord-Captain of the Stormlance or whatever the fuck he imagined his rank was. “What is the pay?”

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

Under different circumstances Petrus would have found the blunt oafish focus on money from the woman to be disrespectful and induce his ire. But given the grade of mercenary he had recently had sully his home even this single-minded dullardry was a breathe of fresh air by comparison. Petrus would take another drink and, letting out a small exhale, respond to Nerren's question.

"Completion of the contract will be one-and-a-half times your usual rate. You will have any and all salvaging rights to anything outside the captain's quarters and not any of the necromantic artifacts. Any weapons, supplies, rigging, drink or otherwise is yours elsewise."

Petrus would pour himself and Nerren another drink if she desired and idly cradle the whiskey in-hand before adding.

"Additionally, passage and costs for funeral preparations for any of your men lost will be subsidized. We will cover half...."

He trailed off, met the woman's eyes, and his own amber orbs sharpened from the lines at the corners of his eyes as he continued.

"... and lastly... there is one item... some sort of crown or headpiece.... if that is recovered I will personally see you rewarded with services at the dockyards of Alliria for the Iron Bitch. From there you can undoubtedly find even more employment and improvements for your vessel. Time at the main dockyard is, after all, highly contested."

Nerren Harclaw​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

Nerren weighed Petrus’ answer. One plus wasn’t much but they both wagered that the salvage would make up for the balance and then some. That was fair and expected in this business. The lack of necromantic artifacts in Nerren’s possession? Even better, she reckoned.

At the mention of drink for a reward, a corner of her lips tugged upward. Ah, yes. Because we're just a bunch of dumb drunken Nordens. Petrus clearly had little and less appreciation for a person of her position but it wasn’t her occupation that mattered. Either way, she slid her cup forward for him to pour her another drink.

“Fine,” the Nordenfiir replied, all but hiding the way her eyebrow raised at the proposition for prime port service in the rich city of Alliria. “On one condition.” She sipped her whiskey and licked her lips.

“I want double the rate to begin with, and if our salvage fails to provide an ample price—of which I welcome an assessment of acquisitions in comparison before we part ways—then you pay us triple the rate.” Nerren was not especially trained to negotiate but her work didn’t discriminate.

"As for funeral costs,” she shrugged. “Don't worry about it. My men—and women—pay their respects to the drowned god.” She downed her whiskey. “Pretty cheap to toss bodies into the sea.”

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

Petrus would idly swirl the glass in his hand holding the whiskey. Not because it truly did anything but more out of force of habit than anything else. Of course she would smile at the offer of drink for a reward. After all, they are just a bunch of dumb, drunken Nordens. Though Petrus's face, at least, didn't show this opinion of the mercenary he nonetheless didn't find her brief smile to be what he expected. He was not surprised to hear Nerren commit to a counter-offer, it was the way of things to haggle and negotiate, and Petrus was not only happy to play the game but had done so innumerable times before.

Upon hearing Nerren's desires he hummed, glancing idly at a map on his desk, took a drink, before returning his heavy gaze to her. A brief silence hanging in the air before he would reply.

"Double the rate. But I'll not get into a second round of negotiations over salvage. The time at Alliria's main dockyard is worth more than all the potential salvage in opportunity costs alone....."

Another brief pause.

"...but... should this expedition prove successful and you desire more then I would be willing to make an agreement for further employment."

Another sip, amber eyes glinting in the lamplight over the rim of his cup. He did, in truth, respect the savage woman's ambition and drive to get all she could out of him. He, of course, would be doing the exact same out of her.

Nerren Harclaw​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

Sitting in chairs. Such a simple gesture there. There was little and less to make of two persons sitting on opposite sides of a table except for staring at each other across from it. There were other gestures as well, subtle hints in expressions, basic movements, even the way they sipped their drinks, sat forward or sat backward. It was its own game in the same vein as negotiations.

