Rum Run (Daske, Gabrielle, Pash'nar)

[Daske Baggywrinkle]

Timestamp: The 1st Day of Summer 512 Northern Suvan Sea Patchwork Port had taken a beating. It would be a long time before the physical memory of the Great Djed Storm of 512 was entirely erased from this place. Nevertheless, construction was well underway. The piers were gone, but new docks had been built and the great port was once again open for business, one end of the busy trade route between Alvadas and Syliras that formed the backbone of the economy of the Northern Suvan Sea. The sun was peeking over the Zastoska Mountains barely visible far to the East as Daske brought the Black Lady into the harbor. The wind was from the West at fifteen knots, which put the Lady on a hard-heeled starboard close reach. Although this wasn't the Lady's fastest point of sail, it was the most exhilarating. The boat was heeled over at a twenty degree angle, burying the port gunnel in the water. The wind was blowing hard and fast. Spray flew over the cockpit, stinging his face. The smell of the salt sea filled his nostrils. The sound of rushing water filled his ears. The boat felt like it was going to go all the way over any moment. But he knew it wouldn't. It would take a more powerful wind than this to overcome the counterweight of the heavy iron keel hanging from the bottom of the Black Lady's hull. Daske sat on the port side, low, the water flowing by mere inches from his head, as he constantly made tiny adjustments to the tiller to keep the boat on a precise course toward the docks. Gods I love this, he thought as the docks rushed toward him. Docking is one of he more interesting aspects of sailing. The trick is to make the boat stop at exactly the right place at exactly the right time. This sounds easy. But it's not. The reason it's not easy is inertia. Inertia is the tendency for something that is not moving to resist moving, and something that is moving to resist stopping. This tendency is proportional to the mass of the object in question. The Casinor is a relatively small boat, but it's mass is still measured in tons. As a result, a Casinor moving at, say, six knots, which just happens to be the speed at which the Black Lady was approaching the docks of Patchwork Port, does not want to stop. To complicate things, as long as the sails are up, the wind will continue to push the Casinor forward. But as soon as the sails are dropped, the Casinor is coasting, which reduces the control the skipper has over her. It is this conglomeration of forces that make docking one of the more interesting aspects of sailing. It's all about knowing which sails to drop when, and what to do with the tiller, to bring the boat to a full stop right next to the dock. The last time Daske had sailed into this harbor, his docking procedure had elicited laughter from the dock workers who apparently had nothing better to do than critique a lone sailor trying to get his boat docked. Daske knew a lot more about sailing now than he had known then. He was coming in at a forty-five degree angle to the dock, which was what he wanted. About fifty yards out he reached over and yanked the port jib sheet loose from its cleat, letting the forward sail flap freely in the wind. The boat immediately began to lose speed. He was now passing the spot on the dock he intended to claim. He let the main sheet go and pushed the tiller hard to starboard, which caused the Lady to execute a sharp 180 degree turn. About 145 degrees into the turn, Daske pulled the tiller back to center and then a little to port to bring the boat up to the dock. He was still moving too fast, so he pulled in the starboard jib sheet to catch a bit of backwind. This brought the boat to a stand-still about two feet off the dock. Daske grabbed the stern docking line and leaped across the gap and on to the dock, where he pulled the boat in. He secured the stern line to a docking cleat, then the forward line to another cleat. The Black Lady was safely in port, having executed a near-perfect docking maneuver; near perfect because he really shouldn't have left that two foot gap between the boat and the dock. Daske looked around to see who might be watching and was disappointed to discover that no one appeared to have paid him any attention at all. Damn, he thought.

[Daske Baggywrinkle]

