Post by Joliette Thorne on Feb 11, 2009 0:56:50 GMT -5
-- In A Deep Fog, Approaching The Labyrinth--
The stilly air had sagged Eternity's sails like old teats emptied of milk, the ship lolling on the water at mercy of only the rise and fall of slow waves, the gradual drift of the undertow pulling them southward with an excruciating lack of speed. The winds had faded and died, leaving the air to fill with a thick fog that rose with the dawn, wrapping the crew in a misty, suffocatingly close white. The air about them became a shrouded chamber in which even the sharpest sounds seemed muffled and visibility was, beyond a hundred feet radius of the vessel, utterly nil. The prevailing sound was the ocean slapping Eternity's timber as a predator's tongue takes lazy licks at fallen prey, a regular sound maddening to some and soothing to others. Tene stood on the prow, her blanket about her shoulders to ward off the pervading damp chill, muttering softly to a dark shape clung to and swaying slightly on the rails. Now and then her eyes would lift, to stare southward and blindly into the fog.
Leoxander acted the part of a black spider, again, attached to the side of the Eternity's hull and risking a boot becoming bait each time the water hit his heel. The rope McCoy insisted he tie around under his arms remained slack, and somehow the thief held himself against the barnacle free siding of his mahogany cruiser. He was one of several working to hastily repair the wounds the warship had sustained in that suicidal mission, dark red wood splintered where two of Cenril's cannons had found their target, but curiously enough, she had taken on no water. The storm had abused her even more, known to those who were awake to say they'd survived a near-death experience, since there were instances where she felt ready to tip completely over. Naturally, that morning was deceivingly calm, an unsettling silence weighing in on that murky atmosphere. The necessary hammering was the only break in the quiet, but by then, the fractured mast was already standing, ready to carry wind if any should arrive. Leo beat the last board in place with the heel of his palm, picked the nails from his teeth to secure it, and lifted his eyes up the front of the ship, where he could barely make out Tenebrae gazing into the distance.
Mahri lifted her head from the uncomfortable pillow she'd made of her knees. Bright red marks stain her cheek where her knee had pressed in all night. It wasn't a slow waking either, she was immediately alert. Down here in the Mess things weren't as horrible as she'd thought it be after the storm. Mostly, she'd sat all night, muttering expletives and curses in regards to the fickleness of the ocean. Now, it was time to work. Wiping her hands on the serviceable leather she'd changed into, Mahri makes her way to the Galley ready to begin the task of cooking something other than stew to eat, that is, if no one had beat her to that particular job, yet.
Diiroehn was on the Labyrinth: Captain's Quarters. He lay huddled upon the floor, ebon skin betraying the fact that he is under guise, or rather reverted back to the form of his once-living Drow self, tattoos of ancient runes covering that masculine body. It is bare, without cloth or garb to adorn it, appendages sprawled across a floor on which he's written and drawn diagrams of archaic rites long-lost to these living races, incoherent rambles amidst transforming languages scrawled about it in every inch of the room. The furniture has long been destroyed, likely evidence to a growing insanity, cast about the interior in a destructive manner, yet cleared of the his shivering, nude body. Stark white hair is cascaded about his shoulders. "Tenebrae, please... Hurry.."
Words gone unheard, whispered within the confines of his prison: As if she would help you. You're truly pathetic, a waste of life, and death. Should you not end yourself? Wallowing in despair, a broken being of a time passed, a memory forgotten. They would do well without your aid, they have thus far. You are not needed with them, can you sense their abandonment? By now, the necromancer and rogue are likely huddled together in embrace, at the hearth of a forest cottage.
Interruption: the door is beat upon, clanging miserable and furiously as his undead servants have turned themselves upon him, attacking everything that moves. Sensing their former master's weakness, they relentless attack that threshold, using decaying hands and bone, even their grotesque faces. Ebony, laced with the white of hair, lay huddled still, almost whimpering. Chaos.
Leoxander knew his ship well enough to know every hand hold. Confused expressions washed over the group holding the rope as they hoisted it up tied to a bucket of tools, rather than the pirate they'd sent down with it. A few checked over the railing, laughing fogged breaths in relief to know the rogue was crawling up the prow of the ship, and when his hands grasped the railing along side the thoughtful necromancer, they went about their business of taking a break. Jack was right there to greet him and get in his way when he tried to climb over.
Darrien , half buried by sand, half covered with seaweed stood up a tad disoriented on the beach. A starfish clung to his cheek. He was sore to his bones and walked like he was possessed. The converted crows played a strange variation of kick-the-can with an old barrel that must have washed in from the sea. There is a point right before an explosion where the heart and mind goes entirely white, followed by the flooding return of color and feeling. Darrien was having trouble regaining that sensation, as water-logged as he was. He could stay there all day before he realized he was waiting for something. Eventually, he fell into the roll of a creature of the beach and purposelessly added shells, more kelp and half of a sea urchin (after eating its innards) to his attire. Periodically, he would lay down in a tide pool, everything but his face submerged in the water -- perfectly camouflaged.
Rhian lay in a tangled heap up against the wall of the mess hall and the young mother's soft snores would indicate she'd slept the tossing night away as a child in the throes of a dream. Finally the dark woman stirred, black eyes squinting open and stiff limbs being stretched one after another. She sniffed the air, tentatively, brows furrowing at the brine and memories came flooding back. Yes, the ship, she was still there. She shakily gets to her feet, wobbling as she heads towards the scent of her alpha in the galley. She stops just at the door, leaning against the frame for some support as grogginess slowly left her legs, "Y'wan' any 'elp Mahri?"
Tenebrae said, "Stop, it Jack..."
There would have been, in any other time or place, humour in that particular and gentle admonition, but now it was only a half-hearted request. The mutt had developed a taste for some of the carrion to be found now and then in the necromancer's proximity, and none better than slightly unfresh, pre-tenderised crow. So, licking his chops, the rogue's dog kept his eyes fixed on the pathetic creature loosely fixed to the rails by its twiggy, crookedly-clawed toes. The corvine clacked its beak. One wing was bent at a bizarre angle, several of those grasping toes skewiff, and feathers stuck up at irregular intervals as if the bird was frozen mid-ruffle. "It's not food. It's Malad.....Oh!" Hand flown to her knives, her feet took her three paces back before her eyes found familiar ink on the arms reaching over the rail. "Leo..." fright turned relief, then a measure of comfort, when Jack-- who wasn't such a scaredy--scrabbled nails on the deck to greet his best friend. "You scared me. I was just thinking..."