Sucking on her teeth, Nerren listened to Petrus speak but her gaze was taken by some ornament across from him. She didn’t know what to make of it, some kind of statue perhaps, but she didn’t ask. She was not the kind of captain who had time for trinkets or souvenirs. As a dumb Nordenfiir, war and glory were as proven to her as beer.

“If I acquire this crown or headpiece, that is,” Nerren mentioned as she met his eyes to remind him why they still shared one another’s presence. He wanted something. She wanted to profit from what he wanted. Yet the arrangement had better measure to the expectation.

“No offense, Lord Captain, but I don’t have much interest in agreeing to further employment until my employer has paid me for the first job and I like the payment.” Maybe he could appreciate the sentiment from his opposite position.

“If I don’t find this object, because maybe it sits in the belly of some beast or is buried in the bottom of the sea, then there goes the docks of Alliria for poor me.” She took another sip of whiskey. Maybe he could read her.

“Coverage of salvage seems fair. However, I’m down to discuss those particulars after the fact.” She drummed her fingers. “This is a fun dance but matters as much as a mermaid’s tits with no uterus if we find that The Shadow has already been pilfered by pirates, for instance.”

The Norden held up a finger before Petrus might offer some dry wit over her own position. “I’m a reaver. There’s a bit of a difference.”

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

Petrus would give a chuckle more dry than the whiskey the supped upon as Nerren gave her retort. She had, at least, picked up on the fact that it was foolish to discuss payment now that they were already en-route to the wreckage of The Shadow. T'was best for such things to be agreed upon well before the trip itself or, such as in this circumstance where payment could vary wildly, to discuss payment only after the job was done. To what measure of satisfaction, however, remained to be seen.....

Corking what remained of the bottle Petrus would set it beneath his desk once again and then place his glass aside as Nerren held up a finger at the mention of pirates, stating that there was a difference between herself and their kind. Something approaching mirth would dance in Petrus's amber eyes as he gave a tight smile. Only responding with a single word that rumbled with amusement.

"Indeed."

Extending a hand to take Nerren's glass once she was finished with it he would set it aside with his own and slowly stand from his desk. The deep chair and hunched posture checking maps had hidden it well but even though Nerren was tall for a woman Petrus still looked down into her steel-grey eyes as he motioned for the door and circled his desk.

"We will save negotiations for when the task is done and see what pay it is you and your lot have earned."

Petrus did not hold up a finger but would add in a tone somewhat similar to Nerren's own correction just moment's prior.

"Pay that I am more than fair with, of course."

Stepping to the door Petrus would turn to open it for Nerren to go through first. Whatever the reaver may have thought of etiquette did not factor in to Petrus doing this and he would speak to accentuate the action.

"We should be nearing our destination if my magi were correct. Let us take to the deck so we may see the state of the vessel in question."

Moving after Nerren and closing the door Petrus would make his way up to the deck with the shorter Norden woman. To his credit he did not stumble and bumble as many nobility did when out to sea. For his own reasons he seemed to have quite the developed sea legs. Allowing him to move with the same, purposeful, steady gait he always seem to.

Nerren Harclaw​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

Nerren saw Petrus’ extended hand, not in the manner one did to extend thanks or accept the other party’s terms of negotiation, but to take his glass back. At that, she gave it a second, slipping the last droplet off from the rim to coat her throat, and finally planted it into his hand.

The Lord-Captain spoke, or whatever he wished to term his position and character. His guest and contractor had already decided on his caliber. However, minds could change as quickly as the wind over an ocean. Such was the measure of getting to know another person when stuck on a ship, limited though this visit was.

Instead of getting up straight away, the reaver captain stayed in her seat, waiting until Petrus finished speaking and held the door open.

He might strike her as the kind of man who fancied himself a gentleman and maybe, deep down inside, he was. Then again, etiquette was not restrictive. Nerren had witnessed the politest of militants set the sword and torch to villages to then say thanks when their fellow captains poured wine as they dined in tents lined beside the dead.