The Black Lady was in desperate need of provisioning. It had been a long, hard Spring and much of her regular stock of supplies and equipment had been damaged or had simply vanished into the blue waters of the Suvan. She had been repaired in Syliras, but still needed a fresh coat of paint on her hull. A complete repaint would require dry docking, which Daske now wished he had done while she was in Syliras. But he could at least freshen up the black hull down to the water line. Painting a boat is about more than aesthetics. The paint helps protect the boat from the harsh treatment it receives from wind and water. The Lady and her contents was all Daske had in the world, so he tried to take care of her. He made several trips into Alvadas, visited several shops, and ended the morning with the following inventory of purchases: 1 10 foot pole 2 sm 5 empty sacks 5 sm 5 clay mugs 10 cm 2 clay jugs 6 cm 6 whetstone 1 sm 2 buckets 10 sm 1 iron pot 5 sm 5 iron skillets 5 sm 1 50' hemp rope 1 gm 1 woodsman’s axe 4 gm 1 clay pitcher 2 cm 2 10 foot ladders 10 cm 1 pound tobacco 5 sm 3 gallons paint 1 gm 1 bark canoe 10 gm 5 pints lamp oil 5 sm 1 belt pouch 1 gm 5 winter blankets 25 sm 5 bed rolls 5 sm 1 tourniquet 2 cm 1 barrel 1 gm OOC : I will deduct 25 gm, 8 sm, 26 cm from my ledger for these items. He bought four extra iron skillets and five extra whetstones because he figured he could use them to trade with other Svefra. One more trip netted him enough non-perishable food to last him for the summer if he could supplement it with fish and game: Dried beans Rice Lentils Oats Salt pork Safflower oil Salt Cumin Ginger Mustard seed Vinegar Marjoram Garlic Onions Dried currents Dried tomatoes Honey Cheese OOC : I do not plan to deduct anything from my ledger for the food items, figuring this comes out of the seasonal living expenses. My basic rule of thumb is that if it goes into my inventory, I buy it. If it goes into my stomach, I don't. The afternoon found him at anchor a hundred or so yards from the dock. He was hanging upside down over the side of the boat, painting The Lady's hull down to the waterline. A length of hemp rope was tied around his waist and secured to the mast. It was a slow process, but Daske was a patient man. He would do a small section, pull himself back up on to the deck, sit for a few minutes to clear his head, move a little bit, and repeat the operation. He had most of one side painted when he realized someone standing on the dock was shouting at him. He climbed back up on deck and waved to indicate that he had heard the man.

[Daske Baggywrinkle]

“Are you Daske of the Baggywrinkle Pod?” the man shouted. Even from this distance, Daske could see that the man was wearing a nice-looking suit of clothes, a formal jacket, shiny black shoes and a fedora. Definitely not a dock worker, thought Daske. “Who's askin'?” he shouted back. “Maxwell Payne. I have a business proposition for you. Can we talk? One of the items Daske had purchased that morning was a bark canoe. It was light and easy to handle, and could hold up to three people. It likely wouldn't fair well in rough water, but that wasn't what he got it for. He got it to ferry himself back and forth between The Black Lady and shore. He had gotten tired of having to swim or wade on to beaches. He had tied it to the port side of the cabin top. Now he untied it, carried it to the stern and slid it overboard. He had also purchased a ten foot ladder, which he cut in half. One half was now attached to the stern of the boat to provide an easy way to get into the canoe and to get back aboard afterward. He climbed into the canoe and paddled across the short distance separating The Lady from the dock. Then he and Payne made their way to a small tavern in Patchwork Port where they found a table and sat down. Payne order two ales and, once the drinks had arrived, said, “I am looking for someone to transport some cargo to Syliras. You were recommended to me.” Daske downed a third of his ale in a single swallow. He couldn't think of anyone in Alvadas he knew, let alone someone who would recommend him. But he decided it didn't matter. His funds were running perilously low and this man was offering him a job. “What's the cargo?” he asked. “Rum.” “Rum?” “Twenty-two crates of it. Apparently it's a rare commodity in Syliras these days. I've got a contact there who is willing to pay well for this shipment. I, in turn, am willing to pay well to get it there.” “How big are they? “Two by two by one and a half. Thirty-six bottles in each crate.” “Well packed?” The man offered another thin smile. “I have a lot of money invested in them.” “When ya need this done?” “This sort of opportunity is time sensitive, so I need them in Syliras in ten days. I can have the crates delivered to the dock first thing tomorrow morning.” Daske thought about it for a few moments. He couldn't see anything illegal about it. It seemed like a low-risk proposition. And he certainly needed the money. There was just one catch. He wasn't sure where he was going to put twenty-two crates of rum on the Black Lady. “Just the cargo? No passengers?” “Just the cargo. You're certainly not going to get me out on the open sea in that little piece of flotsam you call a ship. No offense intended.” “None taken,” said Daske. “I charge four gold mizas a day. Ten days is tight, but I can do it if wind, weather and pirates cooperate.” The man smiled another thin smile. “I'll give you thirty gold mizas flat fee, regardless of how many days it takes. Ten now. The rest when you deliver the cargo.” “Thirty-five.” “Thirty-three.” “Twenty up front.” “Fifteen.” “Done,” said Daske. “Bring two copies of the bill of lading and the contract for us to sign tomorrow. The earlier the better so I can catch the tide.” Daske stayed for another ale after Payne left. He had some thinking to do. First, he had to figure out how to get twenty-two crates stowed away on the Black Lady. He'd have to use the aft cabin and storage areas, which meant moving some stuff above deck, tying it down and hoping the wind didn't carry it off. The more serious problem was the tight schedule. Getting to Syliras in ten days would require sailing twenty-four hours a day all the way. He could set up the self-steering vane and let the Lady take care of herself at night while he slept but that was risky. If the wind changed direction without waking him up, he could end up on the rocks somewhere. So he'd probably have to stay in the cockpit the whole way and catch naps where he could. “Sure hope it don't rain,” he said to his mug of ale. Then he finished it off.

