# High Seas Shenanigans (Updated: 12/04/05)



## Emperor Valerian (Jul 18, 2005)

The world background data dump has been moved to this thread in the Rogues Gallery. 

This campaign, my players wanted something different... namely a campaign based on and around the sea.  So prepare for some nice, swashbuckling, and rather goofy action, as we join:

*HIGH SEAS SHENANIGANS!*
_Being a tale of piratey things._

Relevant Maps:

The Kubalia Sea (The Old World) 
Note: Erelion is the furthermost east point of the Empire.  The entirety of the Empire stretches even further back towards the West, dwarfing this map.

The New World 
Yellow Cities: Imperial Colonies
Brown Cities: Kandor Colonies
Red Cities: Leesian Colonies
Blue Cities: Kubalian Colonies
Gold, Gray, and White Dots: Rumors of gold, silver, and diamonds respectively


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## Parlan (Jul 19, 2005)

Sweeeeeeeet!

New SH from Emperor Valerian!!!

Is it too early to start whining for updates? ;-)


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## Emperor Valerian (Jul 19, 2005)

Heh.   Wait till the other one's done! 


I"m probably going to go the route of doing one short update for each SH each week, if possible.  That way there'll be progress on both.

Speaking of which, here are the PC's that will be appearing in this adventure film!  (And my players, if I got something wrong below on your character's description, let me know and it'll get fixed pronto)



*THE CAST OF CHARACTERS*

*Visiel* Warforged Fighter3 (Nayu’s former player) An incomplete pic can be found here. 
Visiel is something of an enigma.  Due to the frequent, recurring wars between the Empire, Kandor, Lees and Kubalia, the Imperial Navy found itself in need for something to salvage the wrecks of the great naval battles to reuse cannon, and collect or destroy valuables or important secrets that sank with their ships.  To this end, with the assistance of the neutral gnomes, the Empire has succeeded in creating several sentient constructs, called ‘Warforged.’  

Production of these machines is very slow, and many still do not know of their existence.  Some warforges have managed to wander far from their supposed areas, confused by human activity and seeking to ‘blend in.’  Viseil is one of these.  Since the short-lived ‘Peace of Cantoris’ two years ago, the warforged were released from service.  With the recent outbreak of hostilities once again, more are sure to be produced, and those that have since wandered are sure to be called back.

While he does not think simply, Visiel tends to think directly.  He knows that he is good at salvage work, his size and weapons skills make him intimidating, and he knows humans frequently will need his help.  He left the production facility two years ago, and has constantly missed the safe hierarchy of command.  From what he understands, human naval vessels both have a need for salvage workers, and also have a strict, comforting hierarchy, as well as constant work.  Perhaps one of them could use his service, and just in case he finds trouble, Viseil always has his great hammer (two handed hammer the same size as a greataxe), or his expensive, but useful, wheel-lock rifle.

*Viktalia* Formorteran (Chirops subrace) Variant Bard2 (Felonca’s former player)

Viktalia is something of a minor celebrity.  A bard of a little renown in the city of Erelion, Viktalia is an adventure seeker... something rather unusual for her race.  Most Formorteran’s are content to stay on their isle, and try to avoid the brewing conflict between elves and humans that threatens to envelop them.  Viktalia cares not about the fighting... elves are elves, humans are humans, and all are interesting to get to know.

Viktalia is from the Chirops subrace of the Formorteran race.  Graced with beauty, she looks remarkably human, save her furry skin, her head, which resembles that of a fruit bat (or fox bat), and great leathery wings she usually keeps wrapped about herself.  A dancer by training, her ears, fingers, and wings are adorned with numerous small trinkets and chimes that jingle when she moves.  She also shares with her distant, less developed cousins an obsession with fruit; she has been known, at times, to perform for payment in kind of fresh fruit.

However, Viktalia has also seen her share of trouble during her days.  When traveling, she usually sports two kukris, and a pistol, but even when she dances onstage clad in the slightest of clothing, she still remains armed.  Her elegantly carved and beautiful baton, which she uses during her dances, contains a secret chamber.  When the proper button is pushed, a short, but razor sharp strand of steel wire shoots out of the end, allowing her to slash any would be malcontents.

Viktalia is hoping that she can find a ship headed either to Kubalia, or the New World.  As big as Erelion is, she is starting to grow bored after spending several months here.  Maybe a ship in the harbor will need an entertainer, or maybe she can purchase passage?

(Note: Viktalia’s player designed her race by herself.  The creature gets an ECL of 1, gets a racial bonus of +2 on Balance, Climb, and Jump checks, alongside a subracial bonus of fly 20ft.(average), and +2 Charisma and +2 Dex in return for a –2 to Strength.  There’s other subraces she designed than the one she took for Viktalia.  Maybe she could post them?  )

*Siran Rapp* Human Cleric3 (the new guy) St. Heraclius (LN Saint of War)

Siran has long been a priest.  Tall of stature, graced with the red eyes that signal a descendant of the ancient Desert Dragon, as well as a wicked spiked chain, Siran looks the part of a warrior.  The second son of a minor noble from the north, Siran knew that his elder brother would succeed to the family title.  All that was left for him was either mercenary work as a freelance warrior, or a life of learning within the church.

Ever resourceful, Siran managed to combine these; he took as his patron saint St. Heraclius, the patron saint of warfare (Domains: War, Destruction).  The clerics of Saint Heraclius often find themselves on the frontline of the wars waged by the Empire, and Siran was no different; he saw service as ship’s healer and chaplain aboard several warships during the First Leesian War, some five years ago, serving with distinction and at that war’s end, discharged from the service.

Now 26, Siran is looking for work.  He has retained his noble stature and tastes; he loves fine drink, fine company, and money.  As the wars with Kandor and Lees have flared up again, perhaps a warship needs a cleric?  Or maybe he can use his five years experience as a sailor and join as an officer.  All he knows is that its been a long time since he’s had a bottle of Formorteran brandy, and he’s hoping that a new paycheck can buy him one.


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Jul 19, 2005)

Damn you, Emperor Valerian!!

As if there weren't enough intersting storyhours to divert me from work, now you go and add another!!

 

 

Looking forward to it ....


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## Emperor Valerian (Jul 21, 2005)

First post!

*In the Beginning*

Viktalia closed her eyes momentarily, allowing the sweet smells in the air to flood her nostrils.  She wished there were more days like this one in Erelion, with the sun shining, the people bustling about, and the sweet smell of fresh applies hanging in the air.  Her left ear twitched involuntarily, as she sighed with pleasure at the smell.

Instinctively she turned, following the delicious trail, until her hand slipped into her pockets, and she felt her money pouch.  It was far lighter than it had been in a long time.  It wasn’t that she couldn’t get work in Erelion... she was a rather well known dancer these days, mesmerizing audiences with perfect movements and the gentle jingle of the chimes and jewelry that hung from her ears and hair.  It was more that Erelion was becoming boring.

She’d already danced in all the inns, theaters, and other locales she could in the six months since her arrival; the only places she hadn’t graced were the houses and theaters reserved for the nobility and the idle rich.  Formerterans were not likely to get into those, no matter how gifted their talents.

_Its time to move on again,_ she thought to herself as she purchased an apple from a rather confused vendor.  Formerterans were known in the Empire and the other human realms, but still rare enough that the sight of a pretty humanesque body surmounted by the long, thin head of a fruit bat was still able to make some people stare.  Not to mention the leathery wings she usually kept wrapped safely close to her body.

“Do you know of any ships sailing to the New World?” she asked, her soft, melodious voice evidently surprising the shopkeep.  The man took a second before a smirk came over his face.

“New here, are ye? Well ‘den,” he said in his rough accent, “I ken tell you ‘dat there more ships than cobblestone in yonder street headin’ for ‘da New World.”  He stopped, and raised an eyebrow  “Yous got somethin’ ta run from?”

“Nothing in particular, no,” Viktalia replied cheerfully.  “I’m just looking for something new, maybe work.”  She put on a disarming smile, and raised her hands.  “Nothing suspicious there, right?”

“’Right suspicious,” the shopkeep said, before he shrugged.  “But it nunna my business.  ‘Dey say ‘dat ‘de Baron Dice be puttin’ togetha a fleet, an’ he be sailin’ to ‘da New World.”

“Baron Rafael Dice?” Viktalia asked hopefully.  Her heart leapt upwards slightly when the shopkeep nodded.  _Adventure at last!_  Captain Rafael Dice, known since his voyage circumnavigating the world twenty years ago as Baron Dice, was a household name.  It had been the Baron, in his small galleon _Silver Hart_ who had single-handedly mauled the Kandoran treasure fleets returning from the New World twenty-five years ago.  To this day, cartographers graced their maps of the New World with his picture in the lower corner.

“He been lookin’ fer officers, ‘dey say,” the shopkeep continued.  “A Quar’ermaster for one ‘o his ships, I know.”

_I’ve done that before..._ Viktalia thought, remembering her original voyage to the Imperial lands a few years before.  The old quartermaster of the pinnace Hopeful Returns had fallen overboard and drowned.  Viktalia had been paying her way through the voyage by entertaining the crew with song and dance, and the captain asked her to continue keeping the crew content and occupied as the unofficial quartermaster, though of course he took the duties of distributing supplies.  _Its a chance to keep my dancing in practice, as well as earn some pay!_

“Do you know where one could sign up to be a part of this expedition?” Viktalia asked.

“”De Baron has a great mansion, in ‘de north of ‘da city.  Great big, an’ pink.  Go ‘dere, ‘dey tellya where ‘ta go next, I reckonin.”



“You call this wine!  You got this from the damn latrine!”

The innkeep ducked as his own ale stein suddenly became a projectile, shattering against the wall above his head.  The man looked up, his eyes wide with fear as a pair of blazing red eyes, framed by a steel helm, bore down on him from above.  The innkeep felt wetness spreading down his pantleg, as the far younger, far stronger man glared at him.

“I don’t have time for you,” Siran Rapp growled, before turning and storming out of the tavern.  _Damn tavernkeeps, always putting water in their ale to make an extra crown or two!_  He reached into his pocket, and missed the copper crown he’d spent buying that terrible drink.  _Not like I have money as it is... dammit._

As he stalked through the streets, the crowds parted, ever so slightly.  People touched their caps as he passed, some ducked their heads slightly in reverence.  Siran was used to this, it registered in his mind about as much as the incessant clank of the steel pendant of crossed swords against his breasplate.  Clerics of the Saints were always respected, even the Clerics that followed the Saint of the plague of this world; war.

War with the Elves.  War with Kandor.  War with Lees.  War with Kubalia.  It seemed the list of fights and conflicts was never-ending, a never ending sacrifice of blood as the nobility jockeyed for position, and the ArchHoliness in Iskeldrun renewed calls to destroy the Elves once and for all.  Siran had seen much of this world.  Since his arrival at seminary eight years before, then only the lowly second-son of a minor noble, he’d seen combat of all spectrums; night raids against elven encampments, full field engagements against the expert musketeers of Kandor.  Above all, however, Siran excelled at one thing; war at sea.

In the seminary of Saint Heraclius, Siran learned that chaplains were as much a part of the battleline, as much a warrior, as any sailor or captain, and in his five years of active service, he proved such again and again.  Free of his initial term of service, Siran found himself bored with civilian life.  Outside of the military, the clerics of St. Heraclius were rarely needed; while the populace showed him respect, they did not possess a single chapel to the Saint in the entire city of 80,000 souls.

_Bah,_ Siran thought as he crested one of the many hilly rises in the city.  In the distance a forest of masts and sails seemed to rise directly from the sea, as hundreds, if not thousands, of ships rode at anchor.  Great warships sat alongside tiny tartans, bulky galleons alongside sleek corvettes.  Siran stopped, and felt yet again that familiar pull as his eyes took in the scene.

_I need to get to sea again,_ he thought wistfully for a moment, before the emptiness in his pocket, and the sour taste of foul ale clinging in his mouth drew him back to the present need.  _And not just because I miss the rolling deck,_ he growled.  He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the last time he’d sipped Formerteran brandy, then  
opened then and frowned when he remembered it was a year prior.  Fine Caladronan wine, or Formerteran brandy suited his palate, not the rough and often dubious ‘ale’ one found in the taverns he could now barely afford.

“I need work,” he mumbled to no one in particular, before marching down towards the docks, his huge spiked chain jingling and clinking against his armor-clad body.  The walk was short, and soon he found himself amidst the smell of salt and unwashed bodies, dockworkers and sailors both swirling about, carrying cargoes and hurrying about business.  

Carefully he looked about, watching the cargos.  Who was carrying what, and where.  Finally, his eyes set on a vessel only five piers down, its wooden hull garishly painted in blues, yellows and greens.  Across its old but stout frame, sailors clambered, painting and loading supplies.  Siran blinked, before he realized his eyes were not deceiving him.

_The Silver Hind... Baron Dice’s ship... they’re loading her full of supplies.

Boy, that would be  a dream job.  Ship’s chaplain for Baron Rafael Dice?  Imagine the size of the prize money when his ship returns...

Nah... they wouldn’t want a cleric like you on board,_ Siran told himself.  _Dice has enough money he can probably hire out an abbot from the church to be his chaplain.  He wouldn’t need a mere priest... even if I am a better war chaplain that half the abbots of St. Siabrey and St. Tesseron in this damnable city..._

There was a growling grumble from below, and Siran touched his stomach.  A few seconds later, it spoke again.  He reached into his pocket, and once again frowned at its emptiness.

_Well,_ he thought, turning around.  _I do believe His Majesty, the King of My Body hath spoken.  Now, if only I can find where to try to sign up for whatever endeavor the Baron is about to take.  Saints Willing, I’ll come back with enough gold crowns to never have to worry about food or lowly ale again._

Silently Siran made the holy passings of The One, followed by the Holy Salute of Heraclius.  Saints Willing, he’d have a good voyage.


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## genshou (Jul 21, 2005)

Absolutely... freaking... awesome!  I'll admit that I'm a bit sad your attention will be diverted from the other SH, but I've wanted to see a good ocean-based SH for some time now!


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## drag n fly (Jul 22, 2005)

As per request EV 

I've posted the "Fomorteran" race details at the thread link in the Rouge Gallery (found here  http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?p=2433157#post2433157). 

If anyone has any questions or comments, there is a character race thread already created for this race (Note: this thread is a bit old, so please disregard some of the conversations and posts about the race, it has been edited since them - http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?p=2417048#post2417048). Please direct your posts there so as not to mess up the lovely flow of the story hour


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## Emperor Valerian (Aug 1, 2005)

The third member of the party, Visiel, is probably going to be the most difficult to write up.  As a warforge, his thinks far differently than typical party members, hence the time taken before I put up this post.

Look for another post to be up on Tuesday, perhaps!


*In the Beginning, Part Two*

Viseil looked at the small children playing in the street, and gave a deep, metallic grunt as one barely leapt out of the way of a careening carriage.

_Those cadets should be supervised by their superiors more closely,_ he thought to himself, as the children laughed at the close call and merely continued skipping and jumping.  _They are more than likely physically fit, but they need more discipline._  The pavement under his immense feet popped and cracked under his enormous weight as he began to walk forward.  _It is not my place to correct them, however.  I am not a part of their chain of command.  In fact, I need a new chain of command._

Visiel thought back to his previous three years of life, his _only_ three years of life, he quickly reminded himself.  Unlike humans, whose bodies needed exhoribant amounts of time to grow and develop, something entirely too inefficient for Visiel to approve, the warforged came into the world fully developed, fully ready and function to accomplish whatever tasks his superiors set out for him.

The first two years for him were good ones.  Purposeful, full of direction and tasks.  While Visiel looked the part of a massive iron golem, fully eight feet tall, as well as not requiring rest, breathing or sustenance, he had a mind like a humans.  A mind that got bored, that sought, no, yearned for direction.

For his first two years, Visiel had been a salvage worker for the Imperial Navy.  The war with Kandor cost the Imperials many ships, ships that often contained cargoes or logs that the Navy wanted back.  It had been the job of salvage crews, of which Visiel was usually the center (due to his not requiring to breathe).  Along the way, Visiel had learned many of the trades of the soldiers and sailors he traveled with.  He had become an excellent shot with a rifle, and was he was proud of the fact he could reload and fire his weapon again in 18 seconds flat, only half the time even the quickest of his fellows could accomplish the same.  He’d also developed a fondness for great warhammers... in fact, alongside his rifle, he carried on his back an immense warhammer, fully as tall as a man.

Those had been the good years.  He had superiors.  They gave him tasks.  

They also gave him something to work for.  One of the gnome tinkerers had made a metal system, with screws and propellers, that could in theory move a warforged through the water with ease and great speed.  Visiel had always wanted one... with that speed, he could salvage quickly, and possibly not even need a ship to transport him.  Transportation of the highest efficiency.

_And my morale was high,_ Visiel thought glumly.

Then the war ended, the plans for the 'WarForged Propellant System" were shelved and disappeared to who knows where, and with the Treaty of Cantoris, Visiel was no longer needed by the Navy.  His superiors told him he was “discharged,” and that he was “free to find work wherever he wanted.”  He’d taken that as an order, but to his distress, he’d found the order very hard to carry out.

Warforged like him were new, and very rare.  Outside of the salvage crews, not many Imperials, let alone other peoples, had seen the likes of him.  Those that had seen something akin to him assumed he was a mere golem, the guardian or plaything of some spellmaster, and they had treated him as such.  Teasing him about his intelligence, mocking his size and strength.

Which hurt.  A great deal.

While he knew his mind could not compare with human geniuses, or even those that were semi-bright, he knew was more intelligent than a golem... he was likely more intelligent than some of the commoners that mocked him.  Yet his last orders had also included the caveat to not harm humans who did not harm him.  The words bit... but he also knew none of the knaves had the nerve to actually _strike_ an eight-foot tall metal behemoth.  So, with regret, he had ignored them as best he could.

He searched as far as he could for the gnome that had shown him and his superiors the propeller system, but the small creature was no where to be found.  As the project was secret, none of his direct superiors knew who the gnome was, or where he lived.  Sadly, Visiel had spent the last year looking for the small inventor.  If he found him, he could surely help the tinkerer build the system.  Then, he would be the fastest, most efficient salvager in the ocean, and surely people would want to hire him!  Then, he would never be bored, he would _always_ have something to do!

_All will be better once I get a new superior,_ Visiel thought as he tramped past the children still playing.  A new superior meant metallic pieces, which the humans found valuable.  And with enough metallic pieces, he knew he could find out where the inventor went, and perhaps buy the device from him.

The children's voices hushed to silence as he rumbled by, and Visiel paid no notice.  Many humans tended to fall silent when he went by.  In a way, after the abuse their fellows had laid on him over the last year, it was rather satisfying.

_The wagoneer said that a human named Baron Dice is looking for crew for a large expedition,_ Visiel thought back to the conversation with a rather frightened human minutes before he saw the children playing in the street.  _Barons are high ranking humans, humans that make suitable superiors, or have lieutenants that would make suitable superiors.

Then, I would be a part of the Navy again.

Then, I would have tasks again.

I'll have metallic pieces to help find the inventor.

And all would be well._

The speed of the enormous crunches increased, as Visiel picked up speed towards the Baron’s house.


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## Spider_Jerusalem (Aug 1, 2005)

Hi Emporer Valerian,

I've managed to avoid your story hours up until this point. The other ones are too far gone to catch up and the praise was somewhat daunting to live up to, so I just passed it over and read up on some crazy little story hour that burnt out after three posts. Sigh.

So, I'm reading this and I'm very impressed. I couldn't get my head round the Formerterans at first - did the player simply want a new race to play out with? - but I guess a woman's body with a bat head takes time.  

oh, and the logical warforged thinking was well handled - funny and kinda sad at the same time. It's going to be tough to keep that voice up once the three players are together. Good luck.

The seafaring setting is great - I can't wait till the players cast off and the high seas adventure kicks in. Reading this makes me want to scribble away pages of notes on new campaign ideas. 

Anyway. Listen to me ramble on. Suffice to say you have another reader.

Spider J


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Aug 1, 2005)

Awesome stuff Emperor V. This is certainly shaping up to be as good as your "Chinese" storyhour ... if not better.


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## Bryon_Soulweaver (Aug 1, 2005)

Man, you need to finish your other one.




PS: You always got me as a reader, your stories are next to PirateCat IMO


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## Emperor Valerian (Aug 2, 2005)

My stories are next to Piratecat's?  Dayum, that's a _HUGE_ compliment.   Thank you.

And as for the Formorterans, I'd given the players the option of picking Eberron races (obviously, with a warforged running around), and Viktalia's player didn't like any of the choices really, so she made up her own race and we jointly balanced things out.  She really wanted to be a foxbat-type-thingie (I've put them in the homebrew, doesn't mean I fully understand them.  Perhaps drag n fly would like to explain further?  ), and after the effort she put into it, I saw no reason to say no.

To further explain what they look like, dragnfly drew this picture. 

Anyways, I got into a writing mood, so the second update this week got moved up.  And don't worry about the other thread, drag n fly might be helping me some with the load there, so regardless there will be updates there as well 

"*The Baron’s Manor*

_Good god, these people live high and mighty._

Siran suppressed an urge to whistle at the immense manors he now passed as he traversed the wealthiest quarter of the city of Erelion.  On both sides of him sat immense manor houses, their walls buttressing each other, marble columns adorning their sides and giltwork adorning their gates. Small children clad in rags no longer ran beside him, pestering him for stories of war.  The few children he saw were well dressed in silks, their hands firmly in the clasp of a similarly well dressed nanny.  Siran grinned and nodded towards the prettier nannies, using the motion to let himself ogle a bit.

_I love the newer fashions.  Cleavage is always good,_ a grinned at one particular example.  She rather coolly nodded in return, before continuing along with her charge,
ignoring Siran’s stare.

_Eh, she’ll come around,_ he mused, turning back to his cobblestone lined path.  Venerating the Saint of War meant Siran knew his life could be shortened at any moment by an unlucky bullet, or simply bad luck.  One had to always take advantage of opportunities that might arise...

_A fine woman, a fine bottle of wine, and some good company... once I make my fortune privateering, that’s what I’ll have,_ he sung to himself quietly.  Soon, he rounded another corner, and stopped.

_That must be it,_ he thought, _I don’t see any other houses with pink fronts._

When he’d asked around, everyone that knew said that Baron Dice’s house was quite distinctive... its sides painted in rich pastels, the columns by its entrance made from
expensive Kubalian pink marble.  Along the eaves ran various designs finished in giltwork.  If that wasn’t enough of an indication, the wrought iron gate to the estate had an enormous “D” hanging from each door.

However, Siran’s eyes quickly caught something else.

_Well, hello there,_ he thought as he saw the thin but attractive shape of a female at the gate, looking towards the inside of the estate.  Her clothes were cut perfectly to
fit, a long black cloak clinging close to her back, her hair hung long and black in back, and immediately his mind went places imaging what the face on this dark beauty must look like.  As she stood there, the wind blew gently through her hair, and unseen jewelry tinkled.  _When serving in the armed forces, you never know if you’re going to come back. Well, Siran old boy, let’s just give this one a shot..._

“Why hello there,” he put on his darkest, most mysterious voice.  _Good one, Siran!  That was commanding and manly, yet sultry and suave at the same time!  You’ve got the skills!_ he mentally patted himself on the back.

The woman turned slowly, her head tilted as an impish grin crossed her face. “Hello to yourself,” Her soft musical voice quivered down his spine like the notes of a windchime. “Are you here to join the Baron’s crew as well?”

For his part, Siran tried to keep his jaw closed, his mental dream smashed.  The woman’s body, true enough, was more than he had imagined, but it was clearly apparent that she was going to break a singular rule he’d set for himself.

Only humans.

_Dammit!_ he kicked himself.  _Damn Formorterans, looking so human from behind!_

“My name’s Viktalia, Viktalia Starwynd.”  She struck a pose, arms raised gracefully and provocatively, the webs of her Formorteran wings extending from her arms. Rings and bells, braided into her hair, hanging from her ears, and even gracing the edges of her wings, chimed as she did so.  “Dancer extraordinaire!”  Her golden eyes twinkled and her muzzle twitched slightly.  At his lack of a response, she lowered her arms, and cocked an eyebrow above her fox-like face.  “And you are...” she prompted, gesturing for him to speak.

“Um.”  Siran quickly caught himself, and pulled free from the kicking of his ‘human/non-human snese,’ “I’m Siran Rapp... Lord Siran Rapp I suppose, though I don’t go around trumpeting it... second son of a noble and all.”

“For a churchman, your attire speaks more to fighting than praying,” the young Formorteran observed rather wryly.

“For a Formorteran, you seem to know humans pretty well,” Siran observed with an equal amount of wryness in his voice.  Formorterans were not native to the Empire, and
instead lived in a small series of islands off-shore, halfway between the Imperial lands and the dread lands of the elves.  They were a rare sight in either realm, and the few that Siran had met had a bad tendency to get human and elven customs confused... a very unfortunate occurrence when thousands of years of bad blood existed between humans and elves.

“I should,” she replied.  “When I came here eight months ago, I thought the big city of Erelion would be the end-all of all adventures, a lovely spot where I could always find
new things to see and do.  I guess I’m too inquisitive for my own good,” she laughed softly, before looking away partially.  “And the fans are starting to get annoying.”

“Fans?” Siran asked slowly, before things began to dawn in his mind.  “You mean, _you_ are _the_ Viktalia Starwynd?  The dancer?”

"Of course!” she laughed slightly.  “I only just said so!”

“Um, no offence, Miss Starwynd,” Siran cleared his throat. He’d never seen any of her performances, but enough of his former comrades and friends came back ranting and raving about the young Formorteran that could enthrall huge crowds with her dancing and singing.   “I... I am wondering, though, exactly _why_ you’re booking passage on a privateer?”  _Maybe she doesn’t know the Baron’s expedition is a privateering enterprise?_

“Ha!  Booking passage?” Viktalia laughed.  “Oh no!  I’m applying for ship’s quartermaster!”

“Quartermaster?” Siran asked again in surprise.  When she nodded, the memory of all his previous ship’s quartermasters came to mind, and he snickered slightly.  He saw her eyes narrow, but the more he tried to suppress it, the more he wanted to laugh, until finally a long series of giggles broke through.

“What’s so funny?” she asked rather sharply.  “A quartermaster’s job is to keep supplies in line and to watch the morale of the crew!  I can learn quickly how to deal with the supplies, and I can easily keep the ship’s morale up with my performances!”

_Quartermasters are supposed to be huge hulking men, ready to break apart any seaman who steps out of line!_ Siran laughed in his mind.  _This girl couldn’t even bend one of my pinkies!_

“In more ways than one?” Siran’s dirty mind snapped out before he could clamp his tongue.  Her pretty face blanched.

“_Of course not!_” she snapped back.  “I _do not_ do that!  _Ever!_. And to be honest I'm sick of you humans assuming that provocative dancing means that a woman is fair game!” She crossed her arms, clearly upset.  “Besides, what is an armor clad priest like yourself going to do on a ship, with that big chain of yours?  Are you going to be the ship’s anchor?”

Siran laughed again.  _My she’s a feisty one._  “No, of course not,” he managed to say after a bit.  “I understand the Baron is looking for officers, so I’m applying for any
and all available positions.  And as I’m a priest of _St. Heraclius_, I have _far_ more qualifications to go privateering and blowing up ships than you, madam.  No disrespect intended, of course,” he added wryly.

“Of course disrespect was intended,” she shot back.  “You still haven’t answered me, really.  What the heck is that chain thing wrapped about your waist, or should I be
concerned about _you_ keeping the ship’s morale high?”

“It’s a spiked chain, my dear lady,” Siran said, mock politeness in his voice.  “Your eyes should notice the spikes about the chain, giving it sharp edges with which to puncture and wound.  Besides,” he added, “I don’t see you carrying any arms.  Privateering is a dangerous business, and...”

He stopped dead in his tracks when she raised her arms wide, opening her wings.  From her belt hung a pair of small but wickedly curved knives, a pistol, and an intricately carved baton.

"Appearences can be decieving, my dear _Lord_." her voice was as politely mocking as his, with perhaps a touch more as she noticed that Siran could not help taking the opportunity to let his eyes further explore her figure. After a few moments, she closed her wings and gave a graceful bow that set the chimes covering her body to tinkling again.

"Now, if you are through, perhaps we should continue our business with the Baron? I myself an anxious to settle the affair of my employment." Her voice was smooth and musical again, although her eyes still flashed with a fire that caused Siran to give a grudging smile.

_It appears that I have underestimated this one. If we both do get jobs on the same vessel, the results should prove...

...interesting._ 

Outwardly though, he merely gave a proper return bow, and gestured towards the large guilded building.



Visiel finally rounded the last corner, feeling the fine cobblestones crack under his five hundred pound weight.  He ignored the gasps of the children has he lumbered by, or the hushed shrieks from their nannies, or the muttered rumblings under the voices of finely tailored men that, “that damn wizard so-and-so needs to stop sending his golems about willy-nilly.”

“You sir!” one person shouted at Visiel, and the iron behemoth found his way suddenly blocked by a far smaller man, clad in fine purple silk with gold embroidery.

_He is a high ranking human,_ Visiel reasoned.  _I should be respectful to him, but I need to get by._

“Who is your master?” the human insolently demanded, crossing his arms.

“I have no master.” Visiel admitted aloud.  “I am traveling towards...”

“Come come!” the little human snapped.  “Tell me who your master is, golem, or I will report you to the city authorities, and by god, your master won’t be pleased to have to bail you from the Erelion Constablury!”   

_I have been really polite,_ Visiel grumbled mentally.  _Now I can only be nice._

“Sir, I must get through.  I need to speak to Baron...”