“Indeed.”

She widened her eyes with half a grin as she passed him in the doorway, resting a hand on either hip where an axe and sword were sheathed, before making her way to the deck to see the state of the vessel in question.

“If your magi were correct,” Nerren said as the scent of a salt wind greeted her features. Her hair, braided though it was, taken to the breeze. Suddenly she was free and could breathe. Eyes open, despite the cry to close them and take in the silence of the sea beneath her feet, she took a breath of clarity and spoke with sincerity.

“I may not have much faith in them but I believe what my eyes tell me.” The Captain of the Iron Bitch spoke, standing on the deck of the Stormlance, as she stretched a spyglass from her belt and looked into the distance. What did she glimpse?

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

Petrus gave only a single nod at the Norden woman's sass and simply peered down at her as she stopped in front of him, hands-on-hips, and grinned up at him. Confirming her comment with a simple, blunt rumbling of.

"If."

Herding Nerren up the stairs to the deck Petrus took stock of the reaver woman for a moment now that she couldn't return his gaze. She moved with an ease of grace of a woman used to the throes of the sea, of battle, and worse, and better. Athletic, in a word. Dangerously athletic in two. Like a newly christened sloop, hull still waxed and rigging still fresh to catch the wind and scythe her way through all waters. He, by comparison, felt much more like an old, stubborn galleon that simply refused to acknowledge it's age.

Once on deck he let Nerren stride ahead and, directing some of his crew, had a rapier brought to him and affixed it's sheathe to his belt before walking over to her as she pulled up her spyglass. From this distance even those without a spyglass could see the deepening storm they sailed straight into. The storm clouds become as dark as the depths of a grave as lightning pierced the sky to alight beyond the horizon. The faint shimmer of magic in the air around the ship getting just a bit more solid as the enchantments began to truly be tested to keep the ship's comparatively smooth sailing.

What Nerren's spyglass allowed her to see, however, was both reassuring and worrying. A massive reef, jutting into the sky like the stony, beckoning finger of some deep sea monstrosity, arced into the sky in the depths of the whirling storm. The faintest glimpses of ancient rigging of some massive warship able to be spied. But alas, in the air between their vessel and the reef, drifting through the air like eels through water, ephemeral figures near-invisible arced through the sky in ghastly blue-green dances of death. Ethereal clothing billowing behind the banshees as they dove and wove through the air like a school of sharks preparing to swarm.

A swarm they would have to pass through to reach their prize.

The storm would then intensify and even the enchanted ship would heave a bit at the raw, unnatural fury of the storm about them. A woman from Nerren's crew tumbled ass-over-head off to Nerren's left while one of Petrus's crewmen was sent over the railing of the staircase leading up to the wheel. Petrus, meanwhile, stayed unnaturally steady as a thick, calloused hand planted itself firmly on Nerren's shoulder and subtly held her in place as he remarked with his own bone-dry wit.

"Try not to lose your footing as well as your nerve, Miss Harclaw."

Nerren Harclaw​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

Spoiler: Music OOC

Storm. That was a word that no sailor was unfamiliar with. Sooner or later, waking up in the morning or in the middle of the night, stretching on the deck under the sun and sipping grog or having dinner in the evening in the candlelight and sipping fine wine, the storm came, and the storm raged, and the storm was born for you to appreciate it as much as it might hate you.

This ship sailed toward the gale, storm-born, and she was named Stormlance. Right. What had Nerren asked of its Lord-Captain only moments ago?

“Have you ever had to lance your ship through a storm before, captain?”

It was time to determine whether her words had any weight as they shared their gaze with the terror in the near distance.

Above her head, a kind of fabric stretched, grey as death, like a cosmic swirl that spread over the world. There was no sun on the horizon. There was no day. There was only night and it scraped their way like a blade.