Diiroehn shouted, "Get away from me! I'm not like you!"
Mahri was actually humming, and not to badly either, as she began to put right the cooking and prep areas of the Galley. It was quite the domestic scene, really. She had pulled her ebony hair to the back of her head, near the nape to knot it out of her way while she worked. A pan was heating on the stove, along with a pot of water, drawn from the precious store. Glancing over her shoulder, Mahri indicated a pile of potatoes, "You could peel those for me, cut them in quarters and drop them in the pot." It'd been a while since she had cooked, but she was finding she enjoyed it, even if she wouldn't eat what was made. A hunk of salt pork was already floating in the water for flavor. If she could find fresh vegies, they'd be added to the mix.
Rowen awakes from a deep sleep induced by rum and pixie dust. The 'cabin boy' crawls out from below an old piece of tarpaulin on the lower deck wonders why there seem to be about a dozen apples rolling around the deck, then begins to sharpen her knives wonder which of those present the Cap'n and the Necromancer would not mind her cutting a little, not too much, just until they pass out in agony...she has learned some restraint after all.
Diiroehn had shouted his curse from the Labyrinth, Captain's Quarter's, the sound resonating over rolling waves and carrying to the sea. It neither sounded funereal, nor malicious, but desperate; a man's cling to survival. The minions had not succeeded in breaking down the door, yet the yell seemed almost necessary. After all, the Lich isn't like them. He has a heart, if it is faint.
Leoxander paused as a wet boot squished on the main deck, his narrowed eyes turning toward the familiar, beady gaze of the unliving crow perched on his ship. A muscle in his jaw ticked as he tensed, and debated slaying the damn thing - again. Because he wanted the necromancer happy, he would resist. "...I noticed. Better share your thoughts, love." Even affectionate words could be said through his usual moody growl, and he and Maladroit just might spend a good time staring one another down, until a shout across the water caused his lycan eyes to snap to the horizon.
Darrien , during one of his standing shifts, heard the ghastly croak of the Ghost Ship's derelict frame and the victims it held within. He rocked back and forth like a metronome and stared out toward the direction of that hellish prison. In a frequency lower than a whale's, but in a volume ten times more powerful, a long howl flew over the ocean. ~G~R~A~N~D~P~A~ is what it sounded like, and ~S~O~O~N~ is how it finished. It'd be up to Diiroehn to decipher the message, the quality somewhat sacrificed for the strength. In addition, Darrien's vocal abilities were still in development. Death loved atrophy.
Anshera is perched up high, upon one of the top-most crossbeams supporting the sails. Retaining her 'natural' elven form, the polymorph seems to be watching the sea; tensely waiting for her Master's rescue to truly commence, and in turn bear the fruits of it's completion. Chaos. She feels it, it seems, a faint thrum across the bond that intertwines her and Diiroehn's lives. It irritates her; nudges an already chaotic mind into outrage. A burden it cannot bear. She screams her fear and anger as she crouches low upon the beam, though the sounds of crew and sea below are likely to mask her cries.
Mahri heard it as well, a vague familiarity to that voice. Her eyes dart towards the hatch leading up, but she stays where she is for now, sure that the shout had come from some distance away yet. "Rhi..I think we are in for one helluva adventure." So saying, she picks up a potato and begins parting the skin from the meat.
Rhian glanced toward the pile and a lanky arm disappears under her heavy cloak to the pack that hung on her back. The bony fingers fiddled with the tight knot till she could work her hand into the pack and feel around through herbs and supplies alike. She suppressed a brief hiss of breath as her finger nicked the dagger's blade, though she drew it out by the hilt none-the-less and took a seat beside the pile upon the ground. A potato was plucked up in her hand and the knife was employed in carefully carving the skin from it, though some blood might graze the shavings from her tiny finger cut. "Wh't y'ummin'...?"
Rhian glanced up towards the deck above and repressed a shudder, "Aye...ain't w'al'ys wit' t'is bunch?"
Tenebrae's chin, too, lifted to the desperate cry, the voice tearing through the sodden fog like a dull knife. "Did you hear..." Of course he had, Leo's heterochromic eyes pinpointed to that white wall separating them from visibility. On the rail, Maladroit let out a wheezy squawk and shuffled 'round to face the sea. Clack. Clack. The undead bird began to open and shut its beak, the sound reminiscent of a lonely death-watch beetle. "... it has to be. Him..." The Cap'n would know of whom she spoke. "And I was thinking.. only now... we must be close. I can feel..." The shudder that shivered her slight frame then would tell him the rest.
Leoxander looked from the distance, toward the sky, when Anshera should scream. Rather than pay either of them any concern, or answer Tenebrae out loud, he'd begin the usual prowl and inspection of his ship to see who was present, what kind of traps and bombs had been set up today, and what cargo and crew had survived the night before. And just in case anyone was left asleep after all this confusion, the Captain's voice would bark out an order that made his haste apparent. "On your feet or walk the plank! If you ain't doin' somethin' useful, you're in my damn way!!"
Leoxander shouted, "On your damn feet, ya addled dogs!"
Diiroehn shudders from within the Labyrinth, Captain's Quarter's, trying feebly to use his arms to drag himself from the door. Something echoes, however, a message of frequency, deciphered near instantaneous; but hellishly so. 'Grandpa. Soon.'. He had to hold out; people were coming. How soon? Can he possibly hold off?
Forget about them, Y'deth'rae. You're dead to them. You always were; you saw how they distrust you. You are an outsider to the Cabal, you probably always were. They didn't even glance your way when you left, you know. Pitiful thing. Words like cuts through his emotions, causing more chaos within that mind; apathy, empathy? No, hatred. Jealousy. It cannot be discerned, these feelings, a torrent like feral waves breaking him. Breaking him so.
Tenebrae was bereft of Jack then, who leapt to four feet like a good -- a bit forgetful these days but not really addled-- dog.
