Rum Run (Daske, Gabrielle, Pash'nar)

by **Daske Baggywrinkle** on June 20th, 2012, 1:49 am

Around 1600 bells on the 2nd of Summer

One of the challenges of long passages is that they wreck havoc with one's eating and sleeping schedules. Daske tossed and turned but didn't really sleep much because it was the middle of the day and he wasn't the least bit sleepy. After what he supposed was a few bells, he decided to get up and fix something to eat. He had originally stored most of the food stuffs in the storage area under the cockpit, which was now occupied by boxes of rum. The food stuffs were located in bags in various unlikely places around the boat. He scrounged around until he located the requisite ingredients to make a lentil soup.

Into the iron pot he poured some water which he brought to a boil on the cooking stove. He added some lentils, some salt pork, onions and dried tomatoes and let it simmer for half a bell, stirring it occasionally. Then he added some marjoram and garlic and let it simmer for another half bell. By this time the main cabin was filled with the savory aroma of marjoram and tomato. Much of the water had evaporated, leaving a moderately thick soup. He sampled it and was pleased to discover that it actually tasted pretty good.

He spooned some into a clay mug and sat down to eat. He had no sooner gotten started than Gabrielle came charging down the companion way steps shouting that it was his turn and there was a storm coming their way. She stopped abruptly at the bottom of the steps.

Daske looked up at her and asked, “Want some soup?” Then he then busied himself with his mug, wondering briefly if she had remembered to lash the rudder in place so it would hold a steady course. Then he realized that it was a stupid thought since she was undoubtedly a much better sailor than he and was unlikely to have simply left the rudder swinging loose.

OOC :

by **Gabrielle Seawind** on June 20th, 2012, 3:37 pm

"Huh? Uh, yeah, sure. Thank you."

She helped herself to some of his cooking, and was happy to discover that it was quite good. As soon as she gulped a bit down, that's when she realized she hadn't eaten that day yet. The soup was warm and soothing as she practically devoured it.

"This is pretty good," she said as she helped herself to another serving.

With a mug in her hands, Gabrielle walked over to the bench. There was a bag resting on it which she pushed away to make room for herself. Then, she sat down and made herself comfortable. Curiously, she took another look around his cabin. It seemed different from hers. It was evident that he had more supplies stocked up, something which she was never good at managing.

Gabrielle eyed him. The scar on his face was a bit intimidating, but she hid this feeling behind a straight face. She didn't want to offend him, after all. She also couldn't help but notice that he was missing a some fingers.

"So, what's your story?" she asked outright. It wasn't smart to leave the cockpit unmanned, but a few minutes wouldn't hurt. Besides, they were in the open seas, and their sailing had been smooth so far -- if one could ignore the fact that Gabrielle wanted to run away from the storm.

She vaguely remembered Sable Baggywrinkle mentioning that Daske had not lived his full life with his race. It was a curious matter that Gabrielle didn't know about.

OOC :

by **Pash'nar** on June 20th, 2012, 4:03 pm

OOCEnjoy. <3

It was only a matter of time before he gave in to what little alcohol he had on board. The first stirrings of the storm were limited in their entertainment value, and Pash'nar hurt too much to spend the rest of daylight sober and clear-headed. He'd spent enough time watching lightning dance across the horizon and listen to the distant rumble of thunder threatening it's way in his direction. He'd spent enough time thinking of that dark-haired Drykas. Her petching horse. That drooling wolf.

He'd known plenty of different kinds of lovely.

Passionately so.

He'd sampled and tasted the various offerings of all the port cities he'd managed to sail his casinor to … and then some. Perhaps too much, if there was such a thing. Was there? Could there be?

