Crossing the Angry Sea (Daske, Seven, Victor)

[Daske Baggywrinkle]

The 24th of Summer 512 Northern Suvan Sea MORNING OF THE 24th PATCHWORK PORT It was a gray day. Daske walked down the dock in a light rain to where The Black Lady bobbed up and down straining against the mooring lines. He tossed two heavy sacks into the cockpit. Three trips had secured enough food for two weeks. He hoped the passage wouldn't take that long but the sea had a mind of her own and didn't pay much attention to a sailor's plans. He had stocked up mostly on non-perishables: Dried beans Rice Lentils Oats Salt pork Safflower oil Salt Cumin Ginger Mustard seed Vinegar Marjoram Garlic Onions Dried currents Dried tomatoes Honey Cheese Two barrels of fresh water were lashed down in the closet opposite the head, along with a crate containing twenty-three bottles of rum that had mysteriously disappeared from a cargo run he had made earlier in the season. He stored the last of the food safely away, stretched out on one of the settees, lit up his pipe, and waited for his passengers to arrive. The Lady was rocking nervously on the choppy water. “Weather might get interestin' b'fore the day's out,” he said to no one in particular. OCC : Layout of The Black Lady

[Seven Xu]

Her black hull was near invisible against the water that lapped at her. Paint had chipped off in spots, Seven noticed, as he made his slow approach. He walked shoulder to shoulder with the equally diminutive-statured Ravokian whose plans he shared, the soles of their boots whispering across uneven and weathered planks that made up the floor of the Patchwork Port. The tide was coming in—or was it going out? The rocks that littered the shoreline always looked wet and sea-stained, and at a glance the halfblood couldn’t tell. Not that he was particularly good at telling tides, anyway.

Seven stopped to adjust a canvas sack of apples balanced against his chest, only to have it snatched away by a hardier pair of arms. “That’s it there, isn’t it?” He breathed, visibly relieved. One hand rose to wipe away a pale curtain of hair and the sweat that glazed his forehead. “The Black Lady. Aptly named, I suppose—they call them after women, right?” Their last ferryman had been adamant the pair was aware of even the simplest marine nomenclature. Boats were she and her, not it. Still clutching a handful of damp bangs, the halfblood managed a grin. “Makes you wonder.”

The figure they approached looked vaguely familiar: Victor had dealt with him before, among a handful of other sailors. Seven rarely went along; it was more like than not that the man had visited the ‘Rear. The sack of apples changed hands again.

[Victor Lark]

Victor winked at the observation, but refused to be relieved of their sack of apples. He swung it over a shoulder and adjusted his grip on the heavy trunk opposite, scraping its travel-worn edges on the planks by his feet. “Dear Seven, have you got something to inquire of our friend?” He teased through his nose and much too loudly, throwing the question where the Black Lady’s captain could hear it. He knocked his companion by the shoulder and skipped ahead.

“Daske,” he nodded to the man as he neared, recalling the previous night’s urgency with a short hop past him and onto the deck. He stomped in a short, appraising circle until he found the storage area. There he stowed his luggage, just beyond the door and in no secure manner, but not before retrieving three bright red fruits from beneath the heavy burlap. He tossed one at Seven as he found his way to the ship’s edge, and handed the other to the captain. “How are the winds?” He asked, like he knew what the answer would mean.

He had no eyes for the slippery rocks onshore, but looked instead the dark grey horizon, the saccharine promise of an adventure well-taken. The very apple seemed to taste like it, however perishable its fellows, fresh and sweet and hopeful. The reality of a true sailor’s worries escaped Victor as he ate, until the storm-brewed waters lapped harshly against the anchored Lady and knocked him off his feet, throwing him inelegantly on his ass and his snack into the churning sea.

[Daske Baggywrinkle]