Rowen takes another swig from her ever-present bottle of rum, laced with pixie dust. She is puzzled by the strange woman? Thing? sat up in the rigging. Something tells her this is not one of her potential victims, so she soon loses interest. The girls grabs a rather bruised apple as it rolls past her and throws it at a nearby sailor, trying to hit him on the back of the head. She then catches sight of the tattooed pirate and calls out. "Any work that requires my talents Captain?" and excited, hopeful tone in the kid’s voice at the idea she might get to spill blood.
Tenebrae said to Maladroit, "You know something, don't you..?" The familiar merely clacked, and clacked.
Leoxander was the opposite of the jovial canine who ran about important-like at his side. He was grabbing lazy sailors by their shirts and throwing them toward untied crates, gripping McCoy's shoulder with a gesture toward the south, and soon it was his nasty voice they'd have to hear screaming out orders that kept his crew in line. Ignoring the smell escaping the oak doors that lead to the Underbelly, Leo climbed the stairs to the Upper Deck, to the ship wheel.
Rhian heard the captain's voice from above as it shouted out his orders and she got to her feet with dagger and potato in hand. Walking any plank didn't sound like such a good idea...She looks to Mahri with evident query.
Leoxander said to Rowen, "Get the weapons ready."
Leoxander shouted, "I want all you bilge-sucking swabs to listen up!"
Anshera 's continued cries seem a reflection of Diiroehn's state, what he feels warping her voice; a warbling song of warping emotion. Her voice grows louder, in competition with the wind and water, the voices far below nothing but a distant thought, to her.
Tenebrae nodded to her centuries-cursed companion, turning silently away to leave the sloppy-fleshed and flightless creature to scrinch its way, slow step by slow step, around the railing, its dead white eyes always fixated on the one point from which its gaze never once deviated. But Tene wouldn't notice how Maladroit was acting-- he was always a bit peculiar, even for an insane goblin-slash-dead bird. She simply trod the boards in search of something useful to do, until Leo's voice rose and called her attention there.
Mahri sighs, dropping the half peeled fifth potato and nods, setting the paring knife on the table, then, having a second thought, picks it up again. "Lets go, the captain bellows." A sense of something looming over the crew causes small bumps to rise along her arms. Even so, Mahri doesn't miss a step gaining the Lower Deck where she patiently awaits further orders. Uncharacteristic of her sure, but hey, it's not her ship after all.
Rhian would follow Mahri up to the lower deck in a very characteristic fashion, though her black eyes looked obediently onward towards the captain of the vessel from her place at Mahri's side.
Darrien laid himself back down in the tide pool for reasons beyond mortal care or comprehension. And just as he closed his eyes to assume some state of dormancy, they snapped open and began forming putrid cataracts. Upon that ship, within the living walls of the Labyrinth was a man smiling. He was everything that Darrien wanted to be at the time, everything that he was trying to recapture. In absolutely no rush, Darrien knocked on the door that was battered open by the Lich's mutinous lackeys; he expected no response. "Excuse me gentle .. men," he spoke to the servants, "Could I have the room with this one? He's a .. Well, I have a proposition for him. We don't have much time." They paused their beating of Diiroehn and appeared to be thinking. It had been months, and this was the Darrien that was evolving in The Labyrinth.
Rowen runs to the back of the galley, where the cutlasses are stored, stepping hard on a sailor's foot as she does so ( there is little chance that this is accidental). She garbs an armful of cutlasses and begins to hand them out to whomever seems less than ridiculously overarmed. She pauses on hearing Leoxander's shouted command to listen and looks his way.
Leoxander stuck his foot in the base of the ship wheel, looking over the top of it toward those paying attention, from the lower deck and beyond. "Get yourselves armed and organized smartly. Archers flank the prow. Put a man to the top cannons and scrounge what ammo we have left. Not one of you take a damn step without a blade in your hand. We take no prisoners save our own." A glance toward Tenebrae from across the ship, making the silent visual connection with the Necromancer, before he asked the crew aggressively:
Leoxander shouted, "Are you with us?!"
Trey shouted, "Aye!"
Satoshi shouted, "Aye!"
Mahri shouted, "Aye!"
Darrien shouted, "Aye." ::in dreadful monotony that would hit their ears in ten minutes:: Aye."
Rhian shouted, "Aye!"
Tenebrae shouted, "Aye!"
Rowen shouted, “Aye!”
The mutinous undead, in their mutiny of course, have decided all but Darrien is nothing to them; a living thing. The Labyrinth, Outside the Captain's Quarter's would be stained with his blood; the three of the entourage leaping toward him maliciously.
Leoxander knew what was necessary to get a crew motivated for battle, but it was right to business after that resounding shout, which Diiroehn might possibly catch an echo of, in his ramshackle prison. "Every one of you find a blade. Open those sails and catch what wind you can. Man the damn oars if you have to! I want this ship MOVING!"
Cuki had been sitting on the railing of the Deck. An idle stare into the ocean depths. The fog and conditions of the fog set above the water were lost on him. He only turned to meet the voice of the Captain. It wouldn't do much to attempt to explain his hands were more deadly than a sword, "Aye!"
Tenebrae accepted a cutlass from Rowen, though she already had one slung by a strap to her back, the sword too long for her in gripped heels, and several knives secreted about her heavy-duty black garb. That look from Leoxander garnered a curt nod of both respect and acknowledgement, and she'd join her voice with the chorus at or near the last, the other's hearty cries doing much to dispel the veil of torpidity lapsing over her mood. "This time." It was through gritted teeth, not meant for hearing. "We won't lose. Not a single soul."
Rhian took the cutlass offered her from Rowen as she passed, a bit clumsily, though she examined it with squinted eyes and furrowed brows. Seemed like a decent enough blade...however short.
Satoshi accepts an offered blade for order's sake, although the weapon is simply tucked into her belt. A sword in her hands would be a larger danger to herself than any enemy she faced. This mage had her own arsenal.
Mahri 's hand slips almost naturally onto the hilt of the cutlass, idling testing the balance before giving a nod of approval.