Petch. There'd only been a handful of times he'd bothered to worry, bothered to let himself get caught up in the whole package, tangled up in the limitations of the mortality of someone else. The petching limitations. Each of them had been worth it—worth every moment of watching time pass. Each time he'd allowed his heart to be swept up into some living tempest, he could hardly complain. And yet ... just like falling from the heavens and waking up on some shore he didn't know, watching someone he'd invested his heart in age and fade was like a slow torture. What joy he'd experienced in his time stuck on this side of the Ukalas seemed meaningless in the face of such loss, even if lives were intertwined after death.

It still petching hurt. Ached, even. Laden with memories of things—people, feelings—that he'd outlasted, outlived, Pash had always struggled with letting go. He knew. He knew that life was connected beyond what he could see and touch, but that didn't make it feel better to lose things in the now.

Oh gods, it was all too much thinking, alone on his casinor, drinking and remembering. Drinking until there was nothing left to do but remember.

This face. That smile. Those nights. The other days.

Some, he could remember more clearly than others. Or, perhaps, only one in particular. So many paled in comparison, so many had played poor replacements for too long. He always knew the consequences for allowing himself to be swept up in the lives of those he would outlive, but at least one, if not more, had been whole-heartedly worth every minute of their passing.

Blearily, the tattooed sailor stared into the bottom of his empty bottle, disappointed that he did not have enough to drink himself into unconsciousness now that he'd found himself sailing this particular current of thought. His leg, at least, was as comfortably numb as the rest of his body, curled up on the worn wood of his deck, sprawled against the slope of unpainted grain that made the roof of his cabin. There had been enough to blur the lines between thought and reality, at least, enough to distort his thinking and his perception. Dizzy and distracted. Tired but awake. There had been enough to leave him thirsty.

But he was always thirsty, just not necessarily in the literal sense.

With a frustrated grunt, the dark-haired navigator tossed his empty bottle, chucking it with all his pent-up, angry strength into the sea. Calloused hands tugged at his un-aging face, inked fingers pulling at flesh that never changed, never wrinkled further than his estimated thirty or so years, never scarred. Well, he could mark it up himself, marking the passage of time. So much time.

Stretching his arms out in front of him, wavering a bit in his lack of sobriety, he let his tide pool gaze wash over the tattoos he'd had inked one by one into his tanned, wind-worn skin. Some here. Some there. Memories. Passage of time. Always time. While they mimicked the cartographic markings that he used to ply his trade, so many of them were also reminders of specific events. He could trace his decades by the subtleties in the linework—this decade in that band, that decade in those curves. Sure, some of it was filler to complete the image, but so much of it was not. And not all of his markings were made by the hands of another.

He let his eyes travel up one arm, the opposite hand straying to his open vest, fingers sliding over his own warm flesh, settling over the one mark not made of blue-black ink, not made by any mortal hands, not paid for by mizas. No, the mark was his, but not his alone. The Lacun was well-hidden, though hardly covered, a stormy swirl of pure black on the tanned skin below his left collarbone, surrounded by hand-drawn lines and shapes of a slightly different shades.

The navigator hissed through too-perfect teeth, leaning his dark-haired head against the roof of his cabin and staring up at the gaping maw of the caverns he'd taken shelter in, calloused hand lingering on his chest. His heart beat beneath his skin, proof that he lived.

That he kept living.

Regardless of his mistakes.

by **Daske Baggywrinkle** on June 22nd, 2012, 3:29 am

He wanted to say, None of your damned business! Instead he got himself some more soup and returned to his seat, which was enough time to remind himself that she wasn't prying. Just trying to be friendly. After all, they were going to be working together for probably three weeks, assuming they found something quickly to transport back to Alvadas. He worked on his soup some more in silence, aware that she was watching him with curious blue eyes.

“Parents were Svefra,” he finally said, continuing to stare into his mug. “Slaves. On the plains of Cyphrus. They died and I ran away, bought me a boat and here I am.” He got up and put his empty mug on the tiny cooking counter. “That'd be three seasons ago I guess.” He retrieved his pipe and some tobacco from the tiny drawer of the navigation table, filled the pipe bowl and lit it from a flame in the stove. "That's 'bout it." Then, puffing his pipe contentedly, he climbed up the companion way steps and into the cockpit, leaving Gabrielle alone in the cabin with her soup.