“A storm, my lord…” Nerren whispered as she dipped her spyglass to glimpse the sky with her own eye, though she did not murmur to any lord or captain, to any woman or man, nor to hell, but to herself as much as the depths of the sea beneath her feet. “Not the first storm or the last…”

Glass back to her eye, and maybe after today or tonight hers would be replaced with a glass eye like a pirate’s might, but Nerren never minded the danger. No captain with a ship and crew like hers, whose purpose was to brave the great expanse, danced with death unless they could appreciate its hand.

“She’s a beauty.” That word was uttered for anybody to hear in proximity. The ship in the distance, The Shadow since scried and now spied, jutted out like a treasure chest sprung from the deep to float to the surface of the ocean.

Only it was surrounded with a storm, rain flying like blades, hurricane winds ripping like swords, and a swarm of ghostly and ghastly creatures who dared a Norden captain to come near. They weren’t sharks. Neither was Nerren a bear. Yet they were as much as weren’t.

An enchanted ship. Magic protected it in one way or the other; the same way a sword or axe on either hip was just as much a weapon for defense. “We’re going in,” Nerren told nobody in particular, not even Petrus. Her gaze didn’t break from the welkin or the swell and the din.

Gulls from the squall told the hall of warriors to explore no further but the Nordenfiir would not listen. The sky flashed white and grey. Men and women tumbled and struggled. Waves became hills, seeking to kill like blades, but Nerren didn’t give in.

“Are you serious?” She turned to Petrus with rigid lips, ignoring his grip. Her eyes into his ought to be sharper than words, more curved than a dagger, hard as a rock. “I was born for this.”

“CAPTAIN!” Someone yelled over the swell. It was one of hers. “HOST APPROACHING!” He roared from port. “TURNING! SHIFTING STARBOARD!”

Ghosts.

"Here we go."

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

As the ship began to turn and the banshees approached commanders would begin to ring out among the crew. One of the crewmen calling.

"Banshees! Enchanted weapons only! Anyone without get below deck! Regular weaponry will do nothing to them!"

Petrus would slide the rapier from it's sheathe and, turning the blade horizontally in front of him, would close his eyes and whisper a short spell to make it begin to radiate a radiant green aura. Like the deepest and healthiest of nature's leaves and the most abundant treetop boughs. Petrus would then give the faintest shadow of a smile at Herren's words, chuckling as he removed his hand from her shoulder and commented.

"That's good, now ensure you don't die for it."

As the banshees wheeled and began to dive toward the ship Petrus would gingerly retrieve a small feather from a pocket in his otherwise luxurious outfit. Raising the feather in pinched fingers he would whisper an unheard word to the feather before an exertion of magic brought up a magical gust of wind of his own in the otherwise harrowing rain. For a moment no rain would touch the crew or the Stormlance as a wave of compressed air pushed all water from the sky away from the ship and, more importantly, disrupted the charge of the banshees and turned their deathly dives into fumbling plummets into range of the crew's blades.

Petrus, for his part, moved with precision that, to an untrained eye, would seem almost lazy. A simple extension of the arm out to one of the flailing banshee's ethereal forms, not nearly so flashy as an axe swing or a sword blow, but enough to dissipate the banshee's ethereal form with minimal effort. With the feather seeming to pull itself apart in his fingers he released it, it's purpose served, and cast his gaze about the deck before a piercing, painful wail washed over the desk. One of the banshees having caught itself in the air and resorted to their infamous wail instead of trying to claw the crew to death with it's ethereal talons.

Petrus would wince and, eyes clenched shut, duck away from the screaming banshee as the hand not wielding his blade came up to cover one of his ears.

Nerren Harclaw​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

Spoiler: Music OOC

“Life at sea or dying fighting these fiends is the same blessing for me.” The reaver spread her lips with glee, eyes widened in something vicious, visage twisted into something ferocious, taking on this furious challenge of the water’s dragon in earnest. Neither person deserved less.