Darrien , who was covered in moss and still on the beach, leaped to his feet, breaking the schedule of his activity. Red mixed in with the yellow in his sea-burned eyes when all he could do was listen to his other half and his intentions. On board the Ghost, Darrien braced for combat, and dodged and parried with ostentatious agility. Using only the tips of his fingers, he accelerated the particles of anything he touched into detonation. Thus, the trifecta of Diiroehn's defected minions were soon in jigsaw pieces upon the floor of the captain's quarters, which at one point must have looked spectacular. "You're going to live. And I'm going to tell you why..."
Trey accepted the shorter blade, slipping in into her belt by her longer falchion. She was the last one to know how much room they'd have to fight, and a cutlass would come in great usefulness. She moved towards the sail's lines with haste, she may not be the strongest sailor aboard, but she'd do what she could to get The Eternity moving. The sail was forced to billow as she pulled the line taught and back, grunting with the effort. It wouldn't be easy to hold it there, and if there was no wind her efforts wouldn't matter, but if there was any wind at all, the forced sail would catch it.
Anshera would accept no blade; needed no blade, not that she was listening, or within easy reach for the distribution of weapons. Her cries do not cease, rising and falling; carrying on unnaturally long breaths. She stands from her crouch, boots kicked free, lost to bean some poor soul on the noggin, lest they happen to be passing by at the wrong moment. Bare-footed, the lithe Creature begins to pace the length of the beam as she screams on.
Mahri moved to give Trey a hand, her own grip perhaps a bit stronger than your average female, and does so only after sliding the cutlass, well..not really having anywhere to put it at the moment, hands it to Rhian to hold instead.
Rhian takes her alpha's cutlass by it's hilt and lets both swing at her sides as she silently plays the weapons rack for her alpha.
Leoxander stared at the sails rather than help, concentrating very hard as though that focus might just direct a bit of wind into the black cloth. And wouldn't you know it... but as Trey swiveled the rig at the right angle, that ebon fabric rippled, billowing out lamely, but just enough to take the Eternity from a standstill, forward. Eight long oars emerged from the gunwale area beneath the ship's main deck, several Calico Queen workers doing what they could to give them momentum.
--The fog would become thicker, here.--
Leoxander would prove how very unpredictable he was at that point by turning on his alpha, the moment she disrespected him with a boot in his direction. Hands grapple her leg to nearly hurt her with the angle he bent her knee into, but as long as she didn't fight the momentum it would only take her into a rough seat on the deck. Her back would hit the planks as a hand went firmly to her abdomen, his growl abruptly in her face before she might comprehend all that happened in approximately two seconds. But rather than maul her and reaffirm his place in the wolf-rank chain, Leo let's it go, he lets her go, for the sake of Mahri's pride and Tenebrae's well-being. The she-wolf was tackled right beside his mate, so she might get right back to work while he stalks away moodily, glancing back with a hint of worry in his yellow tinted eyes. Blood is licked from his fingers, on his way to the opposite end of the ship.
Trey gets the hell out of Leo's way.
Eventually the deckhands determined to clean up that area devise a system of distraction, a pair darting in to draw the polymorph's attention to them, while another pair stands at the ready to quickly alter her point of focus. A third pair darts in to clean what they can, while the Lich's Creation isn't looking their way.
Leoxander fixed his eyes on Trey only while he would pass, heading toward the stern of the ship to patrol, or perhaps cool off.
Tenebrae's crow made a chuffing sound, no voice in it- just air wheezed through squashed bird-lungs. Its pearly, horrible eyes still glared southward, and its beak still clacked while it huddled like a black hairball composed of feathers on the rail. Maladroit was clearly excited about something.
Mahri simply blinked up at the looming face of Leo as he growled at her. He was given some leeway then, seeing as it was his mate that she was about to work on. With a shake of her head, her hands go to the knot of hair at the back of her head, being sure it's in place. Satisfied it is secure, she peers down at the necromancer, glad she had indeed slipped into unconsciousness. The offer of boiled water brings to mind the pot that had most likely boiled to nothing below decks and she nods, "And any clean rags you can find. Put them in the water when it's boiled."
Leoxander shouted, "I need repair on those sails, now! Get those lines fixed and anchored!"
Satoshi hurries to the mess hall to prepare the water. The mage was no cook, but boiling water was simple enough a task for her to manage. A great commotion of pots and pans being moved and knocked about could be heard for any listening, and after a handful of long moments the feline re-emerges above deck with a large pot, thick tendrils of steam wafting from it to meld with the fog. Weaving through the remaining crew she places the pot beside Mahri, the golem depositing fresh rags into the water immediately after.
Dergious continues directing the clean up, through intimidation and threats.
Trey turned to the sails and their bad repair. Again she skipped sleep to put herself to good use. Her bones ached, but she shoved the weariness from her mind. All she focused on was the sails, because a ship without sails was hardly a ship at all.
Caedan has, by this point, been awakened by any number of things -- you know, the fight she's slept through, the wounds, the screaming. Whatevs. The ghost can sleep. But now she's awake, peering over the edge of her crow's nest to survey the damage below. She'll gingerly step out onto one of the sail's boom to aid a crew member lashing down one sail that's flapping about dangerously.
Dergious suddenly stops and shoves a thick thumb up each nostril, and then seems to pull away from his face. His eyes water and bulge, and his arms tremble for one long, drawn out moment until two sharp, Crack cuts the air. He pulls his thumbs free and then holds on against the side of his nose and then exhales sharply. The discharge hits the deck with a wet "Twuck". He repeats the process with his other thumb, his other nostril, and another gross sound.
How she ended up in the ship's underbelly Tene would have no clue, when she finally woke with her shoulder stabbing pain through her skull and a dry mouth, naked of armours in a bloodstained undershirt that was torn away from her damaged shoulder. She recalled Satoshi.. Mahri... the pain. And Leo. Gagging on her arid throat's attempt to swallow, the woman did her best to sit up, and failed. "Gods..." Yeah, like they ever listened to a thing she said.
Satoshi has long since set the golem to stalking Dergious, armed with half a mop, to clean up after the dwarf.
Dergious eyes the deposits, most of which had hit the deck but some ended up running down his beard, and looks to a deckhand with a mop. "Whut? Be ye hungry?" he says, pointing to the snail-esque discharges, "Eat it er clean it... but do it NOW!"
Leoxander disappeared somewhere in that enclosed vicinity. The rogue was very skilled at hiding out, when necessary.