He did a quick check of the standing and running rigging. The standing rigging was comprised of the forward and stern stays, which ran from the top of the mast to their respective end points at the bow and the stern, and of the sides stays, or shrouds, which ran from the top of the mast to the sides of the boat, two on each side. Together these lines held the mast in place. The running rigging was comprised of the various lines and sheets associated with the sails. The lines were used to raise and lower the sails. The sheets were used to pull the sails in or let them out, depending on the trim demanded by the wind. He hummed tunelessly to himself as he went about his survey.

He did a visual check of the sails to look for fraying or chaffing. The mains'l was showing its age and would have to be replaced pretty soon. Unfortunately it would cost a lot of money, which was one thing he didn't have just now. Thus the cargo runs.

Finally he seated himself in the rear of the cockpit between the tiller and the starboard gunnel, and settled in for a long watch, pipe still protruding from the side of his mouth. Storm clouds were gathering in the west, just as Gabrielle had said. But they were still a day away. He'd worry about them tomorrow. For now he was content to dwell in the easy rhythms of the Lady as she cut through the swells, slowly but surely lapping up the miles.

by **Gabrielle Seawind** on June 22nd, 2012, 6:00 pm

Around 1200 bells on the 3rd of Summer

The ocean was starting to become more risky. The winds were stronger and the boat was being rocked side to side in a more dangerous manner. Gabrielle just wanted to see land soon. That morning, the sky was a lot more crimson that it had been the day before. It was evident that the storm that was soon to come was not going to be a pleasant one.

Gabrielle kept a steady hold as she fixed the sails. The winds were erratic, changing directions at their own whim. As usual, the ocean was being unpredictable.

"Laviku, please protect us..." whispered Gabrielle under her breath. Even if the Sea King had not given her a mark when she was born, she still turned to him like any other Svefra. Her pod members used to put their fingers on his mark when they gave him a prayer, but Gabrielle had no mark to touch. Instead, she bowed her head and spoke to the sea's wind.

Yes, even if Laviku did not bless her as a child, he was still her God. He was the sole being that she thanked for when she survived the awful storm from the previous season, and she knew he would continue to watch over her.

Gabrielle gave a shriek as she was almost thrown off her feet during a particularly strong lurch. She grabbed the boat's mast to steady herself, cursing under her breath.

Around 1800 bells on the 3rd of Summer

Even if it was technically Daske's shift now, Gabrielle stayed in the cockpit and watched him work. A casinor only needed a one person crew, and thus it was unnecessary for her to join in the work. However, she sat on the starboard side as she clutched a thick cloak around herself. Her eyes were on the horizon.

"Are we making good time, or is the storm really moving that slowly?"

For Gabrielle, the longer it took for a storm to move or to start, then the worse it would be. She didn't actually have anything to back up this belief, and she didn't even know if it was true, but it made her uneasy.

It was evident that she was starting to become more paranoid as the day went by.

"What do you think, are we going to outrun this thing?" she asked Daske in an irritated tone. Her frustration wasn't directed at him, and she hoped he wouldn't take it as so.

by **Daske Baggywrinkle** on June 23rd, 2012, 6:22 pm

Daske gave her a sour look and turned his attention back to the sea. He was searching for the cliffs of Kalea that marked its northeastern-most peninsula. The wind had shifted to the northwest, bringing with it a black wall of thunder clouds that had been gaining on them all day. He estimated the wind at twenty knots, which was the strongest wind he was comfortable sailing in. He knew it would get stronger before the day was out. He needed to know where they were. He scanned the southern horizon again.