“MEN AND WOMEN OF THE IRON BITCH!” The Norden captain roared over the storm. “YOU HEARD THE MAN!” At that, she kept her sword in its scabbard at her hip but slipped the haft of her axe into her grip. That was her version of an enchanted weapon and it worked. “FIGHT UNTIL YOU DIE!”

“AYE, CAPTAIN!” Their voices came as one, drowned out the noises of thunder’s drums. Not one Norden man or woman was glimpsed to be stepping from the deck into the belly of the ship. Instead, their gazes and weapons were trained at the banshees coming their way. They intended to slip their blades into their necks and bellies one way or the other.

Her curved axhead gleamed something brilliant, radiated its finish in the midst of Petrus’ radiant rapier. Ready right then and there to take on her enemy. Nerren waited. Lightning blinked and so did she. The barrier that her employer had just then emitted shined over her eye; a bubble of energy that not even the skies could pop. Yet their cries did not stop.

“IRON AND LANCE!” Nerren called to summon one and all, taking advantage of Petrus’ magic. She watched the banshees fall. “AS ONE!” At that, the living attacked the dead, and her axe’s blade rang as it ripped and rendered beside Petrus’ rapier. That sent one banshee's neck to shreds.

“STEER CLEAR!” It was their enemy’s turn to attack after the feather had served its purpose and vanished like ash in mist. These creatures were hideous enough in sheer appearance to petrify weaker minds. Their wailing, however, was a different story even for those who made a living in sailing and raiding like her.

Men and women spread out around the deck, finding what cover they could behind barrels, crates, even rigging. Nerren mimicked Petrus, covering her ears with both hands, crouched beneath the shrieks.

The terrible fury of this banshee which hated every living thing it glimpsed came out of its mouth at that moment. Though, the moment passed, and the clouds opened.

“PETRUS!” Nerren found him recovered like her. “PALADINS, IF YOU HAVE THEM!" She didn’t. Hers were a crew of sellswords and spellswords in comparison to true magicians. They needed radiant light to shine truth into the eyes of these banshees.

On that note, Nerren didn’t have any vanity worth mentioning, but her enemy might. “HERE!” The Nordenfiir waved, fearless, trying to catch one distorted whore’s attention, maintaining her range.

“Come to me and see your ugly fucking face, you BITCH!” At that, she twisted her axe, planted a hand on the back of its head, and let the blade flash bright as lightning. It cast a reflection, a mirror image, and suddenly the banshee soaring toward her stopped dead in its path; not to wail but to flail out of control when its soulless mind realized it failed at being pretty.

“PETRUS!” He was the nearest person to Nerren who could put this thing out of its misery. "END IT!"

@Petrus

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

The flash of lightning matched the flash of blades as the ethereal threats made horrid account of themselves upon the combined crews of the Iron Bitch and House Iskandar. Whether by immaterial claw that cared not for mundane armor or withering necrotic magic they tore down mercenary and soldier alike. Petrus had, indeed, a handful of paladins in his employ but they were already committed to the fight and few in number. Pushed to their limits and maintaining a firm bulwark he could not ask more of them.

Instead the nobleman's attention was brought to the storm itself as it roiled, increasing it's malevolent intensity and cracking his protective enchantments. Petrus, setting his jaw, would raise his hands and begin to chant to Arethil and exert his considerable magical power. Though he was somewhat out of practice in shaping and controlling water he was nonetheless able to hold it back from capsizing the ship, even as a large wave rose to push a foot of water in a wave over the deck. Dragging and knocking some unfortunate souls overboard and causing Petrus to stagger toward Nerren.