“Until I know the name of your master,” the proud little human shouted, “I will not let you pass!  By god Sir Halred needs to do a better job keeping these damnable wizards and their damnable pets in line!  You all do nothing but-“

The man’s rant suddenly fell silent, as Visiel reached out with one of his enormous metallic paws.  Gently, but forcefully, two metal fingers touched the man’s left shoulder, and applied just enough force that he could either move aside, or fall.  The man stumbled aside, and for the first time, saw the shiny, newly polished barrel of Visiel’s rifle and the shining steel of his immense warhammer, both hanging off of the great man’s back.

“I am terribly sorry,” Visiel said, keeping his metallic voice respectful, yet the noise came out with a deep, thunderous growl.  “But I must see Baron Rafael Dice.  He has work for me,” Visiel said simply.  _This human is rude... he is obviously not of Baron Dice’s chain of command.  He does not need to know why I see the Baron._

“I...you...” the man sputtered in surprise.

“Can you tell me where he may be found?” Visiel rumbled.  

“Um... take a left at the street ahead... he’s... um... just... down there...” the man sputtered, as he backed further and further away, eyes wide in terror.  Visiel watched him for a moment with some satisfaction, before returning to the task at hand.  _Humans always run from me.  Oh well._

Visiel followed the well-dressed man’s directions, and quickly found himself facing a large mansion faced with pink.  Visiel easily identified the stucco, and part of his mind calculated how easily the material would burn.  His eyes then laid on the pink marble gracing the immense columns straddling the entrance to the building.

_Why do humans obsess over rocks like that?_ he wanted to ask.  He remembered seeing a dockworker get shouted down for dropping a piece of marble.  _It is only a rock!  Why do they assign it so much value?_ 

His eyes then traveled down further, and with a groan, he saw two smaller creatures staring up at him. 

_More humans.  These do not looked dressed to be high-ranking, yet they wait before the Baron’s door too._  Slowly Visiel shuffled just behind them, then set his feet into a waiting pose.  _I need to be polite.  I shall wait behind these privates._

He permitted himself, however, to examine the two.  The first looked something like a human, except her face was furry, looking something like a bat.  Shiny trinkets hung from all parts of her body, making an obnoxious noise and dazzling shimmer of light.  Her mouth was open plainly, and Visiel frowned when he wasn’t able to immediately place what species she belonged to.  The second was clearly a human, clad in a breastplate, a blunderbuss on his back, a wicked spiked chain on his waist.  For a minute Visiel was confused, till he saw the steel symbol hanging from the man’s neck, and the warforged permitted himself a metallic smile. 

“Hello, Priest of Heraclius,” Visiel rumbled.  _I remember priests like you.  They fought in the Navy, and always fought hard and well.  You surely have seen one of my kind before!_

“Hello, um... sir.”

Visiel turned, surprised at the melodic voice.  While the Heraclius priest still merely stared, the smaller creature looked up at him.  Her eyes were bright, and Visiel saw more curiosity than fear beaming from their brown depths.  She then delivered a slow bow.

_She bows to me?  Hmm... I cannot be her superior..._  For a moment he was confused, till he remembered that humans sometimes bowed to each other as a sign of respect.  The thin smile on his face grew wider.  _She greets me instead of running away!_  Awkwardly, he lowered himself as well, finishing a deep bow.

“My name is Viktalia Starwynd,” the woman said, before nodding to her still speechless companion.  “And this is Siran Rapp.  Soon he will be able to speak.  I assure you, he means no insult to you, he is merely surprised,” she quickly added, and Visiel could see nervousness in her eyes.

_These people need work too, and will likely be crewmates.  They should not be nervous around me.  That is not good for efficiency, or unit cohesion under fire,_ Visiel thought.  _I need to rectify this._

“Many people have not seen a warforged like me.  I am used to surprise, or even disgust.  You both please me with a mere greeting,” he said simply.

“Are...um...” Visiel watched the man’s eyes wander cautiously over his metallic hulk, “you applying to join the Baron’s crew also?”

“Yes,” Visiel said.  _I don’t know their place within the chain of command.  If they are above me, I will tell them my skills.  If not, I will tell them if commanded._

“What...um... do you do, Visiel?” the woman asked.  As she spoke, Visiel smiled again.

“You are Formorteran,” he said simply, pleased to finally remember all the information he knew about the race.  “Your people are friends with both elves and humans.  Your people only rarely leave your home island, which means you are likely an adventurer.”  _Change the subject, until you know where they are in your command chain._

“Um...yes... that’s right,” Viktalia said, her voice awkward again.

“I have only seen three of your people before.  All were hard workers and good comrades.  I hope that you will be the same...”

He didn’t finish his sentence, because his ears caught yet another gasp.  He would have dismissed it for a passing nanny towing a child or a woman on a nightly stroll, except his ears told him it came from the house.  He swung his huge head towards the gate, and saw an immaculately dressed footman, shivering away, his eyes locked on Visiel’s large form.

_Ah.  Someone under the Baron’s command.  I should introduce myself._

“Hello.  I am Visiel, and I seek employment with your commander’s expedition,” the warforged said simply, lumbering towards the gate.


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## Bryon_Soulweaver (Aug 2, 2005)

Why is everyone afraid of a warforged, they are nice people.


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Aug 2, 2005)

Best Warforged characterisation on these boards so far, I would say. Keep up the good work.


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## dungeon (Aug 2, 2005)

wow! what a story! that took me awhile to read but damn thats good! 
its so good that its "driving me crazy, but unforunily for us all... i like crazy."

 - i'm a halo fan!


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## Bryon_Soulweaver (Aug 2, 2005)

dungeon said:
			
		

> - i'm a halo fan!




Man, you too!?


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## Emperor Valerian (Aug 5, 2005)

I have yet to play Halo... and I’m afraid to, because I think I’d become addicted as well. 

*Meeting the Baron*

“Um...” the attendant stuttered, his face as white as his powdered wig with the initial fear that Viktalia had felt only minutes earlier on seeing the huge metallic man.  Part of her sympathized with him, though even after spending a few moments with Visiel, she realized the warforged was _not_ a mere iron golem, or some dangerous behemoth.

_He seemed genuinely happy that I greeted him like a person and didn’t run away or complain about him,_ she thought, _if these ‘warforged’ have feelings, I suppose._

Despite having hung around sailors and the sea for most of her life, she had never heard of, nor seen, anything like the great metallic being standing next to her.  _Maybe its something only here in the Empire..._

“I wish to speak with the Baron.  I wish to join his command as a salvage expert,” Visiel’s metallic voice boomed.  “These comrades were deployed here before me.  They also wish to join his command.”  Viktalia felt the yellow eyes within Visiel’s steel skull looking down at her.

“Ah!” the attendant said rather nervously.  “Um... let me consult with...um...my...um...  I’ll return shortly!”  Quickly he dashed back towards the manor, his long, garishly colored formal coat flapping behind him.  A few minutes passed, before the man returned, his face composed, his gait more assured.  As he drew up to the gate, he bowed.

“I have been instructed to bring you immediately forthwith to His Eminence.”  His eyes, formerly wide with fear, now flashed towards Siran with the pomposity a butler would normally possess.  “Sir, please make sure your boots are clean before entering the Baron’s residence.”  With a similar restored air of command, he ignored the cleric’s rather foul response.

“Please, follow me.”



Visiel mustered a gigantic metallic smile as the great metal gates of the Baron’s manor swung wide.  The butler had returned, not as fearful as before.

_The Baron ordered him to let us in.  Which may mean the Baron is ready to accept me into his command, and begin to issue orders to me.

At last, I’ll have some tasks to complete!_

The attendant lead the small group along a path surrounded by well manicured flowers and trees, then underneath the immense columns of pink marble, a door made of solid ebony and rare teakwood beckoning them to enter.  The doors swung wide, revealing a large entry hall, an elegant stairway at the far end, with a huge expanse of white and black chequered marble in between.

First the woman who called herself Viktalia, then the cleric calling himself Siran stepped in following the attendant.  Visiel ducked his head to squeeze through the doorway, but as his foot came to rest on the first marble tile, a huge, sickening crack echoed through the hall.  Immediately, Visiel halted.

_This stone cannot support my weight, and it looks to be the rare stone that humans prize.  While I don’t think I’ll ever understand why this stone is much more prized than iron and steel, I should not proceed any further... I might damage his floor even more, and it is never good to have a commander angry at you..._

When Visiel looked up, the butler had once again stopped in dismay, staring at the lone broken tile of marble.  Gently, Visiel backed away into the doorway.

“I am sorry.  It appears the rock will not support my weight, so I shall wait here to minimize further damage,” he announced.  The attendant nodded, and dashed off to fetch the Baron and bring him there, before anything else was accidentally destroyed.



“Baron Rafael Dice the Third, Lord of Blackmoor Manor, the Elestrean Isles, Navigator of the Kubalian Sea!”

The attendant turned aside, and bowed deeply as a rather short man, clad in a bright yellow coat, a red undershirt and red hose emerged from a doorway above.  His face was round, his jet black mustache long and finely trimmed to points that ended on each side a good six inches from his face.  Unlike the attendant, the Baron wore no powdered wig, but instead a full wig of dark brown hair that hug to the middle of his back in rich, luxuriant curls.  As he walked towards the stairs, Siran could hear the Baron’s diamond tipped cane rap against the stone floor, a solitary noise that implied harsh dignity.

_So this is the great Rafael Dice... I do have to say, he’s shorter than I expected, but at least he carries himself..._ Siran started to think, until the Baron reached the stairs and began to stumble downwards.  Immediately the gloved hand that held the cane reached for the bannister, letting the diamond tipped item tumble downwards.  Siran the drinker immediately recognized the stumbling gait as one he himself often fell into after a night filled with far too much brandy.  As if to confirm his suspicions, the Baron’s other hand, formerly behind his back, shot out sideways for balance, a golden goblet likely full of whatever alcohol had made him smashed teetering precariously in its grasp.

“Greeshings and Salushayshans!” the Baron’s voice, an otherwise deep and commanding baritone, slurred with drunken abandon.  “By the Seven Perfect Notes!” he swore, slipping unexpectedly down the last two stairs and barely managing to keep himself from tumbling to the ground.  After taking a full minute to recover, the Baron looked up, his eyes unfocused, staring at the party.

“Whaddaya want?  Juric, whadda these peoples want again?”  A gloved hand went towards the wig, and scratched it so vigorously that it slid out of place.

“They are the people seeking positions on board Lord Daod’s vessel, M’lord,” the butler said, nodding and bowing as if the Baron’s luscious state was a normal occurrence.

_Baron Rafael Dice... the drunk..._ Siran sighed, only partly because of the state of his future boss.  _I should have known.  If he was as good as everyone said, he wouldn’t be here in Erelion... he’d be in the capital, dining with the Imperial family and other hobsnobs.

God be praised, I certainly end up with the foulest of luck,_ he mentally grunted.  He closed his eyes momentarily.  _St. Heraclius, if this is going to be a test... you sure have found a doozy for me..._  As the Barons waddled closer, Siran couldn’t resist, and stood slightly on his tiptoes to see what was in the cup.

_Rich red hue... dammit!  Formorteran brandy!  Why can’t I have some?_

“Ah... a quarstermaster, a...um...” the Baron slowed his speech down, annunciating every word as if his life depended on it.  They were still slurred.  “What...um... who did Cecil need again?”

“Lord Daod required a quartermaster, and a ship’s carpenter, M’lord,” the attendant replied.  “You yourself earlier today also said you were looking for someone to head salvage operations as well, M’lord.”

“Ah!” the Baron’s face lit up like a clown’s.  “Yesh... who heresh the quarstermaster?”

“Um... I will be, M’lord,” Viktalia said slowly.  In his drunken state, the range of emotions the Baron went through was quite apparent, his face slowly changing from surprise, to disbelief, to finally a lecherous smirk.

“Sure ya will,” he grinned, “You’ll keep morale high,” he laughed before stumbling around to face the butler.  “Go an..ah... get the paper things...”  The inebriated inspection continued, as the Baron reached the massive metal behemoth, still standing dutifully in the doorway.

_I think our friend didn’t like that last comment much,_ Siran thought, trying to suppress a smirk of his own at the Baron’s comment.  Viktalia for her part squirmed a bit, but to Siran’s disappointment, she kept her mouth shut.

“Eh!” the Baron stumbled to a halt, a finger shakily pointing at Visiel’s hulking arm.  “You’re shiny, you know zat?”

“By polishing my exterior, I ensure that maintenance issues can be kept at a minimum,” the warforged rumbled in reply.

“’Maintenansh ishues kept at a mini...mini...minizum,” the Baron turned with a giggle.  “Bring him on!  Bigsh and nashty brute like him could make a good slalvager... and really mesh up someone’s day.  And... oh, yoursh a cleric.”

When the noble stopped in front of Siran, the cleric’s nose was assaulted with the sweet, taunting smell of his favorite drink, only inches from his face as the Baron swayed in front of him.

“Cleric of St. Heraclius, yes, m’lord.  As well as conossieur of fine liquers,” Siran added with a smile, and the Baron smiled.  _Take a hint, Your Sloshness..._

“Con...Con... Brandy Expert!  Good!  Good good good... Juric... sign this man up as...”

“Do you have experience in carpentry, sir?” the attendant asked.

“Served as Ship’s Carpenter on the frigate Vynystra two years ago, and saw service at the Battle of Gravlin,” Siran replied.  It’d been the first time he’d been noticed... after a Kandoran galleon swept by and raked his ship, Siran had found himself the most senior person below decks.  Rather adroitly he’d managed to not only recover, but got the gun crews working again to the point they raked the galleon in return.  Normally such gallantry might have got a promotion, or even the command of his own ship, but Siran had only joined the Navy months earlier... he wasn’t even an officer.

_Bah... damn Navy._ 

The butler nodded, not knowing the background of Siran's lone sentence, and soon Siran’s name, along with the name of the each of the other party members, was inked into a crew roster list...


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## Emperor Valerian (Aug 13, 2005)

Next update will be coming later tonight, hopefully.


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## Emperor Valerian (Aug 14, 2005)

*Captain, My Captain*

A few moments of chit-chat passed by, before the Baron rather lavishly waved to the butler.

“Go and fetch... Cecil, hmmkay?” the Baron said, his brandy sloshing about in his goblet.

“Of course M’lord,” the butler said in a slightly annoyed tone of voice, before turning about and leaving the hall at a quick, precise clip.

For his part, Visiel wanted to sigh.  _It appears that my commander has consumed too much drink.  I sincerely hope he does not plan to lead us into the field this way._  Visiel couldn’t get drunk himself, but he’d seen many human comrades engage in the activity.  _I will never understand why most peoples... humans, orcs, elves even, all like to drink controlled amounts of poisons.  They lose speech abilities, logical functions...

...a horrible state to be in during training, let alone on the battlefield._  With a metallic huff, Visiel gave a slight shrug to himself as the butler reappeared, holding the door open for someone else.  _At least my commander’s second in command is in control of himself, as are my comrades._

When the butler bowed at the unknown figure, Visiel immediately realized that the newcomer was a higher rank, which meant only two things.  Either the newcomer was the Baron’s second in command, or the Baron’s superior.  _Yet the Baron asked the dark officer to go fetch this person... hence this person responds to the Baron, and therefore must be his second in command._  Immediately within the hierarchy being constructed in Visiel’s brain, the butler’s position shifted downward.

The newcomer also sported a large, luxuriant wig, as well as a pencil mustache and a very thin, very fine beard on his chin.  He was clad in bright red and yellow silk, another sign in Visiel’s mind that he was high ranking.  Finally, he carried himself with his back upright, his steps proper and precise... and Visiel frowned.

_He has not seen combat._

Visiel had seen this many times before.  Young, brand new officers came into his command with their backs straight, their clothes perfect, their minds arrogant.  Soon, the training that was war broke their pride, made their wigs vanish, and made their smooth hands grow calluses.

“May I introdushe...” the Baron slurred as he struggled to gesture to the newcomer without stumbling, “Lord Celia Daod... son of ta Earl of Bladcore!”

“Lord Cecil Daod, son of the Earl of Edgewood,” Visiel heard the butler correct the Baron,  “He commands your second ship, the pinnace _Black Joke._”  At the Baron’s look of confusion, the butler quietly prompted further.  “The ship where these fine people will be assigned?”

“Ah, yesh, of courz!” the Baron laughed and slurred again, clapping the butler on the back.

Visiel’s mind dealt with two major thoughts from these words.  In one, Visiel’s opinion of his commander decreased even more.  _He lets himself be this way in front of his juniors, and his juniors must correct him.

Ah well.  He is a commander, a commander that will pay me metallic pieces._

The second thought was related to the ship.  _Black Joke.  What is its displacement? How many crew?  How many guns?  What is her fastest speed?  What point of sail does she reach that speed?_  Endless questions in his mind that he wanted to have answered.  He knew better than to ask them all at once however.  Humans tended to get annoyed at questions.

The young noble immediately extended his hand to the young cleric called Siran, and then stopped and paused before Viktalia.

“Well hello,” the young man crooned, bowing to kiss Viktalia’s hand.  While she thanked him for the gesture, Visiel noticed the young man’s eyes were staring at a spot that was quite a bit below her face.

_He is young.  He looks for a mate,_ Visiel waved aside the young man’s attention to his comrade.  _If he is a second in command, he must look to his unit first.  Looking for a mate can be done off-duty._

“My name is Viktalia?” the Formorteran said awkwardly almost a minute later, as the young man kept staring.  Her voice made the young man snap his head upward, his face bright red.

“Cecil Doad,” he said quickly, his eyes drifting back down.

_He is distressing her._ Visiel noticed, as Viktalia uncomfortably looked at the openly gawking Cecil.  _It is never good when a comrade is distressed.  They lose focus, something that is dangerous on the battlefield.

I should introduce myself._

“Sir,” Visiel said in a deep metallic voice, the room shaking slightly as his brought his metal frame to perfect attention.  “Visiel, at your service, sir.  I am skilled in salvage work, rifle shot, and with a warhammer.  I am at your service, sir.”  Visiel’s heart leapt slightly, as he heard those words echo off of the metallic walls.  Those words meant he was part of a command.  Part of something he knew, he understood, a place he knew he would be useful.

Visiel wasn’t surprised at the young man’s look of fear, then confusion at seeing his immense form.  Humans were unnecessarily scared of him.  That was part of being a warforged.  _I hope the second in command puts me to good use._

“Um... Lord Dice?” Cecil asked rather plaintively.

“Your salvager chief, sir,” the butler replied quietly.  At Cecil’s blank look, the butler added, “the person that will be looking for sunken items after you sink enemy vessels.”

_This does not bode well.  The officer in black had to remind the second in command of my position._  Visiel allowed himself another metallic sigh.  _I hope he won’t forget any more._

“Ah...um... yes, well um, hello,” the young noble gingerly extended a hand, one that Visiel carefully took and gently shook.  Once again, experience had taught him humans did not appreciate firm, strong handshakes from him.  
“Welcome to...um... my crew.  I...um... with your Lord’s permission,” Cecil gave a nod to the Baron, who tried to nod in return but instead stumbled forward almost into Viktalia, “will...um... take these people to my ship.”



“Ah!  Look over there!” his clipped voice rang out yet again an hour or so later as his finger stabbed towards the forest of masts and spars that marked the city harbor.  “Our ship is over there, amongst the tall poles, though,” he added thoughtfully, “our ship’s pole is smaller than the others... probably because we’re smaller than the other ships.”

_Masts... they’re called masts!_ Viktalia wanted to complain as Cecil continued to yammer on, yet through some amazing piece of patience, she managed to keep her mouth shut... somehow.  An hour with their young captain had revealed three truths to her: first, that whenever he got the chance, he oggled her chest, second, Lord Cecil Daod knew _nothing_ of sailing, and third, he didn’t know when to stop talking.

After a few minutes of getting used to Visiel, he’d blabbered on about his life.  The firstborn son of the Earl of Edgewood, Cecil was set on having a military career.  He bragged that he’d graduated first in his class from the Imperial Naval Academy, a fact Viktalia guessed was a patent lie meant to impress her.  He’d also claimed that important missions had kept him from behind assigned a ship until now.

_Chances are your father twisted the Baron’s arm into letting you join... or your father and the Baron are good friends, or some other form of chummery,_ she thought.  _There is no way a school for warship commanders would let someone as incompetent as you through!_

 A sideways glance towards Visiel revealed that the metallic behemoth, now some kind of noncommissioned officer, had kept an impassive face, save for a very slight grin that she didn’t fully understand.  A glance in the other direction revealed Siran was the opposite... his prospective captain’s mistakes were plainly grating him, and by his winces and grunts, Viktalia guessed it would be only a matter of time before, commission or not, he’d snap at the young nobleman.

“Is there anyone babysitting you?” the cleric growled after a moment, before Viktalia could plant an elbow into his ribs.

“Hm?” the young nobleman stopped, and twirled one of his immaculate mustachios.

“My friend asked if you have any other officers under your command, sir,” Viktalia said, forcing her sweetest smile to the front.  As she expected, Cecil began to stare slightly, and the potential crisis in command, if insulting the Captain could be called such, had been easily averted.

“Um...” Cecil muttered for a moment, before realizing that Viktalia knew he was staring.  “Yes!  Yes, of course!  Why, there’s Lieutenant Kaled, of course, my first mate, and then there’s Midshipman Felgar, the ship’s guide...”

_Navigator,_ Viktalia thought to herself, fighting not to wince again.

“Kaled’s been very helpful.  He was a ordinary sailor for the longest time, before he finally became an officer,” Cecil said, before turning around and resuming his march.  “Too bad he’ll never make it above Lieutenant probably... too old, too cantankerous too,” he added, a slight tinge of resentment in his voice.  

_Probably more competent than you, I imagine... hence the sour look,_ Viktalia growled in her mind.  _Set you straight a few times, hopefully._

“What are the dimensions and crew capacities of the vessel?” Visiel finally asked.

“Um... its a rather small ship, though I suppose its only my first command.  Maybe 20 or 30 crew... maybe 40...” Cecil’s voice trailed off into thought.

“Might be best to ask the ship’s real master,” Viktalia heard Siran hiss.

“Ask Lt. Kaled once we get on board.  He deals with all the unimportant numbers stuff,” Cecil said simultaneously, waving his hand about in disdain.  As the forest of masts crew closer, Cecil suddenly stopped, his brow furrowed in hard thought.

_Oh great... did his mommy forget to change his diaper?_ Viktalia wanted to grumble.

“Now... which way was it to the ship?” Cecil said quietly, before adding a light curse.  “Damnation, they should just hang huge signs on them so it’ll be easier to find.  Bah!”



_One Hour Later..._

“Is it me, or is the captain an idiot?” Siran hissed viciously as soon as Cecil had vanished.  Normally, he would’ve taken up anyone’s offer to go to a brothel, but the cleric was far, far too annoyed, and couldn’t wait till Cecil emerged from the captain’s cabin, and left the boat.  _Damn incompetent... I could even make a better captain than him!

Maybe we should just sail out of port without him, save us some hassle..._

It had taken them another half hour to find the ship, after which Cecil had introduced them all to the ship’s crew.  From the start, it was obvious the crew did not like their commander, and that their commander was oblivious to their disdain.  Visiel had immediately busied himself helping to load the ship, but with his immense strength, the job took only a few minutes. He’d wandered off somewhere, Siran wasn’t sure where exactly.

_Maybe he followed Viktalia’s suggestion to help load the Baron’s ship..._

In front of the cleric, his conversation partner laughed.  The man was short and stoutly shaped, his body heavy, but with muscle.  A ragged, grizzly beard came from his chin, tattoos festooned his arms, and an eyepatch covered his left eye, where a ragged scar slashed across his face.  Despite his rather fearsome look, in the half hour since they had begun talking, it was apparent that Lieutenant Kaled loved to laugh, despite the sparseness of his teeth.  

What had also become immediately apparent was that Lieutenant Podris Kaled commanded the respect of the entire crew.  When Cecil had boarded the ship, the crew hand’t come to attention until Kaled barked the order.  It was Kaled supervising the loading of supplies, it was Kaled making sure the decks were cleared and being prepared for sail.  It was Kaled who told them the state of the ship, showed them their bunks, and introduced them to the crew.

_If he ever got it into his mind to kick Cecil overboard..._ Siran had realized immediately.

“By Tesseron’s Golden Harp, that’s true!” Kaled slapped Siran on the back, as several nearby sailors guffawed.  “He’s a good thing to have... or, as I should say, his purse is!”

“Money can’t buy seamanship,” Siran countered, causing another round of laughs.

“True that is, young one.  But for now,” Kaled said simply, “we must live with his presence, at least until the great Baron finds something else to do with this lively young prodigy of a commander!”

“Bah,” Siran said simply, before looking around again.  Underneath his feet, the crimson deck rocked slightly in the meager waves inside Erelion’s great harbor.  Even though he stood in the middle of the ship, by her mainmast, he could only walk around 25 feet in each direction before he would meet the bow and stern respectively.  Above, pennants lazily flew from the ship’s two small masts, and to each side sat four cannons, their squat iron forms securely stowed for now.  The sight of them made Siran smile.

_Viktalia thought those cannons were so huge,_ he laughed, remembering his friend’s expression at seeing the 9 pounders.  Between chuckles, Siran had to explain to her that these were some of the smallest cannon mounted on ships.  Demi-culverins, they called them.  When he mentioned that some of the big warships have cannons that fire balls five times that weight, he thought her eyes would pop out of her head.

“He seems eager... at least,” Viktalia said sadly, as she came up from below deck.  Fortunately, she didn’t know what Siran was grinning about.  His grin faded when he saw the look on her face, a look that seemed to resemble the face of someone who’d just been told their favorite puppy had been killed.

“What’s so bad that it makes you look like St. Siabrey just told you you’re going to die?” he asked rather immoderately.  The followers of St. Heraclius had little time for other saints aside from their own.

“There’s no fruit below!” Viktalia almost plaintively whined.  As if on cue, she thumped her head against the deck in theatrical anguish.  “None!  No apples, no pears, no oranges, not even _dried_ fruit!  They have nothing to eat below except some rancid beef, some grain for bread, and cheap ale!”

_What was that?_

“Cheap ale?” Siran asked, his mood changing to very concerned.  “How cheap?” he asked, his eyebrow raising.

“Its like drinking water from a latrine!” Viktalia complained, raising her head.  “Except its like someone also dumped some dead rats into the vat, to make it extra smelly!”  She laid her head down on the deck again.  “More importantly, I need fruit!  I’m Formorteran!”

“You _need_ fruit?” Siran asked, before suddenly shaking his head.  “Forget the damn fruit!  We’ve got an ale crisis here!”

“Aye... that’s one thing he won’t open his purse for,” Kaled said, his own voice grumpy.  “He paid for this ship to be repainted... crimsons decks, no less!  Paid for all the repairs I recommended... new spars, a new bowsprit, even rechristened this boat _Black Joke_.  The joke’s on us though... he refuses to pay for any good drink, or food!”  Kaled spat onto the deck.  “That’s despite us telling him that fruit keeps scurvy away!”

_Oh no... not on board this boat!_ Siran groaned.  _I had to put up with piss poor ale for months on land, and I’m not about to do that while I’m stuck on this raft at sea!_

“Hell no!” Siran grunted.  _Mutinies start over things like this!_  “He is the son of the Earl of Blackpool, he has all this money, yet he _refuses_ to buy decent food and drink?”  

Siran put special emphasis on the word ‘drink.’

Kaled nodded, and Siran gave another curse, this one complaining about the nobility and various body parts from St. Valerian and St. Elagas.  He morosely scuffed his foot back and forth on the deck, until he noticed something... 

...actually someone.

Viktalia was still partially out of the ship’s hold, her own head on the deck in distress over the lack of fruit.  At the angle, Siran had a perfect view of certain parts of her anatomy... and immediately, his mind jumped back to Cecil’s huge eyes some hours ago when he’d first met the Formorteran dancer.  Two and two came together... well, more like one and one...

_And a brilliant idea is born!_ Siran thought, his glower changing to a smile.

“My my, your face changed a bit there,” Kaled said, after a moment, the shorter man coming up right alongside Siran.  His eyebrow raised, looking at Siran, before following the cleric’s gaze, and almost immediately, he gave a grunt.  “Huh.  That might work.”

“What?” Viktalia said quietly, looking up from her own pouting.

“I think we just found our twin saviors,” Siran grinned, before telling Viktalia the plan.



“That was easy,” Viktalia laughed about an hour later, crossing her arms as the sailors of the _Black Joke_ loaded box after box of dried fruit, and barrel after barrel of fine Formorteran brandy.  Five tons worth of dried fruit, as well as two tons of brandy.

“That’d better be a hell of a performance,” Kaled said in awe.  “I’ve never seen him open his purse so quickly on a request.”

“You’d better ‘raise his morale,’” Siran chuckled as Viktalia turned to him with narrowed, blazing eyes.

“Shutup.”  _Why can’t he get the idea in his head that I don’t strip, or do whatever debauched things his foul mind thinks of?!_  Her scowled darkened momentarily, before she decided Siran’s dark idiocy wasn’t worth her time.

She then turned to Kaled, her expression changing to one of smiling triumph.  “Well, it will be a good performance, but,” she said, her smile growing larger, “I just neglected to inform him that I have a policy of no private dances.  So yes, he’ll see a dance... it’s just he’ll have to watch with the other twenty crew members.”

“So then you’re going to raise _all_ their...” Siran started.