Victor Lark was a man who looked like a woman. Albeit a flat-chested one. With smooth skin, beautiful eyes and sensuous lips. Daske didn't know what to make of him. Among the Drykas, men were men and women were glad of it. There was also something off about his expression that Daske couldn't quite figure out. And he dressed like a dandy. But he was a paying customer and his personal appearance was his own business. Live and let live, Daske thought as he bit into the proffered apple. He managed not to laugh when the girlish boy's ass found its way unexpectedly to the deck. Seven Xu was even stranger. His pupils were distinctly red, something Daske had never seen before. His upper canines seemed unusually long and sharp, and one finger on each had was deformed in some way, almost claw-like. The effect was downright creepy. Daske might have changed his mind about spending the next week-and-a half with these two odd fellows, but a deal was a deal. Besides, he needed the money. “Stow everything b'low deck somewhere out of the way,” he said. “Make sure it's secure. We're likely to find some rough seas once we get out into the bay an' ya don' want yer stuff flyin' all over the place.” He signaled them to follow him through the hatch and down three short steps into the main cabin. He pointed toward the bow of the boat. “I usually sleep in the V-berth, but you two'll be takin' it on this trip. There's bedrolls an' blankets in there somewhere. Hope ya don' mind sleepin' together.” He was pretty sure they wouldn't mind. “I'm gonna get us ready to cast off while you two get settled in. I wanna catch the outgoin' tide.” He climbed up the steps through the companion way hatch and disappeared from their sight. A few chimes later the boat heeled over about twenty degrees to port, burying the starboard side portholes in the water as the Lady pulled away from the dock. Most of the trip would be spent at this angle, and would be accompanied by a strong rocking and rolling sensation that would take a few days to get used to.

[Seven Xu]

Above deck, Seven had never managed to look their ferryman in the eyes. He had a face of gnarled scars and a perpetual scowl that put Seven’s sour looks to shame. The halfblood also had to take a double count of work-hardened fingers, two short of a full hand. Not a man to cross, he decided; not in Alvadas, and certainly not on open water.

Thankfully, Daske had left them to their own devices after speaking his piece. It was just as cramped as the last, smelling of brine and old wood and stocked with enough to ferry three men across the fickle Suvan. Seven sank onto a bench when the craft rocked into the sea. He’d barely grown accustomed to the rolling waves on their last trip, and his legs were quick to forget.

“This is it, I guess,” Seven mumbled into the unbroken skin of his apple. After a short pause, his bloodied gaze tipped upward and he peered through a curtain of unruly white at his bird. Playfulness hinted at the corners of a growing grin and in his starry lilt, “Kind of him to lend us his bed.”

As their vessel dove nose-first between whitecaps that had reached the bay, and a mess of docks and waving masts shrank in the portside windows, a pair of grown men turned boys laughed and wrestled their way to the ship’s bow, forgetting bags and bedrolls alike.

OOCI figured I’d take initiative and end the short first day here. Whether you want the storm to really hit them in a few hours, overnight, or in the morning, it’s all cool!

[Victor Lark]

There was no time below that deck, only the heavy rocking of the floor beneath them and the shock of brine that slapped against the little windows. Victor could not have said how long they had travelled, or how far, at any given moment. But that was not their job; theirs was to pay gold at the end and to stay out of the way. That was an easy enough task with Seven to distract him from it.

Unfortunately, Victor’s sea legs were no better than his companion’s. He had managed to forget the hours he had spent bent over the rail on their last trip, but as the hull flipped his stomach like an egg on a frying pan, he was beginning to remember. He wrenched himself reluctantly from the embrace of tickling white fingers and fled for the deck, where he found the portside and introduced the ocean to the contents of his stomach.

A moment or two of coughing and spitting passed, and then he finally looked up at the beautiful, romantic, distant horizon. But the color of it seemed unusual. He would not be surprised if it was night already, but it was strange not to see the stars. With a sloppy salute, he approached the captain with an eyebrow raised like confusion.

“Forgive me,” he said stupidly, and only then remembered to wipe his mouth. “But don’t you think it’s a little dark?”

[Daske Baggywrinkle]

The Black Lady plowed steadily through increasingly rough seas in fading light. The wind had shifted around to the northeast, forcing Daske to head due north until they could get clear of the bay and turn east. Low dark clouds had rolled in and turned everything a gloomy gray. The northern horizon lit up briefly. An angry storm was heading their way and there was nothing they could do about it. Daske had neither seen nor heard anything from his passengers for several hours, which was fine with him. Then Victor Lark climbed out the companionway hatch and staggered over to the low side where he vomited enthusiastically. “Don't you think it's a little dark?” he asked after he had disposed of whatever had been in his stomach. “Yep,” Daske replied. “We're headin' right into a storm.” Another flash appeared on the horizon followed several seconds later by a long, low rumble. Victor just stood their hanging on to the boom to keep from being pitched overboard, a blank expression on his face. Daske didn't want to frighten him. He figured the storm would do that all by itself. So he decided to make an attempt at polite conversation. “So, were you two together long?” That didn't come out sounding quite right but he couldn't see any way to fix it. So he stopped talking.