At Nerren's cry Petrus spared a glance, hissing in displeasure through his teeth, and lowered his hand gripping the rapier to pierce the stunned banshee through the back. The lunge carrying him to stand almost beside Nerren before a titanic crash of unruly nature caught him just as he sheathed his blade. His efforts were broken through, the unnatural fury of the storm surrounding The Shadow breaking his focus, his enchantments and, in the next moment, as he on instinct grabbed Nerren, wrapped his arms about her, his ship as well.

The Stormlance was snapped like a child's toy in the next moment, water, salt, cold and fury pounding down onto them as Petrus and Nerren were slammed down into the deck. The impact knocked at least Petrus unconscious and, after some time lost in the darkness and the roil, the two would be washed ashore to a sandbar clinging to the reef. The splintered remains of The Stormlance scattered about them and above them as it barely covered them from the torrential rain.

Whether she had been rendered unconscious or not Petrus laid upon the sand, face-up and barely breathing, a vicious bruise swelling his right cheek as blood ran down his head from above the bruise. Gently pooling in the sand beside and beneath his head.

Nerren Harclaw​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

Banshees. Bloody bitches. Even bitches like these could bleed. Petrus wasn’t the only person hissing through his teeth at that moment. So was she. The ocean swelled, became a roar, but a warrior like Nerren welcomed the sea like a baby welcomed the cradle. Her arms were spread—mirror in one hand, axe in the other—and it didn’t matter what happened next because, one way or the other, Nerren Harclaw would fight on the deck until she died and there was nothing left.

There were fables beneath the waves, songs and stories of more than swords or blades, but of fire where it should not burn, where flames should not light the way. And, in place of sirens, there was silence. Yet the heart in the dark was more vibrant than summer’s sunshine, louder than a thousand mountains in winter, bloomed with more beauty than a violet flower in spring, and was more symbolic of life and death than when the leaves drop from the tree in autumn.

The next second, Nerren's eyes widened as Petrus’ weapon penetrated the siren, though it was only one in a number. The enemy had already taken a number of souls, men and women of the Iron and the Lance, to the wet and cold. No matter. The Lord Captain’s hand became a dagger and the Nordenfir glimpsed it in that perfect moment.

Peace, then, as her lips spread, and the welkin spread, and the storm descended. She did not tremble. To the singing of metal, the screams and the shrieks of the living and the dead, she simply closed her eyes for half a heartbeat, and smiled wide. While that happened, something struck her side, but it wasn’t a spirit. It was a man with spirit woven between his fingers if that action of his, his courage proven, were anything to go by.

Then, as events happened so fast, and you can’t recollect them until after the fact, the ship snapped in half in an instant, like a toothpick. That was all it took. An amalgamation of unfettered nature and the wrath of the undead, spirited away. Yet, tethered together, perhaps a captain and a lord were destined to escape.

There was water, it pounded like a thousand hammers and, if Nerren was the anvil, then this was a different battle than before, and no axe or sword could contend with this judgment. Cold, cold straight through her bone, clothes soaked, but that tide was more honest than a hundred sirens, if more violent, and its promise made her sigh.

And the kraken laughed, like the girl did when the woman was just a girl, then her world went black.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

As Petrus roused to consciousness, head throbbing and vision blurry, he would grunt as he slowly brought his water-logged self up into a sitting position. Something... was wrong and it wasn't until he turned to stand that he would throw up a completely normal and healthy amount of sea water for an adult man to have in his body. Spitting out the remnants of the salt water he would stagger to his feet and forcibly adjusted the belt and scabbard that had, miraculously, kept his weapon on his person but been twisted around him enough to bruise his abdomen.

Staggering a step or two he would pause, blink rapidly, and sweep his gaze over the beach before seeing a gray mass floating just off the beach. Some sort of flotsam or... a body. Not just any body, it seemed, either as it was an unconscious Nerren Harclaw that he would recognize. Grunting with some effort he would wade out into the water, hook his arms under Nerren's, and drag her unconscious form back to the beach. Laying her out on her back he would pant and clutch at his head, not able to focus enough to conjure his magic effectively he instead began to compress Nerren's chest in quick motions, hoping to get her back to consciousness.