“There,” he said, pointing to the southwest. “The Kalea peninsula.” The mainland was barely visible in the distance, a thin gray band separating sea from sky. “And there,” he pointed south. “Fang Isle.” Now that he knew exactly where they were, they could form a plan. The long narrow north-south passage called “The Gut” wound its way between the mountains of Kalea and the plains of Cyphrus. Powerful winds often swept up through it to collide with the prevailing westerlies of the Northern Suvan. This made for a volatile mixture of conflicting forces at the mouth of the Gut resulting in rough seas and tricky currents most of the time. It was a span best crossed as quickly as possible. He looked back at the storm clouds still pursuing them.

“The storm'll catch us sometime tomorrow mornin' 'bout half way across,” he said to Gaby. “Wind's pickin' up. Better reef the mains'l now while it's still easy to do.” He swung the Lady around and headed her up into the wind, which caused the sails to flap loosely. He kept his left hand on the tiller while he loosed the main halyard with his right and slowly let it out, bringing the head of the mains'l about a third of the way down the mast. As the foot of the sail started piling up, Gaby folded it back and forth over the boom and tied it down. Daske secured the halyard and brought the Lady back to an easterly heading. They had reduced their sail area by about twenty-five percent. “Probly haf' ta reef it some more later,” he said. “But this'll do for now.”

He settled back into the space between the tiller and the port gunnel. The boat was rising and falling as it plowed through four foot swells under an overcast sky, occasionally pitching to one side or the other. A wave broke over the bow, throwing a cold spray on them. Daske retrieved a wool cap from a pocket and pulled it over his head.

“So, you ever find any of yer pod mates?”

SAILING NOTES :

Gaby :

Pash :

by **Pash'nar** on June 26th, 2012, 2:20 am

OOCI think I need internet sailing lessons from Daske. Like, right now.

Clouds began to roll in faster, having closed the distance between the horizon and the coastal caverns the tattooed sailor had taken refuge in. He watched Syna's slowly lowering head disappear behind thickening blankets of clouds. They had been tall, ominous on the horizon a handful of hours ago, and they had traveled so quickly. The lightning and thunder was only a little slower to follow, the sound reverberating through the cavern Pash'nar had hunkered down in with his casinor with all the burgeoning weight of the rain that was surely on its way, too.

Cerulean gaze blearily shifted to glance over his portside, casting a cautionary glance in the direction of the dark depths of the caverns behind him. The cave echoed with the howling sound of the wind, and Pash'nar found himself wondering just how deep these caves really were. He didn't want to let his mind wander too far when considering what creatures may dwell in that darkness, remembering quite clearly his most recent encounters with the things the djed storm had enticed to the surface in the Gut just a handful of days ago.

Unfortunately, even the cavern didn't distract him from his self-destructive thoughts for long.

Memories still haunted him in his inebriated state. He stared back out at the gathering storm. Thunder rumbled closer now, louder. Calloused fingers traced the familiar mark that marred his unaging skin, nestled in near-perfect camouflage among the delicate blue-black lines of his tattoos. He briefly wondered what bell it was, Syna's light having been dulled by cloud cover and stormy darkness.

His thoughts, however, blurred and drifted back through decades as he remembered what almost felt like an entirely different life.

The day before had been a terrible storm out on the open ocean. They'd all struggled to hold the boats together, to keep everyone on board, and to stay upright without being washed into the churning sea that often towered above the pod's handful of ships. By the time the sky had cleared and the sea had calmed in late afternoon the next day, everyone was exhausted, bruised, and salty, sprawled wherever they could find somewhere even remotely comfortable to rest.

However, just as the summer rays of Syna turned golden in the last bells of afternoon, everyone forced themselves to stir, to tidy, to dress, to prepare. They could've found some lovely secluded island for their celebration, it was true, but the request of the couple had been for everything to be entirely at sea, though they were still within sight of Oyster Island in the brilliantly clear shallows that spread out to form reefs and sandbars before plunging into the deep sea once again.

With joy, every detail was honored. Music was played, and lanterns were hung, and fresh catches from the waves were prepared to feast on. Children unable to sit still played their own games barefoot on the still-wet wood of the main navar. A handful of casinors and a palivar hovered nearby, extended family and friends willing to swim in the warm, crystal waters in order to converge upon the largest ship for the happy event—an exchange of vows.