Caedan goes back to sleep as everything seems under control, or semblance thereof.
Tenebrae suffered the agony of her bad arm, while her good one swiped for a bottle of medicinal rum someone'd left handily by the ragged couch in the Captain's quarters. Sixteen slugs of that, one for each dead man on the Eternity's chest this day (okay and four left over, but she was so out of it by then, who's counting?) and Tene sank to a blissful oblivion, in which she wasn't frail, and all the looming shadows wore Cheshire grins.
Trey finally left the crew to the rest of the tasks. Most of it was cleaning now, and she was nearly blind with exhaustion. When was the last time she slept? It was sometime at the very beginning of the voyage, before their battle with the ships. Now she found the bunk she had claimed and collapsed onto it, the white furball that had obediently stayed in her bag slipping out nose first to join her.
Satoshi paces the railings of the ship. Possibly the only one not tired onboard?
The stilly air had sagged Eternity's sails like old teats emptied of milk, the ship lolling on the water at mercy of only the rise and fall of slow waves, the gradual drift of the undertow pulling them southward with an excruciating lack of speed. The winds had faded and died, leaving the air to fill with a thick fog that rose with the dawn, wrapping the crew in a misty, suffocatingly close white. The air about them became a shrouded chamber in which even the sharpest sounds seemed muffled and visibility was, beyond a hundred feet radius of the vessel, utterly nil. The prevailing sound was the ocean slapping Eternity's timber as a predator's tongue takes lazy licks at fallen prey, a regular sound maddening to some and soothing to others. Tene stood on the prow, her blanket about her shoulders to ward off the pervading damp chill, muttering softly to a dark shape clung to and swaying slightly on the rails. Now and then her eyes would lift, to stare southward and blindly into the fog.
Leoxander acted the part of a black spider, again, attached to the side of the Eternity's hull and risking a boot becoming bait each time the water hit his heel. The rope McCoy insisted he tie around under his arms remained slack, and somehow the thief held himself against the barnacle free siding of his mahogany cruiser. He was one of several working to hastily repair the wounds the warship had sustained in that suicidal mission, dark red wood splintered where two of Cenril's cannons had found their target, but curiously enough, she had taken on no water. The storm had abused her even more, known to those who were awake to say they'd survived a near-death experience, since there were instances where she felt ready to tip completely over. Naturally, that morning was deceivingly calm, an unsettling silence weighing in on that murky atmosphere. The necessary hammering was the only break in the quiet, but by then, the fractured mast was already standing, ready to carry wind if any should arrive. Leo beat the last board in place with the heel of his palm, picked the nails from his teeth to secure it, and lifted his eyes up the front of the ship, where he could barely make out Tenebrae gazing into the distance.
Mahri lifted her head from the uncomfortable pillow she'd made of her knees. Bright red marks stain her cheek where her knee had pressed in all night. It wasn't a slow waking either, she was immediately alert. Down here in the Mess things weren't as horrible as she'd thought it be after the storm. Mostly, she'd sat all night, muttering expletives and curses in regards to the fickleness of the ocean. Now, it was time to work. Wiping her hands on the serviceable leather she'd changed into, Mahri makes her way to the Galley ready to begin the task of cooking something other than stew to eat, that is, if no one had beat her to that particular job, yet.
Diiroehn was on the Labyrinth: Captain's Quarters. He lay huddled upon the floor, ebon skin betraying the fact that he is under guise, or rather reverted back to the form of his once-living Drow self, tattoos of ancient runes covering that masculine body. It is bare, without cloth or garb to adorn it, appendages sprawled across a floor on which he's written and drawn diagrams of archaic rites long-lost to these living races, incoherent rambles amidst transforming languages scrawled about it in every inch of the room. The furniture has long been destroyed, likely evidence to a growing insanity, cast about the interior in a destructive manner, yet cleared of the his shivering, nude body. Stark white hair is cascaded about his shoulders. "Tenebrae, please... Hurry.."
Words gone unheard, whispered within the confines of his prison: As if she would help you. You're truly pathetic, a waste of life, and death. Should you not end yourself? Wallowing in despair, a broken being of a time passed, a memory forgotten. They would do well without your aid, they have thus far. You are not needed with them, can you sense their abandonment? By now, the necromancer and rogue are likely huddled together in embrace, at the hearth of a forest cottage.
Interruption: the door is beat upon, clanging miserable and furiously as his undead servants have turned themselves upon him, attacking everything that moves. Sensing their former master's weakness, they relentless attack that threshold, using decaying hands and bone, even their grotesque faces. Ebony, laced with the white of hair, lay huddled still, almost whimpering. Chaos.
Leoxander knew his ship well enough to know every hand hold. Confused expressions washed over the group holding the rope as they hoisted it up tied to a bucket of tools, rather than the pirate they'd sent down with it. A few checked over the railing, laughing fogged breaths in relief to know the rogue was crawling up the prow of the ship, and when his hands grasped the railing along side the thoughtful necromancer, they went about their business of taking a break. Jack was right there to greet him and get in his way when he tried to climb over.
Darrien , half buried by sand, half covered with seaweed stood up a tad disoriented on the beach. A starfish clung to his cheek. He was sore to his bones and walked like he was possessed. The converted crows played a strange variation of kick-the-can with an old barrel that must have washed in from the sea. There is a point right before an explosion where the heart and mind goes entirely white, followed by the flooding return of color and feeling. Darrien was having trouble regaining that sensation, as water-logged as he was. He could stay there all day before he realized he was waiting for something. Eventually, he fell into the roll of a creature of the beach and purposelessly added shells, more kelp and half of a sea urchin (after eating its innards) to his attire. Periodically, he would lay down in a tide pool, everything but his face submerged in the water -- perfectly camouflaged.
Rhian lay in a tangled heap up against the wall of the mess hall and the young mother's soft snores would indicate she'd slept the tossing night away as a child in the throes of a dream. Finally the dark woman stirred, black eyes squinting open and stiff limbs being stretched one after another. She sniffed the air, tentatively, brows furrowing at the brine and memories came flooding back. Yes, the ship, she was still there. She shakily gets to her feet, wobbling as she heads towards the scent of her alpha in the galley. She stops just at the door, leaning against the frame for some support as grogginess slowly left her legs, "Y'wan' any 'elp Mahri?"