[Seven Xu]

For the better part of an hour, after mumbled conversation turned to comfortable nothing, Seven had known sleep. The previous night’s trepidation over their journey—it had seemed so far off, and had come all at once—kept him up. It tied knots in his stomach and kept his eyes open. Finally, with Alvadas behind them and the slow rhythm of rolling water beneath them, he had achieved precious sleep. He even glimpsed at a dream before the churning sea rose to toss their boat fore and aft and Victor’s stomach had endured enough, waking him in his thoughtless escape.

The halfblood fought for a minute between the promise of more rest and his curiosity, but the latter won, and he dressed and followed his bird.

Seven was wiping a curtain of oily white off of his forehead and rubbing sleep from his eye with the heel of his palm when he staggered up the short staircase, looking altogether displeased with the Suvan’s nerve. “There’s a storm coming,” he mumbled, ignorant to the pair’s short conversation prior to his appearance above deck. “Are we not going to go around it?”

When he noticed the discomfort plastered across the sailor’s face, he offered through a yawn, “Can I help with anything?”

[Victor Lark]

Victor gave a laugh to Daske’s answer before he realized that it was not a joke. Clearing his throat, he tipped his chin toward the sky. Thunder rolled, and he became acutely aware of the boat, the frailty of the wooden boards between his feet and liquid nothing. They were not in Alvadas anymore, where there was hope that the rain could be roses or turn suddenly into silver sunshine. He was glad to hear the mumbling thumps of Seven’s tired feet ascending.

The bow hit a tall wave and Victor’s turning attention forgot about his balance. As elegantly as he could, he directed his stumbling to Seven’s shoulders and wrapped a heavy arm around them. “Yes,” he answered the captain without answering. He waved a finger northward. “Headed back east. We were hoping for some new scenery, but this was not exactly what we had in mind.”

They seemed to have found a softer spot on the water, so he fell away from his crutch. He tried to push his hands into his pockets but they grabbed the rail instead. A hard breeze tossed a tuft of hair into his eye, and as he pulled it away he looked at Seven and his concern. “So what are the chances that we, ah, go around?”

oocSorry for the wait. :(

[Daske Baggywrinkle]

“Nobody outruns a storm,” the Svefra said. “And it's not the sort of thing you can go around.” He wasn't looking at either of them, choosing instead to keep his eyes on the oncoming waves. “I suppose we could turn around and beat it back to Alvadas. But there's no reason really. The Lady's a sturdy boat. As long as we don't do anything stupid, like putting her broadside to a massive wave, she'll handle pretty much anything that comes her way. She took me most of the way through the Great Djed Storm. Would have survived the whole thing if it weren't for that island that got in our way. Beached her pretty good that time.” He allowed himself a smirk that was gone as soon as it appeared. He turned his head to look at his two passengers. “Biggest danger is someone fallin' out of the boat. So make sure you're always holdin' on to something.” The storm hit the next day, badly bruising it bringing with it a flood of water pouring out of an angry sky bruised black and blue, casting boat and crew into near-dark even though it was mid-day. Brilliant white zig-zags exploded around them every few seconds, each one trying to outdo the previous one, each one freezing for a moment stretched between sky and sea in all its glory, followed immediately by an ear-splitting crack that was felt as much as heard. The smell of zone was in the air. The hairs on Daske's arms were standing at attention. Gale force winds threw themselves across the Lady's port side, forcing her over into a twenty-degree heel that put the starboard gunnels nearly in the water. The dark, white-capped swells were as tall as the Lady's mast, but well spaced. She climbed the front side of a watery mountain, slid down its back side, and then repeated the process as she had been doing for several bells in seemingly unending oversized undulations. In the aft starboard corner of the cockpit, securely tied down with heavy rope, was the sailor. He wore no hat. It would have been superfluous under the circumstances and in any case would long ago have been picked up by the wind and throw into the sea. His right hand rested easily on the starboard gunnel. His left on the tiller, periodically adjusting their course a little this way and then a little bit that, trying to keep the Lady facing head on the ranks of angry waves marching relentlessly toward her. They had turned east in the night and were now passing north of the Alvadas peninsula, which would have appeared as a mere smudge on the horizon were their visibility not limited to a hundred or so meters. He had double-reefed the mains'l well before the wind picked up, and had replaced the jib with a small but sturdy storm sail, so that the Lady was sailing under the least amount of sail she could while still maintaining speed and maneuverability. He had instructed his passengers to make sure everything below deck was secured, lest some wayward object become an airborne agent of destruction. He had done everything he could think of to make the Lady ready. Now it was a simple matter of riding out the storm. There was a rare grin on Daske's face.