Cerulean gaze shifted once again to the dark clouds outside the mouth of his cavernous shelter before looming inward.

Though it had no texture of its own, other than the same familiar feeling of his skin, it was hard not to touch or attempt at glimpses of the Chevas that graced his neck. Regardless of the time of day, there it was; the only mark that remained visible under Leth's gaze, standing out against his opalescent skin. Unlike his hand-inked tattoos that decorated his earthbound form, this mark had a dark color all it's own and was obviously not made by mortal hands. A swirl of true black, almost like a water spout raised from the sea by a storm, marked not only himself, but the Svefra who'd laid such firm claim on his heart, who'd managed to convince him that time didn't matter, not for now, not for tomorrow.

The Chevas represented more than love for the ethaefal. It meant a freedom he had convinced himself he wasn't allowed, wasn't capable of. For someone to care nothing about about whether or not he'd outlive them, to wholeheartedly want to spend their bright flash of their live with him, and he with them, was something he'd never expected of himself.

Oh, but he'd been swept away … so far, so deep … that he thought himself captured by a love much deeper than mere mortality.

Perhaps, at the time, he had still been naive. But, the joy from that moment had perhaps compared second only to the realm he'd fallen from so many decades ago. There was little else he could hold up parallel to the Ukalas except for his time … that time—

That foolish time, as it all seemed now, in retrospect, knowing well enough that he'd been the one…

…the one to ruin everything.

Cursing foully under his breath and rubbing his watering eyes with inked knuckles, the drunk false Svefra groaned and struggled to his feet, wounds protesting the effort despite just how much he'd numbed his earthbound flesh with drink. He staggered to his mast, leaning against it with a grunt and staring at the tumultuous Suvan, knowing the storm that was coming paled to storm that had brewed for almost half a century in his heart.

by **Gabrielle Seawind** on June 26th, 2012, 1:08 pm

Gabrielle gave Daske an icy stare. She pursed her lips and shrugged. "No, didn't find them," she responded simply, and then she dropped the topic like it was hot coal. Just so she wouldn't come off as completely rude, she forced a smile at him.

They spent the whole night attempting to make as much distance between them and the storm, but come morning, on the fourth day of Summer, it was evident that Daske had been right. The waves were dangerous and rocked the ship from side to side, spraying water on deck and on their faces. Gabrielle hoped that the boxes of rum had been effectively tied down, or else they would be meeting a mess.

The storm was nowhere near as deadly as the one that wrecked havoc in the past season, but it was far from pleasant as well. The rain fell hard on them, and it was difficult to see into the horizon. Gabrielle decided to trust Daske's directions as they sailed towards land.

They were going to take their chances and look for shelter at the Visai Caverns. She had never been there before, though she had heard stories about a crazy man who lived there. She also heard that it wasn't very easy to dock at the caverns, but they had no choice... they had to. Perhaps because they were two people, they'd have enough skill and strength between the two of them to safely arrive at the caverns.

They continued to sail as the storm raged around them. Gabrielle was a light girl and more than once was she almost thrown off her feet. Daske was turning out to be a very competent sailor, to which Gabrielle was intensely thankful for. He certainly knew what he was doing.

Land was in sight. They could finally see Cyphrus, and they continued to sail, searching for a safe place to dock. As the bells passed, the storm was becoming more violent, and Gabrielle wanted nothing more than to find shelter.

"Over there! To the port side!" called out Gabrielle as she pointed towards the North West. It was barely visible in the downpour, but one could see the opening to the Visai caverns. The landscape surrounding the caverns didn't seem inviting, but she their best bet would probably be to sail to it. The seawater flowed into the cavern's mouth. The only reason Gabrielle had to believe that it could provide them shelter was the story about the mad man who resided in the caverns.