[Gabrielle Seawind]

Alvadas was one of the cities on Gabrielle's usual route. She found herself on Patchwork port during various days in a season, and this day was one of them. The svefra wasn't planning on staying long—she was going to do some shopping, and then look for an employer. Soon enough, she had purchased what she thought was necessary. Since it was time to buy new clothes, she bought a leather vest and a skirt made of average material. There was also a hammock that she would set up in her casinor, since Sari probably didn't appreciate sleeping on the hard floor. Lastly, she bought a pair of leather shoes... also for Sari. Receipt : Leather vest - 3sm, average skirt - 4sm, hammock - 5gm, leather shoes - 3sm. Gabrielle went back to her casinor and set up the hammock in one corner of her cabin. She also put the leather shoes near the hammock so Sari would see them when she came back. 'Where is she? Maybe going for a swim again...?' When she was done, Gabrielle decided to go to the nearby tavern. In the past, she had been fortunate enough to find some employers in that particular location—she hoped she'd be in luck once again. Looking for an employer wasn't an easy thing, though she already had a few regular customers, and she hoped they'd be around. As soon as she entered the tavern, she observed with a frown that none of her usual customers were around. 'Bummer...' Gabrielle looked around, trying to spot anyone who would probably be interested. She wasn't talented in this task, especially since they usually came to her. Gabrielle sat down by a nearby table and assessed how she would go about this... and then her ears picked up a conversation, of two people speaking about a transport job across the sea, and of the prices that would be paid. She sat there, simply listening to them. Maybe... if the sailor was young and naive, she could swipe the job away from him. Turning her head around, she took a glance to see if she was right. His employer had already left. Upon closer inspection, she was stunned to see a familiar face. It was one of the men she had first met back in the Svefra meeting. The rugged looking man, another one of the Baggywrinkles, and he went by the name of... "Daske!" she called out suddenly. Gabrielle quickly stood up and strode over to him, her expression one of surprise. "Did you just take that job from me?" It was an accusation, and it was a false one, disguised as a joke. She looked at him with a smirk and took a seat beside him before he even had a chance of saying anything else. "You need help with the job?" she asked. Gabrielle couldn't believe she was saying this, but there was only one kind of person she could really work with – and that would be a person of her own race. "You'll need help sailing, yeah? It'll also be much faster if someone else can sail while you get some shut eye... and that man, he said ten days, so hiring another person to sail with you would be a smart move." She stared at him, waiting for his answer.

[Pash'nar]