Tenebrae said, "Stop, it Jack..."
There would have been, in any other time or place, humour in that particular and gentle admonition, but now it was only a half-hearted request. The mutt had developed a taste for some of the carrion to be found now and then in the necromancer's proximity, and none better than slightly unfresh, pre-tenderised crow. So, licking his chops, the rogue's dog kept his eyes fixed on the pathetic creature loosely fixed to the rails by its twiggy, crookedly-clawed toes. The corvine clacked its beak. One wing was bent at a bizarre angle, several of those grasping toes skewiff, and feathers stuck up at irregular intervals as if the bird was frozen mid-ruffle. "It's not food. It's Malad.....Oh!" Hand flown to her knives, her feet took her three paces back before her eyes found familiar ink on the arms reaching over the rail. "Leo..." fright turned relief, then a measure of comfort, when Jack-- who wasn't such a scaredy--scrabbled nails on the deck to greet his best friend. "You scared me. I was just thinking..."
Diiroehn shouted, "Get away from me! I'm not like you!"
Mahri was actually humming, and not to badly either, as she began to put right the cooking and prep areas of the Galley. It was quite the domestic scene, really. She had pulled her ebony hair to the back of her head, near the nape to knot it out of her way while she worked. A pan was heating on the stove, along with a pot of water, drawn from the precious store. Glancing over her shoulder, Mahri indicated a pile of potatoes, "You could peel those for me, cut them in quarters and drop them in the pot." It'd been a while since she had cooked, but she was finding she enjoyed it, even if she wouldn't eat what was made. A hunk of salt pork was already floating in the water for flavor. If she could find fresh vegies, they'd be added to the mix.
Rowen awakes from a deep sleep induced by rum and pixie dust. The 'cabin boy' crawls out from below an old piece of tarpaulin on the lower deck wonders why there seem to be about a dozen apples rolling around the deck, then begins to sharpen her knives wonder which of those present the Cap'n and the Necromancer would not mind her cutting a little, not too much, just until they pass out in agony...she has learned some restraint after all.
Diiroehn had shouted his curse from the Labyrinth, Captain's Quarter's, the sound resonating over rolling waves and carrying to the sea. It neither sounded funereal, nor malicious, but desperate; a man's cling to survival. The minions had not succeeded in breaking down the door, yet the yell seemed almost necessary. After all, the Lich isn't like them. He has a heart, if it is faint.
Leoxander paused as a wet boot squished on the main deck, his narrowed eyes turning toward the familiar, beady gaze of the unliving crow perched on his ship. A muscle in his jaw ticked as he tensed, and debated slaying the damn thing - again. Because he wanted the necromancer happy, he would resist. "...I noticed. Better share your thoughts, love." Even affectionate words could be said through his usual moody growl, and he and Maladroit just might spend a good time staring one another down, until a shout across the water caused his lycan eyes to snap to the horizon.
Darrien , during one of his standing shifts, heard the ghastly croak of the Ghost Ship's derelict frame and the victims it held within. He rocked back and forth like a metronome and stared out toward the direction of that hellish prison. In a frequency lower than a whale's, but in a volume ten times more powerful, a long howl flew over the ocean. ~G~R~A~N~D~P~A~ is what it sounded like, and ~S~O~O~N~ is how it finished. It'd be up to Diiroehn to decipher the message, the quality somewhat sacrificed for the strength. In addition, Darrien's vocal abilities were still in development. Death loved atrophy.
Anshera is perched up high, upon one of the top-most crossbeams supporting the sails. Retaining her 'natural' elven form, the polymorph seems to be watching the sea; tensely waiting for her Master's rescue to truly commence, and in turn bear the fruits of it's completion. Chaos. She feels it, it seems, a faint thrum across the bond that intertwines her and Diiroehn's lives. It irritates her; nudges an already chaotic mind into outrage. A burden it cannot bear. She screams her fear and anger as she crouches low upon the beam, though the sounds of crew and sea below are likely to mask her cries.
Mahri heard it as well, a vague familiarity to that voice. Her eyes dart towards the hatch leading up, but she stays where she is for now, sure that the shout had come from some distance away yet. "Rhi..I think we are in for one helluva adventure." So saying, she picks up a potato and begins parting the skin from the meat.
Rhian glanced toward the pile and a lanky arm disappears under her heavy cloak to the pack that hung on her back. The bony fingers fiddled with the tight knot till she could work her hand into the pack and feel around through herbs and supplies alike. She suppressed a brief hiss of breath as her finger nicked the dagger's blade, though she drew it out by the hilt none-the-less and took a seat beside the pile upon the ground. A potato was plucked up in her hand and the knife was employed in carefully carving the skin from it, though some blood might graze the shavings from her tiny finger cut. "Wh't y'ummin'...?"
Rhian glanced up towards the deck above and repressed a shudder, "Aye...ain't w'al'ys wit' t'is bunch?"
Tenebrae's chin, too, lifted to the desperate cry, the voice tearing through the sodden fog like a dull knife. "Did you hear..." Of course he had, Leo's heterochromic eyes pinpointed to that white wall separating them from visibility. On the rail, Maladroit let out a wheezy squawk and shuffled 'round to face the sea. Clack. Clack. The undead bird began to open and shut its beak, the sound reminiscent of a lonely death-watch beetle. "... it has to be. Him..." The Cap'n would know of whom she spoke. "And I was thinking.. only now... we must be close. I can feel..." The shudder that shivered her slight frame then would tell him the rest.
Leoxander looked from the distance, toward the sky, when Anshera should scream. Rather than pay either of them any concern, or answer Tenebrae out loud, he'd begin the usual prowl and inspection of his ship to see who was present, what kind of traps and bombs had been set up today, and what cargo and crew had survived the night before. And just in case anyone was left asleep after all this confusion, the Captain's voice would bark out an order that made his haste apparent. "On your feet or walk the plank! If you ain't doin' somethin' useful, you're in my damn way!!"
Leoxander shouted, "On your damn feet, ya addled dogs!"
Diiroehn shudders from within the Labyrinth, Captain's Quarter's, trying feebly to use his arms to drag himself from the door. Something echoes, however, a message of frequency, deciphered near instantaneous; but hellishly so. 'Grandpa. Soon.'. He had to hold out; people were coming. How soon? Can he possibly hold off?