After a few presses, and grimacing at the prospect for only a moment, he would lean down and blow air gently into Nerren's lips before performing a few more compressions and huffing in frustration as he leaned down to administer more oxygen. Hoping that, at the very least, he wasn't the only survivor of the tragedy this journey had turned into.​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

There is no response.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

Taking a moment to sit up on his knees and let out a ragged breathe he would sigh, double over briefly in pain, and attempt to rub his fingers together to get some feeling back into them. He had taxed himself heavily trying to fight off the power of the raging storm and being thrashed unconscious and nearly bludgeoned to death hadn't exactly been a reinvigorating rest. A sudden sound would draw his attention and his worry as, past a water-logged wall of the destroyed vessel, the drowned and engorged corpses of the crew no beginning to rise and shuffle about the beach.

Drawing in a breathe through his nose Petrus would turn his attention back to Nerren's body and, drawing his rapier, would place the blade to her neck before snatching up an unfortunate little hermit crab from the sand and, drawing the life energy out of it's body, would drop it's corpse before pressing that hand over Nerren's bosom to her heart. Using what little magic he still had, and had ripped from the crab, to try one more time to resuscitate her as he leaned down and blew the breathe of life into her lips.

If this failed he would draw the rapier across her throat and cleave her head from her shoulders to prevent her coming back as one of those creatures.

Nerren Harclaw​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

She heard the words, a hundred drums and gongs, but the words could not be determined. The lyrics were in a different language, like the rocks at the bottom of the sea had cracked open, and thunder kissed the surface of the ocean like a kraken’s breath.

It was an old song, one of death, and its groans were echoes like the creaking of wooden beams on a hull, or like when you were underwater and someone spoke your name. When you turned, it was your own face, cold, frozen. It was your ghost, so close yet leagues away.

A deep melody at first, then a kind of whisper, like the rustling of leaves, crisp and serene. The ebb and flow beneath the breeze crept like water upon the knees. Seagulls were singing, their wings spread on the horizon, a sweet lullaby, while the chorus of the shoreline came with the remnants of a storm, the sharp claw of brine, for Nerren Harclaw.

Nerren…Nerren…Nerren of the Nordenfiir…

It was another whisper, another person, past, present or future.

I wait for you, as I ever do, to take you under, but—

—Not today.

The Norden’s eyes opened wide to a bright blue sky and clouds so white. At the same time, her throat opened, as did her lungs, to plunge out a river of water as she coughed and her body rocked, violent as the vibrant sunlight. Only, as she did, something nicked her skin at the neck, just a bit, sharp and vicious.

It was a blade and, given that the man beside her was named Petrus, it was Nerren’s first instinct to jam her fist toward the Lord-Captain’s face and exclaim. That was if the saltwater in her chest hadn’t splashed on him to begin with, maybe even saving him from a broken nose if it did.

“What in the kraken’s shit are you doing!?”

Her gaze was sharper than his blade, her eyes more alive and awake than whatever came her way from another side of the shoreline.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

Under normal circumstances having someone throw up seawater anywhere near him would be grounds for Petrus to order them out of his presence. Never mind that a non-insignificant amount of it splashed onto his person. In his current state, however, not only did it not bother him but he took the woman's punch without any attempt to move aside. A bruise forming on his angular features until Neren started to speak.

'What in the kra-....'

Was about as far as she got before the hand not wielding his rapier would slam down onto her mouth, muffling her and maybe busting a lip at how forceful he was, pushing her head backward down into the sand as his eyes flared with indignation and he would shush her softly despite the anger in his eyes.

"Shhhh."

After pausing for a heartbeat he would murmur slowly, voice full of purpose, and nod with each word as he met her sharp gaze with one of smothering authority. Taming her, in his eyes, bratty nature long enough to make his point.

"We. Are. Not. Alone."