Viktalia hissed, and only gave the cleric a scowl, to which Siran merely laughed.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be a great help in keeping the crew occupied during their free time,” Kaled said, giving only a grin towards Siran’s joke.  “Heaven’s know, some of these sailors, if they have nothing to do, see, or talk about, they get quite bored...”

“An idle hand sows trouble,” Viktalia smiled, quoting another human saint, St. Valerian the Ruler.  “As the ship’s quartermaster, I’ll do my best,” she gave a flourishing bow, before turning to Siran and giving him a scowl far more playful than the previous one.  “As for the Ship’s Carpenter...”

“Hey!  Not my fault the ship is in good repair right now,” Siran raised his hands.  “Just you wait until there’s a storm, and you need to repair a spar.  Then, all the morale raising in the world won’t help!”

Viktalia slugged him in the shoulder.  Hard.

"We sail tomorrow," Kaled said with a laugh.  "So it'd be best to beat him up on-shore, where he can get access to the masive healing of the abbots he'll need!"


----------



## Steverooo (Aug 14, 2005)

Boy, that Ship's Carpenter sure has problems with his wood, doesn't he?  He's my least favorite character.  I even like Cecil Daod better than him!

Visiel is my favorite.  I sure hope that he's as good at _his_ job as I expect him to be...  I fear that "Captain" Daod (Daid!, or at least his corpse) will be in need of salvaging, very soon!  

"Salvage Daod... that does not compute!"  BEEP!  "Illogical, Captain!"


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## Emperor Valerian (Aug 21, 2005)

Monster update this time.  Enjoy!

*At Sea, and First Blood*


Viktalia closed her eyes, and relished the smell of salt in the air.  Salt meant sailing, and sailing meant she was headed somewhere new, somewhere she hadn’t been before.  

As she nibbled on the dried apricot in her hand, she noise of the sea washed about her, as it had for the past week since they’d left Erelion.  Around a half mile ahead of them lay the bulk of the _Silver Hart_, the Baron’s fast galleon plowing through the waves as an iron golem would plow through a mere bush.  They had set a course of east by northeast, intending to sail around the warzone surrounding the Imperial enemy of Kandor, then change course to east by southeast, before stopping at the port of Tarnpool.

She’d found herself with very little to do, for the most part.  The crew was well behaved, and thanks to her persuasion of the captain, healthy food on board meant that they wouldn’t likely be expecting disease.  

Siran was on deck this day too... mercifully, as the ship’s carpenter, she hadn’t had much time to see him, as he was going out, constantly looking for leaks, checking the masts, and other jobs, usually accompanied by Visiel, whose patience as a warforged meant he caught many small, tiny things that humans were to busy to spot.

Among the rest of the crew on deck this day, Viktalia saw one figure that stood out.  Standing on the starboard side of the ship, roughly amidships, was the ship’s lone passenger.  The woman had been on deck every day, staring out to the sea since the ship had left the port of Erelion.  While that alone might have caught Viktalia’s attention, there were even stranger things about their passenger.

For one, she had not said a word since their putting to sea.  While Viktalia hadn’t really made an effort to get close to her, she had expected that over the course of an entire week at sea, the woman would have said something to someone, yet no one claimed to have ever heard her voice.  Just as strangely, she was clad head to toe in fine linens, and despite the summer’s heat, over her face she wore a silver mask carved and etched to resemble the countenance of a beautiful woman.  Not a single piece of skin was visible, save her eyes.  

Viktalia had only caught sight of them once, and their blue depths seemed to stretch on and on into seas of melancholy.  While her linens hung close to curves that undoubtedly would drive most men crazy, there was something about her that caused most of the sailors on board to stay away...  something Viktalia couldn’t place.

“You noticed her too?”

Viktalia bristled slightly on hearing Siran’s voice behind her.  _He’s probably been leering at her.  No wonder she put on a mask..._

“She seems really sad,” the cleric said as he stepped beside her, “I’m guessing she wears the mask to hide it.”  As Viktalia’s jaw dropped, the cleric turned and looked at her for a moment, before he frowned.  “What?  I can’t express a little emotion here?”  He gestured off towards the woman again.  “She seems sad, that’s all!    Why do you assume I’m always oggling people?”

“Because you always _are_ oggling women,” Viktalia shot back, before looking at him, surprise still on her face.  “I’m more than a little surprised that you noticed anything about her other than her curves.”  _The Siran of last week would have leered and commented on her body, or something._

“She walks like a noble, but slowly  and with a slight slouch, that’s how I know she’s sad,” Siran pressed ahead.  Viktalia gave a slight humph at him ignoring her comment, yet he didn’t notice that either.  “Though like I said, I’m wondering about that mask.”  He looked back at Viktalia, and frowned again.  “Come on!  Don’t give me that look! You’re wondering too!”

“I am,” Viktalia said, before turning towards Siran with an iron gaze.  “I’m wondering why you are such a shallow, drunkard, skirt-chasing fool.”

“I knew we got off on the wrong foot,” Siran replied with a sigh.  He walked over to one of the railings, and stared off into the sea.  “Do you want to hear my explanation for my actions, or do you wish to be like so many others and give a lecture that I likely will immediately forget?”

_I wonder what his excuse is going to be..._ Viktalia wondered, before nodding to him.

“Well, my dearest Formorteran, I am, as you know, a cleric of St. Heraclius.  As such, I find myself in situations constantly that most would describe as dangerous, many as foolhardy, and still others as daft.  Therefore,” he turned to her, “I have no idea when my life might suddenly end, or when I’ll catch a whiff of bad luck and find myself so horribly mutilated that I _wish_ my life had ended.”  Viktalia looked into his eyes, and for once, she didn’t see a leering gaze in return, only a sad one, as Siran fidgeted with the ship’s railing.

Viktalia nodded.  The clerics of Heraclius had a reputation, but she’d never heard one explain _why_ his order acted so roguish on a constant basis.  Not until now.

“So, I live hard, drink hard, play hard, and try to enjoy the most I can.  That’s all,” he sighed, before looking back out to the sea.  “I don’t ever want to be laying on the deck one day, the ship’s doctor reaching in my ribs, and my poor brain squeezing through the pain one final thought of: ‘I wish I knew what would have happened if...’”  An ironic laugh later, “You know, they say its a miracle that the Abbot of St. Heraclius in Erelion has reached forty.  I’m a little over halfway there.”

_He’s twenty-five... still very young for a human... and he thinks constantly of death?_  The thought confused her, confounded her.  Formorterans were a peaceful people, death short of old age was considered a tragedy, not the norm.  Sure, they knew of the elves and humans and their constant wars against each other, but knowing _of_ death was one thing... seeing it passively reflected in someone’s eyes was something far different.

“So,” he said, turning back to her, his back straight and the cockiness back in his eyes, “that’s my sob story.  Not much of one, I know, and it can’t be converted into a bard’s song or a play, but it’s the truth.”  He shrugged.  “Just don’t try to pigeon-hole me before we’ve done much, alright?” he winked.

Viktalia had been about to open her mouth to issue an apology, of sorts, until she saw that wink.  Instantly, a frown came over her face again, though it wasn’t nearly as dark as the one’s prior.

“You’re incorrigible, you know that?” she said.

“Incorri-what?”

“Incorrigible.  You can’t be changed,” she rolled her eyes.  She deftly avoided the uncomfortable previous topic when she added, “and yes, I was curious too.  Leering didn’t cause me to acquire my curiosity, however.”

“No harm, no foul,” Siran raised his hands.  “Though someone should go over and talk to her.”  

Both he and Viktalia immediately looked at each other, and he flashed a smile.  

“If I go over there, you’ll accuse me of flirting,” he said simply, with another wink.  Viktalia rolled her eyes, and groaned.

“Fine... I’ll going to go over and talk to her.”



“Hello?” Viktalia asked cautiously, to no reply.  _Well... she’s going to be difficult then._  “My name is Viktalia, Viktalia Starwynd.”  She proffered a friendly hand in front of the woman, and finally the shrouded creature turned, those same blue eyes looking sharply at her from behind their silver shield.

“Rowena,” the woman said simply, her voice wet and heavy, as if she needed to cough up a piece of phlegm.  No hand was offered, and the blue eyes flashed annoyance.

_Still not welcome... there seems to be a lot of ice to crack here,_ Viktalia thought, before slipping alongside their passenger and looking out to the sea for a moment.  After a few moments of silence, she turned.  “I’ve noticed you’re the only other woman on board.  On a ship full of deprived men, it might be a good idea to get to know each other, watch our backs.”  While Viktalia flashed a rather humorous smile, she _had_ heard some unfortunate stories...

“You seem to be the one that needs guarding,” the woman rasped, looking at Viktalia for a moment before returning her gaze to the sea.  “The men stay away from me, and rightfully so.”

_’Rightfully so?’  Either this woman has a low opinion of herself... or something’s happened here that has to do with her looks,_ Viktalia thought.  She let silence reign between them for a few more seconds, before speaking again.  “If you don’t mind me probing...”

“Why the mask?” the woman answered her question, turning to face her again.  There was a noise that sounded something like a sigh mixed with the noise of a person blowing bubbles underwater.  The blue eyes looked past Viktalia for a second, before looking down at the deck in sadness.  “This is what happens when you’re cursed.”

_Cursed?  How?  Why?_  A thousand questions burst into Viktalia’s mind, yet she restrained herself.  _Let her open up slowly... don’t rush her._  Another few moments silence.  “Its awfully hot out... aren’t you hot?”

“Dreadfully,” came the simple reply.  

“Whatever is cursed, I’m sure its not bad enough to put up with this heat!” Viktalia said hopefully.  _Or is it?_

“It is,” the woman replied.  “I’m afraid if the crew saw what I really look like, they would jump overboard in fear... and loathing.”  Viktalia thought she saw the woman’s form give a slight shudder.

_So even she loathes what she has become... this must be a rather gruesome curse..._

“Really?  I can’t imagine _anything_ that would be bad enough for you to put yourself through a furnace,” Viktalia said simply.  “I’ve been to many places, and I’m sure no matter how bad you look, that I’ve seen worse and grinned afterwards.  You’re only torturing yourself by wearing all those heavy linens and that mask out here in the heat,” she said gently.  _Get her to open up more out of concern..._

“You really wish to see what... what _she_, no, _they_ did to me?” the woman asked.

“Why not?  I’m sure you look better than you think,” Viktalia said confidently.

“You promise you won’t run and leap off the ship, or go mad?” the woman asked.

“Of course not!” Viktalia laughed, even as her mind worried.  _What could be wrong with her that is that bad?  Is she a medusa of some kind?  Cursed with a disease that spreads madness?_  “You can’t be uglier than a Formorteran cave troll!”

“Very well,” the woman sighed, pulling back the thick linens covering her arm with a silk gloved hand.  For a moment, her glove hovered there, indecision plain in her movements, until finally, she pulled her hand away, and Viktalia fought her hardest not to gasp.

All the woman revealed was a tiny section of her skin, no more than an inch across, yet it was awash in a sea of festering sores and oozing blisters, its entirety either sickly shades of yellow, angry shades of red, or nauseating black ulcers.  Viktalia immediately felt the woman’s eyes boring into her, and only a second later, the linen had been replaced.

“It was frightening to you,” her voice rasped, as she looked down towards the now covered arm.  “I should not have shown you.”

“No, it didn’t,” Viktalia lied, as she swallowed hard.  _Who, or what could have done this to her?  Why would someone do something so horrible as to curse someone like this?_  “I...um...” the bard stammered, for the first time in a while flummoxed.  Finally, she forced her brain and mouth into sync.  _If this is a mere curse... maybe Siran could help?  Or maybe at least heal some of the sores?_  “I...have a friend.  He is a cleric, of St. Heraclius.  Perhaps maybe he could help you?”

“I would be surprised if he could,” her voice grated in reply.  “I only left my home in Tarnpool because it was said there was a man in Erelion that called himself Hephastion who could heal anything... for a price.”  Her dripping voice became acidic.  “Your friend does not charge twenty-five thousand gold pieces for a sham?”

_Twenty-five thousand gold?!_ Viktalia had to once again keep her jaw from dropping in shock.  _This woman is either fabulously wealthy, or a part of the nobility... hmm... Tarnpool... what do I know about Tarnpool..._

“No... he won’t charge,” Viktalia said confidently.  _If he does, he is no true cleric._



Siran watched as Viktalia and the strange woman walked over, side by side.  

_Hmm... I wonder what is going on here?  I highly doubt Viktalia put in a good word for me... maybe the woman was curious about me?  Maybe she needs healing or something...

...a chance to make a good impression, either way!_  Siran cracked his neck, shuffled his clothes, and rubbed a dull spot off his armor just before the two were directly in front of him.

“Miss Rowena of Tarnpool, I would like you to meet Siran Rapp,” Viktalia said.  

“Sir,” the woman in the silver mask said as she bowed, her voice sounding heavy and wet.  That alone started to ring alarm bells in Siran’s head... beautiful damsels, even those in distress, didn’t have voices that sounded as if they were speaking almost underwater.

“Milady,” Siran said after a second, raising a hand as if to take her glove and kiss it.  When she hesitated, he gave a slightly gruff nod.  _I see Viktalia talked to her ahead of me._  “I am please to make your acquaintance,” he quickly added.

“And I yours,” the woman said, before the bright silver mask flashed momentarily towards Viktalia.  “Your friend says you are a skilled healer, and I, as you can see, have need of one.  Can you lift curses?”

“Curses?” Siran said slowly.  “Um... what _kind_ of curses?”  _She’s been cursed... something disfiguring, I guess, from all the clothes she’s wearing to cover herself._  “I can heal wounds, call on creatures from the deep, but curses...” he raised his hands in honesty, “those are beyond my abilities, madam.  I am sorry.” _Dammit!  If only I’d paid some more attention at seminary!_  He honestly felt bad... whatever was wrong with the woman, it required her to cover herself completely, which he guessed wasn’t that comfortable at all by itself...

She sighed, and he saw her blue eyes look down, as if another tiny flicker of hope had been crushed.  “At least you are honest... that’s more than I can say for the last cleric I went to.  He pocketed my money before pronouncing me incurable.”

“Its too bad there are charlatans about,” Siran said quietly.  “I sincerely hope that your condition finds a cure, madam, though I am curious... what _is_ this curse, exactly?”

“Siran!” Viktalia snapped.

“If he is curious... he can ask,” the woman raised a hand to quiet the bard down.  “I am the daughter of a noble from Kubalia... the human kingdom just across the Straits of Erelion.  I used to be beautiful... they said I was the most beautiful girl in the land... and sadly I got the attention of the already married Prince.”  She sighed again, her hand reaching for her sleeve again.  “His jealous wife did this to me.”

When Siran saw the puss and ulcer filled section of flesh, he wasn’t as strong as Viktalia.  He _did_ recoil.

“I understand your recoil.  Its repulsive, and extremely painful,” she said quietly, replacing the clothing.  “For the past two years I have sailed all around the Kubalia Sea, looking for cures, bleeding my father’s purse dry in the process.  And as of yet, nothing but, as you say,” her voice turned acidic in its murk, “charlatans and con-men.  So now that the purse has run dry, I have no choice but to sail home,” she shrugged, the movement making sickening slurping noises.

“Well, let me tell you this, at least,” Siran said, this time elegantly taking her gloved hand and administering a kiss, “no matter what your skin looks like, you still have _very_ pretty eyes, as blue as the sky above!”  

“Why thank you!” the eyes lit up for a moment, a smile from the past that now was invisible.  

When she had left, returning to her post on the starboard side of the ship, Viktalia turned to Siran, and administered a death glare.

“You are a scoundrel!” she whispered.

“I am nothing of the sort!” Siran raised his hands in defense.  “I’m guessing with a condition like that, it has been two years since someone has paid her a compliment.  And I don’t know about you, bell-ears,” he gestured to Viktalia’s jewelry, “but every now and then I feel better when someone says something good about me.”  _If its impossible to heal the body, it is usually possible to heal the mind, at least..._




Visiel blinked for a second and sighed. 

_It is good to have direction again,_ he smiled, even as his eyes keenly looked over the distant flashes of white-topped waves under the full moon six hours later.  Carefully he kept looking for the lights, or flash of a sail that would signal another ship, a task he threw himself into with glee despite having spent two hours already staring at the empty sea.  _I’ll gladly do this all through the night._

“Hey Visiel!” he heard the cleric call, but Visiel did not turn around.  He could talk to the cleric while his eyes watched the water.  

“Yes, companion?” he asked.

“You sure got the captain angry back an hour ago,” the cleric chuckled.  He, as well as Viktalia, had agreed to stay up with Visiel during the first watch of the night... not at Visiel’s request, but the captain’s.

“I do not understand why Lieutenant Kaled grew so frustrated with me,” Visiel replied morosely.  _I try to do my best, and I do not understand what I did wrong._  “All I did was request a new assignment.  After eight hours of scrubbing, I am very sure the deck was clean down to the most minute speck of dust.”

“I don’t think it was the fact you wanted a new assignment,” Siran laughed, “but that you asked him a thousand times in the space of five minutes for a new assignment!”

_He did not hear my original request, I assumed, so I thought it appropriate to ask again until I was sure he received my request.  On the battlefield, it is always important for the officers to know the situation, even if their subordinates must advise them repeatedly on conditions._  If he had been human, Visiel might have scratched his head, but instead, he gave his standard metallic grunt.  “I only advised the Lieutenant that the battlefield situation had changed, and I only spoke to him until I received acknowledgement my message had been received.”

“If you call cursing up a storm acknowledgement,” Siran said, “and there you go again with the battlefield talk.  We aren’t in a war right now... not until we see some vessels from Kandor or Lees.  _Then_ we’re heading to war.”

“The lieutenant advised me to watch the ocean for enemy ships, which is what I shall do,” Visiel replied simply.  “I have no need for restive maintenance, unlike you humans, so I can keep this watch throughout the night.  Now,” Visiel changed his tone to one he had heard many officers use to younger subordinates, “you should return to your patrol over there.  Your companionship is welcome, but you are distracting me from my mission, companion.”

“My patrol?” Siran said, before walking back to starboard amidships.  “I suppose, if you call me watching the sea a patrol.”

Visiel ignored the comment.  Humans always loved to argue the semantics of orders, which only delayed their enactment.  _Viktalia does not question orders like this... though since Siran used to be a ship’s officer, he is still adjusting to being a carpenter’s mate._



“He’s certainly uptight,” Siran whispered a few moments later, only to hear Viktalia give a snort.  “What?”

“He’s trying to do his job, yet you’re bothering him,” she said quietly.  “He doesn’t think the same way we do.  I’ve got the feeling that he needs order, he needs hierarchy and assigned tasks...”

_Quite dull, if you ask me._  “So anyway,” Siran waved his hand, changing topic, “I overheard some stuff from the crew.  Being a mere carpenter’s mate, they trust me more than you pseudo-officers.”

“What sorts of things?” Viktalia turned and looked at him.  “About who?  Visiel?”

“Oh, no no!” Siran chuckled.  “At first, most of them were rather afraid of the big metal guy, but now... they seem to appreciate having someone willing to swab the decks for eight hours straight, and someone that can carrying two of those huge cargo barrels at the same time.  Nothing about him... only two people.  You, and Cecil.”  Siran enjoyed the momentarily look of confusion, then the darkening of her face as one implication of what he said came to her mind.

“They think... gods no...”

“No!  Not that!” Siran laughed. _Though I would die a thousand deaths from laughter if that were true!_   “There’s two different things I wanted to tell you that I overheard.  First, the crew thinks you’re a godsend, though there’s been some wonderings as to when they’ll get to see that performance...”

“They _want_ a performance?”  Siran once again enjoyed the emotions coming from her, this time glee.  “Well, we have been at sea for an entire week... and I _do_ want to give them a performance... hey,” she suddenly stopped.  “You don’t have that lascivious look in your eyes that I expected!”

“You aren’t human.”  Siran executed an ornate mock bow.  “Thus, you are free from my designs.”  _Count yourself fortunate... I know many clerics of my order that would have no qualms about chasing down a creature as yourself, human, elven, or goblin..._

“Yes, whatever,” Viktalia grinned, her golden eyes shining in the moonlight.  “Now, what do they say about our good friend Cecil?  Were they upset at his calling the bow of the ship the front?”

“Oh, that wouldn’t be the place to start.” Siran said, his voice lacking as much mirth as his friend.  “He called the masts the ‘ship’s poles,’ the ship’s keel its ‘wood spine,’ and it’s deck a ‘floor.’ Though, I don’t think you realize how deep this ‘upsettedness’ goes.”  _Sailors as superstitious by nature, and the sea is an unkind mistress..._

“Oh.” Viktalia’s own mirth quickly ended, and her voice dropped to a mere whisper.  “That hate him that bad?”

“I overheard some of them praying to St. Porus that they won’t be taken before their time on account that their captain has not learned the ways of the sea,” Siran said.  To his surprise, Viktalia did not look at him askew, as he expected.  Most ‘landlubbers’ had little idea of the culture of sailors and their views of St. Porus, their patron.

“So they feel their captain doesn’t respect the traditions of the sea?” she said slowly, and Siran nodded.  Her face grew very grave.  “So are they talking about...”

“I’ve heard rumblings, yes,” Siran nodded darkly.  _When St. Porus... the god Neros to the uncivilized, becomes offended by a ship’s captain, he’ll take vengeance on the entire crew..._  “’Better to rid oneself of an anchor, than sink to the bottom of the sea,’ they say.”

“That bad?” Viktalia said quietly, causing Siran’s eyebrows to raise.  _She knows more of the sea than she lets on..._

“They want Lieutenant Kaled as their captain... and unless something is done soon, I am sure things will reach their breaking point, very very...”  He suddenly stopped in mid sentence.

_What was that?_  From the side of the ship, where normally there should be the lulling wash of waves against wood, there instead was a slight noise... a scrape, a scratch.  When Siran looked up, he saw Visiel had turned from his position at the bow, and was already stalking towards one side of the vessel...



_What was that?_ Visiel asked at nearly the same time as Siran, his own ears picking up the scrapings and scratchings.  He turned his head slightly, and listened again, his mind rushing pieces of information together, searching his memory for anything that sounded like this.  Only a moment later, he had come to a conclusion.

“Something is climbing up the sides of the ship,” he said, his deep metallic voice now a hissing whisper.  _Something equipped with claws, which is causing the scraping as it grips the wood to climb._  Old thought patterns, long unused, now rose to the front.  Immediately, Visiel pointed to the starboard side of the ship, then raised two fingers.  _Two enemies, that side._  His hand the slashed towards port, then raised a single finger.  _One enemy there.  Three altogether._ His eyes then flashed up towards Viktalia and Siran, who nervously continued to look at both sides of the ship.

_My companions are confused as to what to do.  I must give them direction,_ Visiel thought, a finger flashing towards each, then pointing towards the port side.  _I do not know their combat abilities in a concrete manner, though I suspect the priest of St. Heraclius can fight.  Together, the two of them should be able to handle one of whatever is climbing up the side of the ship._  For a moment, Visiel considered his rifle, before leaving it on his back.  There was not enough time or distance, so instead the warforged reached for his massive warhammer, its hammerhead pitted and black from the acidic magic it had been treated in.

_Someone should alert the rest of the crew,_ Visiel thought, before looking at the ship’s bell.  _Lieutenant Kaled said I should ring the bell if something goes wrong._  He then looked back at Viktalia and Siran, and quickly decided that since the cleric could likely fight, Viktalia should ring the bell.  A finger lashed out towards her, then towards the bell.  

When she nodded, Visiel expected her to dash across the deck and begin ringing the bell madly, but instead she got a strange grin.  She reached into her cloak and in a flash, she had a crossbow out, dropped into an aiming crouch, and fired a single bolt.

The ship’s bell clanged, loud and hard, and from down below, Visiel could barely hear the sounds of a crew coming awake, the noises of the alarm spreading.

_Creative,_ Visiel mused, _Adaptability on the battlefield is always good.  She could be far more useful than I originally thought,_ he decided, just as his eyes caught sight of a clawed hand reached onto the railing.  While a less trained sailor might have struck the hands, Visiel waited until an ugly, reptilian head, fins and gills spreading from its neck, peeked over the railing.

With all the might his metallic 500 pound body could muster, Visiel brought his warhammer down on the creature’s skull.  There was a large crash, as the creature’s head disappeared in a spray of blood and bone, its clawed hand suddenly letting go only seconds before its remains splashed into the sea...



“Sahuagin!” Siran called, his spiked chain already out from around his waist.  He’d heard Visiel grunt, as well as the crash of the warhammer hitting something, but he had no time to look.  In front of him, the port side sahuagin had leapt onto the ship’s deck, its claws outstretched and mouth wide.

There was a flash, a loud _crack_, as Viktalia whipped out her pistol and opened fire, yet in her hurry, she missed the creature entirely.  Without thinking, Siran lifted the chain high, and began to slowly swing it around his head, faster and faster as the creature eyed him warily.

“Ah... you don’t want to play...” Siran said, hoping to goad the creature.  _Some of these bastards understand Common... let’s see if this one does and if he wants to play..._  It growled at him, baring a mouth full of fangs as it circled.  Siran watched its movements, until somewhere in his mind, he recognized the creature pause for just an instant.  He flicked his wrist forward, and the spiked chain lashed out, snagging the creature by the shoulder, slashing part of its neck, then whipping it over the edge of the boat.  It landed in the water with a splash, its angry cries of pain echoing in the night.

Siran immediately dropped his chain, and fell on his knees on deck.  _Visiel said there were two... and he took care of one.  I don’t want this one coming back._  He closed his eyes tightly, and began to murmur a prayer.  _”Saint Heraclius, I ask thee to intercede with the saints of nature for me.   Your humble servant sadly cannot swim like one of these sahuagin, creatures that this servant knows you despise as abominations.  I pray that instead that the creatures of nature would help rid us of this one abomination, cleaning their water as we clean your world...”_

No thundering voice from on high answered Siran’s prayer, but somewhere deep inside, the cleric felt a calming presence.  When he opened his eyes, he immediately looked towards the still screaming sahuagin, just in time to see an immense shark from the deep swallow the hapless monster whole.



Visiel waited patiently.  _This one saw what happened to his friend.  He is trying to be clever.  He waits.  So will I._  He could see two clawed hands holding onto the edge of the ship’s deck, sliding back and forth slowly.  Yet Visiel waited, with infinite patience.  _You may drop back into the sea from whence you came, or you can leap onto deck, and I will send you back by force..._

After another minute, just as Visiel heard the noise of the crew clambering up from below onto the deck, the sahuagin leapt over the railing, a snarl on its lips.  Just as it landed, Visiel spun his entire massive body, putting all the weight and force behind his swing.  The massive hammerhead caught the sahuagin in the belly, and the creature sailed over the railing and for another forty feet or so, before its crushed body landed in the water with a splash.

As the crew oohed, aahed, and gasped at the spectacle, Visiel pulled out his cleaning kerchief, and calmly cleaned every speck of blood and bone from the hammerhead.  Afterwards, despite cheers from the crew, he quietly walked again to the front of the ship, to continue his watchful stare out to sea.

====================================================

Lady Rowena is yet another NPC... I got the original idea for her from King Baldwin's character in _Kingdom of Heaven[/]i, including the debilitating disease and the silver mask.  Now, as to what she can do, and how this relates to the party... that comes up more in the second session...

The sahuagin were a test run, to see how this party measured up, and they turned out to be a little more powerful than I guessed, hence their easy time dealing with the targets.  With this known, I'm now modifying some later challenges that they will soon meet. _


----------



## Emperor Valerian (Aug 22, 2005)

Well, here's a pleasant surprise.   I hadn't expected to update so quickly, but dragnfly, who plays Viktalia, kindly made a rather long writeup, which I've integrated into this post.  Its rather easy to tell... she wrote most dealing from Viktalia's performance on, and is an excellent writer on her own merit. 


*Mutiny on the Black Joke*

“Okay... Rolles, you cut the piece too large!” Siran growled, before looking at the sailor in question.  The young man was still learning the ropes of how to be a carpenter aboard ship, and it _was_ early morning.  _Patience hasn’t worked yet, maybe putting some fear of the saints into him will!_  Siran focused his gaze into the fiercest, angriest glare he could create, and folded his arms. “Now, what should we do about this?”

“Um... resize it?” the young man said, obviously frightened the display of anger from the ship’s carpenter.

_Good... now I have his attention..._

 Siran was about to instruct the hapless fellow on how to resize the replacement rib for one of the water barrels below when his own thoughts were interrupted.

“Rapp!” Kaled’s rough-hewn voice rumbled from behind him.  In the week they had been at sea, he’d learned to discern when the sharp cracking voice was meant to only grab one’s attention, and when it was used in anger.  This time, it was only for attention, and that the noise, all the sailors below decks stood at attention.

“Yessir?” Siran stood and turned, before saluting.  Kaled was a Lieutenant, and not only that, but an officer he respected.  

“Rapp, I need to see you for a minute, in my cabin,” Kaled said gruffly, waving Siran to follow.  Siran clambered around the crowded lower decks, clambering around cannonballs, powder, barrels and cargo, until he reached the end of the lower deck, and the tiny rooms set aside for the commissioned officers and noncoms.  Kaled opened a door at the end, and motioned Siran into his tiny room.

It was the largest of the rooms, but only eight by eight feet, tiny and cramped by the standards of anyone used to land.  In one corner hung Kaled’s hammock, in the other, sat a small bench.  The Lieutenant motioned for Siran to sit down, as he slid into the hammock and began to rock.

“Rapp?” Kaled said, twiddling his fingers as he rocked, “you’ve heard some things from the crew over the past week?”