Forget about them, Y'deth'rae. You're dead to them. You always were; you saw how they distrust you. You are an outsider to the Cabal, you probably always were. They didn't even glance your way when you left, you know. Pitiful thing. Words like cuts through his emotions, causing more chaos within that mind; apathy, empathy? No, hatred. Jealousy. It cannot be discerned, these feelings, a torrent like feral waves breaking him. Breaking him so.
Tenebrae was bereft of Jack then, who leapt to four feet like a good -- a bit forgetful these days but not really addled-- dog.
Rowen takes another swig from her ever-present bottle of rum, laced with pixie dust. She is puzzled by the strange woman? Thing? sat up in the rigging. Something tells her this is not one of her potential victims, so she soon loses interest. The girls grabs a rather bruised apple as it rolls past her and throws it at a nearby sailor, trying to hit him on the back of the head. She then catches sight of the tattooed pirate and calls out. "Any work that requires my talents Captain?" and excited, hopeful tone in the kid’s voice at the idea she might get to spill blood.
Tenebrae said to Maladroit, "You know something, don't you..?" The familiar merely clacked, and clacked.
Leoxander was the opposite of the jovial canine who ran about important-like at his side. He was grabbing lazy sailors by their shirts and throwing them toward untied crates, gripping McCoy's shoulder with a gesture toward the south, and soon it was his nasty voice they'd have to hear screaming out orders that kept his crew in line. Ignoring the smell escaping the oak doors that lead to the Underbelly, Leo climbed the stairs to the Upper Deck, to the ship wheel.
Rhian heard the captain's voice from above as it shouted out his orders and she got to her feet with dagger and potato in hand. Walking any plank didn't sound like such a good idea...She looks to Mahri with evident query.
Leoxander said to Rowen, "Get the weapons ready."
Leoxander shouted, "I want all you bilge-sucking swabs to listen up!"
Anshera 's continued cries seem a reflection of Diiroehn's state, what he feels warping her voice; a warbling song of warping emotion. Her voice grows louder, in competition with the wind and water, the voices far below nothing but a distant thought, to her.
Tenebrae nodded to her centuries-cursed companion, turning silently away to leave the sloppy-fleshed and flightless creature to scrinch its way, slow step by slow step, around the railing, its dead white eyes always fixated on the one point from which its gaze never once deviated. But Tene wouldn't notice how Maladroit was acting-- he was always a bit peculiar, even for an insane goblin-slash-dead bird. She simply trod the boards in search of something useful to do, until Leo's voice rose and called her attention there.
Mahri sighs, dropping the half peeled fifth potato and nods, setting the paring knife on the table, then, having a second thought, picks it up again. "Lets go, the captain bellows." A sense of something looming over the crew causes small bumps to rise along her arms. Even so, Mahri doesn't miss a step gaining the Lower Deck where she patiently awaits further orders. Uncharacteristic of her sure, but hey, it's not her ship after all.
Rhian would follow Mahri up to the lower deck in a very characteristic fashion, though her black eyes looked obediently onward towards the captain of the vessel from her place at Mahri's side.
Darrien laid himself back down in the tide pool for reasons beyond mortal care or comprehension. And just as he closed his eyes to assume some state of dormancy, they snapped open and began forming putrid cataracts. Upon that ship, within the living walls of the Labyrinth was a man smiling. He was everything that Darrien wanted to be at the time, everything that he was trying to recapture. In absolutely no rush, Darrien knocked on the door that was battered open by the Lich's mutinous lackeys; he expected no response. "Excuse me gentle .. men," he spoke to the servants, "Could I have the room with this one? He's a .. Well, I have a proposition for him. We don't have much time." They paused their beating of Diiroehn and appeared to be thinking. It had been months, and this was the Darrien that was evolving in The Labyrinth.
Rowen runs to the back of the galley, where the cutlasses are stored, stepping hard on a sailor's foot as she does so ( there is little chance that this is accidental). She garbs an armful of cutlasses and begins to hand them out to whomever seems less than ridiculously overarmed. She pauses on hearing Leoxander's shouted command to listen and looks his way.
Leoxander stuck his foot in the base of the ship wheel, looking over the top of it toward those paying attention, from the lower deck and beyond. "Get yourselves armed and organized smartly. Archers flank the prow. Put a man to the top cannons and scrounge what ammo we have left. Not one of you take a damn step without a blade in your hand. We take no prisoners save our own." A glance toward Tenebrae from across the ship, making the silent visual connection with the Necromancer, before he asked the crew aggressively:
Leoxander shouted, "Are you with us?!"
Trey shouted, "Aye!"
Satoshi shouted, "Aye!"
Mahri shouted, "Aye!"
Darrien shouted, "Aye." ::in dreadful monotony that would hit their ears in ten minutes:: Aye."
Rhian shouted, "Aye!"
Tenebrae shouted, "Aye!"
Rowen shouted, “Aye!”
The mutinous undead, in their mutiny of course, have decided all but Darrien is nothing to them; a living thing. The Labyrinth, Outside the Captain's Quarter's would be stained with his blood; the three of the entourage leaping toward him maliciously.
Leoxander knew what was necessary to get a crew motivated for battle, but it was right to business after that resounding shout, which Diiroehn might possibly catch an echo of, in his ramshackle prison. "Every one of you find a blade. Open those sails and catch what wind you can. Man the damn oars if you have to! I want this ship MOVING!"
Cuki had been sitting on the railing of the Deck. An idle stare into the ocean depths. The fog and conditions of the fog set above the water were lost on him. He only turned to meet the voice of the Captain. It wouldn't do much to attempt to explain his hands were more deadly than a sword, "Aye!"
Tenebrae accepted a cutlass from Rowen, though she already had one slung by a strap to her back, the sword too long for her in gripped heels, and several knives secreted about her heavy-duty black garb. That look from Leoxander garnered a curt nod of both respect and acknowledgement, and she'd join her voice with the chorus at or near the last, the other's hearty cries doing much to dispel the veil of torpidity lapsing over her mood. "This time." It was through gritted teeth, not meant for hearing. "We won't lose. Not a single soul."