As Daske adjusted the sails, Gabrielle manoeuvred the tiller. They had to be efficient. The wind was pushing them with much force than she would hope, and of course, they couldn't risk crashing the boat into the harsh rocks.

by **Daske Baggywrinkle** on June 27th, 2012, 11:46 pm

The Black Lady raced toward the rocky shoreline on twenty foot swells about four boat lengths from crest to crest. Rain flew across the boat more horizontally than vertically. Daske was at the mast trying to bring down the jib, which the wind was threatening to rip away. He looked back at Gaby. She had tied herself into one corner of the rear of the cockpit and had the tiller in a two-handed death grip. She looked scared and Daske didn't blame her. He hadn't been so scared since the Djed storm had thrown him and the Lady on to that beach on Oyster Isle. He watched in horror as a dark wave rose behind Gaby higher and higher until it towered over her, and then came crashing down on the stern, drenching Gaby and filling the cockpit with roiling water. The Lady pitched forward, bow pointing down, as the stern was lifted by the massive wall of water rolling under it. Then she pitched the opposite way, bow pointing up toward the sky, as she slid down into the deep trough on the backside of the wave. Then came another great wave rising until it towered above them and then crashing down on the Lady's stern. And then another. It had been doing this for several bells and showed no sign of letting up.

Daske clung to the mast with one hand the wrestled the jib with the other. After what seemed like an eternity he got the sail down and dragged it back to the cockpit, hanging on to the hand holds located along the top of the cabin. One hand for the boat, one hand for yerself, he thought. He fell into the cockpit, sail in tow, pulled open the companion way hatch and tumbled down the steps into the cabin. He dragged the sail below, leaving it on the floor. He'd roll it up real pretty like another time. Then he climbed back up into the cockpit and secured the hatch.

“I wanna make a pass by the cavern entrance and then back out to sea,” he shouted to Gaby. “So we can get a look at it before we try it.” She gave him a look of utter disbelief, but then nodded grimly. Neither of them had ever been to the Visai Caverns before. She was an experienced sailor. She knew they needed to see what the entrance looked like before they made the attempt. She steered straight for a sheer cliff a hundred yards south of the cavern entrance. The black gash in the cliff seemed altogether too small for what they were going to try.

About a hundred yards out he yelled, “Ready to come about!” as he lashed himself to a port side cleat. “Ready!” Gaby shouted back. At seventy-five yards he yelled, “Bring 'er about!” and grabbed the main sheet to control the mains'l as their angle to the wind changed. “Coming about,” She yelled back, and pulled the tiller hard to starboard. The Lady began to swing around on a maneuver that, if successful, would bring her to a northerly heading as she passed by the cavern entrance. As she came about, she found herself broadside to the gale force wind, which promptly pushed her over on her starboard side. She kept on going over. Past twenty degrees. Past forty degrees. Everything seemed to slow down for Daske as he watched the Lady heel past sixty degrees, which he knew was the point of no return. He lost his footing and found himself literally dangling by the rope he had tied around his waist. The Lady continued her agonizingly slow roll. Past seventy degrees. Past eight degrees. The boom, mast and sail were in the water and the Lady was lying on her side still being driven toward the cliffs that now loomed above them. It was fortunate for Gaby that she had had the foresight to tie herself down. It was unfortunate that she had tied herself to the starboard side, because the starboard side was now under water. Daske could no longer see her. The noise of the rushing water was deafening and in that moment Daske knew in his heart of hearts that the Black Lady was going under.