_Oh no..._ Siran thought... _word of the rumblings has gotten out.  Kaled is surely siding with the captain, and he’ll probably want me to rat out those who want to get rid of Cecil...

...great..._

“Um... yes, yes sir I have,” Siran said guardedly.  

“Things pertaining to the captain?” Kaled pressed harder. 

“Um... yes...”

“And what,” the Lieutenant was suddenly propping himself up, looking Siran in the eyes, “are you planning to do about it?”  His eyes flashed, and Siran realized that Kaled knew _exactly_ what he had heard.  

_Great... he knows.  Tread real carefully now, Siran..._

“I... I don’t know what to do,” Siran lied.  _In all honesty, I wouldn’t mind dumping Cecil overboard._  “I only started hearing rumblings of this yesterday... before the sahuagin attack.”  At the mention of the party’s heroism, Kaled’s eyes seemed to light up, and he pushed himself upright.  

“Hmm, well, let me tell you what _I’ve_ heard,” Kaled said, rubbing his grizzled beard.  “_I’ve_ heard the crew, to a man, say they think that Captain Cecil Daod is a foolish landlubber, who is leading us to our deaths.”  Kaled then pushed out of his hammock, then put his hands on his lips.  “They say that he shows no respect to the traditions of the sea, and to save us all, he needs to be thrown overboard, to the mercy of Saint Porus and the Seven Winds.”  He looked directly at Siran, his voice dropping to a mere whisper.  “And I happen to think that they’re right!”

_They’re right?!_  Siran’s jaw dropped.  Kaled was the last person he’d expect to be a member of a mutinous plot.

“Pick your jaw up off the floor, laddie,” Kaled replied, “I have been a sailor long before I’ve been an Imperial officer, and I know the demands and penalties of Saint Porus.  So if I need to throw the Captain overboard to save us all... I will.  And I am not ashamed to say... I’ll need your help.”

“My help?” _Me?  Why me?_ Siran asked.

“Yes, your help... and the help of your friends...” Kaled said.



“...and since the crew holds us in such high respect, he’s sure that if we sided against Cecil, the crew would be unanimous, and the Captain could be tossed overboard with ease,” Siran hissed a few minutes later.  “I told him I didn’t want to speak without talking to you and Visiel first... and he agreed to wait...”

Viktalia listened as Siran spoke, and then shook her head.  _There are so many problems with this... the least of which is simply tossing Cecil overboard...

...and besides, I can think of an alternative..._

“I don’t think this course would be wise...” she said finally.  “Firstly, the Baron seems fond of Cecil, and it wouldn’t be smart to toss his protege overboard when _that_ is only a short distance away,” she pointed to the squat, huge hulk of the Baron’s galleon only a half-mile ahead.  

“Point,” Siran conceded.

“And secondly,” Viktalia added, a devilish smile on her lips, “I think I can persuade the Captain to leave the vessel most peaceably...”

When Siran pressed, Viktalia refused to divulge any more details.  _Maybe later today, a performance might be in order..._ she thought with a smile to herself.



Siran found a seat on the far side of the ring of sailors. Most were chatting excitedly, sharing what knowledge they knew of the Fomorteran dancer. 

“I heard that she even sang at the Red-Eyed Crow in Erelion!” one said, before his comrade shushed him.

“I heard her dancing is covered in magic, that wizards even came out of the room stumbling from the magical deluge!”  another whispered.

Siran chose to keep his words and opinions to himself; leaning back against the bulkhead, he crossed his arms and stole a glance toward the other side of the ship. At the ship’s bow, Visiel stood staring out to sea, unwavering as a steel pillar. _On patrol again,… , and that’s not the only thing he’s good at._ Siran wasn’t the only one whose opinion about the warforged had gone up. _Two sahuagin in just a few seconds…he certainly is a hell-of-a fighter_

Soft “shhhs” and “ooohs” cut his thoughts short as Kaled and Cecil climbed up from below decks. Siran couldn’t help but give a soft snicker as he saw that Cecil was clad in so many frilly silks that his face could hardly be seen above all the ruffles. _That man is deeply infatuated. Poor Viktalia; to have such a stupid oaf lusting after you._

Later that day, Cecil had done yet another heinous act in the eyes of the sailors. _Imagine, cutting your hair and nails on the deck, in full view of the men, and then letting them drop into the sea!_ Siran snorted.  Legends spoke that under every man’s pinky St. Porus stored a piece of good luck... to cut off your pinkie fingernail meant releasing all your good luck...

The sailor’s rumblings had risen again, and Siran had sworn that he saw several large brutes moving towards Cecil from behind has he did the deed, but Viktalia, who was up in the crow’s nest at the time, had glided down and landed spectacularly amidst the fermenting chaos and announced that that night there was to be a performance to end all performances. With a wink, and a smile, she had then whisked herself away below decks to prepare, leaving the crew distracted and quiet, and people murmuring quietly amongst themselves.

“I have heard that she was so popular that she attracted the attention of the great nobles even!” the first whispered again.

“Bah!  Now you’re making things up!”  his neighbor hissed.

Finally towards the front, old Kaled cleared his throat, quieting all twenty-three of the assembled crewmen.  He stood at the front... it was likely if Cecil had issued an order to shutup, the crew would have merely ignored it.  

“Tonight,” Kaled’s rough voice echoed over the decks just as the sun blazed red in the coming dusk,  “we will be treated to a rare spectacle. Known as the most famous Formorteran dancer throughout the lands, may I present….Viktalia Starwynd!”

There was a few moments applause, before all eyes focused on the opening to the hold. Silence reigned within. A minute passed. Two minutes. The men began to fidget and Siran frowned. _I know all about making an entrance, but this is not the time to be fashionably late…_ A second later, the soft ringing of bells chimed through the air. At its noise, everyone grew silent and still again.

From the hold, the rustle of fabric could be heard. Bells chimed again, and above them, a soft crooning filled the night air, the notes ringing true in the air. Siran shuddered silently as the melodious sounds traced down his spine, a similar reaction falling across every man on deck. They all sat taller and straighter, eyes focused, mouths slightly open as the spectacle before them slowly unfolded. The wordless song rose and fell on the evening air as the rustle of fabric grew louder. Then, out of the hold, a shimmer of gold gleamed. Everyone leaned forward as one.

The tip of a long black ear rose slowly from the opening; its edges covered in small golden bells. The ear twitched, and a scale of golden notes fell out; matching the notes of the crooning song. Another moment, another rustle, and another ear appeared, twitching in counterpoint to its partner, the notes perfectly matching the song. 

Siran forced himself to close his mouth and not be hypnotized by the beat of the song. He had forgotten…Viktalia didn’t play an instrument….she _was_ an instrument.

A figure emerged slowly from the darkness below, but all that could be seen was the two ears, the rest of her seemingly covered by a great black velvet cape. Viktalia had her wings opened to their fullest extent, and holding them like two giant fans, they covered her body from head to toe. 

The figure began to sway along the tune she was singing, ears twitching in purposeful rhythm. The deck was absolutely silent, no one dared move to risk breaking the beauty of the dance. Suddenly, there was a collective gasp. A glimpse of beige fur covering an elegant foot appeared at the bottom of the black winged curtain. Another instant, and more of the foot was visible. 

In this chanting, swaying way, both legs were revealed so far up that Siran had a sudden thought that Viktalia was naked behind her wings That thought brought a rush of tangled emotions that were quickly banished when her next sway brought a glimpse of black and red fabric into view.

Viktalia’s dance began to get more complicated as she revealed more of her body. Bits of gold encircled her calves, also covered in bells, and as she moved her legs, the notes matched her song perfectly. She was revealed up to her waist now, twisting and writhing her body as the song became wilder, stronger. Suddenly, she was singing in a language that could only be Fomorteran. The words shone in the sun’s fading light as much as the bits of gold sown into her dress. Siran was suddenly reminded of a fox he had once seen in his youth. The animal had regarded him with laughing, wild eyes that promised adventure and freedom; the taste of a clear stream, and the joy of running beneath a star-strewn sky. All of the pains and pleasures of life were rolled up into that single promising glance.

Viktalia’s song had the same promise. 

_What a life these Fomorterans must lead…_ he thought lazily.

Viktalia’s dance brought her wings up higher, revealing a dress cut shockingly low, and the beginning of the curve of her neck. Surprisingly, Siran found that wasn’t staring at her cleavage, but at the dark fabric of her wings that hid her face. Another few moments and he was rewarded; the wings peeled back, and the long, strong lines of her fox-like face were revealed, golden eyes closed tight with love of her song, white star shinning in the middle of the dark mask across her forehead. She held her arms up high as the climax of the song rushed over them all, and then faded as the sun sank into the ocean. For a moment, the scene was carved in stone, then as one, the entire crew broke out into screams and cheers. Siran was among them, clapping eagerly and rushing forward, wishing he had some something to give the beautiful dancer, to make her notice him, to make her sing again…

Then that thought vanished, and he was himself again; and although the power of her song still clung to the back of his mind, he managed to not rush up close to her as many of the others were doing, offering everything to small pieces of jewelry to carved wooden statues. Cecil outdid them all and produced a box tied closed with a ribbon that contained a dozen _fresh_, not dried, pears. Viktalia seized one and sunk her teeth into it with a look of pure guilty pleasure.  A few moments later, she opened her mouth, and Siran knew she was saying sweet nothings, working her magic, the same magic he’d seen many work over the eons.

Siran turned away and went to stand over by Visiel, who had turned from his vigil of the sea to examine the crowd with a slightly annoyed expression.




_They are loud, and will hide the sound of any enemies’ approach,_  “Why do they fawn over her so? I have seen other humans acting the same way around females.” The warforged turned back to the sea after his comment. 

“Women. The powers they hold.” Siran snorted and also turned his back on the ensemble, his good mood suddenly gone “You’re lucky you’re not human.” _One minute you’re the happiest guy in the world, the next you’re a worthless piece of rat feces. To them, we’re just pawns in a game._ He traced the wood grain beneath his fingers absently, thinking morose thoughts about his past experiences with women, when a sudden tap on his shoulders and a warm spicy scent brought his head around.

Viktalia stood only a foot away, her fur slightly damp from exertion, that sparkle still in her eyes. Siran was tempted to snap at her and walk away, but managed to only grit his teeth. “What do you want?” he hissed softly.

Viktalia was too energized by her performance to notice the icy tone in his voice, and merely tossed her hair back with a laugh. “Wasn’t that spectacular? I have to admit, I was a bit nervous about performing in front of such a demanding crowd, but I think it came out ok, don’t you?”

Siran stared at her. _She honestly wants my opinion about her performance? How can she? That was the most enthralling thing that any of these men have every seen, surely she knows that?_ But Viktalia was looking at him expectantly, her hands clasped together, eyes shining. Siran managed a weak smile. “Yeah…it was great. Really…entertaining.”

He expected her smile to falter at his lame response, and inwardly prepared to kick himself for spoiling her good mood. Instead, he was shocked as she dipped her head and a tinge of color darkened the skin beneath her cheek fur. “Thank you. Your opinion means a lot to me.”

Siran blinked. “It…does?”

She laughed again, softly this time. “Of course! After all, you and Visiel here are the only two men on this boat who don’t want to get under my dress.” Her expression sobered. “I really appreciate that. It’s nice to have friends who aren’t nice to me only because they expect to get something in return.”

“Oh, here,” she continued as Siran continued to stare, reaching for a bottle that hung from her waist. “One of the sailors gave me this.” She handed the bottle to Siran, who uncorked it and took a sniff. “I don’t really like this stuff that much, but I know that you do.”

Formorteran brandy. So old that he could smell the cedar barrel that it had been matured in. 

“From my great uncle’s stock.” Viktalia gave a sly grin. “He’s the only Chirop who aged his brandy in cedar; said it gives the drink a spicier taste.”

Siran took a sip and agreed; it was spicy, and it warmed him completely from head to toe. “Thank you.” He managed weakly, before his curious mind got the best of him.  “So... what did you tell Cecil there?”

“Nothing much,” she said, “I merely told him that he was far too _big_ a man to be stuck on a ship as small as this,” she winked, “and that he should see if the Baron needs him as a captain on _his ship._”  By her smile, Siran saw that Cecil had evidently taken to the advice as well.

“So why didn’t His Incompetence follow you over here?  He seemed to be drooling a small river after your song,” Siran asked.

“Oh... he tried my first bottle of Formorteran Brandy...” her smirk became a grin.  “It was slightly too much for him,” she motioned back towards the hatch, near which the deck was covered with the smashed ruffles of a drunken Cecil.

_Impressive... far better than my solution,_ Siran said, before giving Viktalia a slight bow.  
Viktalia gave a small bow and smiled up at him, and in her eyes he again saw the foxes’ promise. Lifting her arms, she beat them steadily, and with a twinkling of bells she flew up into the rigging. 

Siran stared up at her for a moment. Soft notes began to trickle down from above, and he realized that the flying fox was singing again as she stared out to sea. 

_
A troubled heart knows no peace
From the dark and poisoned pool
Expensive wine and cheap women
Are just another of life’s tool

You say that the spirit never dies
Though the heartbeat may grow dim
Live life in every moment
And you’ll never regret again

When the blazing night of fury
Meets the mornings’ shattered wind
There the cleric stands
And wonders when it ends
_

He took another sip of the brandy, “Women…” he murmured, and smiled, and silently saluted the singing bard.  _Madam, you probably saved us quite a bit of bloodshed today..._


----------



## Emperor Valerian (Aug 30, 2005)

*First Blood*

Viktalia smiled, as a fresh southerly wind brushed against her face, and pushed the _Black Joke_ further along its now westerly course as the morning sun gently pushed away the last of the fog that surrounded them the night before. 

A week before, a fresh wind had also hit the ship, when the former captain, Cecil Daod, agreed (under Viktalia’s advice) to leave the pinnace and request a post on the Baron’s larger galleon.  Of course when Cecil had invited her to his cabin the day of the transfer, Viktalia had expected him to make some untoward advances, so she insisted they drink Formoteran wine... another suggestion the starstruck loon had agreed to.  Of course the alcohol hardly affected her, but Cecil had become pliably unconscious, and was transferred by Visiel’s arms to the other vessel with ease.

Kaled, of course, had immediately stepped in, and had been given temporary promotion to Ship’s Captain, a change the crew greeted with enthusiasm, and as a result, the positions of the various ship’s officers had shifted.  While Viktalia was still Quartermaster, Siran, as the officer with technically the most sailing experience behind Kaled himself, had been bumped up to First Mate.

“G’morning, ma’am.”  Viktalia’s earrings jingled as she turned and nodded to the sailor who respectfully touched his head as he walked by.  The word had spread among the crew that she had been the one to persuade Cecil to leave, and while her position remained the same, her own reputation had risen immensely.

She turned back to the early morning sea, watching the wisps of fog steadily burn away, her eyes lazily scanning the distance.  Visiel the previous night had been stationed on watch, and after a long stretch, he had grown bored.  Kaled had sent the warforged to work helping Siran do an inspection of the ship’s hold, so now Viktalia held the all important watch for other ships.

_We’re close to Kandor... but then again, we haven’t seen any other ships since leaving the Erelion Straits,_ she thought.  Their last sighting had been a small flotilla of Imperial Trade Galleons headed towards Erelion itself, their forms low in the water, their holds likely full of spices, treasure, and rare magical items from the New World.  Kandor likely had vessels nearby... its coast was only a hundred miles to their south.  _But until this fog burns completely away and we can see the horizon again... there’s no chance that we’ll..._

She stopped in mid thought, as her eyes caught something far in the distance... a tiny speck of white, standing out against the background of gray.  Excitement built in her as she looked again, then grabbed a telescope and looked yet again.  Snapping it shut, and barely containing her glee, she shouted across the decks...

“Sail ho!”

The entire cadre of officers on board the _Black Joke_ had gathered around Viktalia a few minutes later, with Kaled passing the telescope back and forth between himself and Siran.  After a third look, the squat seaman gave a grunt.

“She’s a cromster... a small trade galleon,” Kaled grunted, before adding, “she’s turning away from us already, and loosing full sails.”  Kaled then ground his teeth back and forth, a sign Viktalia had already learned meant that the grizzled sailor was thinking.  “So the Baron’s galleon has to beat upwind to turn towards us?”

“Yessir,” Viktalia replied.  _I’m not happy about it either... our big guns won’t be with us..._  The galleon would take ages to turn because of the wind... by the time it swung around, the ship in the distance would be long gone... and probably running to the nearest Kandoran warship to tell them two Imperial ships were nearby.

Kaled growled, and ground his teeth a little more, before his old eyes gave a flash.  He’d made a decision, and turned to the navigator manning the ship’s wheel.

“Helm!  Bring us about, west by southwest!” he barked, before starting to move towards the quarterdeck.  “Mr. Rapp!”

“Sir!” the cleric snapped to attention, in a manner so sharp that it surprised Viktalia. _Siran showing discipline?  I know he’s ex-Navy, but..._

“I understand you’ve commanded gun crews before!”  

“Yes sir!” Siran seemed to swallow.  Viktalia remembered him saying he’d commanded the guns on his last assigned ship during an emergency, but never as a permanent assignment.  

“You’ve got the gun crews on deck!  Ms. Starwynd!”

“Sir!” Viktalia brought herself to attention, trying to calm her raging emotions... her initial dread being replaced by excitement  _A battle!  THIS will be a story to tell!  And its a merchantman too... it should be an easy, fun take..._  She immediately started to think of ballad titles, and only with difficulty kept her attention on Kaled.

“You’re to go to the foredecks, maintain observation!  Understood!”

“Sir yes sir!” she saluted, dashing towards the bow.  Quickly she was back at the extreme bow, excitedly looking through her spyglass at the other vessel, as Kaled barked orders for the pinnace to hoist full sails, and began its pursuit.



An hour later, Siran found his attention split between watching the fleeing merchantman, and watching as Visiel and several crewmen physically hauled 9 pounder cannons into position.  As enticing as watching the cromster grow closer and closer as the smaller and faster pinnace overhauled the bigger merchant, watching the warforged eventually won out.  As Visiel shoved the last of the port guns out of their gunports, Siran gave a grunt.  

“Why do you grunt,” the warforged said finally, “when I push?”

“They look heavy,” Siran replied with a smirk.  _You sure are helpful,_ he added mentally.  _Probably saved us half a minute with running out the cannons there._  The former ship’s carpenter then turned, and waved towards the quarterdeck.

“They’re out and ready, captain!” he called.

“Range, Mr. Rapp?!” Kaled called back.

Siran squinted, and looked in the distance.  The cromster still had full sails flying, and no flag rising in the wind.  If she was an Imperial or Kubalian ship, she would’ve raised her colors in acknowledgement.  _She’s either Kandoran or Leesian, whichever doesn’t make any difference.  Both are legal prizes..._

“I’d call it three hundred yards, sir!” Siran called back.  _Rather far, but if we fire a few blasts across her bow, maybe her captain will get spooked and just heave to instead of continuing this pointless chase..._

“Excellent!  Fire when ready!”

With surprising speed, the nimble _Black Joke_ swung around, presenting her four port guns towards the fleeing cromster.  As the first cannon came to bear, Siran heart beat faster in his chest, as he shouted the order:

“Fire!”

One by one the cannons bucked and recoiled, their thunderclap blasts echoing across the sea.  For a moment, the sea was obscured by smoke from the four guns, but within seconds the _Black Joke_ had pushed beyond the smoke pall.  Siran squinted, looking hard, before his eyes found what they wanted.  As expected, the cromster wasn’t badly damaged, though Siran could see a part of her quarterdeck had been shot away by one of the cannonballs.

“Yes!” he yelled, as he watched the cromster’s sails started to furl, and she looked like she was starting to turn about...



Viktalia saw the ship turn as well, though with her telescope, she wasn’t nearly as excited.

_They’re running around on deck... and dragging crates onto deck as well.  Why would they be hauling their cargo on deck?_ she asked herself, looking more closely as the ship slowly turned around, ceasing her flight.  _Either they’re going to dump their cargo overboard, or..._

Her thought stopped, when she saw a man run to the back of the merchant ship, something in his hand.  A few seconds later, the orange and red flag of Kandor was slowly climbing above the merchant’s deck.

_Why are they hoisting their flag?_ she thought, growing more concerned.  She turned, and looked behind the pinnace... in the distance, the Baron’s galleon slowly was closing, but he was still far, far off.  _I don’t like this..._  She turned back to the cromster, and watched as suddenly dark holes seemed to appear all along the sides of the merchantman.

_What are those...  are those...?_

“They’re running out their guns!” Viktalia called, her excitement and expectation changing to fear as she counted the dark holes appearing on the sides of the cromster.  _Eight gunports... they outguns us two to one,_ she gulped.  Now it was obvious why they ran up their colors, why they had turned around.  From the aft poopdeck of the ship, the orange and red flag of Kandor rose steadily, till the wind caught it and snapped it out full.   _They mean to fight..._  Suddenly the prospect of a fight did not seem as exciting or enticing as it once did... and fear began to grip the Formoteran more accustomed to warm fires and hearths than cannonballs flying above her head.

_Viktalia, what did you get yourself into?!_ she railed to herself.  She’d watched when the _Black Joke_’s guns had fired and bucked, and the approaching ship had easily double their guns...  the image of a cannonball headed for her head filled her mind.

_Viktalia... you’re an officer now, on a ship!  What did you THINK would happen?_ another part of her mind shouted.  _This a privateer!  You knew this!  This is excitement!_  She took a deep breath, and carefully counted the dark spots again.

“They’ve got sixteen guns, easy!” Viktalia added a few moments later, covering the fear in her voice.  _Maybe Kaled will swing us away?  Maybe we’ll run back towards the galleon?_

“Aye!” Kaled called back, before he shouted another command at the crews to turn towards the Cromster and close range.  It exposed the _Black Joke_ horribly to being raked, a shot that would send cannonballs careening down the entire length of the ship, but it decreased her cross-section and closed the range between the pinnace and the cromster.  In a stand-off firefight, the _Black Joke_ was outgunned enough that her chances of winning were small.  If she closed, she could possibly board, in a win or lose all gamble...

Just as the pinnace began to respond to the helm, the cromster lit up, bright flashes running down her flanks as he guns opened up, one after the other.  Less than a second later, the loud claps of cannonfire assaulted her ears, and instinctively, Viktalia ducked low to the deck.  All around her, the air seemed to come alive, as if a swarm of roaring bees flashed just over her head, then just as quickly, the air took on an unearthly calm.

Slowly, the bard opened her eyes, then uncovered her ears.  The sea gently lapped below, a soothing noise that was immediately interrupted with the shouts of orders and barking of commands.  She turned, and saw the ship’s deck was not a sea of broken splinters, the crew with their heads, many laughing now.

_They must have missed us..._ she realized slowly, her mind slowly understanding why the crew was laughing as they loaded the guns and manned the sails, and despite the eight cannonballs that had just whizzed over their heads.  She looked up towards the sails, and only saw a single, large hole.  _Lucky..._ she shuddered, her agile mind imagining what _could_ have easily happened...



“Visiel!” As the smoke from the cannonfire drifted away, Kaled rumbled through the smoke towards the warforged.

“Sir?” the warforged turned, training and honed background roaring through his mind as he was already unslinging his rifle from his back.  He looked directly at his commanding officer, despite wanting to immediately check the range on the cromster.  _I must give Kaled my full and immediate attention.  Anything less could result in confusion of orders._

“Visiel!  You said you are a good shot?!” Kaled yelled above the noise and din of sailors reloading cannon and shouting orders.

“Yes sir!” Visiel replied, with a sharp salute.  “At a range of 800 feet, I have been able to consistently log direct hits on a man-sized...”

“Go to the bow, and if you have a shot on anyone on their deck, take it!” Kaled shouted.  “Especially their topmen!  Take them down, before they can begin taking pot-shots at our decks!”

“Yes sir!”  Visiel executed a precise, proper salute, just as a musketball whined close to their head.  The topmen on the cromster were already at work.

“And if you can, take out some of their officers!  The more of their people we take out, the longer it’s going to take them to reload those guns!” Kaled shouted, ducking as another ball whined nearby, slamming into the deck with a _crack_.

“Sir, yes sir!” Visiel saluted again, before his eyes immediately dropped to his weapon.  _Barrel is clean,_ he coolly observed, before flipping the weapon to examine its wheel-lock firing mechanism.  _Wheel turns,_ he confirmed, before reaching a paw towards his belt, and pulling out the matches that the weapon used to fire.  While shouts and screams went on around him, he carefully examined each match, making sure it was dry.  Finally satisfied a few seconds later, his lumbered past the hurrying crew, before taking his position at the very bow of the ship next to Viktalia, his keen eyes searching the enemy ship as it slowly grew closer and closer.

Immediately, he spotted something.  _Four men in the crowsnest.  Likely armed with a rifle.  Topmen._  He squinted for a moment, picking out one of them... the man was busy loading his gun.  _Range, 400 feet._   Visiel rested his elbow on the railing of the ship, his stance shifting slightly as the pinnace rocked up and down through the waves.  Coolly he drew a bead on his target, and squeezed the trigger, and his gun let loose a loud _crack_, covering his view momentarily with smoke.

“Damn!” he hissed when the smoke cleared.  Visiel was not given to cursing much... it seemed to offend some humans, something Visiel did not want to do unnecessarily.  However, he would curse to himself sometimes... and this was one.  He grunted in frustration as the topman he had been aiming at tumbled into the sea.

_A mere shoulder hit!_ the warforged complained to himself, as he rapidly went through the motions of attaching a new match, and loading his rifle.  He was better than that, and he knew it.  _That topman could be rescued, and pose a future threat!  I must have underestimated the wind._  He took aim yet again, this time at the topman who was still staring into the sea where his comrade had fallen.  A mere 20 seconds after his rifle first fired, Visiel’s fun flashed  in anger yet again.  The second topman’s head disappeared in a red mist, and his body fell onto the cromster’s deck.

_That is the proper wind elevation,_ Visiel thought, rapidly reloading yet again.  The third and fourth topmen had finally lowered their own guns. For a moment, they were obscured in smoke, and Visiel ignored the sharp _crack_ only inches from his head where one of their bullets had slammed into the pinnace’s railing.  Instead, he shifted his aim downward, towards the quarterdeck of the enemy ship, and picked out one man with a feather in his hat.

_High ranking humans have feathers in their hats.  Killing him could disrupt their chain of command, keeping them from firing rapidly._ 

He squeezed the trigger, just moments before the _Black Joke_ began her fateful turn to port...



“Run out the guns!” Siran shouted, while he almost simultaneously directed Heraclius’ aid from the deep to attack the sailors in the water, one after the other. The gun crews gave a shout as they dashed across the deck to the starboard side, pulling on the winches that hefted the big 9-pounder out of the gunports.  Siran himself dashed towards the edge of the ship’s deck, peering through the gunsmoke, as bullets whistled about.  

_Where is she?_  He could hear the slosh of water against the cromster’s hull, the shouts of her crew as they desperately tried to reload their guns.  _They’re reloading even as we look._  Twenty agonizing seconds passed by, until finally he saw a huge, dark shape loom in the gloom.

“Fire as she bears!” he cried, repeated the order he’d heard so often aboard the frigate he last served on. 

Once again, the four cannons bucked and recoiled, the blasts so loud that they came to Siran as a dull _whumph_.  The noise was so deafening that despite the cromster being mere hundreds of feet away, he couldn’t heart he cannonballs shattering the cromster’s hull, or the screams of her crew as two of the cannonballs flashed across at deck level, shattering limbs.  The only noise he heard was the loud crack and groan of the cromster’s mizzenmast as it shuddered, then finally broke, after taking a direct hit, followed by the screams of its sailors now stranded in the water... their screams growing louder as the huge shark Siran summoned bore down on them.

“Turn her about!” he heard Kaled shout from the quarterdeck.  “All hands, prepare for boarding!”



Visiel’s gun bucked yet again in his arms, as yet another officer on board the cromster fell.  A moment later, he heard Kaled’s order, and checked the distance between the ship’s once again.

_Two more shots,_ he realized, _before boarding._  The warforged peered through the smoke, and with mechanical precision, evaluated his targets.  _There are no more humans with feathered hats... after the first two were eliminated, the others removed their hats.  But they are still issuing commands._  He swung his rifle around, and took aim at one gentleman who seemed to be screaming at the gun crews on the cromster’s deck.

_Gun captain.  High priority,_ Visiel thought, taking aim and squeezing the trigger.  When the man’s head snapped back at an unnatural angle, the sailors around him immediately turned, eyes wide, towards the metallic monstrosity that was already calmly reloading his rifle.

_Head shot. Kill,_ Visiel mentally recorded, as more bullets whizzed by his head.  Somewhere behind him, he heard the dull, wet smack of a bullet slamming into a person.  He heard Viktalia gasp as a sailor fell dead, but Visiel’s mind was far too focused.

_Next target,_ he swung his gaze across the rapidly closing deck of the cromster, _officer without a hat._  The man was waving to the gun crews.  _He is encouraging them to reload faster._  Visiel took aim, and yet another crewman on the cromster was downed, a bullet between his eyes.  

“Viktalia,” Visiel announced simply in a bland monotone to his friend nearby, “you need to ready your knives.  We are boarding.”  Rapidly yet precisely, he replaced his rifle on his back, and drew his vicious warhammer.

“Okay,” was the response he heard from his friend.  

_Her voice is wavering.  She is afraid, I think.   I should raise her morale._  He turned back to Viktalia.  Her eyes were wide, and he could see fear, but Visiel saw fear being harnessed, not fear ruling her heart.  Yet if he were able too, he probably would have frowned.