Slowly would he move his blade from her throat, and just as slowly point it off to the side toward the dozen or so water-logged corpses currently shuffling more noticeably in their direction from Nerren's outburst. Only once Nerren seemed like she wouldn't start yelling again did he gently remove his hand from her lips and his nostrils would flare as he narrowed his eyes at her. Whispering in a reprimanding tone.

"As for what I was doing: That would be saving your life, woman. As well as making sure you weren't going to become one of our unpleasant company. Now.... arm yourself."

Petrus would slowly stand and not ask permission as he bodily hauled Nerren to her feet, showing that noble or not, he was still in remarkably good shape for his upbringing and age.

Nerren Harclaw​

 

[Nerren Harclaw]

Spoiler: Music

Despite the anger in her eyes, upon realizing that certain peculiar creatures were advancing in her presence, Nerren decided to permit those fingers over her lips for the moment. The kraken might shit whenever it was fit but those corpses in the distance? They had no control over their forms as much as their bowels.

“Mmf.” Nerren mumbled as trouble came her way, offering Petrus a scowl on her face, given her lips were sealed beneath his skin’s appeal and the murmur of his lips. Nevertheless, eyes peeled, she didn’t squeal and would not become the fish meal of the undead who reckoned with her. They would not take her under the figurative ship’s keel and she had her own steel, never mind that of the one taken to kneel over her.

Right. Her sword was sheathed at her side, wasn’t it? Shit. No, it wasn't.

“I oh ear aw uh oh,” she managed to mumble into the hand that stumbled her throat.

Maybe she simply realized she had no sword or axe like before so was disadvantaged, pinned between a man’s form and the sand at her back, along with the undead contraptions that advanced for both persons, determined to have them die, so she obliged.

Once Petrus’ fingers lifted from her features, Nerren licked her lips, torn between prying his sword from his fingers to arm herself as much as making a break for it and leaving him in the darkness of his hell.

Suddenly, the Norden was sprung upward from the Allirian, not that nation or state mattered in the face of the creatures that crept their way.

“Thanks.” Nerren expressed, genuine in her expression, eyes into eyes, lips inches away from Petrus’ face. The hand that had hauled her up to her feet, permitted her to stand, was still gripped. That meant the man’s other hand held his hilt.

“There,” the reaver gestured toward the beach where a weapon, sword or axe, jutted from the sand. “Go and get it!” At that, Nerren attempted to wrench Petrus’ sword from his hand at the same time as plunging her other fist into his lower back to lurch him forward.

Sure, his intentions might have been virtuous, but the blade at her throat was one thing. The fingers over her lips like some lordship attempting to tame a wildling? Venemous. Petrus should have ended at “Shhhh”.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

Petrus would nod at Nerren's thanks and begin to turn away as she motioned to an axe lodged in the sand nearby. Petrus was about to remark on it being an appropriate choice for her when she then exclaimed something much too loud for comfort. In the same moment she lunged for his blade his gaze snapped back to her, about to reprimand her for raising her voice, and giving him just enough time to tighten his grip and wince a bit at the blow. Nerren may not have been as strong as him, possibly, but she was still a fit woman and neither of them were in the best condition.

Nevertheless wincing or no Petrus held his blade true even as his fingers ached from her wrenching grapple and in the next moment tendrils of sand would begin to lash out at Nerren, entangling her wrists, legs and feet as Petrus's magical assistance began to restrain her while the groans of the drowned dead grew closer. By this point the walking corpses were certain something was present so stealth via quietude was no longer an option. Even as the sand began to drag Nerren down like quicksand he would snarl and keep his other hand free, not striking her or retaliating physically, instead he kept the hand that had just helped her to her feet free to block any more punches or otherwise stop any dagger or weapon she might draw.

With anger flashing in his amber eyes Petrus said nothing, gave no response, as he glared into Nerren's eyes.

Nerren Harclaw​