Casinors, like many sailing vessels, have what is called a keel fin attached to and running along the bottom side of the boat's keel. It is heavy, usually made from iron. In the Black Lady's case it extended four feet below the boat. It's purpose is to put the boat's center of gravity low enough that it will always right itself, even if it capsizes completely. The Lady did not, in fact, capsize. She experienced a “knock down,” from which she now began to rise. Slowly but surely she began her return to an upright position. Eighty degrees, seventy, fifty, twenty degrees. Daske, who had somehow managed to hang on to the main sheet, was madly pulling the mains'l in. Gaby, who finally surfaced with the starboard side of the boat, had somehow managed to keep the tiller hard to starboard. This had probably saved them from a rollover. By keeping the tiller hard to starboard, she had kept the boat turning. It now passed across the wind and assumed a close hauled point of sail. The mains'l flew across the cockpit, nearly decapitating Daske, and spread itself out on the opposite side of the boat. They had successfully come about and were now sailing away from the cliffs into the wind.

“Dammit!” Shouted Daske. “My canoe's gone!” The canoe had been tied to the starboard side of the cabin. It was no longer there. "I paid ten gold mizas for that thing." They were heeling hard over to port now. Daske untied himself and moved to the tiller, very nearly going over the stern as the Lady dove into a huge wave exploded over the bow and buried them with water.

“Trade!” he shouted in a voice that brooked no argument. He probably sounded angry but he wasn't. He was just scared. Gaby untied herself and retied herself with the rope that had kept Daske from going overboard during the knock down. Daske took her place and tied himself down.

“Looks to me like we can maybe avoid most of the rocks if we come in at 'bout forty-five degrees and turn hard to starboard at the last minute.” Said Daske through clenched teeth. “If we're lucky, the wind'll blow us right in.” Gaby expressed some skepticism about the words “maybe” and “most”, which Daske ignored. His whole body was tensed up and his entire attention was on the entrance to the cavern as they fell off to the same broad reach they had originally come in on, and raced back toward the cliffs. About twenty-five yards out, he shouted, “Drop the main!” Gaby had apparently been expecting this because she already had hold of the halyard and on his command the mains'l came singing down the mast on to the boom. She made no attempt to fold it neatly. Daske pulled the tiller hard to starboard to put the Lady on a forty-five degree course for the cave entrance. She was loosing speed fast but the wind and waves were still carrying her toward the cliff. As she crossed in front of the cave, the starboard side of her hull hit a rock. He pushed the tiller hard to port and the Lady turned into the narrow black crevice, making a sickening grinding sound as she scrapped along the rock surface to port. A wave picked them up and literally threw them through the opening and into the dim interior of the Visai Caverns. Daske had no idea what the inside looked like, but he figured continuing in a straight line might be a bad idea. He pulled the tiller back to starboard, which caused the Lady to swing to port where she ran into ... another boat ... literally. Fortunately she had lost most of her momentum and the collision was marked only by a bump and a thud. It was, however, a hard enough bump to knock the sailor standing on the other boat on to his ass, from which position he continued to tumble through the companion way hatch and disappeared from sight.

“Damn,” said Daske quietly.

OOC :

Pash :

Sailing Note :

by **Pash'nar** on June 28th, 2012, 10:22 pm

OOCWell, hello there! Don't expect a warm welcome after that entrance. Drunk, hurt, emofal Pash is just sooooo thrilled to have visitors this afternoon.

While the storm had seemed to take its time creeping over the shore, looming over the caverns he'd taken shelter in, it poured forth its wrath quickly enough. The sea rose with it, angry swells washing into the cave and rocking Pash'nar's casinor. The rain was heavy and a darkness settled over the Suvan that was only broken by the lightning and white crests of ridiculously tall waves.

The tattooed sailor had already reluctantly set about preparing his ship for the storm long before it broke open overhead, leg protesting despite his inebriated numbness. Once he'd finished securing what he could, he found himself something to lean on and watch, grateful he'd been close enough to the caverns to seek shelter. Wounded as he was, the storm most likely would have been the last he'd ever see had he decided to brave it instead.

The real question was, he mused darkly, would it have mattered?

The lump in his chest sank like an anchor into his liquid-filled stomach as he questioned the purpose of his existence, even if it was only for a few heartbeats.

Blearily, he thought he saw a familiar shape tossed by the storm in the distance.