“Why do you wield a stick instead of a knife?” his metallic voice rumbled about the sloshing waters of two ships rapidly drawing closer.  “A knife is a more proper weapon for this situation!”  _A stick will not cause the same level of damage as a knife..._

His eyes were quick enough to catch her thumb sliding along the length of the baton, as well as watching her push a small part of the stick inwards.  There was a soft _pop_ as the end away from her opened, and a three foot long piece of steel wire shot out, landing on the deck with a thud...

...and despite the imminent fight, Visiel gave a deep, rumbling metallic chuckle.

“You are full of ambushes!” the warforged rumbled with delight.  _A truly useful comrade!  Steel wire like that could easily cut a man, and with that length, it is as useful as a sword!  An ambush!  Excellent!_  The chuckles finally changed into all out laughter.

As the two ships finally crashed together, the crew of the Kandoran cromster was greeted with the scene out of their nightmares, as a giant metallic monolith lumbered onto their decks, an immense warhammer in hand, while deep, throaty laughter rumbled from his throat...


----------



## Emperor Valerian (Aug 31, 2005)

Next post should come tonight or tomorrow.


----------



## Emperor Valerian (Sep 1, 2005)

*A New Ship*

“That was fine work!  Fine work!” the voice of the Baron boomed and blustered as the longboat pulled alongside.  It took several moments for the ornately clad Baron to haul himself onboard, but when the three could see his face, it was beaming.  

The fight had been short, and brutal.  The sight of an immense metal giant boarding their ship had taken so much of the fight out of the cromster’s sailors, that their gunfire on the boarding party was mercifully inaccurate (DM’s Note:  The DM threw this die away after the game.  No die that rolls seven 2s in a row deserves a DMs love.  ).  After the aborted volley, the crew of the _Black Joke_ had gone to work, Visiel’s warhammer crushing several ship’s officers, while Viktalia and Siran made impressively short work of the few cromster crewmen that tried to attack them.  In his report only minutes earlier, Kaled had described the boarding as lasting “only thirty seconds or so.”

“Bullish work!” the Baron slapped Kaled and Siran on the shoulders, before patting Visiel.  He started to slap Viktalia, till he reached for her hand, and bowed elegantly to give it a kiss.  “Best damn piece of sailing I’ve seen in a while!” he laughed when he stood back up.

“Yessir, thank you sir,” Visiel said.  If he had been able, the warforged would have beamed.  _My commanding officer is pleased, and our engagement ended successfully!  My marksmanship was accurate, and even improved!_  He felt like flexing his muscles.. it had felt good to give them the exercise of ripping through some enemies, and earning compliments from a commander... that was the highest praise Visiel could hope for.

“Now, Lieutenant Kaled has informed me that he plans to hoist his flag on the new ship, and take her to Tarnpool for repairs.”  Visiel looked over towards the grizzled Lieutenant, who nodded at the Baron’s words.   “That means,” the Baron grinned, “that the _Black Joke_ will need a new captain!”  He looked at the Visiel, Siran, and Viktalia, before he suddenly turned towards Visiel.

“Sir?” the warforged asked, confused.  _Why does he look at me?  Does he assume I can be a commander?_  Visiel felt something welling up in him, something decidedly not pleasant.  Warforged did not have exact copies of human emotions, but Visiel knew the tinge of fear.  _I am not designed for a command position!  I am designed to execute orders given to me!_

“Visiel, I would like to ask you to accept command of the _Black Joke_, as well as an official promotion to Lieutenant in the Imperial Navy,” the Baron said, snapping into a stiff pose and saluting.

“Sir... I...”  _The commanding officer has given me an order to accept command!  But I am not capable of command!_  Conflict raged in the warforged mind for several seconds, before finally, his metallic voice churned out a rumbling reply.

“I incapable, sir.”  _Humans do not like their orders refused.  I should offer a reason, and an alternate battleplan._  The Baron began to open his mouth for a retort, but Visiel continued to speak.  “I am...” he searched his vocabulary for a proper word, “unequipped for such a deployment, sir.  I would offer an alternative battleplan, sir, that would make either Siran or Viktalia captain of this ship, sir.  Such a battleplan would allow a capable officer to lead, and let me serve where I am most useful as well.”

For a moment, the Baron’s mouth hung wide open, and Visiel’s heart sank.  _I have offended my superior.  I did not mean to._  Then, just as suddenly, the Baron turned towards Viktalia, and to the warforged’s surprise, she vigorously shook her head no before the Baron could even say a word.  

“Hmm... Mr. Rapp then,” the Baron said, by his voice still a little taken aback that two people would refuse command.  “You have some experience as an officer... and I certainly hope you’ll accept command of this vessel, considering the refusal of the two previous offers...”

“Sir yes sir!” Siran cried, his grin wider than a forty-gun frigate was long.    

_He is my new commanding officer,_ Visiel realized, immediately reshuffling the hierarchy in his mind.  _He takes Kaled’s place under the Baron.  He is competent, if obsessed with drinking and mating._  The warforged paused for a moment, before turning to Siran and giving a salute.  _He will make a good commanding officer._

“Good,” the Baron replied, by his face relieved.  “Now, as you know, it is considered bad luck for a non-warship to have her captain change vessels, but retain her name.  So,” the Baron motioned to the damaged cromster, “Kaled has decided that the cromster will take the name _Black Joke._  So now, _Captain_ Rapp,” Siran grinned even wider as the Baron mentioned his new title, “What will be the name of the vessel you’re inheriting?”

“Um...” Siran stopped, then turned to the assembled crew, minus three of their comrades killed during the action with the cromster.  Even now, the Baron was sending over enough sailors from his galleon so the two vessels could have skeleton crews, but they’d have to recruit new sailors.  For a second, Visiel could have sworn he could see his comrade swell with pride, before Siran finally said, “I think the crew should decide!”

“The _Bloody Siabrey!_” one crewman shouted obscenely, while others called for their own preferences, some serious, some whimsical, some vicious, some inspired.  

_Why do the humans care so much for the names of their boats?_ Visiel wanted to grumble.  _Regardless of its name, it is the same vessel as before... except that we now have four more guns we commandeered from the cromster.  What name it is given makes no difference..._

Finally, Siran raised his hands, and pointed at Viktalia.  

“I suggest the _Spotted Pinnace_,” the young woman said... and immediately the entire crew exploded into laughter.  Once the bedlam had ended, Siran turned towards the surprised Baron, and with a flourish, announced that was his choice.

“Very well,” the Baron said a few moments later, after he was able to remove the surprise, and childish look of hidden giggles from his face, “from now on, this vessel shall be known as the _Spotted Pinnace,_ under the command of Lieutenant Siran Rapp, His Majesty’s Imperial Navy!  Attendant!" he turned, and barked, "fetch me the proper papers!"

=====================​
Let it be known, _Throughout_ the Realm, that
Siran Rapp of the good vessel _HIMS Spotted Pinnace_
and all those of the said’s crew, as well as the said’s men-at-arms, servants and retainers, hath been authorized by his Imperial Majesty’s Government to carry this
LETTER OF MARQUE
Charging them to _act against_ and _attack_ the 
KINGDOM OF KANDOR
and the
KINGDOM OF LEES
and all _vessels, possessions, and settlements thereof._  His Imperial Majesty’s Government shall be entitled to _fully one-half share_ of the profits thereof, in return for lending _support_ and _aid_ unto Sir Siran Rapp and all retainers, servants and men-at-arms of said, in return for their aid in destroying the _vessels_ and _possessions_ of the enemies of His Imperial Majesty.
As commanded in the Six Hundreth and Fifteenth Year after the Triumph over Darkness: 
​BARON RAFALE DICE
Commanding Officer, _HIMS Silver Hart_
WITNESSED BY:
_Podris Kaled, Lt._
Commanding Officer,
_HIMS Black Joke_​
===========================================

Yeah, the boarding combat wasn't really worth posting.   Besides... it moves us all closer to the far more interesting second session..  

The first session was a test mostly of the rules, as well as how powerful the party was... and by the time Visiel got done with his sniping work, as well as Siran with his directing the guns, there wasn't much left on the cromster to fight.  I rolled a morale check for the crew (Visiel's player pointed out that they'd probably be terrified of a big metal giant boarding the boat after the battering they'd recieved, and that was the first "2" the infamous die rolled.  For the crew that didn't panic, it rolled another slew of "2s" on their attacks... while Visiel critted and quadrupled the hitpoints of hte poor ship's quartermaster... so yes, they are now sailing on the seas on their own ship, named the _Spotted Pinnace_, free to wreak havoc (which they promptly set about doing...)


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## Emperor Valerian (Sep 12, 2005)

There's an update ready to post to this SH... except my ISP decided this weekend was a good time to conduct "upgrades" to their network... so I have no internet (at home, anyway, which is where the type-ups reside).  So, as soon as either a) they get the internet fixed, or b) I get my hands on some disks to copy the files over, updates will resume (by tomorrow at the latest).


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## Emperor Valerian (Sep 13, 2005)

Internet fixed... new reply! 

*A New Crewmember*

“To the new captain!”

“To the captain!” Viktalia echoed, a rather lopsided grin on her face.  She knew she’d had probably too much to drink, but nonetheless, she downed her cup of Formoteran brandy with the polished elegance of an expert... after all, she could remember spending days with her family on the home island brewing the sweet liquor.  

_At least I don’t stumble around and fall like these poor people,_ she thought as one of the ship’s crew waddled past her, swaying enough that his grog sloshed out of its cup.  Across from her, Cecil was not nearly as lucky... he was openly and drunkenly oggling her again... that alone would be easy enough to just ignore.  Kaled was fast asleep next to Cecil, and the Baron was loudly slurping down his brandy after the toast.

The party celebrating the capture of the Kandoran merchantship, her own promotion, as well as Siran’s, had dragged on for a bit, and she flicked a look towards the bow of the ship, where Viesel still stood, resolutely looking out towards the sea.  He’d volunteered to stay there and keep watch, though she thought she’d heard him mutter something disparaging about humans poisoning themselves.

“Dear friends, new captains,” the Baron stood and swayed, “The hour is late, and... I daresay... we are all very drunk.”  Hoots, hollers and loud cheers came from the crews of the now three ships in their small flotilla.   The Baron raised his hand.  “After such merrymaking and delightful music...”

_You mean that horrid attempt at the harpsichord,_ Viktalia mentally corrected the Baron.  She’d been surprised to lean the Baron had dragged a _harpsichord_ into his flag cabin, and been appalled at how horribly he’d pounded the poor instrument in the name of making ‘music.’  The noise had been bad enough to give her a headache... one that had taken almost two hours to go away.

“It is time to go to bed...” he stumbled, and had to grab the table with his hand.

After a few minutes of unsteady rises and a few tumbles, the various officers and crews on board the _Silver Hart_ made their way to their destinations.  While Viktalia walked normally, despite the slight tingle of tipsiness, Siran, now Captain Siran of the _Spotted Pinnace_, had stumbled about the deck, singing an old ballad completely off-key.

“Madame Viktaleeya?”

_Oh no,_ Viktalia groaned under her breath on hearing Cecil’s slurred voice.  _Not again._  Being a performer meant she’d had her share of amorous fans, and she already dreaded where this road could lead.  He was off of her ship, but Cecil was still a superior, and from the looks of things, still had the Baron’s ear...

“Yes?” she forced herself to smile at the bumbling, openly leering Cecil.  _Saints above, let this be a quick and painless rejection..._

“I zhink...” he started, trying to point at her, “zhat you might need zum assistanze,” he said slowly, as if each word required some monumental effort to conjugate properly.  He turned, and rather drunkenly waved his hand, and from the crowd, a young man pushed forward.

He was simply clad... no more than a white linen shirt that looked like it was carefully looked after, some baggy, somewhat torn pantaloons, and no shoes.  A pair of spectacles were perched on his rather long nose, and a shy grin on his youthful face.

“Zhis here is...” Cecil began, before his eye started to roll back.  The lieutenant caught himself, and managed to sputter out, “You ‘splain, Hrik.  I’m off to sleepies!”  With that announcement, Lt. Cecil Daod, His Imperial Majesty’s Navy, fell to the ground in a stupor.

The young man spun around, and worriedly looked at Cecil, before looking back at Viktalia.  Before he could open his mouth, Viktalia had cut him off.

“Don’t worry.  He’s usually like that,” she smiled, before putting a hand on her hip.  “Now... what can I do for you?”  _Probably was supposed to be introduced to me by Cecil... and I bet the poor kid’s scared out of his mind.  He’s probably going to take several minutes to stutter his way through..._

“Hi!  I’m Hrik!  I’m from Caladronis, and my dad was a sailor!  I’m the assistant to the vice navigator on this ship!  What’s your name?  Cecil knows you!  Which ship are you on?  Whereyouincombatyesterday?”  A sudden tornado of questions and words tumbled from the boy’s mouth, once he was assured that Cecil was merely sleeping off his brandy.  For a few moments, the salvo of noise took Viktalia aback.  Then, the bard finally raised her hands, until the young man just as suddenly went silent.

“Please.  A little slower,” she smiled.  _What does he want?  I can’t understand half of what he’s asking, let alone get a word in..._

“Cecil assigned me to be the new navigator for the _Spotted Pinnace!_  You are the First Mate of that ship, right?  I heard she’s the small pinnace in the fleet, imagine that!  What kind of jewelry are you wearing?  That reminds me of my mother’s jewelry!  She was a...”

“Ah...um...” Viktalia tried to interject, until she finally forced her hand out and grasped his.  “Yes,” she said once the young man was silent again, “I’m Viktalia, First Mate of the _Spotted Pinnace..._”

“Oooo!  What’s that?  Is that an iron golem?  I’ve never seen an iron golem before!  Who owns him!”  The young man’s jabbering continued as he ran over towards Viesel and started running his hands all over the warforged’s metal casing.  

“Hm?” Viesel turned, slow and ponderous as an elephant would turn when being harassed by a moth.



“What are you?  Are you an iron golem? If so you are the strangest looking iron golem I have ever seen!  Who made you?  When did they make you? Ooolookattheseetchingsonyourmetaltheyaresoornate!”

_Why do some humans constantly talk?  No, this isn’t talking... it’s noise._ Viesel grumbled mentally, annoyed that his watch was being interrupted by the little runt before him.  He frowned, but the incessant barrage of questions continued, and Viesel grunted again.  _I guess I will have to deploy my tactic to make humans be quiet._  With ponderous gentleness, Viesel’s huge left hand reached over Hrik’s head, and grabbed the jabbering man’s skull.  Almost immediately, Hrik gave a squeak and went silent.  Satisfied, Viesel let go.

And the thunderstorm of protests broke.

“Whydidyoudothat!?  That hurt!  You aren’t no golem!  You’re a meanie!  You coulda crushed my head!  Viktalia your golem tried to attack me!”

“I didn’t attack you at all,” Viesel tried to correct Hrik, but the young man’s squeals drowned out the warforge’s voice.  _If I hurt this cadet with my squeeze, this cadet needs to conduct more physical training._

“Yes you did!  You wrapped your fingers around my head!  It could’ve hurt really...”

Silence filled the air when Viesel’s hands clamped around the young man’s head yet again.

_Perhaps this cadet has learned?_  Yet when Viesel let go, the storm of protests erupted again, and yet again Viesel gently grabbed his head.  This time, there was no silence, the iron fingers of the warforged only serving to muffle the shouts and screams of complaint.

“Um... Viesel?” the warforged heard his friend’s voice, and slowly he turned to look at Viktalia, and gave a grunt of surrender.  _She wants me to release him.  Knowing what a commander wants before the order is issued increases efficiency.  So I shall do as she is about to request._  Before she even asked, Viesel let go of his head.  After a second’s pause, Hrik resumed his noisy and constant protests.

“Whydoyoukeepdoingthat?!  Stopitithurts!”

“Perhaps,” Viktalia said quietly, “we could do something more effective to shut him up.”

“Please, Viktalia.  Command him to be quiet,” Viesel asked with a somber metallic groan.  _She is a commanding officer!  Why doesn’t she just issue an order to him to stop making this noise!_ 

“Hrik!  Hrik Hrik Hrik...” Viktalia waved a hand in front of the young man, finally getting his attention away from the warforged that had accosted him.  “Hrik... listen.  You’re a navigator, correct?”

“Assistant to the Vice-Navigator on board the Baron’s ship!  At the age of 18!  They said that by age 20, I could be a vice-navigator! Then maybe a navigator of a ship of my own!”

_Why does he give a larger answer than his commander requests?_ Viesel groaned.  That was inefficient.  Commanders should always receive succinct, complete answers from their subordinates... no more, no less.  _Anything else compromises the unit’s ability to react in combat situations!_

“Yes, we know Hrik.  Bravo,” Viesel saw Viktalia roll her eyes, a sign of annoyance.  “Listen, I have several maps back on board the _Spotted Pinnace_ that need a navigator to examine them for accur...”

“Yes ma’am! Right away ma’am!” Hrik gave an excited salute, “Show me where these maps are ma’am, give me an inkwell, and they’ll be corrected in an hour!”

“Well, there’s many maps...” Viktalia said, and Viesel could hear the hopefulness in her voice that the corrections would take longer than an hour.  Before the young man could unleash a torrent of words again, Viesel took the initiative.

“It is late,” the warforged said, moving towards the longboat now being loaded with the last batch of officers and crew headed towards the _Spotted Pinnace_.  “If you wish to examine the maps, cadet, you should start immediately.  Otherwise, you will miss your rest, and be inefficient tomorrow.”

Viesel concealed a smile when Hrik, fairly bubbling with excitement, made a scramble to get on the boat.




“Ah... silence is golden,” Viktalia said an hour later, sighing with pleasure.  Underneath her feet, the familiar deck of the _Spotted Pinnace_ rolled slightly in the night, and amidships behind her, Hrik sat cross-legged, the only noise coming from his lips being muttered curses and hissed corrections as he flashed through all the ship’s maps.

_Glad to see that Hrik isn’t in danger of becoming Viesel’s punching bag,_ Viktalia thought, watching the young man pour over maps incessantly, his pen dipping constantly in its inkwell as he made constant corrections to the ship’s charts from memory.  

“You know, you and Hrik are rather alike,” Viktalia turned towards the warforged next to her and smiled.  Once back on his own ship, Viesel had immediately resumed his watch of the sea.  Her smile grew bigger at the mechanical man’s look of confusion.  “You both need something to keep busy!”

“With all due respect,” Viesel replied in a seemingly emotionless voice, “I cannot harass you as much as Cadet Hrik does.”

_Was that defensiveness in his voice?_ Viktalia wanted to ask.  _It seems as if our warforged friend CAN get a little riled up..._  She smiled at the thought.  

“Of course not, Viesel.”  She looked back out towards the ocean, grinning.



Siran opened his eyes, and immediately felt the thundering of a hang-over slamming his brain.  He closed his eyes again, only to have the noise of a ship’s crew busy at work assault his eardrums.  With a groan, he resigned himself to having to get up.

“Good morning, sleepy-head,” Viktalia teased as Siran climbed on deck, the sun attacking his eyes with thousands of spearpoints of light, the jingling of her jewelry and trinkets sounding like war-drums in his head.  He grimaced towards her, as mentally several choice curses went through his head.

“Bah,” was all he managed to verbalize.  _I haven’t had good brandy like that in a long time... I guess it went to my head faster than I expected!  But Viktalia kept right up with me... why didn’t..._

“Now, _Captain_,” Viktalia smiled when she used Siran’s new title, “I realized you’d probably wake up late, so with Viesel’s help we’ve taken care of several problems.  Our new navigator has also proven quite adept at shipwork in general, and we have him and the crew busy doing final inspections before we head underway.”  

_She can be really bureaucratic, I guess,_ Siran rubbed his head.  The sun was bright.

“And the Baron informed us he wants us to drop off our passenger at Tarnpool,” her cheery voice continued, “the nearest port.  Kaled will accompany us to get final repairs done to the cromster.  So, I’ve taken liberty to get some of the fruit that was stored on Kaled’s new ship sent here, along with some additional food supplies and a few replacement men.”   Viktalia stopped, put her hands behind her back, and smiled viciously.

“Show off,” Siran growled, and finally the Formoteran laughed.  “How are you not feeling like a thousand cannons are going off in your head at once?”

“I was raised around Formoteran brandy,” Viktalia smiled sweetly, “therefore, I have a...um... resistance to its effects?”

Siran hissed a few quiet curses, and the bard laughed again.

“I shall leave you to your recovery, _sir_,” she said rather impishly, before heading off to some other task.

_Note to self... Viktalia makes a good first mate, but can rub things in a bit,_ Siran thought, eyes squinting as he headed towards the ship’s railing.  The sea wasn’t as bright as the sky.  Maybe if he stared at it for a bit, his eyes might adjust some.


----------



## omrob (Sep 16, 2005)

*Yay! Sea Shantiez!!!*

I love a good sea tale, so far, Im diggin it. 

We all keep waitin for the Jester to run a Sea game (most of Cydra is all ocean) so thanks for providing the vicarious sea adventure fix. 

More more and more - will be read by me. 

Now off to your other SH. 

RAN


----------



## Emperor Valerian (Sep 17, 2005)

Short update:

*Lady Rowena*

Later that day...

Viktalia walked about the deck of the ship, proud at her planning and foresight.  _I knew Siran was going to be down for the count, and everything's running fine still!  Maybe I can do good at this assistant captaining thing..._ 

For the first time since the battle with the cromster, she also noticed the white shrouded form of Lady Rowena once again on the railings of the ship, looking out towards the sea.

_She is a guest,_ Viktalia thought, watching her as she stood motionless alongside the ship.  _A passenger... she needs to feel welcome... and I don't have much to do now that everything else has been taken care of...

...I shoud go talk to her.  Make her feel at home, a bit._

“How are you?” Viktalia asked, drawing alongside the shrouded woman.  _She hasn’t been that talkative lately... and I think I had a connection earlier to work from..._  “It looks like you made it through the battle the other day just fine.”

“Yes... that tends to happen when one hides under one’s bed when the cannons fire,” Rowena replied a little lighter than Viktalia expected.  She turned, her eyes bright behind her silver mask as she looked at the bard.  “So I understand you are now the First Mate on board this little ship.  Congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you,” Viktalia said with a graceful bow.  _She’s in a far more talkative mood today...  good._  “So... what out to sea is attracting your attention?  Mermen?” she offered with a smile.

“Unfortunately, no,” Rowena replied with a sigh, before she turned her head upwards towards the sky.  “Something is brewing in the weather... I can feel it.  Today and tomorrow will be fine,” she pronounced, the brilliant sun reflecting brightly off of her silver mask, “but the day after tomorrow...”

“Um... pardon my curiosity, but... how do you know that?” Viktalia asked.  _I only know of clerics and archmages that can predict the weather... and even then, they can’t see beyond a day in the future..._

“The sea speaks to me,” Rowena said quietly.  “I am a Speaker of the Sea, I speak on the behalf of all its creatures, above and below.”  At Viktalia’s blank look, the she explained further.  “I am a sea druid, just as my mother was before me, and her mother before that.  We commune with the waves, act as intermediaries between the god of the sea, and men on land.”

“So...” Viktalia asked, confused, “the sea itself is a god?”

“According me and my faith, yes... the god Neros, the one who guides the storms and waves,” she made a tracery in the air with her hands, in a shape Viktalia didn’t recognize.  When Rowena turned back to the bard, her eyes were almost glowing.  “Neros is the sea incarnate, its depths married to the clouds above, the great fish merged with teh birds above... in short, life and power itself.  Though other humans,” she waved her hand dismissively towards Siran, “dismiss Neros as a mere ‘Saint.’”

“Saint Porus of the waves?” Viktalia asked, and Rowena nodded.

“Yes... that’s the one.  Though sailors are a superstitious lot, so I imagine your friend probably conducts some rituals towards Neros without even realizing it.”

Viktalia frowned, her curious Chirops mind trying to make sense of what she’d just learned.  “So...um... how’d you fall into this faith, if you’re a human noble?”  _I thought the human nobility were very keen on following their saints..._

“I come from a place where the old faiths still live,” Rowena replied, once again looking out towards the sea, “where the gods that many have forgot still live and breathe.  Just as my mother and grandmother before me, I use my gift to help my people... Tarnpool is little more than a fishing village, and the villagers rely on our guidance to know where to set their traps, and where to find the pearls that line the nearby ocean bed.”

Viktalia was surprised when the conversation continued until several hours later, as Rowena fully opened up to the young bard.  Rowena’s father was the local Baron, a rather impoverished noble, and the town survived on fishing and pearl diving.  She had a younger brother, the future Baron of Tarnpool, whom she was eager to see on her return.  Yet her initial words hung in Viktalia’s head, and even as the bard, heady with excitement at finally breaking through Rowena’s isolation, went towards Siran, she remembered the druid’s words about the coming days.

“So she worships the sea itself?” Siran asked, eyebrow raised after Viktalia stopped him, and the bard nodded.  

“She’s a Speaker of the Sea!” the Formoteran fairly giggled with excitement.  _They only tell stories of these people in my home!  To see one alive, in person, just as one sees the caretakers of the Awakened..._ 

“Thank Saint Porus,” Siran replied with a sigh, his eyes flashing out towards the sea again.  “Saints know, we have so much bad luck to...”

“So,” Viktalia interrupted his thought, “I thought you worshiped Heraclius, and all the Saints?  She worships Neros, a god of the sea incarnate... isn’t that blasphemous to your Saint Porus, or Heraclius, or whoever?”  _I don’t understand human religion... I don’t pretend to understand it, but their arrangements of gods and saints and holy people are just... confusing!_  She winced a bit after the words came out of her mouth... humans were also very touchy about their faiths, yet another difference between humans and her own people, and she was filled with a sense of dread when Siran turned back around.

“You’ll find very quickly, Vikatalia, that us sailors really care little from whence our luck comes,” he said simply, his voice surprisingly devoid of any anger or distress.  “Our Saints are forgiving, when we look elsewhere occassionally,” he added with a wry, sad smile, before the wry smile changed to a smirk.  “So, what’d she have to say?  Anything good about me?”

“Nothing about _you_,” Viktalia grumbled, “but something that might affect your _ship._  She claims she feels something coming in the weather tomorrow, or the day after.  So my question is...”

“Get Visiel and Hrik,” Siran said simply, “and lets have them go over the ship top to bottom, looking for any cracks and leaks.  If she’s a sea druid, and feels something like that, we could be in for quite a storm...”



“Whoohoo!” Siran yelled two days later as the _Spotted Pinnace_ rocketed up the side of a large wave, before charging into the gaping trough before the next wave struck.  From his perch, gripping one of the ropes holding the mast firmly to the ship’s side, he could see the great whitecaps caused by the storm.  He’d seen far worse... this was nothing more than a light gale... but things were far more fun since he’d had a days notice to check the ship over, and fix all the small leaks caught by Hrik’s brilliance and Viesel’s patience.  Amidst the rain, he heard a muffled noise from the ship’s deck, and turned to Viktalia with a grin.

“You like this?” he asked the pale looking Formoteran.  When she looked back, her gold eyes looked glazed over, as she struggled to keep balance.

“I’m going to be sick,” she mumbled, pitching backwards as the ship climbed another wave.

“Well, here’s the side of the ship!” Siran pointed eagerly towards the foaming waters below his perch.  If she fell in, it wouldn’t be that hard to grab her... or call on St. Heraclius to send a creature to grab her.

She looked up at him, and for a moment, her eyes flashed a bit of anger behind their sickness.

“Show off,” she mumbled.


----------



## Emperor Valerian (Sep 18, 2005)

Well, dragnfly (who plays Viktalia) typed up a lovely update... so I felt obliged to rush mine so hers can get posted.  So today, there are two updates for the price of one!   (Celestial Empire will recieve the next dose of attention...)

*Tarnpool*

Viesel squinted the following day, at the bow of the ship.  The night before he’d spent looking the ship over again, and now he was eager to focus on his new activity.  

_That is not good..._ the warforged thought, watching the smoke in the distance.  _Something is burning..._  Quickly he bellowed for Siran and Viktalia.  _Fire is never good... commanders are needed.  And if that fire is the town we are supposed to be headed towards..._

Even as Viktalia reached the bow of the ship where Viesel stood, the warforged had already drawn out his rifle, keenly scanning the horizon.

“What is it?” the bard impatiently asked, until Viesel motioned towards the thin wisps of smoke in the distance.  She fell silent, and Viesel’s voice rumbled out his own thoughts.

“Someone is burning something large... Something larger than a ship,” the warforged added.  _Towns are big enough to make large smoke clouds like that... perhaps someone reached Tarnpool before we did?_

As the hours drifted by, the smoke cloud grew larger as the two ships drew closer to its origin.  Slowly land came into view, and Viesel heard the ship’s passenger crying.  That alone confirmed his suspicions... it was Tarnpool that was burning.  

Even as he made that realization, Viesel saw, far in the distance, two small skiffs, coming from the harbor of the small burning town...

***​
_Someone was very thorough in attacking this town,_ Viesel realized a few minutes later.  Most of the town itself wasn’t damaged, a sign that whoever had come here was in control of a disciplined force, one that carried off only what it was told to, and left the rest alone... a fear few human armies could match.  Yet his military mind picked up the smoldering ruins above the town as the remnants of a log fort, likely with cannon emplacements.  _Someone came here with power... tens, if not hundreds of soldiers..._

“Elves!” the harbormaster hissed, clambering with Siran’s help from the skiff onto the _Spotted Pinnace_.  “It was the damn elves, may Saint Anias’ blade slice them in two!”  His aged gray eyes shimmered as tears welled up.  “Bless ye for comin’!  Bless ye!”