Pash'nar could sail. He could navigate by starlight. He could draw decent maps. He could throw a good punch when necessary. But in all his time wandering Mizahar, despite all the trouble he'd gotten his arse into over the decades, he was still a petching poor doctor. While his attackers-turned-companions had made admirable efforts in patching him up after slicing him open, he was eventually expected to take back off on his own, and that's when things sort of took his own direction, which was unimpressive at best. It was difficult to rest, unable to sit comfortably, and once the winds picked up as he found himself turning his casinor south, the strain on his left leg while keeping his footing was more than occasionally excruciating. Eventually, he was drifting more and sailing less, impatient with the healing process as he did his best to clean and care for the gashes in his leg. A few days felt like forever, waves and thoughts listless against the worn wood of his ship. He often slept the day away, as that was the most comfortable without the entangling ornamental horns of his moonlit form forcing him to choose less than desirable sleeping positions when one had been stabbed in the arse. He may have drank a bit, what little he kept on board, to keep himself contentedly numb to the ache in his thigh. While he didn't even have a particular destination in mind, he found himself more or less heading in the direction of Alvadas unconsciously, despite his reasons for having left in the first place. It was a difficult trap to find himself in—wanting to go back but loathing the consequences. He'd have to admit he enjoyed the company he'd kept, that he'd found the distraction of another person worthwhile despite his hardened heart. He'd have to admit that sometimes, indeed, he was lonely, though he was sure he'd never say that out loud, especially not to Nira'lia, fairly certain of the kind of smug smile he'd receive for such an admission. Admitting anything to the likes of Sariana would only have been more complicated. He loathed the thought. And yet, these same reasons were why he always found himself back in Zeltiva, wasn't it? Not simply because it was familiar, because it faintly ached like home, but because there were faces who smiled when he arrived and were genuinely happy to see him regardless of who he was or what he had been doing. His tumultuous century of life had yet to wipe completely the pleasure in being wanted, in being missed, in being needed. No matter how hard he'd tried to eliminate such things from his life, it was impossible not to come crawling back to them. It wasn't like his god needed him—had Leth cast him out because he'd had enough to care for? Or perhaps whoever Pash'nar had been in the Ukalas had somehow deemed himself unworthy for care and thus been allowed to slip through the fissure back to Mizahar so Leth didn't have to bother with him? Either scenario left a sour taste in the ethaefal's mouth and he was unsure that either thought was at all true. There was some reason for his being stuck here for so long, though in all his half-hearted searching, he had yet to even see a glimmer of the answer. Time with Sable had not been entirely unpleasant, nor had her charoda friend, Liandra, been completely unbearable. Their brief companionship reminded him of his purposeful avoidance of his daytime people, the Svefra… It reminded of his attempt to spend time as part of their family, of a pod, and how that had been almost as difficult as watching the family of fishermen who'd rescued him so long ago on the beach grow old and die. Outliving those whom he bothered to care about was unavoidable, but the pain never lessened over time. While he should have recognized that each of them had their own place on the cycle like himself, he didn't entirely feel that knowledge as a comfort, considering he felt so stuck in his own. Pash'nar, alone an his casinor and left to his own thoughts, was truly miserable when injured. It was on the forth day of his drifting that he realized just how close to the northern coast of Cyphrus he'd managed to float near. Syna's light brought a threatening red sky, promising a storm the tattooed sailor felt in no condition to weather with a bad leg and exhaustion tugging at his ability to stay focused. He remembered that tucked along the shoreline somewhere were some caves, caves he'd charted but never explored or entered—they would have to do as shelter. He could only hope that nothing terrible had taken up residence in their rock walls since he'd last sailed by. He would have to make some pained effort to reach shelter in time before any summer squall made his life more difficult.

[Daske Baggywrinkle]