He hobbled for a better vantage point, hissing a few curses under his breath hoarsely. His ship rocked as a particularly large swell washed into the caverns, and he kept himself from falling only by gripping his starboard rail. Struggling to stand again, he strained to focus on the sea through the rain and whitecaps. Sure enough, something was coming. It may have even been casinor-shaped, but from the distance, it was hard to tell. He watched the dark thing pitch and roll dangerously, tossed by the whim of the storm. They'd made it through the Gut, at least, and perhaps whoever they were had the same thoughts he had …

Which meant they were headed in his direction.

Pash'nar groaned. He was hardly interested in company, especially if they weren't friendly. He was in no state to defend himself.

Judging by their distance, he had less than a bell to prepare—

Much less.

Wishing he'd been paying attention instead of wallowing in drunken self-loathing, the false Svefra was in no state at all to be doing much of anything. He crawled his way belowdecks and locked things away, though he hardly had much he considered ultimately valuable save for a handful of mizas. He found his knives. The rocking of his ship in the shallows of the cavern tossed him about his cabin, making everything more difficult and slightly more nauseating than he could hope for. Finally, he scrambled his way abovedecks once again, just in time for a huge wave to wash over his entire deck, practically knocking him back down the stairs had he not snatched for the hatch, white knuckled and snarling at the horrible fire the cold brine set to his thigh and tender left butt cheek.

The swell had blocked his view of the Black Lady's first pass. He was too busy rubbing stinging salt from his blurred vision and recovering his footing to see the casinor scout the entrance to the caverns.

Once he could see again, however, he realized just how close the ship was. A new string of curses propelled him toward the cockpit, ignoring the fresh blood that was already staining his one pair of pants. It was impossible not to watch all that ensued, the water dipping dangerously in front of the cavern as if to give the dark-haired navigator a better view while it threatened to swell elsewhere. The other casinor was making its approach, only it was … sideways, dangerously so. He held his breath, waiting for it to capsize. There was yelling and chaos, and finally the ship righted herself in time to reveal a second member of the crew. Everything blurred a bit with the next wave as Pash realized they were approaching a bit too fast, unable to resist the toss of the angry sea.

He had no time to brace himself for impact as the other casinor smashed into his own, and he was hardly in a state to make last-minute decisions or even to resist the momentum of the ship or the wave that roared at his deck again. Instead, he felt his queasy stomach wrench as he was tossed from a standing position, crashing into his soaked deck and flailing his way back down his stairs under a wash of more cold seawater. He hardly managed to shout curses the whole way down, so caught off-guard by the sudden event and practically blinded by the kind of pain that blossomed from his trident wounds—his arse being no exception.

For a long time, he just laid on the floor of his cabin, unable to really care who the petch could have been on the other casinor. He fought his own body for consciousness as well as control over his insides, not wanting to lose the copious amounts of alcohol he'd consumed all over his floor or his person. The tattooed sailor's heart pounded in his chest and his lungs burned with so much swallowed seawater. It hurt too much to think about standing, so he stared at his star-painted ceiling and waited for his small world to stop spinning, knowing he wasn't going anywhere any time soon. He managed to move one hand to rest on a knife at his belt, finally expressing his surprise and discomfort in a loud string of the foulest Fratava he could conjure.

Dizzily, he clawed his way to his knees and scrambled up his stairs, not paying attention to the blood he left wetly in his wake. Crashing through his hatch in the opposite direction, he all but fell onto his deck again and willed himself into a soaked, pathetic example of a standing position, wildly scanning his deck for the two crew he'd counted on the other ship, not quite convinced he should be concerned for their safety as much as his own,

"Ahoy! What th'petch wassat 'bout, eh?"

He finally grunted in slurred, broken Common as his politest form of greeting, holding back the rest of his pained, angry thoughts lest he find himself guilty of judging his guests too petching soon. He wavered on his feet, left leg bloodied through the wet linen that now clung to his skin, and attempted not to look too threatening while one tattooed hand hovered near his pair of knives.