“Who attacked you?” Viesel asked directly.  _A specific elf?  A certain band of elves?  Whoever they are, we should be aware of them..._ 

The old man looked forlornly towards the smoldering parts of the town, as if he didn’t notice the huge metal behemoth standing on deck before him.  “They took ‘em!” he wailed, “They took ‘em!”

“Who?” Viesel felt pressure at his side, as Rowena pushed by, asking the man again, “Who did they take!?”

_She is panicked... that is not good,_ Viesel realized, without noticing the noble’s shuddering.  The warforged ran through his memory, trying to find something that would fit this situation, and calm the Lady down, before giving up in frustration.  _If this were a battle, I could jump between her and the enemy, and crush the enemy’s skull!  But there is no battle!_  Annoyed, Viesel started to rub his hand over the steel head of his warhammer.

“They took the Baron, and the young men!” the harbormaster wailed, tears coming to his eyes.  “They came and they took my son, the damn slavers!”

“Slavers?” Siran asked, his face growing suddenly dark, as the sky blackens during the approach of a great storm.  “Elven slavers?” the cleric asked, his voice far quieter, far more angry.

“Yes sir!” another man clambered on board from the skiff, and from his standing behind the harbormaster and his deference to the older man, Viesel guessed he was an assistant.  “Three elven ships have been raiding us for slaves for the past month and a half... one large ship and two smaller ones!  The Baron tried to resist the first assault with the local militia, but the damn elves blew up the fort with cannon on their ships!  _Cannon!_”

“Speak again,” Viesel said, holding his hand out, mimicking the gesture humans made when they wanted someone to slow down or repeat their speech.  “These elves had cannon?”  _Elves are not supposed to have cannon.  My former officers told me of this... it was agreed to by a treaty long ago..._

“Yes!  Big cannon!” the harbormaster added, “they just pulled up sail beyond the range of the fort’s guns and pounded it to pieces, then stormed ashore and carried off the Baron, his son, and all the militia!”

“How big were the fort’s cannon?” Viesel asked.

“MY BROTHER?!” Rowena screeched over the warforged question, and the harbormaster turned to her, recounting the tale of her father and brother being dragged through the streets to a life of slavery, and how the elves had returned every three weeks since, taking more townspeople as slaves.  When the sad tale was done, Rowena stood motionless on the deck, tears running down her face.

_She needs someone to cheer her up,_ Viesel thought, annoyed once again that he couldn’t help on that front.  However, he focused his mind on the one way he could help.  “How big were the fort’s cannon?” he repeated himself.  This time, the harbormaster heard his question.

“Why... as big as those on your ship now... but the elven cannon were brighter in color, shinier!”

“Bronze cannon,” Viesel hissed, realizing what had done the damage.  _Same size, but longer range with more accuracy..._  Few _human_ ship’s had bronze cannon, due to the expense, but an _elven_ ship with such...

“What was that?” Siran asked, distracted by the crying as Viktalia put her arm around Rowena and comforted the poor woman.

“The elves have bronze cannon.  They are no ordinary elves,” Viesel added darkly.  “From that fact alone, sir, I can inform you that these elves likely had access to a great deal of shiny metal.”

“Money?” Siran asked, turning his full attention to the warforged.

“Yes, money,” Viesel said, picking up on the word yet again and storing it for future reference.  “And they have minds for war, if they know to use bronze cannon.”  _And they are confident, if they have a clockwork schedule as this harbormaster says..._

“When was the last time the elves came?” Siran asked the harbormaster suddenly.

“Two weeks ago,” the old man explained...



Kaled let out a sharp, pungent curse, its sound echoing over the wooden walls of his cramped cabin aboard the new _Black Joke_.  His ship, along with the _Spotted Pinnace_ had slid into the small harbor quay, and even now supplies were being loaded and unloaded.

“So they’re going to be back sometime in the next week, when we’re still sitting in harbor?” the captain gnashed his teeth together in anger.  The new _Black Joke_ had extensive spar damage from its seizure that needed repair... while the repairs weren’t complicated, they were best done in port and needed time... two weeks at least.

“Yes sir, if they hold to their schedule,” Siran replied, anger in his own voice.  _Elves!  May all of them eat Veris root and die in their own piss!_ 

It had been a long time since he’d seen the damage an elven raid could do.  While the elves weren’t a single unified country... numerous princes squabbled amongst themselves all the time... their ships were sleek and fast, light on armament but designed and excelled at raiding... rapidly landing on-shore by a remote hamlet, forcing its inhabitants on-ship to be sold for slaves, and speeding home before any human navy could respond.  If this elven ship was powerful enough to destroy a fort, yet still had the same speediness...

“Piss-pot!” Kaled swore again.  “Elves?!  Of all the bloody things that could be bloody tossed at us!”  He swore sharply again using St. Heraclius in vain, something that did make the cleric stiffen up slightly.  “And now you’re telling me they have bronze guns?!”

“Sir,” Siran heard Viesel say in his rumbling voice, “the harbormaster described them as being able to outrange the land fortress’ guns, and also described the guns as shining and bright, which your know, sir, that our iron guns do not do.  That leads me...”

“Yes, yes, your logic, Viesel, is perfect!” Kaled waved his hand at the warforged.  The hand then promptly returned to Kaled’s head.  “It’s just...  dammit!”  He took a deep breath, then breathed out slowly.  “We have how many crew?”

“Well, sir, we have twenty-two able and ready on the _Spotted Pinnace_,” Siran started, before Kaled held up his hand.

“We have too few.  If those elves come back, and we’re caught in harbor, we’re dead.  That’s it.  They’ll sit outside the range of _our_ guns and pound us to pieces!  We’re going to have to sail out, and put to port somewhere else!”

“Um... sir?  A point, if I may.”

Siran looked up, and saw Viktalia staring at Kaled.  While her voice was calm and the same, quiet tone, her golden eyes shone with fiery anger.  _She’s upset about something... about the people in this town?_

“Sir, we _cannot_ leave these poor people behind,” she said, the tone matter-of-fact and cool, though Siran noticed her form beginning to tremble just slightly, as if some great explosion was being held within her small body.  “You heard the harbormaster.  They are defenseless against these slavers.  _Defenseless_.”  The final word rumbled from her mouth, as her self-control gave way.

“Well, Miss Starwynd, what do you propose then?” Kaled asked sharply.  “That we sail out, battle flags high, and challenge the elves to a duel?!”  the captain shouted, pounding his fist on the table.  “Yes, I heard the harbormaster!  Those elves have _three_ ships to our _two_, Miss Starwynd!  And not only that, one of their ships is _larger_ than this one!”

“And they have bronze cannons, capable of outranging our...” Viesel began.  Wisely, Siran kept his mouth shut, and just as he suspected, Viktalia cut both Viesel and the captain off.

“I _know_ that!” she hissed.  “I might not have as extensive a sailing record as you or Siran, but I’m not a dolt!”  The last words were accompanied by an acidic stare, one that seemingly made Kaled wilt... and even Siran shudder.  

_I’m sure if metal could melt away, Viesel might right now too,_ Siran thought, clad the evil gaze wasn’t on him for once.

“We’ll need surprise, and stealth.  When the elves return, what are the chances they’ll know our ship’s are warships?  Little... Kaled, the _Black Joke_ is a damaged merchant ship... a cromster!  We’re a tiny pinnace!  Chances are high that if these _are_ slavers, they’ll probably be greedy, right?”

“Right,” Siran said aloud, a smile starting to form on his face.  _I know where this is leading... and I like it!_

“Now... what can we do to keep their suspicion down to the maximum?  Maybe the good Lady could provide a distraction?” Viktalia thought aloud.  “Maybe we could lure them into the harbor, and board them?  Maybe get the townspeople involved?  If the elves have slaves aboard, they’ll be worried about those slaves getting free...”



“...and that’s where you come in,” Viktalia said hours later, to the gathered ‘topmen’ of the _Black Joke_ and _Spotted Pinnace_.  She scratched her ear impatiently for a moment, before turning to Viesel.  The warforged nodded in reply, then moved towards the front.  

“Now,” he rumbled, his metallic voice only the same pitch, despite the excitement in his mind.  _I have a command!  A small command, under Siran and Viktalia..._  His inhibitions against promotion were far weaker, when he knew that directly above him, there was someone in authority... safety in hierarchy.  

“You all are good marksmen,” the warforged said, “and you all should have rifles.  You will be placed on the sides of the harbor,” Viesel pointed to the rolling land illuminated by the setting sun.  He smiled in his mind at this part... it was his own contribution to the planning.  “Together, the ten of you, along with myself, can put down some cross-fire... keep the elves heads low, so that Captain Rapp and Captain Kaled can lay down a broadside, then board the enemy.”

“And what of us?” the old harbormaster, now returned, asked.  Alongside him stood members of the elite of Tarnpool, covered in ragged suitcoats and torn hats.

“We have a week.  Before the elves come, you will assist Captain Rapp and myself in partially rebuilding that fort up there,” Viesel pointed to the ruins, “as well as adding more fire, if you can.  How many weapons do you have?”

“Between the three hundred people left in town...” one of the leaders spoke, “maybe ten swords, several fowler hunting pieces, a few blunderbusses, maybe fifteen or twenty pistols, and quite a few farm implements.”

“A pitchfork to the eye will kill any elf,” Siran piped up, and a nervous laugh went around the deck of the ship.

“But... we’re lawyers, oculists, ferriers... we aren’t soldiers!” one of the men complained, and even as he spoke, he nervously fiddled with the spectacles on his nose.

“Your morale is low.  It should be higher if you wish to fight,” Viesel said bluntly.  _They are saddened, and scared.  They cannot be scared if they want to fight and win._  For a second the warforged tried to think of ideas to raise their morale... but once again, he realized every idea in his mind came up short.  _They aren’t warriors... they won’t respond to my kind of encouragement.  Yet..._ he thought, turning to Viktalia, _they might respond to hers..._


----------



## Emperor Valerian (Sep 18, 2005)

Drag'n'fly typed up this update, including the song (one of her own creation).  So kudos goes to her for her hard work! 

*Viktalia Cheers Up the Town... or...  An Incident at the Bar*

_What a crowd!_ Viktalia peeked her slim muzzle around the corner of the curtain. Every available seat was filled, and many more were standing, all facing toward the small stage that stood on one side of the bar. Her sharp eyes eventually picked out Siran, of course sitting at the bar.  _I think that man is always drinking..._

She pulled her nose back and ran her hands over her dress quickly, smoothing wrinkles and brushing off lint. Tonight she had opted for a slim, dark number, in honor of the slaves the elves has taken and the dead they had left. She ran her fingers through her hair, checking for snarls, as her mind picked over her choices for the performance tonight. _Something uplifting would be best, to prepare them for tomorrow. I think I’ll concentrate more on singing than dancing tonight, this stage isn’t really large enough for a full performance. Maybe ‘The King’s Hunt’, or I can tone down the gestures in ‘Night of the Walking Water’…_ A decision in mind, the Fomorteran drew a deep breath, thought of something beautiful to bring a smile to her face, and stepped out onto the stage.

 Immediate wolf whistles and howls battered her, but she kept her smile and strode forward to the small chair that had been set up for her.  

“Greeting everyone.” Her voice brought more whistles, mostly from a small table in a dark corner of the room. She waited until they had stopped, and then said again. “Greetings. My name is Viktalia Starwynd, as most of you already know. Tonight, I’d like to treat you to an evening of some of the finest music that you’ll ever hear about life, beauty, and...”

“Since us a war song, lass.” A voice in back cut her off.

“Yeah, something good about slicing up elves.” Another voice from the opposite side of the crowd added. 

Cheers for this suggestion rang out, surprising Viktalia with their ferocity. 

“Do you mean to tell me,” she asked slowly “That you would all rather have a tale of death and hatred rather than one of humor or love?” The resounding affirmatives set her ears back. She glanced at Siran, but the cleric gave her an empty look across the top of his glass, then a nod. She narrowed her eyes at him, then faced the crowd, squaring her shoulders.

“You poor fools…” her voice, though quiet, instantly silenced the bar. “I’ll sing you a song, all right, one to strike the very soul within you, and perhaps teach you about the consequences of war. You’ll get what you asked for, a song of death, of fighting, and perhaps, if you’re lucky, you’ll get a whole lot more too.”



Siran stared at her in disbelief. Never before had he seen a bard so unwilling to play a song of choice for a crowd. _She must be really angry, to insult the entire town like this_.  The town didn’t seem to care, however, as cheers greeted her announcement.

_They want a war song... makes sense, considering they’ve been at war for several weeks already,_ the cleric thought, downing the drink before him and ordering yet another.



The next minute, Viktalia began to hum, a slow haunting tune that sent the familiar chill up his spine. However, when she began to sing, the sadness in her voice made her almost sound like she was crying.

_The Ballad of Red

All you mighty warriors
Come listen, young and old
Rest now as I tell a tale
From many years ago

When the stars were young
And the world was fresh and green
There was a young Chirop boy
Whose tragedy I will sing

He was tall and strong
With a coat of deepest red
Red as fire, red as youth
And his name was Red

Like all of his race
Creation filled his life
In his forge he worked so hard
Shaping metal day and night

One day a traveler came to town
White Kaelia, with eyes of blue
All of the boys strove for her favor
And Red was smitten too

He hurried to his forge
And worked ‘til the morning broke
Then finding Kaelia, he knelt
And offered her a metal rose

Its leaves were finest silver
And in the light they shone
Kaelia stroked the petals
Red as passion, red as love

Then the beauty smiled
And offered Red her hand
That day they spoke of all the things
That lovers understand

But, alas, for these two younglings
Bliss was not obtained
On the day of their wedding
Tragedy rode the waves

The hatred of human and elf
Goes back to the start of time
Fomorterans don’t join the fights
But still we lose our lives

As the wedding graced the hills
Two ships crashed upon the sand
The battle that started on the sea
Continued on the land

Sword crossed sword, and arrows flew
Cries split the splendor of the day
The battle flowed up to the hill
The forest filled with flames

Red and his bride tried to run
But arrows rent the air
Kaelia shuddered as she fell
Flowers tumbling from her hair

She lay quite still and peaceful
White fur marred by streaks of red
And all around lay roses
Red as blood, red as death

The battle slowly faded
The survivors limped away
And as Red buried his wife
He swore his vengeance to the waves

Now the flames of his forge
Burned with the hatred in his soul
After his creations formed
Only his tears made the metal cold

One year after that fateful day
A black ship full of men
Was sneaking up an elven coast
To rape and pillage once again

The first mate heard it first
As he stood upon the bow
A dull thump and scrap of steel
Coming from the prow

Hand on sword, investigating
Was the last thing he ever did
A flash of metal, and spray of blood
Across the deck bounced his head

The seamen all came running
Only to halt with dread and tremble
At the figure sheathed in dripping blades
At the wing spines wrapped in metal

It flashed them out with deadly aim
The ship’s wood stained with red
Red as sorrow, red as anger
And the figure’s name was Red

Up and down the coasts he reined
Dealing justice by his creed
But no matter how much he killed
He couldn’t satisfy his need

How can anger and violence
Replace love, so pure, so brief
When you feel there is nothing left
But to gorge on revenge and grief

Finally, to quell the bloodshed
And purge the terror from their minds
Elf and human banded together
For the first ever time

They hunted the metal-winged warrior
Across oceans and through the lands
Till finally they cornered him
Upon his marriage hill he made his stand

As twilight fell, they slew him
And left his body rotting by the sea
Ground stained bright as scarlet coat
Empty eyes and shattered wings

But still on moonless nights, they say
A pale light graces the beach 
Walking beside a guardian 
Red as pleasure, red as peace

So now you’ve heard my tale
So very sad, so very true
Hatred only breeds more hate
While death stalks after you

Instead of all this fighting
Harken to the Chirop way
Create true love and laughter
Walk in happiness all your days_

Viktalia finished on a ringing note that blasted the bar. Silence fell thick over the unmoving crowd. Then, slowly, two men near the door turned quietly and left, their faces thoughtful. A couple more started mumbling softly to each other, then a few more, until a soft, quiet murmur filled a room used to shouts and cheers. 

But it was from the dark table in the corner that the loudest voices came.

“Bravo! Bravo! Never in all my YEARS have I heard such an exquisite voice. And what a body…”



Siran could almost hear Viktalia’s groan as two men and a halfling, all clearly drunk, stumbled up to the stage. Rolling his own eyes, he nevertheless stood up and began to edge forward, just in case the bard couldn’t handle her admirers.  _Drunkards... bah..._  The humans looked like everyday workers... rough wool clothes, slight beards.  _Dockworkers probably,_ Siran thought.  The halfling, however, was clad in outrageously expensive clothes, jewelry dripping from his ears and fingers.  Siran immediately realized what his profession was, as well, and edged closer to the bar.  _Just in case he doesn’t take to her too kindly..._

“Now then, miss Starwwine,” the halfling slurred, stumbling up towards her.

“That’s Starwynd,” the Chirop corrected him, and stood up from her chair.

“Yes yes, as I was saying,” the halfling waved his hands dismissively. “A women of your caliber should not be sailing around the seas, getting into all sorts of mischief! Hows about I offer you a place in my one of a kind, top of the line, House of Repute.”  The halfling grinned, and one of the drunk men chuckled at the clever name.

“A House of Ill Repute!” Siran couldn’t tell if Viktalia sounded more shocked or amused at the suggestion.

“No no no,” the Halfling quickly corrected, “None of _my_women are ill.”  More dark chuckles from the two cronies.  “Now then, I am prepared to offer you quite a handsome deal of course, 10% of the profits, and a chance to perform for the customers every evening….”

“I am sorry, sir,” Viktalia gave a small bow, backing away slightly as she did so. “But I must refuse. You see, I love my life, and I have no wish to trade it in to be a mere…pleasure-woman. Although your House does sound very nice.” She added politely, making Siran confused.  _Why is she being so nice and courteous... hell... I’dve slapped him across the face!  Maybe she doesn’t think she wants to tangle with the cronies..._  The cleric edged closer and closer...

“Now look here, lady.” The halfling’s voice grew cold. “I don’t look too kindly on women saying no to me. So I’m only going to make my offer one more time.”

In his mind’s eye, Siran could quickly see the situation going sour, and began to hurry over the last few feet towards the stage. _I’m sure Viktalia could handle herself if it was just the halfling, but if those two lumps of muscle he has with him attack her at the same time…_ He was surprised to see no look of worry on the Chirop’s face as he drew close.

“And one more time, sir, my answer is no.” Viktalia smiled sweetly as she made her denial quite firm.

_Oh boy... here we go..._ the cleric thought, as he saw the two humans tense up, ready to lunge.

“Well, missy, I tried to be nice…” The halfling looked at the two men, and jerked his arm toward the bard. As they stepped forward, Viktalia stepped backward, spread her arms, and barked a single sharp note at the man in front. Instantly, the man wobbled widely, even for a drunk, and as he blinked and tried to take a step forward, his arm reaching for her, he collapsed to the ground with a loud crash.

Siran took this opportunity to charge the second man from behind, and bring his chain-wrapped fist down onto the man’s skull. He collapsed without a sound.  

“Punk...” the cleric growled.

The halfling looked around at his fallen men with a cry of dismay, then glared at Viktalia and leapt onto the stage, chasing after her with a bellow, his jewel bedecked hands outstretched, grasping, clawing...

 Viktalia flapped her wings once and jumped several feet backward. As she landed she again gave that short barking note, and the halfling fell onto his face.

By this point, the rest of the bar had finally overcome its stunned shock at the turn of events, and the bartender and another man had jumped up after the halfling, grabbing the prone little man.  As they apologized profusely to Viktalia, they grabbed his armpits and hauled him to his feet. The halfling looked the far wrong side of drunk, with glazed eyes and a rapidly bruising lump above his right eye. Both men began to haul him off, when Viktalia stepped forward.

“Don’t hurt him.” She said, steel behind her voice, but mirth dancing in her eyes as she gave a mischievous grin. “I have something better that will set him right. Bring him backstage.” She winked at Siran as she followed the trio back behind the curtain. 

_What is she going to do to that ugly little thing?_ Siran wondered.  The two humans were beginning to stir, so with more than a little glee Siran loomed over them, openly displaying his chain-wrapped fist.

“Lay quietly, like good little boys,” he hissed.  It was hard not to laugh when the two drunks lowered their heads back to the ground and made small “eep” noises.

Seconds later, there was a loud cry of dismay from the back, shortly followed by a roar of laughter. A short, lace-covered figure tumbled back through the curtain and landed spread-legged on the stage, angrily swiping at the smears of rouge across his face.

High-pitched laughter from behind him caused Siran to turn to see a small group of young women who had just entered the bar, pointing at laughing with glee at the halfling in the dress and makeup.  Their rakish, gaudy clothing left no doubt as to what their profession was.

“That’s our employer! Ha! I’ll never work for such a ridiculous man again!” one of the women snorted. The others laughed their assent, as Siran and the others in the bar joined in, and a few pieces of half-eaten food found themselves tossed at him. 

The halfling on stage covered his red-smeared face with his hands. “I’m ruined!” he cried.

Viktalia emerged from backstage, laughing as well, but as she turned, her eyes fully caught Siran’s, and he knew that the bard was thanking him.  Siran merely looked down at the men at his feet, grabbed his drink, and raised it in salute in return.

_Note to self, do not to mess with Viktalia,_ he thought to himself, before looking back at the women at the bar’s doorway, picking out the prettiest of the lot.  _Now... I think I should check and make sure that she is definitely not ill..._


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Sep 21, 2005)

Well, I've finally caught up with you on this storyhour too.   

Great stuff again, Emperor V. This is shaping up to be a more than adequate successor to the Celestial Empire.

Bring on the elves ....


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## Emperor Valerian (Sep 30, 2005)

Next update will be tomorrow or Saturday.


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## Emperor Valerian (Oct 2, 2005)

*Unexpected Guests*


Viesel stood rigidly, telescope in hand, scanning the horizon as the next day began to dawn.  Everyone had insisted the night before that he help rebuild the fort, but Viesel had balked.  

_I have sharp eyes.  Enemies can arrive early.  I am best suited to watch for them, until the sun has arisen and human eyes can see as well as mine._  He’d argued the same point the night before, and persuaded his superiors to agree.  

As he scanned the horizon, looking for threats,  his eyes spotted something indistinct, just to the left of the rising sun.  He raised his telescope, shielding it partly from the blazing light, and looked just long enough to see a speck of white.


_This is not good._  There was an old adage in the Imperial army, that no plan survived contact with the enemy.  _Especially if the enemy arrives early,_ the warforged thought, quickly loading a charge into his rifle, and firing a blast into the air.  A half-minute later, he fired the gun again.  _Two shots... danger!_



Siran grumbled, and tried to pull the covers over his head, only to have something hold them in place.  He tugged again, and still the light kept attacking his eyes.  Finally, he sat up, rubbed them, and squinted, looking about the room.

Laying next to him was the woman he’d ‘checked’ the night before, her arm keeping her half of the covers firmly in place.  He was about to wake her up, to see if any more ‘medical tests’ needed to be done, when he heard two sharp _cracks_ echoing through the window.

_Gunshots...  Viesel!_

Immediately training kicked in, and he leapt from the bed, only to stumble and fall to the ground as his feet got tangled in the covers.  Twisting and turning like a pro, he tangled himself even more, as his companion rolled over and sleepily whined for quiet.

“Anias’ flaming... toothpick... bloody... flaming!” the cleric twisted, freely his arm only to entrap his legs even more.   Finally, with an enormous kick, he forced himself free and leapt to his feet, just in time to see the door to his rather seedy inn-room thrown wide open.

“Gah!” Viktalia backed away, shielding her eyes from the unholy horror that was Siran uncovered, “Put some clothes on!”  By the grimace on her face, it looked as if she’d seen the ugliest ghost in existence

“Sirraaaannn?” the woman’s sleepy voice whined again, “Its eeaaarlyyy...”

“I’m trying to!” the cleric fired back, donning his trousers hurriedly and cursing on the names of various pagan gods.  “Damn stupid Pelor’s flaming...”  As Viktalia groaned again in complaint, Siran looked up at her, pulling on his tunic.  “You’re not helping!”

“How can I help when I’ve been scarred for life?” the bard fired back, still shielding her eyes.

“Sirraaaan!” the woman whined, “Not noooowww.  It’s eaaarlyyy...”

“Your money’s on the dresser,” the cleric said hurriedly, buckling on his breastplate before blowing the half-sleep and confused woman a kiss.  “It was a fun time, may we meet again, and yes, you are definitely cured!” he called, before dashing out of the room.

“Gah,” Viktalia groaned, following him.




“How many?” the cleric asked about ten minutes later, shouts and orders ringing across the docks as both the _Spotted Pinnace_ and Kaled’s _Black Joke_ prepared to hurriedly put to sea.  While Siran had struggled to escape the webs of his evil covers, Viktalia had rounded up the ten crew that were not sleeping on ship the night before... all had been in the same inn as Siran, fortunately.  

“Viesel said three ships,” Hrik said breathlessly in response.  The poor boy had run down from the warforged’s sniper point to report the information.  “He says that one ship is bigger than the others.  I think its the elves.  If its the elves, everything is going to go bad.  They weren’t supposed to come like this.  I have a gun.  I can shoot it.  Icanhelpyououtright? Right?”

Siran ignored the boy’s questions, raising his own telescope and looking out to sea. “Three ships,” Siran rumbled a moment later, snapping the telescope shut.  For a moment, the captain in him took over, and he barked several more orders to get the ship underway as quick as possible, cursing up a storm to encourage the rather tired and somewhat hung-over crew to hurry.

“Gods be damned!” Siran heard Viktalia say, and for a moment, the cleric agreed with the Formoteran.  Siran spun back around, looked through his telescope again, and growled.

“Three ships!?  All three ships have returned!?” Siran hissed to himself a moment later.  The sail had now grown larger, revealing itself to be a large ship with at least three masts... something easily as large as Kaled’s cromster, if not larger.  Beneath the sea of white canvas hung a long and low hull, its sides painted green, its gunports painted brilliant red.  Siran gulped as he counted eight blood red spots on one side of the large ship.

_Sixteen guns there... and they’re probably bigger than ours, on top of being bronze..._ 

On each side of the larger ship came two smaller vessels, only two masts each, like the _Spotted Pinnace_.  Their hulls, following elven tradition, were also painted brightly, this time a searing sky blue.  Siran couldn’t count their guns just yet, but eh safely guessed each ship could easily hold as many guns as the _Spotted Pinnace,_ in a worst case scenario.

_So at worst... we’ve got 24 guns, counting the pieces on Kaled’s ship,_ Siran quickly added in his head.  _And they have... 32, some of which, at least, are larger than our own.  And at least some of the guns are bronze._  He winced, and decided he needed to leave the math behind for someone like Hrik.



Visiel quietly ordered the four other sharpshooters with him to check their weapons, as his glowing eyes glared at the oncoming ships.  He squinted, and frowned again.

_The large ship... its larger than Lieutenant Kaled’s!_

The warforged raised his gun, and shots again rang out over the harbor.



“What is Viesel doing now?!” Siran turned and snarled, alarmed and annoyed, before raising his fist towards the bluffs above.  “Dammit!  Stop wasting ammunition!  We know there’s something dangerous out there!”

_What could Viesel have noticed that would’ve made him fire his gun again?_ Viktalia thought.  It definitely was not like the warforged to brazenly waste ammunition... there was some purpose to his firing of the guns.   _We know there are three ships... unless there’s a horde of tiny other ships, the only thing could be..._

“The big ship is larger than Kaled’s,” Viktalia thought aloud.  _Worst case... three ships, heavily armed with many crews, versus our lightly crewed and comparatively lightly armed ships..._ Several whispered curses rang from her lips.

“Probably has a hundred crew,” Siran whispered back after hearing her words.  “We can’t fight that firepower!  We’ve got only twenty here, and maybe another twenty on Kaled’s ship!  Bah!”


“We need a distraction,” Viktalia stated the obvious, and Siran nodded.  The cleric looked down for a second as the _Spotted Pinnace_ lurched forward, the first wind catching into her sails.  Suddenly, he looked up, an idea in his eyes.

“Hey!” he barked to the few townspeople gathered to see them off, “get Lady Rowena!  Tell her if she’s such a druid, to make a illusion or fogbank or something to get those some of those ships to head away!”  Several of the townsfolk turned and dashed away, in pursuit of the druid.

“What? Why?” Viktalia asked sharply.  “She’s supposed to be helping Viesel once we pin the elves in the harbor!”  _What about our trap?  It’s still possible to pin the three elven ships here..._

“There won’t be any trap.  They’ve probably seen our ships already,” the cleric replied grimly, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t spring something different on them.”

“But why fog?” the bard persisted, “why not try to have her make an illusion of another ship?  A fogbank won’t attract...”

“Oh yes it will,” Siran cut her off, the grimness still in his voice, but a slight smile was now on his lips.  “If you saw several ships in harbor, then saw a fogbank creeping away from the harbor... a small fogbank, an obvious fogbank, one large enough it could still hide a small warship...”

“Oh...” Viktalia stopped, a smile starting to form on her own lips.  _Brilliant!_

“If we can get either the big ship or the two little ones to chase after the fog, we can run down the other group... and stand a fighting chance,” the cleric paused, as he looked through his telescope again.  “The big ship’s got sixteen guns... it looks like the smaller ones have ten apiece.  If they split...”

“Siran...I might have underestimated you a bit,” Viktalia grinned.  _Devious and impressive!_



_She looks very stately up there on that ridge,_ Siran thought about ten minutes later, looking up at Rowena as the druid raised her arms towards the sea.  The wind flapped against her silk, making it billow behind her as she called on the powers of the ocean itself, her voice distant, but rising in a melodic chant that seemed to almost soothe his ears.  _I bet she was a real looker when she was herself... before she was cursed,_ the cleric mused momentarily.  It was a welcome distraction.