He spilled some ale and nearly toppled over backward as he pushed his chair back. The young blond-haired, blue-eyed woman had startled him. She took possession of one of the chairs as though she owned it and sat down. A simple necklace around her neck, a significant collection of bracelets on her wrists, a tattoo of some sort on the back of her hand. He pulled his chair back up to the table trying to remember where he knew her from. “Uhm …” he said profoundly, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I remember you. Caiyha's Fist Isle. Yeah you're, uhm, Gabriel. No ... Gabrielle. Yeah. Gabrielle Seawind.” A self-satisfied look formed on his face, as though he had just solved a great mystery. He waved at the barmaid and held up two fingers in indicate that he wanted two ales. He paid for them when they arrived and pushed one toward Gabrielle. He took his time downing half his drink. He wasn't especially excited about the idea of sharing the money he'd get for the delivery. But he wasn't very excited about sailing ten days straight without a break either. She would share the sailing responsibilities and might turn out to be good company. Who knows what might happen on a ten day voyage? He thought. She's a good lookin' woman. I wouldn't mind cuddlin' up with here anytime. Not that he held out much hope along those lines. He knew his face looked like it had gone through a meat grinder, which only a seriously maladjusted female would actually find attractive. Still ... He put the mug down with a clunk and looked her in the eye, a stern look on his already stern looking face. He spoke in broken, heavily accented Fratava. “Mine contract, mine boat. We split money 70/30. That's 70% to me, 30% to you.” She considered this and said, “Your chances of a successful run are much greater with me than without me. I'm a competent sailor and I'm pretty good with a long bow. I think a 50/50 split's fair.” Then she smiled at him. Damn, he thought. That's not fair. Meaning the smile. He sighed. “60/40,” he said in a resigned voice. “Accept it or bury it.” He hoped he was getting the words right. “I'll take it,” she said. “Okay,” he said. “A deal it will be then.” He absent-mindedly rubbed two fingers along the jagged scar that ran down the left side of his face and switched back to Common “Listen, I'd love to sit here drinkin' ale with ya all night, but I gotta get the Lady ready for the trip, an' to tell the truth I'm runnin' a little shy on sleep. Meet me on the dock at dawn. The tide'll be goin' out then. We'll load 'er up an' let it carry us out. You can't miss the Black Lady. Mainly 'cuz she's black.” Next morning, 2nd of Summer The sun had not yet climbed over the mountains far to the East, but there was sufficient pre-dawn light for Daske to raise anchor and bring the Lady to the dock. It was an easier operation than it had been the day before because there was almost no wind. The boat gently drifted up to the dock with a gentle bump and Daske secured here to the docking cleats. Gabrielle was waiting for him. “Let's go below and I'll show ya around,” he said. “An' you can help me figure out where we're gonna store all them crates.” OOC : I modded Gabby with her OOC permission. OOC : Here is a walk-through of the boat by the old woman from whom Daske purchased it.

[Gabrielle Seawind]

Gabrielle got up early to take care of last minute issues. She was thankful that Sari was around, or otherwise she wouldn't be comfortable leaving behind her casinor. When she was ready, she made her way around the port, looking for Daske. She didn't have to wait long. Soon enough, Daske arrived. She followed him as he started to give her a short tour of his boat. It was just about the same size as her own casior, which she had expected. There didn't seem to be much place on the top deck to place the crates, and she doubted they wouldn't be thrown off. Smaller boats tended to rock much worse. With his consent, Gabrielle made her way down to the cabin. The place was cramped but there was a stove and some benches. Gabrielle poked her head around, memorizing the layout. She was also thankful to see that he had an extra bed. "What about in here?" she said, pointing a thumb at the small storage space. However, she did the math and knew that not all could be fit there. Well, this was turning out to be more challenging than she thought. "We can... cramp what we can over here, and then stick the rest in this open space right here, I guess. What do you think?" She was referring to the empty space between the two padded benches. It would be a trick to tie the crates down in an open space, though. It would be best to squeeze them in tight, secure places. Gabrielle shot Daske a look; he obviously knew the boat better. Gabrielle left him to do the rest of the thinking, and she sauntered to the top of the boat and hopped off to the dock in quick strides. The crates were already there. They had been delivered before Daske had arrived, and she was somehow able to convince the men who had brought it there that she was working with Daske. Mustering up her strength, she attempted to pick up a crate. "Oof..." she said softly. She was not strong enough to move one crate on her own. Begrudgingly, she admitted this to her companion, and said she would assist him instead. She felt guilty since maybe he could move each on his own, so she waited to see if he even needed her help. Gabrielle didn't have enough strength to move about crates each packed with thirty-six full bottles of rum. In a desperate endeavour not to give up, she pushed the crates closer to the casinor. Daske maybe had some thoughts on how to keep them in place, maybe tie them, and she would help him do so. The Svefra was excited to put them aside and set sail. It had only been days since she was last out at sea, and she already missed it. Crate after crate was put aside, and she could already feel the strain in her limbs. Gabrielle had an evident frown on her face as she forced herself not to complain. Soon, the crates would be in order, and they could be off. OOCNot really sure how heavy the crates would be, just assumed they'd be HEAVY since thirty-six bottles of rum is a lot, and the dimensions you mentioned were fairly big.