To the side of the _Spotted Pinnace_, Kaled’s _Black Joke_ was already building up speed, racing past the smaller ship, before turning sharply to starboard, a move that would take her towards the east, and a small cove east of the town.  The _Spotted Pinnace_ followed suit, both ships raising full sail, their act of being panicked merchantmen in full swing.

As Siran watched intently, behind them the small elven flotilla seemed to stop, before finally they raised sail again, turning steadily towards the party’s two vessels. Then suddenly, in front of the harbor, the sea began to boil.  Steam began to billow from the harbor depths, growing deeper and stronger, until a bank of fog, perhaps 50 feet wide and 20 feet tall at its highest, obscured a section of the sea.  Siran blinked in surprise, as the fogbank slowly began to move, further and further down the coast in the opposite direction from where the two real ships were sailing.

After a few minutes, the largest elven ship seemed to pull in her sails, as her two smaller companions piled on canvas, and spun away from the _Spotted Pinnace_ and _Black Joke_ towards the now rapidly moving fogbank.

_They’re going after the fogbank._  Siran was miffed that the big ship wasn’t chasing the fog... they stood a better chance, he thought, against two smaller ships than one big one, but even now, at least they stood a chance.

“Boys!  Pull down the sails!  Make it look sloppy!” Siran shouted, not caring that the last part of the order probably wasn’t necessary.  _We need to look panicked, scared, as if we don’t know what to do... lure the big ship closer..._  “Helm, turn us 20 degrees to port!”  _Just enough that when we stop, our broadside will be facing the elven bastard...

Now... to hope that Rowena’s dog can go on long enough to keep those other elves away..._



Viktalia too, watched the large elven ship as it slowly made its way towards them, its triangular lanteen sails only half unfurled.

“Why are they coming so slowly?” she asked, annoyed and afraid.  _Do they suspect a trap?_  She hurriedly looked down, confirming that the _Spotted Pinnace_’s gunports were closed.  _How can they suspect a trap?  They’re whole-heartedly chasing down Rowena’s fogbank... but they’re only lazily coming this way!_

A few minutes later, the elven ship furled the last of its sails, and everyone on board the _Spotted Pinnace_ gave a collective groan.

_Dammit..._ Viktalia cursed, fear and adrenaline running through her veins.  _They know something is up!  They know it!_  At any moment, she expected the elven ship to use the last of its coasting speed to turn, bringing its long range guns to bear...

Instead, she heard Siran’s excited voice shout, “She’s dropping a longboat!”

_A longboat only has ten or twelve people on board.  Why are they dropping a longboat and sending it our way unless...

...they think we’re not worth the trouble of bringing their ship over?_

“They bought our merchant ruse!” Viktalia blurted out excitedly.  “They think we’re weak, so they’re only sending a longboat!”

“You really think so?” Siran asked guardedly, his spyglass on the tiny rowboat as it approached.  “There’s only eight people in the boat.  I don’t have a high opinion of elves, mind you, but elves can’t be that stupid.”

“These are... now what do we do about them?  If they get on board, they’ll know we aren’t merchant ships really...”

“We can’t use our cannon... that’s far to obvious to the mother ship, and she could call back the two others,” Siran thought aloud.  At the mentioning of the two others, Viktalia grabbed Siran’s telescope and checked.  The other elven ships were now racing around a small rock promontory, to the west of the town.  Quickly, they disappeared from sight.

“The other elven ships are gone,” Viktalia added.  _The large elven ship is quite far off... they might not see clearly if a few of us take pot-shots at the longboat when it draws near.  If that’s the case..._

“Siran, you think we should just shoot the longboat with some muskets?”  _It’d get rid of these slavers quickly!_  Now that she was sure the big ship wasn’t promptly ready to destroy them, and that she’d already had a taste of combat, Viktalia’s jitters were quickly disappearing.  “I think I could take out the one in front, whose wearing something shiny...”

“No,” the captain replied rather suddenly.

“No?  Why?  You just said they can’t board us!” Viktalia said in confusion.  “If they get on board...”

“They won’t,” the cleric grinned.  “I have something special for them.”

Slowly, agonizingly, Viktalia watched the longboat draw closer and closer.  As the longboat approached, Viktalia could make out its crew a little better... about ten elves manning the oars, each with a wicked curved scimitar and a pistol at each of their sides.  At the prow of the longboat stood a single officer, resplendent in full silver armor, a gold hilted longsword on his hip.  As the longboat closed, the officer raised a ship’s horn to his mouth.  It too was ornate, with ironically peaceful patterns of leaves across its commanding form.

“Heave to!” a lilting, almost darkly musical voice called, its accent twisted the words of Common into something strange.  “This is First Spear Elwin Midras of the elven ship _Mithril Seas_!  You are now our prize of war!  Heave your ships to, and prepare for boarding!  We will take you out to the _Mithril Seas_ where you will receive good treatment!”

_Good treatment?  Treatment as good as slaves?_ Viktalia wanted to growl, anger building up.  _You call burning a town good treatment!? Killing these people good treatment!?_  Itchily, the bard pulled out her pistol, hiding it behind her back.

“...resistance will be met with devastating firepower!  Heave to, and prepare to be boarded!”

“Prepare for boarding my ass!” snarled back under her breath.  She looked at Siran, expecting the captain to have his blunderbuss out already... but instead, the cleric was quietly praying on the deck of the ship.  Frustrated, Viktalia whipped out her own pistol and took aim.

“Prepare for this!” she shouted, aiming for the head of the officer.

And all hell broke loose.


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Oct 3, 2005)

Thanks for the update Emperor V.

I'm actually quite impressed with your players, as they now seem to be on to Plan C or is it D? Most groups I've DM'd or played in have resorted to "Oh ****, let's just attack" as soon as Plan A fails.


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## Emperor Valerian (Oct 14, 2005)

I'd like to apologize, but there's not going to be an update this week... look for another update next week however.


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## Emperor Valerian (Oct 18, 2005)

Short update tonight.  They were doing pretty good up until this point... around here the "Oh well, let's just attack" took over.  THey do have their limits. 

*****************************
*A Free for All*

In her haste, Viktalia’s aim was far wide... instead of hitting the elven officer, it slammed into the rear of the longboat.

Before she could even curse, however, the elf leader’s body snapped to the right unnaturally, blood flying from his back as he spun and began to fall to the boat’s deck.  As his crew looked on in stunned horror, a loud sharp _crrraaaack_ echoed above the midday sea...


Viesel hurriedly rammed another ball down the barrel of his rifle, his eyes keenly watching.  

_I missed,_ he grumbled to himself.  Sure, the target was over _800 feet_ away, sure, the wind had carried the bullet some, but the warforged didn’t care.  As the other sharpshooters gathered around him finally reacted and attempted shots of their own, he took aim at the lead elf...



“What the...” Viktalia started.  She looked over at Siran, but the cleric was still rigidly kneeling in place, his eyes closed fast in prayer.  _I didn’t do that... that elf was hit from behind...  Viesel?_ 

“Mont afo!” the elven commander shouted to the sailors in his own tongue.  Immediately, their stunned staring changed to action, some grabbing for their wounded leader, others brandishing pistols, and the rest putting their backs into rowing away as if their lives depended on it.  A split second later more gunshots rang out, as the elves opened up a ragged volley of pistol-shot.

Viktalia resisted the urge to duck as several of the bullets shot by her head.  _You’re second in command now... you can’t duck!  You have to act like you’ve been doing this your entire life!_  Instead, she hurriedly reloaded her pistol, as the elven longboat slowly turned towards the distant elven mothership.  As the Formoteran was taking aim with her pistol yet again, she heard a sharp yell, loud enough that her aim once again went wide.  

_Siran!_ she mentally yelled, and started to turn towards the cleric, when the sea itself underneath the elven longboat seemed to boil, as if a giant underwater was blowing bubbles.  The elven fire stopped, instead replaced with shouts and screams from those inside the ship.  For a second, Viktalia’s eyes caught the shape of something huge in the water, before the largest shark she’d ever seen, blue as the sea and fully as large as the elven boat, leapt from the water, its jaws agape.  The elven commander had only a moment to scream, before the beast snapped him within its jaws as it arced over the hapless elven boat.  With a crash of foam, spray, and blood, the behemoth summoned by Heraclius crashed back into the deep, dragging his armored prey down as well.

For a second, Viktalia started in shocked, stunned silence at the still foaming spot on the sea where the beast had disappeared, then she looked over towards Siran.  The cleric’s eyes were open, and he looked at her with a positively mischievous grin.

“I bet you didn’t see that coming?” the cleric offered, and Viktalia slowly shook her head in wonder.

_He made that... thing... jump from the water and grab the elven leader?!_  For a moment Viktalia gulped, wondering what other monsters Siran could summon through his saint, before her bardic mind took over.  _This would make for an excellent song... what should it be called...

The Priest of Sharks?  Nah... sounds just plain... corny...

Demise of the Elves, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Sharks?  Nah... too long..._

Her introspection was interrupted by another blast of boiling spray from the sea, as the giant shark returned, this time from directly underneath the longboat.  The elven craft seemed to momentarily lift into the air, before flipping over, dumping the entire crew of elves into the placid sea...

...with a shark that was easily close to twenty feet long...

_Maybe Elven Stew?_ Viktalia thought as the elves screamed and flailed in the water.



“Well, what else do you see doing!?” Siran shouted a few minutes later, and the cleric winced at seeing Kaled’s dark face across the water.  He cleared his throat, and continued.  “This is our chance to take out the big ship!  Her escorts still haven’t come back around, and they’re going to be right suspicious if we don’t at least act like we’re headed that way to surrender!  The longboat could’ve flipped in a freak accident,” Siran offered in a hopeful tone, even as distant _crrraaacks_ came from the hillside where Viesel and his sharpshooters were picking off the elves in the water, one by one.  “But if we don’t at least act like we’re surrendering, that elven ship’ll get suspicious, and sit out there, with her long guns, and just pound us to pieces!”

“I know!” Kaled shouted back from the _Black Joke_, his face dark and glowering.  “If your first mate hadn’t of opened fire on them, maybe you could’ve played it off as an accident!  Now, we just have to hope the elves were too far away to see the gunsmoke or hear the gunshots!”

For a moment, Siran turned and looked at Viktalia.  The bard’s face looked glum, even if she was still moving around the deck and giving orders as if nothing had happened.  Kaled’s tongue lashing had been rather harsh, even if it was from another completely different ship.

“She did what she thought was right!” Siran shouted back.  _She’s a smart woman... even if shooting at them might not have been a good idea, she saw there was a situation, and took action.  She needs to keep doing that._  “Cut her some slack!  She knew we couldn’t get boarded, and it was my fault for not saying what I was going to do!”

Siran couldn’t hear Kaled growl, but he could see from the Lieutenants expression that he wasn’t happy.  After a moment of glowering, the barrel-shaped Kaled leaned over the railing and merely waved... the signal to enact Siran’s impromptu plan...

_Plan C... or is it D?  No... I think its E..._ the cleric thought, barking orders to the crew to unfurl the sails and turn the ship towards the distant elven monster.

“Make it look slovenly!  Panicky!” Siran shouted up into the masts, as if the command had to be given.  Fear was apparent in the eyes of the crew... down to a man.  All had grown up hearing stories of the elves, their vindictiveness and cruelty.  Some even had relatives that were now in elven chains... or worse.  Once the first cannon shot rang out, all knew that no quarter would be given.

Slowly, even ponderously, the _Black Joke_ and _Spotted Pinnace_ swung their prows around, cutting through a sea that soon would no longer be quiet...


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Oct 18, 2005)

Emperor valerian said:
			
		

> Short update tonight.




Well any update is better than none.   



> They were doing pretty good up until this point... around here the "Oh well, let's just attack" took over.




And why not? It's usually the right answer. And even when it isn't, it's always FUN!!!


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## Emperor Valerian (Oct 28, 2005)

Next update will be this Sunday, the 30th... and it will hopefully be a lot longer than the last one.


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## Emperor Valerian (Oct 31, 2005)

*A Bloody Day*

_What are they doing?_ Viesel wanted to ask, as the two smaller human ships swung out to sea.  _If they go out that far... I won’t be able to help them..._  As it was, picking off the survivors of the elven longboat still in the water was near extreme range for even Viesel’s rifle.  The elven ship was far far beyond that, and slowly the warforged realized he wouldn’t be able to help this time...



Viktalia resisted the urge to instinctively duck as the dull roar of a cannonshot echoed over the ocean, a few seconds after a single puff of smoke came from the forwardmost gun on the elven warship.

_A warning shot,_ she realized, as the cannonball sailed high overhead, splashing into the sea far behind them.  _They’re trying to tell us that they mean business... but that shot was awfully high...

...They’re greedy,_ she told herself, _They don’t want to damage what they think will be their prize..._  Despite the reassuring thought that the elves wouldn’t pound them out of the water at long range, she still gulped on seeing the long row of red gunports that faced them, and the small army of figures dashing about on the elven deck.



Siran clenched his teeth only a few minutes later, as the long, low shape grew larger and larger, the elven xebec’s red gunports staring like the eyes of deaht itself peering into Siran’s soul.

“Chom a-sav!  Morae diskenn!”  Siran’s eyes flecked to the front of the huge elven ship, where several bright glints of silver denoted an officer with a ship’s-horn amongst the sea of bustling humanity on the ship’s deck.  Other flashes rippled across the elven deck, and Siran grimaced more.

_They’re handing out weapons... they’re expecting a fight now..._

“Hrik!  Are those guns loaded and ready!” Siran turned and barked.  _We’ll have one shot at this... figuratively speaking... Viktalia would kill me if she heard that pun..._

“Yessir!  Depressed down as far as they’ll go!” Hrik shouted back, and Siran turned to look at the elven ship before the excitable boy could say anything more.  Instead, he raised his telescope, and watched the elven decks.  More of the tall, willowy elves were on the deck, curved cutlasses, longswords and scimitars in the hands of many.  In the hands of others shone the polished steel barrels of muskets.

_Well, this is probably as close as we’re going to get... now... to time this just right._  Siran’s carefully eyed the other ship, the range falling more and more as his heart beat faster and faster... the nervousness just before the guns let loose and battle was joined.  If they turned too soon, they might not cause as much damage.  Too late, and they’d run into the elven ship before getting a shot off... if the elven ship didn’t realize the ruse and shot them first.  His gaze watched the elven captain, covered in bright silver armor, searching for any clues as to what the elf would do.  The elf was busy barking orders in his native tongue, his hands waving and gesturing to the oncoming _Spotted Pinnace_... all of which further unnerved the cleric.

_They’ve figured out that we aren’t quite as helpless as we might have seemed,_ Siran thought.  _Range is around 200 yards...Maybe we can get a little closer..._  Two hundred yards was close, but he wanted to be closer still... close enough that they wouldn’t hardly have to aim to hit the larger elven ship... close enough that they could board almost right after firing, while the elven crew was stunned...

Then Siran blinked... and cursed.

“Porus’ pisswater!” he swore, as one of the bright red gunports along the elven ship suddenly flipped open, and the long, golden, and angry barrel of a cannon now greeted his eyes.  _They know!  They know!_

“Let Fly!” he barked hurriedly.  _Please little boat... turn quickly, turn quickly!_ 

Nimbly, the _Spotted Pinnace_ lurched around to port, bringing her broadsides to bear as one by one, the elven gunports flew open...



Viktalia ducked as the deafening thunderclaps of the _Spotted Pinnace_’s guns successively roared through the air.  Only moments later, her still ringing ears made out the still load roar of other guns going off.  The air itself seemed to explode, and she felt the ship’s deck shudder under her, and splinters flash through her clothes.  After only a few seconds, the din died away, replaced by the moans of wounded men, and the noise of water lapping against the ship’s hull.

The Formoteran opened her eyes, and looked around in a sea of acrid smoke.  A huge part of the starboard railing was gone, and of the four crew manning that section of the ship, three lay on deck, bloody splinters coming from their bodies.  She winced when she saw the fourth... his mangled, headless torso lay close to the opposite side of the ship.  

_Holy..._ the frightened, still unsure Formoteran in her shouted, before her sterner side remembered she was now the First Mate, and there was work to do.  With all the willpower in the world, she forced herself to stand up.  In a performance worthy of the greatest theater, the bard then forced her gaze into one of business, not fear, and began to bark orders.

“Damage report!” she called into the smoke, walking towards the middle of the ship, hoping Siran was still up and around.  Her moment of fear passed when she heard the distinctly loud and sharp cursing of the cleric of war coming from the front of the ship.

“Mr. Yarls! Put our ship beside theirs as soon as you can!  Everyone else, get some weapons and get ready to skin some elves!”  He lumbered from the smoke, his face darkened with exertion and gunsmoke.



_They got off a broadside just as we did..._ Siran fumed, looking about the deck.  _I see four dead... seven injured... the mainmast looks like its seen better days,_ he winced, the shining black shape of a cannonball still imbedded deep in the base of the mast.  As the smoke began to thin, he began to make out the shape of the _Black Joke_, still following behind, now minus her mizzen-mast.  Her gunports were open, and over the noise of his own crew, Siran could hear Kaled barking orders to prepare for boarding.

_Good, they’re still there... we started with only thirty-five crew here... we’re going to need as much help as possible..._

The cleric then turned his eyes back towards the starboard, where he could now make out the long, low hulk of the huge elven warship.  Figures dashed about in the dark clouds of cannon smoke, and he could make out the silver-armored elf still barking orders, still well in command.

_They weren’t hurt that bad..._ he realized, looking at the side of the elven hull.  Large chunks of the railing were gone, and several of their cannons were visibly knocked from their moorings.  He could make out the gray robes of elven priests of the pagan god Corellon Latharian rushing about the deck, saving those they could.  _They still have alot of sailors and warriors..._

“Mr. Yarls!  Belay that order!” Siran turned and barked again.  _We have no topmen... we can’t pick them apart with musketry since Viesel and his sharpshooters aren’t here..._  “Helm, hard-a-starboard, immediately!  Viktalia!” the cleric’s gaze found the Formoteran helping some of the wounded crew below, “I want you to help the port guncrew!  Mr. Banis!  Double canister!”

_We have to sweep their decks clean if we want a chance..._ 

“Aye sir! Double canister!” the crewman in charge of the port guns shouted back, and Siran watched as Viktalia gave a quick salute before running over to help.  Even with the extra help that the other guncrew was giving, Siran winced when he saw only ten people reloading the guns.  _They’re going to be too slow..._

As the _Spotted Pinnace_ heeled to the starboard, Siran looked back at the elven ship.  _St. Heraclius... let my sailors reload quickly enough..._ he mentally prayed as the pinnace swung in an arc that would take her behind the elven ship, and into position to rake* her opponent.  If they were ready in time, every single piece of metal in their canister shot would rip apart a goodly number of elves... and even the odds...

Suddenly, Siran’s eyes caught something strange... an elf climbed on deck from below, clad in violet robes, not gray.

_Who is that?  A high priest of their pagan god?_ the cleric thought, trying to remember what the different robe color meant.  As he watched, the elf raised his hands towards the sky, and the elf’s long, thin fingers began to glow and shimmer...

_Healing spells don’t do that..._ Siran thought, the confusion turning into fear.  Only moments later, a tiny, bright bead formed between the elf’s hands... and Siran finally, belatedly, realized what was happening.

“Dammit!  They have a mage!” Siran cursed as the tiny white bead grew quickly.  Instantly, the deck of the _Black Joke_ exploded into a sea of flames, a massive explosion blowing her mast high into the sky...




Viktalia stood rooted in her spot for a moment, as the _Black Joke_ transformed into a raging inferno before her eyes.  She then worriedly looked back at the elven ship, to the robed man who’d launched the unthinkable destruction.  _An elf that can do THAT?_  She knew the elves were powerful in magic... but knowing something and seeing it for the first time were two entirely different things...

“Take him down!  Take him down!” Siran shouted, pulling out his blunderbuss pistol and firing despite the hopeless range.  

_If Viesel was here..._ the Formoteran thought angrily, drawing her own weapon as the crew opened up with pistols, their shots flying wide.  Just as before, the elf’s hands began to faintly shimmer and glow... and this time, his eyes were directed seemingly _at her.

We’ve got to shoot him!_ she realized numbly as her body went into action, as if by instinct.  She’d watched for many years how men of war used their pistols – it seemed a good skill to have when travelling, at the very least for personal protection – and she carefully knelt on the foredeck, bringing her free arm up to brace her gun arm for its shot.  

_Time it..._ she told herself, waiting through the pitch and roll of the ship, as it splashed closer to the elven vessel.  Finally, when she thought she had the shot, she gently squeezed the trigger.

And cursed, as the head of the elf clad in bright silver, standing next to the mage, exploded into a sea of red.  She’d hit a target, but not the one she wanted... and it seemed as if nothing would stop the mage from launching his fiery magic on the _Spotted Pinnace..._

As his hands glowed brighter and brighter, she saw a bead begin to take shake between his palms, growing larger and larger.

She jumped out of her skin when she heard the explosion right next to her ear...


===================================
*Rake – A ‘rake’ is probably the deadliest manuever in sailing warfare.  Most wooden ships have heavily timbered sides... in many cases thick enough that in real life, cannonballs could – and did – merely bounce off instead of penetrate the hull.  However, most ships did not have as heavy of timbers on the stern of the vessel... many had instead the captain’s cabin, with wide, brittle windows.  Cannon shot would punch through with ease.  Doubling the danger, any cannon shots that were fired into a ship’s stern would bounce down the length of the target, killing men and destroying guns along the way.  Often, a single raking broadside could cripple an otherwise untouched enemy vessel.


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## ThoughtfulOwl (Oct 31, 2005)

Question time!   

Rowena couldn't find a cure for her curse even with a boatload of money at her disposal; a wizard casting _fireball_ was a big surprise and was dubbed as 'powerful'; magic in general seems rarely taken into account by people. Which leads to the question: did magic decline in the 6 centuries since your previous story hours? Or is magic just scarce in this specific region?


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## Emperor Valerian (Oct 31, 2005)

To answer your questions:

1) Rowena made the mistake of talking to a con-man, a charlatan, and paying him before any "treatment" was to begin.  There probably was some magic involved in his sudden disappearance soon after (probably giggling with his stolen loot).

2) The party is still fairly low level... the only one among the three that would have seen any extensive battlefield magic would have been Siran... Viesel was, most of the time, working in salvage work after the battle had ended, and while Viktalia would have _known_ of such spells as a bard, she likely wouldn't have seen any in action before.

Magic is still very much around... I'm just trying to capture what still low-level characters might have felt on seeing this (or, in Viesel's case, not seeing).


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## ThoughtfulOwl (Oct 31, 2005)

Emperor Valerian said:
			
		

> Magic is still very much around... I'm just trying to capture what still low-level characters might have felt on seeing this (or, in Viesel's case, not seeing).




Well, you certainly succeeded. You have a good talent for immersive descriptions.


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Nov 1, 2005)

Nice update Emperor V. It's just like reading Patrick O'Brian ... apart from the elves ... and the half fruit bat people ... and the animated iron men ... and the fireballs.


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## Emperor Valerian (Nov 10, 2005)

*A Bloody Day Part Two*

_I’m not dead?_

Viktalia opened her eyes, and looked towards the elven ship.

The spellcaster, his robes still flowing in the wind, seemed to just hang in the air, his eyes wide in surprise.  Only after a moment did her confused eyes then notice the huge spot of red spreading across his chest.

“Damn... I missed his head!” a familiar voice cursed, and Viktalia spun around.

“Hrik?”

The young teen didn’t turn his head to face her, all his energies instead were focused on reloading the musket that clearly was not his (in fact, it was almost as tall as he was).  Viktalia then turned back to the elven ship as the _Spotted Pinnace_ lurched closer.  The robed spellcaster was no where to be seen, yet a bright red splotch of blood remained on the elven mainmast, just behind where he’d been standing.

_Maybe Hrik has some other uses we don’t know about..._ she thought, reloading her pistol as quickly as she could and bullets from the elven muskets whizzed around her.  Another crewman fell back just feet from her, part of his head taken away by a musketball.

_We’re getting close,_ she realized, as the pinnace cut inside the wake of the larger elven ship.  She looked towards the bow, and for a moment, watched mutely as Siran barked orders and fired his blunderbuss at the elven ship.  Finally, the pinnace drew just behind the elven warship, and Siran spun around.

“Fire as she bears!”

One by one, each of the cannons on the pinnace fired as they came in line with the great windowed stern of the elven ship, spitting death and destruction down the length of the larger warship. As the guns roared, Viktalia felt her teeth click from the concussion, but she didn’t flinch... an act that surprised her.  The sounds of wood splintering, screams, and shattered glass from the stern galleries melding together into a horrendous roar, before dying away in the heavy pall of smoke.

“Hard to port!” Siran called, and the _Spotted Pinnace_ swung sharply around the larger ship, before her bow crashed into the elven ship’s starboard side, and armed with her pistol and her knives, Viktalia was among the first to clamber aboard the shattered enemy ship.

Only moments later, she shivered involuntarily at what she saw and heard.

The deck of the elven ship seemed to _move_, an undulating sea of arms and legs clawing around as cries of agony rose in the air.  It seemed every elf on deck had been cut down in the blasts of canister, the deck swept almost clean of life.  As she took another step forward, her legs slid under her, and she desperately grabbed the remains of the ship’s railing to keep from falling.  It wasn’t until she looked down that she realized she’d slipped on the blood that covered the entire deck in a sticky, slippery mess.

“Keep alert,” she heard Siran growl, the cleric rudely kicking one of the dead elves out of his way.  His eyes looked about quickly, hawkish, as if he expected a trap.

_Alert for what?_ Viktalia wanted to ask, as she stepped over a headless elf.  _They’re all not just dead... they’re in pieces!_  She could feel her stomach starting to turn.  Hearing of mass violence among the humans and elves was one thing, but seeing it in person...

_They were slavers,_ she reminded herself, as the carnage engulfed her sight.  _They deserve far worse fates than this._  Her shock slowly ebbed, and her anger returned.

Her reverie was broken by a loud shout, a call.  She turned her head around, just in time to see Siran level is blunderbuss at a group of figures in the gloom.  Quickly, her own pistol was aimed as well, until she noticed how slowly the figures were moving.

_If they were attacking, why wouldn’t they be running, and ducking behind cover?_  It made no sense... until the first of the figures came close enough that she could see him entirely.

The elf was covered head to toe in blood, bits of gore still stuck in his hair, knotting its long strands.  In one hand, he waved slowly a white kerchief.  His other arm was bent at an odd angle, and plainly broken.

“We...s...surrender,” the elf slowly spoke, his mouth wrapping around the Common tongue as well as a wooden peg into a steel beam.  As the other figures shuffled forward, she made out their pitiful state as well.  All were wounded, and all shared the same look of dejection.

“Take us to your slaves,” Viktalia growled, her gun leveled.



“Good god,” Siran said a few minutes later, before quickly covering his mouth with a kerchief.  The stench was overpowering after the elves, under the threat of guns, opened the hatch to the ship’s lower hold.  One of them jabbered quietly in elvish to their comrade capable of Common.

“First Mate say this where slaves are,” the elf translated, gesturing towards the black hole from whence the smell came.   “They taken care of,” the elf offered in a hopeful tone, his eyes speaking of fear,  “we feed, care for them!”

“Somehow I don’t believe you,” Siran growled back, before stepping down into the hold.  _If you’ve been taking care of them, why are they all stored..._

His mind stopped when his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the cleric felt bile racing up his throat.  It took all the willpower in his heart to keep from retching on the spot.

Bent, chained side-by side along the edges of the hull, were the broken and bent forms of hundreds of slaves.  In the gloom, they looked almost as shadows, yet the light from his lantern caught in each of their eyes, dancing in hundreds of tiny dots before him.  Men, women, children, all stared at the human that now was in their midst.  

_Beasts!_ Siran’s eyes flashed upwards, where the elf was still standing, his face in a plaintively hopeful smile, a look that only made the cleric even more enraged.  _You grin while all these people are chained up like cattle!_

“Unlock them!” the cleric hissed, his voice dangerously quiet.  The elf’s hopeful face fell, and fearfully he clambered down into the darkness.  As the first mutters and quiet cheers began to rise, Siran heard a series of clanks as the chains were unlocked.

“All of you that can move, come to the upper decks!” Siran called.  “You’re free now, but we’re going to need the help of those of you that are able-bodied!”

As the frightened elf unlocked the last slave, Siran met his fearful green eyes.  Hands began to grab for the cleric, and even as he heard the blessings and thanks, his mind was already at work.

_There’s still two more elven ships to deal with, and I think the slaves would relish the chance for some revenge..._



“Captain Rapp?”

Siran lowered his telescope and turned.  One of the healthier slaves, a former blacksmith named Barr, stood before him, nervously fidgeting.

“What is it?” Siran replied.  The healthiest slaves had spent the last hour helping Viktalia and the crew load the cannon on their new prize, while Siran had tried to help the less fortunate as best he could.  He’d finally had to come on deck when crewmen came down, saying the last two elven ships were finally returning from their wild chase of a phantom cloud of fog.  While they were still far off, the two elven ships were drawing closer as they spoke.

“I think them twelve elves over there, they’re plannin’ somethin’,” the ex-slave whispered, before looking to the bow of the ship.  Siran followed his gaze, to the twelve elves that had lived through the devastating broadside, tied up in a small group.  