[Pash'nar]

It'd taken half the day of searching to find a proper place to moor himself just barely within the sheltered safety of the caves, still bathed in the green glow of storm-tainted sunlight. He'd been forced to swim with his tow line instead of dropping anchor, unable to see the depth of the cavern even while in the well-lit entrance. The salt water had set the still-open wounds on his thigh and cheek on fire, and the effort of kicking in the chilled brine made sore muscles ache in protest. He secured his casinor anyway, gritting too-perfect teeth against his intense discomfort before hauling himself back onto his deck. Bleeding again, he was forced to sliver out of the cling of wet linen to save himself the effort of scrubbing more stains away. He left them on a line to dry, dripping his way downstairs into the quiet of his cabin to retreat and rebind his wounds. Not his talent, he did the best he could. The best way to take his mind off the fiery ache was find something distracting to do before the storm started, so he dug out his charts of the coast, determined to correct some of his measurements of the caverns' locations and their contours into the coastline. He'd never entered them before, simply sailed past them at a distance, not ever having the need to use them as shelter while wounded and disinterested in weathering a storm while in pain. He still had no interest in exploring their depths, not wanting to fathom what creatures hid in the darkness beyond his vision after the ravages of the djed storm twisted life further out of normal shape and function. No, he was content to hover at the well-lit lip of the gaping stone entrance, sheltered by the rock walls from the light rain that had already begun to fall. He watched lightning dance on the horizon out the foggy portholes of his cabin before settling on the floor with his ink and a few charts spread out in front of him. Pash'nar briefly considered finishing off the rest of his alcohol, but decided in case there were foul things from somewhere unseen in this cavern that wanted to pay him a visit in the storm, he'd best be sober. Sunset was still several hours away, after all. Curled up as comfortably as he could manage on his worn wood floor, propped up by a few cushions, he set about distracting himself with ink and paper, correcting a few lines here, adding new contours there. It was relaxing, at least, though he felt it necessary to keep an ear open to the waves washing against his hull and the creak of his deck above. He heard the wind pick up and felt his casinor groan as the storm began to crawl in faster than before. Thunder rumbled, closer now. He'd have to light a lantern eventually, for daylight was quickly being replaced by thick, dark clouds. The burning in his leg subsided to a dull ache and he kept his thoughts busy with cartography instead of the deeper issues that swam just at the edges of his mind. There was much to get lost in, some more recent than he cared to admit, but he preferred to avoid the emotions that hid under the surface, feelings he'd buried over the decades as personal protection. Protection from what … he wasn't sure he remembered anymore. Or whether or not it mattered. It just worked. For now. Sometimes, anyway. Maybe not as well as he thought. Eventually, he dozed. He managed to set his quill and pencils down, ink out of reach, though no less at risk of spilling if something sudden were to happen. The sounds of the storm outside and the steady waves were irresistible to his healing body. While he may have worried he'd regret letting his guard down, rest felt good anyway. When Pash woke, he had no idea how long he'd been out for. Glancing down, he was still tanned and inked, so Syna still hung in the sky somewhere behind the clouds. For how much longer, he couldn't tell. It took effort to stand, sore and stiff. He lit the lantern that hung from his ceiling before clambering up his stairs to his deck. He'd picked a decent spot for shelter. His boat was mostly still dry, with only a bit of rain having washed his pants clean and the wind ripping through his lines as the storm raged just outside the caverns. He reluctantly slipped his way back into wet pants with a wince and a hiss of discomfort, leaning against his mast to stave off the dizziness that too much effort elicited from his body and to watch lightning dance across the churning waves. What was he going to do next? Crawl back to Alvadas? Sail somewhere else to find some work? Petch, who cared? The false Svefra was tired of feeling lost. He was pretty sure he'd been tired for years. Decades. With a sigh, he settled a shoulder against his mast, content to watch the storm from the relative safety of the caverns and not think about anything else too deeply for the moment. It was enough.

[Daske Baggywrinkle]

They eventually got the crates stowed away. They all fit in the storage area after all, but they had to take everything else out, which left them with a fair amount of supplies, equipment and food stuffs scattered all over the main cabin. They stowed as much as they could in the aft and forward sleeping compartments, leaving barely adequate space to sleep one in each cabin. “Loose the docking lines,” Daske shouted to Gabrielle. They had already raised the mains'l and jib, but both were flapping loosely in the wind. Gabrielle untied the stern docking line and tossed it to Daske, who was at the tiller. Then she untied the forward docking line and climbed on board with the line in hand. The wind was blowing from the west, which put it across the port stern. As soon as Gabrielle got back to the cockpit, Daske pulled in the starboard jib sheet. The jib caught the wind and the Black Lady slowly pulled away from the dock. He swung the boom to starboard as well and it too filled with wind. The Black Lady accelerated away from the dock and out into Glasswater Bay. Daske let the boom swing out quite a ways and trimmed the jib for a broad reach. The broad reach is the dullest point of sail. The boat doesn't heel over and since it's moving in the same direction as the wind, you don't get the sense of wind blowing in your face that you get when sailing into the wind on, say, a close reach. It is also the quietest and most gentle point of sail in terms of boat motion. On the other hand, a broad reach is the second fastest point of sail for most boats, including the Black Lady, the fastest being wing-on-wing. This is because nearly all the wind force is going into pushing the boat forward. Every other point of sail, except wing-on-wing, loses some of the wind force to sideways motion. The Lady was now moving at her maximum speed. The speed of a sailboat over water is determined almost entirely by its length at the waterline. The formula is 1.34 times the square root of the boat's LWL (length at waterline). The Black Lady is twenty-eight feet from stern to bow, and twenty-five feet at the waterline. Thus her maximum possible speed is 7.1 knots. Some boats will reach their top speed on a broad reach with a little as 10 knots of wind, which is the case for the Black Lady. On most other points of sale, she requires upwards of 15 knots to reach her maximum speed. Once she has reached maximum speed, more wind does not translate into more speed, although it can damage the sails. Daske and Gabrielle settled into the stern of the cockpit with him on the starboard side and her on the port side. “I figure we'll clear the headland that marks the northeastern edge of the Bay sometime early in the morning, maybe 0500 bells," said Daske. "Kinda depends on whether the wind holds. The next day should put us just north of Fang Isle. Then we'll head due east across the mouth of the Gut to somewhere around Visai Caverns on the other side. Probably be some interestin' wave action when we cross the Gut. Should be fun.” He produced a grimace that might have been an attempt at a smile. “So,” he said. “How ya wanna handle watches?” OOC : Modded Gaby with permission. A 'watch' means a shift at the tiller. Four and six hour watches are common choices in real life.

[Gabrielle Seawind]

The young woman had her eyes on Daske as he spoke. She stared at his grimace with a blank expression, wondering why he looked so uncomfortable. Her lack of intuition failed to tell her that he was attempting to put on a smile. "Six bells per watch seems fine, doesn't it?" she replied as she stretched her arms and legs. "That's usually how long my Lia Seawind wants it... err, well, that's how she wanted it." She often forgot that the rest of the Seawind pod was now gone. "I'll take the first one, okay? You go get some rest, I'll call on you after six bells." With that, Gabrielle waved him off. She practically forced him to disappear into the cabin. Gabrielle didn't know if he even needed the rest as of now, but she knew she'd want some shut eye once it was his turn at the tiller -- and that's why she didn't allow him to help her for her first watch, just so she could return the favor. The start of her watch was uneventful. She stayed on course and kept her eye on the horizon. It wasn't until a few bells after her watch started that she realized the uncomfortable stickiness of sweat on her skin. It was summer, yes, but it was sweat was brought on by humidity. With much complaining, she also noticed that her hair was frizzing up. Frowning, she looked to the West, from where they had come from. It was faint, but she could see the redness in the sky. "Red sky at morning, sailors take warning..." she muttered under her breath. It was one of the most common sayings among the Svefra. When you lived out at sea, you knew when a storm was coming your way... and usually you found out too late. Gabrielle didn't think of bothering Daske while it was still her watch. She used her time to make sure that the casinor was going at full speed. They couldn't afford to let the storm reach them, and she wasn't sure how far off it was. If they were lucky, it was probably more than a day away. However, it was almost impossible to outrun a storm at sea. The best they could do was look for the nearest shelter. There was a slight feeling of fright inside her. Ever since what had ravaged over the seas the season before, she had been wary of storms. The fright wasn't enough to keep her off the water, because that would never happen, but storms now carried much more worry than it used to. When her watch was finally over, Gabrielle hopped down to the cabin. She could feel the fatigue in her limbs, a product of moving the crates from earlier that morning. "Daske!" she called out. She pointed towards the cockpit. "My watch is done!" The woman looked irritated as she explained to him what was coming. "There's a storm brewing in the west. Full speed, alright?" she said. The last part was probably evident, but she chose to say it just for the record.