“They’ve been a-whisperin’, and I thinks they’ve gots some magics,” the blacksmith continued.  “When we were below, they were always a-braggin’ they could snuff us out with their magics n’such.”

_Great.  Elves are supposedly magical creatures... though if they were going to attack with magic, they would’ve done so already.  No... they’re probably trying to think of a way to warn the other two ships.

Time to stop that plan._

“I’ll put an end to it, don’t worry,” Siran growled, before walking over to the elven group.  Just as he came up, one of the elves that didn’t speak Common looked him defiantly in the eye, then spat out something harsh in elvish.

“You!” Siran kicked the elf that had been able to speak Common.  When the elf looked up at him, all the cleric saw was that hopeful smile.  _’We took good care of the slaves!’_ it bragged.  Before the hopeful smile could return, Siran levelled his pistol with the elf’s forehead.

“Tell your friends here that until I give further notice, there is to be no elvish spoken on this ship!” Siran rumbled.  _I won’t have you casting any magic or plotting anything behind my back._  “And the next time I hear any of you speaking _any_ elvish, so help me, I will rip out your toenails and stuff them in your eyes before I shoot you!”

The elf’s eyes widened at his words, and his thin elven mouth dropped to the deck.

“Tell them now,” Siran shoved the pistol into the elf’s head, “or, I’ll make an example out of you!”

That provoked a quick response.  Siran couldn’t track what was said in elvish, but he was sure the message got across when he saw the other elves eyes widen in fear, their gazes flashing between the translator and himself.

_Just feel lucky that I haven’t keel-hauled you all!_ the cleric thought darkly as he started to turn around.  Then, he stopped, another idea entering his mind.

“Barr,” he turned to the blacksmith, “on second thought.  Let’s lock these elves below in their own chains.”  He flashed a withering, malicious smile towards the gaggle of frightened elvish eyes.  “I think that’s much more fitting.”



It took over an hour for the elven ships to close, long enough that Siran, Viktalia, the crew and the slaves were able to huddle below the railings and behind boxes.  Some of the slaves had armed themselves with weapons from the dead, but far more were completely unarmed.

_A broadside... then a mad rush when they try to board,_ Siran recited the plan to himself.  It was madcap.  _Then again, so was this plan... and we have the biggest elven ship now._

“Steady,” Siran hissed, both to his own crew and the escaped slaves.  _We need them to get closer..._  Slowly, the two smaller elven ships drew closer to their supposedly mothership, their sails only half raised.  Siran could see sailors bustling about their decks, the officers lounging, not expecting combat.

_Just a few more seconds..._ 

 Just then, his eyes caught the eyes of the captain of the nearest elven ship.  The elf’s eyes suddenly widened... all the encouragement Siran needed.

“Now!” he leapt up, leveling his captured elven musket.  He never got a chance to fire, as below the crews let the ten elven cannon open up at nearly point blank range into their hapless targets.  One second, two small elven vessels were sailing placidly on the sea.  The next, the sea was obscured by a massive cloud of smoke, and Siran could hear the cracking noises of masts and timbers breaking.

Then there was a flash.

For a moment, Siran saw only white, spots coming to his eyes as if he’d been looking into the sun.  The sheer noise of the explosion was so loud that Siran felt, more than heard it.  The blast forced the smoke away, and even the veteran cleric’s jaw dropped.

One of the elven ships was completely gone, nothing more than a smoke pall and floating timbers to record it had ever existed.  Her sistership was ablaze from bow to stern, and already rolling to the side in her death throes.

“Sonuva...” he complained, sliding his pistol back into his belt with a sigh.  “I didn’t get to shoot any of them!”


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## Emperor Valerian (Nov 20, 2005)

*Healing*

Viktalia closed her eyes, wishing as hard as she could to keep the tear she knew was forming in her eye from rolling down her cheek.

She failed.

With a sigh, she opened her eyes, and looked across the waters towards the still burning remains of the _Black Joke_, the battered cromster only barely afloat.  The bulk of the devastating elven broadside had been directed at the larger cromster, as had the elven sorcerer’s _fireball_.  After the destruction of the last of the elven ships, the attention of all went back to their stranded comrades on board the _Black Joke_, only to see the vessel awash in flames.

The last rowboat of survivors from the shattered ship had arrived only a few minutes before, and despite her furious search, Viktalia had seen no sight of Kaled.  She’d gone so far as to use her wings to take aloft, to search the stern of the _Black Joke..._ the last place any of the survivors had seen the Lieutenant... to no avail.

“The sea claimed him,”one of the sailors said quietly, as if reading her thoughts.  She heard grunts of agreement from others beside her, and slowly, she nodded in silence. 

“Ma’am, are you going to write a song about us?” one of the burned survivors from the _Black Joke_ called to her.  She turned and nodded sadly, even as her bardic mind was thinking of words she could use in verses about Kaled and his ‘brave death.’

_This is the kind of death sailors hope for... die bravely defending others?_  Humans all too often worshiped a ‘brave death.’  She’d seen that by the demands of the townspeople before the battle, by the song requests of thousands in taverns she’d visited in her travels.  She shook her head.  

Formoteria was a land that celebrated the vibrance of life, the sanctity of living things.  Killing was necessary, when one needed to defend oneself or one’s family or friends, but it was always viewed as something tragic, not something to be celebrated, and she found it troubling how easily the humans and elves seemed to be able to slaughter each other with wanton abandon.  Part of her shuddered, remembering the excitement that had gone through her veins just before the fight began... and that _she_ was the first to fire a shot.

_They were slavers... they deserved this,_ Viktalia told herself, watching mutely as some of the escaped slaves rudely shoved elven bodies, living and dead, overboard.  Despite that convinction, part of her was shattered by the bloody mess on this deck... and the burned, charred mess she found on the deck of Kaled’s ship.

“You alright?” she heard a voice ask.  She wiped her eyes, then turned, to find a bloodstained Siran looking at her, worry on his face.  Dark brown lines, congealed cuts, covered his face from where splinters from the elven broadside had hit him.  She didn’t say anything, but turned to face Kaled’s broken ship.  Wordlessly, he followed her gaze.

“He fought hard,” Siran said softly, “I’m going to miss him too.”



About a half hour later, Siran gave a broad grin as the battered elven mothership was towed into the small harbor of Tarnpool by the _Spotted Pinnace._  The cleric had already thought of a name for the new ship... _Deathblow_  (Yes, they picked to name the ship _Deathblow_.  *shrug*).  His expert eyes could already pick out that given a week or two, enough repairs could be done that the new vessel would be seaworthy... but that the mainmast and some of the bulkheads were so badly damaged that she’d have to put into a major port.

“You left me!” he heard a booming voice yell, and he had to smile at Viesel, despite the warforged’s scowl and crossed titanic arms.  Behind and beside him stood the sharpshooters and topmen, all rather miffed at having missed the action.

“Hey, you said you do salvaging?!” Siran called back, before pointing out to sea, “We didn’t leave you behind with nothing to do!  There’s three ship’s full of stuff out there that needs salvaging over the next week!”  

The cleric swore he saw the warforged suppress a smile.  _He wants to be useful,_ Siran grinned back.

His eyes then looked over, and on the other side of the dock was a small gaggle of townspeople, two of their strongest carrying the linen and silk wrapped form of Rowena between them.  As he watched, the lady raised a silk hand, and weakly waved.

_Oh no... she hurt herself using magic I bet,_ Siran groaned.  _That fog cloud she made taxed her..._

Once the _Deathblow_ was alongside the pier, Siran clambered down, and made his way over to her through a mob of thankful townspeople.  Even as she stood weakly before him, Siran heard Viktalia calling to the mob, and soon the two of them were left alone.

_She looks so weak..._ Siran thought pitifully.  _I need to help her..._

“Captain Rapp... I do not know how to thank you,” Rowena began slowly, her voice coming in wheezing breaths.  “You and your crew saved my father’s town from the slavers before they could inflict more harm... I shall forever be in your debt.  Please...” she waved weakly, “stay as long as you need...”

“Milady, is your malady bothering you?” Siran asked.  “I may not be able to cure it, but perhaps I can help...”

The green eyes behind the silver mask sharpened suddenly.  “Others said the same...”

“Here... let me at least try,” Siran said.  “Maybe I can set you at ease, milady.”

“Are you going to be like the others?” she asked, a sniffle coming from under her silk and silver mask.  “Fleece me, then do nothing?”  A tinge of anger came into her wet, sickly voice.

“No,” Siran shook his head.  “I have no idea if this will work, so it’d be unfair to charge you... but if I can help cure at least _some_ of your disease, it’d be worth the effort,” he said with a smile.  “Besides, it is the least I can do in return for the kindness you’ve shown me and my crew.”

She looked down for a moment, before her silver face looked up, her tired green eyes looking into his own.  “Alright,” she said finally, “tell me what I have to do.”

Gently, Siran placed one head on the top of her silver mask, the other in the center of her chest, right over her heart.  Part of him felt sickened as he felt the flesh slip and slide under her silk, as if there was nothing anchoring it to her muscle and bone.  _She’s worse off than she even showed us..._

He closed his eyes.  _Perhaps the battlefield cure will help her... I know she hasn’t suffered in a battle, but perhaps Heraclius will be kind and intercede on our behalf..._

“Repeat after me,” he commanded, before going into the ancient Prayer of the Warrior, one reputedly first said by the Emperor Valeron on the field six hundred years before.  “Most Holy One, I beseech you, to guide my blade straight and true in these troubled days of war and strife.”  _Okay, that section wasn’t too relevant for her, but I’m working there..._  “Today I stand before you in a war to heal the evil that has been impregnated into my fellow warrior.”  _Rowena as a warrior?  Ha!  Only thing she’s done is make a fog cloud!_  “I pray you bless my efforts to purge my comrade of the disease that evilly wracks her bones, and that this campaign will make her a vessel, complete and pure, for your work.”

Suddenly, Siran stopped.  He felt something warm, even hot, burning on the tips of his fingers. His eyes snapped open, expecting to witness the ends of his fingers burning as Heraclius and The Holy One expressed their anger at his use of this prayer.  Instead, he saw the ends of his fingers softly glowing, the light penetrating Rowena’s silk, giving her outline a soft, yellow shine.

_Hmm?_ He wrinkled his brow... his hands weren’t burning, but they were glowing hot.  Slowly, he realized that divine healing power was flowing through him, and into her.  He closed his eyes, praying harder and harder.  _Even if this doesn’t cure her, if it can set her more at ease, Saint Heraclius, then it will be a campaign won!_

When his prayer was finished, he opened his eyes, and removed his hands.  For a few moments, Rowena’s outline seemed to glow, before the yellow light surrounding her dissipated.  He saw her green eyes flick wide open, surprise in their depths.

_She’s surprised that even some healing happened,_ Siran thought sourly.  _Damn charlatans making honest priests look bad!_

Gingerly, she reached down, and pulled off part of her glove, and for a second, Siran saw a patch of clear skin, before a muffled yelp made him look back up at her face.  Her gloved hands flew upwards, and suddenly snatched off the silver mask that had covered her face for so long.

What Siran saw made his jaw drop to the street.

He’d hadn’t expected his magic to work... Heraclius wasn’t known for his healing powers as much as his ability to maim and kill, and Siran fully expected some boils, pus, or other maladies to remain.  And even if they were all healed, Siran had seen noble women before in the Empire... inbred, not altogether that attractive, rather average save for the silks, gold, and incense that surrounded them.

Instead, he saw a pair of green eyes, deeper than the forest, gleaming at him.  Supple lips vibrant and as red as the purest rose, and a perfect complexion on a face that came straight from a master sculptor.  Under the silk cap covering her head, Siran could see dark strands of jet black hair poking out, hanging like a thin veil over her face.

“I...um...”  _Uh...um..._ he stammered, aloud and in his mind. _Holy sisters of Anias! She’s... I...um..._

The red lips parted, and a set of perfect white teeth gleamed at him as she laughed, then grabbed him, pulling him into an embrace.  She cleric caught the smell of silk as she hugged him, giggling and laughing, and the cleric had to smile as he felt an ample bosom pressing against his chest.  

“Thank you!  Thank you thank you thank you!”  she almost screamed into his ears, hopping up and down for several minutes, her voice sounding like a babbling brook... and finally, Siran’s mind caught a hold of itself.

_Siran old boy!_ he thought to himself, as he returned the hug, and found more and more nice dimensions, _JACKPOT!_

When she finally pulled back from the hug, she was still beaming, glee and joy all over her face.  “What can I ever do to repay you, Siran Rapp!  You’ve given me back something that even the charlatans in Port Esther could not!”

Siran’s eyes momentarily went down to the chest that had been pressed against his, and his eyes got a glee of their own, even if he put on his best act to keep his face straight.  

_Here’s your chance, old buddy!_ part of his mind was jumping up and down with joy now.  _A catch like HER!?  What do you THINK your reward should be?!  She’s obviously very excited, so you shouldn’t have to do too much work!!_

For a second, words hung on Siran’s lips, but then suddenly he frowned.  Another, quieter voice inside him, one that he’d only heard rarely, stepped to the front.  A conscience...

_Siran... you’re a holy priest... even if your saint is Heraclius.  You know what is right here... don’t take advantage of the poor thing!  She’s obviously not thinking normally, and...

So what?!_ his normal brain shot back angrily.  _If she wants to let you see what’s under that silk right now, go for it!  And you saved some gold since you didn’t have to buy dinner or flowers, or waste time writing silly poetry!_

_Do you know what could happen if you anger a noblewoman!?_ his conscience shot back.  _Sleep and leave her, and she’ll hunt you down like a dog!  Besides..._ the more polite side of his mind seemed to clear its throat, _You know that sleeping with her right now is most definitely not the right thing to do.  Heraclius might not care, but I am certain The Holy One would..._

“Siran?”  Rowena’s smiling face changed into a look of confusion.

“Oh!” Her words, spoken as if from a bubbling mountain stream, broke his thoughts.  “I... um... was just thinking...” he stammered, his mind still wracked with the argument.  “Um... well... it was my pleasure to help... and...um...”

He paused for a moment, before smiling broadly.

“I’ll let you pick my reward,” he said in his most devilish voice, complete with a raised eyebrow.  A tiny part of him though there might be a slap in reply to his question... it’d happened often enough.  Instead, Rowena smiled, and pulled him down to her lips.

For several moments, Siran was in heaven.  He’d never kissed someone that was that good at their art... which completely caught him by surprise.  When she pulled back, all smiles, he caught himself wishing she would’ve kept kissing... and not complaining that she didn’t take off her bodice in the process.

“There is your reward, Siran Rapp,” she said with a smile, “and since you claimed no more, you shall also have my eternal gratitude and debt.  Should you need anything, I shall be always more than willing to assist you.”

_I certainly need something alright!_ Siran thought, feeling something down below that could soon prove awkward.  He shifted his legs.

“Thank you milady,” he said, his mind still in conflict, “but seeing you restored is reward enough.”  He watched her smile at his feigned gallantry... and he started to smirk ever so slightly.

_There!  Nice compromise!  See Mr. Conscience, I can be good... all the while setting up the groundwork for something later on if she chooses!_

Siran grinned brightly.

==============================

Siran's player asked if he could _Remove Curse_ on Rowena... and it worked... so now he has a  beautiful noble woman deeply in his debt...


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## Emperor Valerian (Dec 4, 2005)

I apologize for how slow the updates are becoming... unfortunately, its approaching the end of the semester here, and papers are getting quite nerve-wracking.

*Leaving Tarnpool, for war.*

“Alright,” Siran growled, feeling the slimy bowels of the ship beneath his feet, “How did you get these fine cannon!”

Since their arrival in harbor, the crew had been busy repairing as much of the damage on the _Deathblow_ and _Spotted Pinnace_ as possible in Tarnpool’s small and poor harbor.  Yet even as hammers and nails went into place above rebuilding the ship, Siran was at work below attempting to rebuild the story of why these elves were raiding this town.

And, more alarmingly, why these elves had _excellent_ guns and _excellent_ cannon.  While pound for pound they were among the best warriors alive, elves weren’t supposed to have _any_ weapons of either sort... they still prized their longbows, the weapons of their pagan god, Corellon Latharian.  They were supposed to shun human weapons as ‘unmanly’ and ‘demeaning.’

If the elves in general had thrown their silly superstition aside, and seized on the idea of superior technology...

“They are our guns!” one of the highest ranking survivors, the ex-quartermaster of the elven ship, spat back, the chains that used to hold his slaves holding him back from doing anything further.  “We don’t fear you, human!  Take us to the elven embassy, immediately!”

_Fat chance I’ll do that!_  The elves were also notorious sticklers for diplomatic protocol... if any elf in human lands went amok, the elves immediately demanded his return to their homeland, to ‘face charges.’  Every human who wasn’t an idiot knew that no punishment ever occurred.  _I guess I’ll just have to persuade them to talk..._

With a snap of his hand, he wrapped his spiked chain around his gloved fist, and before any of the elves could even yell, he smashed the iron mass into the face of the quartermaster.  There was a sickening crunch as the man went limp, his face nothing but a mass of bloody gore.  When Siran turned back to the other elves, their faces had gone almost ashen white.

“The humans gave us the guns!”

“Which humans?” Siran asked sharply, before adding, “I don’t believe you.”  _If you’re lying to me, so help me, I’ll..._

“The ones from Kandor, sir!” the same elf shrieked, shrinking back as far as his chains would allow him.  “Kandor!  They want us to fight against the other humans with their guns!”

_Kandor hmm?_  Siran frowned.  Kandor, indeed, was at war with the Empire in the sibling spat that had occupied human attentions for so long, and they were known as cutthroats... the ship that had been Kaled’s grave was a Kandoran ship.  _But to go to a level like this?!  Giving our superior weapons to the elves, our common enemy!?_



“So Kandor’s giving the elves guns and cannon,” Viesel rumbled.  It made sense in his mind.  _An enemy of an enemy is my friend... and humans are notorious for recruiting allies from former foes, only to attack former allies._  Elves, from his limited experience around them, were the same way.  _Humans and elves are comrades in more ways than they give themselves credit..._

“So that means the elves are going beyond slavery?” Viktalia asked, her eyes wide.  

_Her eyes are always wide.  She is a superior officer, but she has the mind of a recruit,_ Viesel sighed.  _Time will give her experience.  Since she’s full of ambushes, she will become a good veteran someday._

“To war, it seems,” Siran replied quietly in the dim light of the captain’s cabin aboard the _Deathblow_.  The planks beneath their feet were brand new, as were most of the wall bulkheads and supports.  The previous captain, as well as most of his belongings, had been obliterated in the _Spotted Pinnace’s_ broadside.  “At least against the Empire, but I haven’t met an elf yet that wasn’t opportunistic.  My guess is that they’re going to run far and wide with these new guns and cause as much trouble as they can.”

“A good soldier would seize this advantage,” Viesel agreed.  _Elves are very good soldiers.  Disciplined and tough.  I do not understand why these humans view them as cowards and ‘pansies,’ to use the Captain’s term._  “They will strike hard when they are ready, and if their weakest slave-ship has cannon, their fleets will have cannon too.”

The fourth person seated at the table looked downward, worry in her blue eyes.  “If the elves are here with armed slavers, I assume they will continue at least that when they head to war.”  Rowena looked back up, some steel somewhere in her beautiful eyes.  “Someone needs to go to Port Esther, and warn the King that an elven storm is about to descend on us!”

Viesel hadn’t known the woman long enough to form an opinion of her, but he found himself nodding.  “Port Esther is a base for many salvagers.  Therefore it would have many repair docks as well.  We could go there and repair this ship with proper equipment while our comrade warns her superiors of the elven...”

Yet before Viesel even finished speaking, he saw his Captain staring at Rowena, and he realized he didn’t need to finish his advice.  _Captain Siran wishes to mate with her... and human males will sometimes do anything to do such things.  Even if it is the right choice._

Viesel let out a deep, throaty snicker.

Some minutes later, the warforged watched as Siran and Rowena stood side by side on the bow of the ship, though just as Siran started to move his hands towards her for an embrace, she stepped away and darted to the ship’s side, calling out to someone on-shore.  Soon she was clambering off the ship, talking with several town leaders, while Siran stood, rather dejected, at the ship’s bow.

“Do you think he’ll ever catch her?” Viesel heard Viktalia’s voice next to him.

“I do not know the answer,” Viesel admitted.  _Humans are too complex in their mating customs.  It would be far simpler if they asked one another if mating was appropriate, then mate.  They could then devote their time to making things more efficient._  He looked down towards his arm.  _Like creating new warforged equipment I could use._

“What’s the matter with your arm?” Viktalia suddenly asked.  “And don’t say nothing’s wrong, I saw you looking at it oddly.”

_She is vigilant,_ Viesel admitted.  “I was merely thinking that if humans used faster, more efficient mating rituals, that they could then devote some time to building new warforged components.”  He saw no reason to hide that thought from a superior officer, and was taken aback when Viktalia started laughing.

“What is humorous about my statement?” Viesel asked, alarmed.  _Did I violate a human social code?  Was I being upsetting?_

“Ha!” Viktalia tried to breathe, and spoke only with difficulty, “You don’t know how many hapless young men would like it to be ‘more efficient!’”  She broke into laughter again, words only coming from her mouth in a sputter.  “Every time Siran looks at her, he’s wishing for ‘efficiency’!”

“I do not think I will ever understand you, or your humanoid rituals,” Viesel said quietly into the night.



“That can’t be good at all.”

“What can’t be good?” Siran asked, looking out across the bow about two weeks later.  Sails filled the horizon, as a white sheet, a sign of the hundreds of ships waiting to enter the mammoth harbor of Port Esther.  Where Siran saw safety, Viesel had evidently seen something alarming.

“That,” Viesel pointed, and Siran’s eyes followed the metallic arm off into the sea of sails.  One particular set of sails was darting closer to them with blazing speed, her national flag obscured by the sea of white from her masts.

“Someone’s coming to greet us.  So?” Siran shrugged.  “News probably got here from fishermen and the like that we rescued Tarnpool from slavers.  We _were_ stuck there for a week with repairs.”  _They’re probably going to send us straight to some high ranking person who will shower us with gifts...

...I hope some of it is alcohol!_

As the ship closed, Siran began to make out her size... she was a frigate, a royal warship.

“Hey!  They’re sending a frigate towards us!  Maybe the royal government sent out someone special to talk to us!  Maybe a member of the royal family itself!” he happily pronounced.  _Otherwise, they’d keep a vessel of this size patrolling the harbor, I would think..._

Sleek and low, the ship screamed an ancestry birthed in war.  Gunports crowded her sides, twenty running down each side of her hull.  Her trim sides were painted light blue, a slash of navy running down the length of her long gundeck.  As she swept down upon them, the white and blue flag of Kubalia snapped from her masts.  Siran’s excitement fell, when he noticed all along her navy gundeck, gunports flew open, and the deadly shapes of her forty cannon came into view.

“Holy...” he heard Viktalia hiss.

“They’re planning to attack us,” Viesel said dryly.  “Why, I don’t understand.  Perhaps you misunderstood their intentions captain.  It appears they are ambushing us.”

“We’re screwed,” Siran said to himself, confusion in his mind.  _Forty guns!  At least!  A frigate like that could crush us with one broadside!  

Why aren’t they greeting us with palm arms and cheers!  We saved one of their towns!_

The large ship drew closer to them, and finally Siran could make out the officers in charge, clad in naval braids and blue uniforms, clustered near the bow of the frigate.  One of them took out a speaking trumpet.

“Heave to, and prepare for to recieve a longboat!”

“This is not good,” Siran said, watching the deadly frigate draw closer, the long black shapes of its many guns studding the length of its hull...



Viktalia sighed as the _Deathblow_ and _Spotted Pinnace_ complied, striking their sails and turning into the wind until they slowed to a crawl.  The comparatively massive frigate pulled up between them, dropping anchor to block the two ships from each other.  After a few moments, a longboat with only two rowers and a well dressed gentleman left the side of the warship, and slowly came alongside the _Deathblow_.

“This is a rather unusual vessel for a human crew,” the puffish envoy spoke as the longboat touched the side of the _Deathblow_.  Up close, the man did not appear to be overly fat, but instead gave off an air of lethargic laziness as he slowly lumbered up the ladder and onto the ship’s deck.  As soon as he was aboard, his eyes slowly took in the ship’s layout, then narrowed.

“How _exactly_ did you come into possession of this vessel?” he asked, rather sharply, a tone that took Viktalia aback.  

_I thought Kubalia was no friend of the elves... why would anyone be concerned as to where this boat came from?  ‘A good elf is a dead elf’ and all that?  Something’s not right here..._

“We found it,” Siran replied, crossing his arms.  Viktalia groaned.

_THAT didn’t sound dishonest at all!_ she thought sarcastically, and she flashed an angry look at the captain.  _We can’t make him angry!  He’s an official envoy...

...and he has that huge frigate backing him up..._

“Ah... a prize by abandonment,” the official replied, a smirk coming onto his face before he placed his hands behind his back and slowly began to walk to the middle of the deck.  “I am _sure_ that the previous owners of this vessel would be delighted to see its return... even if it does appear to have some... damage,” he stopped and looked suspiciously at the hastily repaired mainmast.  A brighter section of repairs, roughly the size of a cannonball, stood out against the darker original wood like a sore thumb.

_What is he getting at?_ Viktalia wondered, watching the official’s eyes look over the ship closely, his gaze latching on every single section of repair.  _He knows we took this ship from elves... 

...unless..._

“We’re sure the owners wouldn’t want this vessel back,” Siran darkly said.

“Oh... and how so?” the official turned from his inspection and then took on that smirking smile yet again for a moment, before a glower came over his face.  “I will have you know, _sir_, that the Kingdom of Kubalia is _not_ at war with the elven nations, and we cannot tolerate such acts of piracy in our waters!”

“Piracy!” Siran started to sputter, before Viktalia raised her hand to his mouth.  For a few moments the cleric continued his muffled protests, till Viktalia raised a finger to her mouth and shushed him.

“Good sir... pray... what is your name?” she asked sweetly.

“Tyral,” the official replied harshly, now looking all too long into the ship’s hold.  “Are you the master of this vessel?”

“Yes,” Viktalia said quickly, without thinking.  She gave a scowl at Siran’s pained expression.  _I can solve this mess for us... I know what he wants.  The elven merchants forced us Formoterans in Cold Harbor to do this many a time.  Let me do the talking!_

“From just a glance, captain,” he nodded to Viktalia, “I can see you’re carrying a large quantity of elven wine and Formoteran brandy... goods that should have been reported to the tariff office before you even drew close to the harbor.”  He stood up, and looked Viktalia in the eyes.  “I’m afraid I’m going to require your ship be escorted into harbor, with yourselves placed in the protection of the Elven Embassy until we can resolve who is the owner of this vessel...”

“May I persuade this man to leave us alone?” Viktalia heard Viesel rumble, and quickly the Formoteran shook her head.  _No... your ‘persuasion’ would result in Tyral having a broken neck at best... something that won’t be good considering that frigate is sitting right next to us..._

“How about I just stick my boot up his elven-loving ass?” Siran hissed... for the moment, Viktalia ignored the comment.

“Mr. Tyral, sir.  I understand that there appear to be some discrepancies in our arrival and ship, but I am sure that I can explain these to your satisfaction.  Would you care to accompany me below, for some wine or brandy, perhaps?”

She put into her voice just a tiny bit of musical inflection, a song the same as the chimes in her homeland. She knew her words were dangling, tickling in the wind, and she watched as the envoy’s pupils went a little wider than they were before.

“But of course, Madame...”

“Viktalia... Viktalia Starwynd,” she bowed politely, using another form of magic far less arcane and no-less effective.  “Please... go ahead,” she smiled, motioning towards the cabin as she ignored the furious storm that was Siran’s face.  “I shall join you shortly.”

“What. Are. You. Doing?” Siran hissed slowly as Tyral disappeared into the captain’s cabin.  “This man wants to turn us over to the elves and is openly threatening us, so you invite him into the cabin for chitchat over _my liquor?_”

“I can make him leave us alone,” Viesel offered yet again.

“No!” Viktalia hissed.  “Can’t you see?  He wants a bribe!”

“A bribe?”

“Yes!” the Formoteran rolled her eyes.  “He knows obviously this isn’t our ship, and just by looking at the firepower next to us, if they thought we really _were_ pirates, they wouldn’t have sent over a single official to examine our cargo... that frigate’s crew would be boarding us right now under a hail of fire and a storm of swords!”

“So you’re going to give him how much?  What if he demands our entire cargo!?” Siran replied.

“I can persuade him by means far more effective than Viesel’s...” she started, before Siran’s eyes went wide, then a look of disgust came over his face.  When she realized what he was thinking, she became disgusted as well.

“No!  Not in a million years!” she hissed.  “I’m going to get him tipsy, then charm him like I did just now with my music!”  She shuddered, images she didn’t want stuck in her mind.  “No!  Ew!  Ew!”


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## Emperor Valerian (Dec 8, 2005)

Until the next update, Viktalia's player made these song lyrics and pictures of the various sub-species of Formoteran.  Enjoy!

EDIT --  No need to post anew, I suppose.  All the links in this thread should be working now, FYI.


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## drag n fly (Dec 8, 2005)

As you can see, some of our image hosting problems have been solved. Some of my homemade Photoshops from both this story hour and from The Celestial Empire can be found in the link in my profile. Enjoy!


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## Emperor Valerian (Dec 18, 2005)

Sorry about the long wait.  Updates are going to come a little slow on this one, since break has started and I'm headed home for a week or two.  drag n fly is working on a series of posts for this thread, however, and they'll get posted as soon as they're available.


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