Rhian took the cutlass offered her from Rowen as she passed, a bit clumsily, though she examined it with squinted eyes and furrowed brows. Seemed like a decent enough blade...however short.
Satoshi accepts an offered blade for order's sake, although the weapon is simply tucked into her belt. A sword in her hands would be a larger danger to herself than any enemy she faced. This mage had her own arsenal.
Mahri 's hand slips almost naturally onto the hilt of the cutlass, idling testing the balance before giving a nod of approval.
Darrien , who was covered in moss and still on the beach, leaped to his feet, breaking the schedule of his activity. Red mixed in with the yellow in his sea-burned eyes when all he could do was listen to his other half and his intentions. On board the Ghost, Darrien braced for combat, and dodged and parried with ostentatious agility. Using only the tips of his fingers, he accelerated the particles of anything he touched into detonation. Thus, the trifecta of Diiroehn's defected minions were soon in jigsaw pieces upon the floor of the captain's quarters, which at one point must have looked spectacular. "You're going to live. And I'm going to tell you why..."
Trey accepted the shorter blade, slipping in into her belt by her longer falchion. She was the last one to know how much room they'd have to fight, and a cutlass would come in great usefulness. She moved towards the sail's lines with haste, she may not be the strongest sailor aboard, but she'd do what she could to get The Eternity moving. The sail was forced to billow as she pulled the line taught and back, grunting with the effort. It wouldn't be easy to hold it there, and if there was no wind her efforts wouldn't matter, but if there was any wind at all, the forced sail would catch it.
Anshera would accept no blade; needed no blade, not that she was listening, or within easy reach for the distribution of weapons. Her cries do not cease, rising and falling; carrying on unnaturally long breaths. She stands from her crouch, boots kicked free, lost to bean some poor soul on the noggin, lest they happen to be passing by at the wrong moment. Bare-footed, the lithe Creature begins to pace the length of the beam as she screams on.
Mahri moved to give Trey a hand, her own grip perhaps a bit stronger than your average female, and does so only after sliding the cutlass, well..not really having anywhere to put it at the moment, hands it to Rhian to hold instead.
Rhian takes her alpha's cutlass by it's hilt and lets both swing at her sides as she silently plays the weapons rack for her alpha.
Leoxander stared at the sails rather than help, concentrating very hard as though that focus might just direct a bit of wind into the black cloth. And wouldn't you know it... but as Trey swiveled the rig at the right angle, that ebon fabric rippled, billowing out lamely, but just enough to take the Eternity from a standstill, forward. Eight long oars emerged from the gunwale area beneath the ship's main deck, several Calico Queen workers doing what they could to give them momentum.
--The fog would become thicker, here.--
Leoxander would prove how very unpredictable he was at that point by turning on his alpha, the moment she disrespected him with a boot in his direction. Hands grapple her leg to nearly hurt her with the angle he bent her knee into, but as long as she didn't fight the momentum it would only take her into a rough seat on the deck. Her back would hit the planks as a hand went firmly to her abdomen, his growl abruptly in her face before she might comprehend all that happened in approximately two seconds. But rather than maul her and reaffirm his place in the wolf-rank chain, Leo let's it go, he lets her go, for the sake of Mahri's pride and Tenebrae's well-being. The she-wolf was tackled right beside his mate, so she might get right back to work while he stalks away moodily, glancing back with a hint of worry in his yellow tinted eyes. Blood is licked from his fingers, on his way to the opposite end of the ship.
Trey gets the hell out of Leo's way.
Eventually the deckhands determined to clean up that area devise a system of distraction, a pair darting in to draw the polymorph's attention to them, while another pair stands at the ready to quickly alter her point of focus. A third pair darts in to clean what they can, while the Lich's Creation isn't looking their way.
Leoxander fixed his eyes on Trey only while he would pass, heading toward the stern of the ship to patrol, or perhaps cool off.
Tenebrae's crow made a chuffing sound, no voice in it- just air wheezed through squashed bird-lungs. Its pearly, horrible eyes still glared southward, and its beak still clacked while it huddled like a black hairball composed of feathers on the rail. Maladroit was clearly excited about something.
Mahri simply blinked up at the looming face of Leo as he growled at her. He was given some leeway then, seeing as it was his mate that she was about to work on. With a shake of her head, her hands go to the knot of hair at the back of her head, being sure it's in place. Satisfied it is secure, she peers down at the necromancer, glad she had indeed slipped into unconsciousness. The offer of boiled water brings to mind the pot that had most likely boiled to nothing below decks and she nods, "And any clean rags you can find. Put them in the water when it's boiled."
Leoxander shouted, "I need repair on those sails, now! Get those lines fixed and anchored!"
Satoshi hurries to the mess hall to prepare the water. The mage was no cook, but boiling water was simple enough a task for her to manage. A great commotion of pots and pans being moved and knocked about could be heard for any listening, and after a handful of long moments the feline re-emerges above deck with a large pot, thick tendrils of steam wafting from it to meld with the fog. Weaving through the remaining crew she places the pot beside Mahri, the golem depositing fresh rags into the water immediately after.
Dergious continues directing the clean up, through intimidation and threats.
Trey turned to the sails and their bad repair. Again she skipped sleep to put herself to good use. Her bones ached, but she shoved the weariness from her mind. All she focused on was the sails, because a ship without sails was hardly a ship at all.
Caedan has, by this point, been awakened by any number of things -- you know, the fight she's slept through, the wounds, the screaming. Whatevs. The ghost can sleep. But now she's awake, peering over the edge of her crow's nest to survey the damage below. She'll gingerly step out onto one of the sail's boom to aid a crew member lashing down one sail that's flapping about dangerously.
Dergious suddenly stops and shoves a thick thumb up each nostril, and then seems to pull away from his face. His eyes water and bulge, and his arms tremble for one long, drawn out moment until two sharp, Crack cuts the air. He pulls his thumbs free and then holds on against the side of his nose and then exhales sharply. The discharge hits the deck with a wet "Twuck". He repeats the process with his other thumb, his other nostril, and another gross sound.
How she ended up in the ship's underbelly Tene would have no clue, when she finally woke with her shoulder stabbing pain through her skull and a dry mouth, naked of armours in a bloodstained undershirt that was torn away from her damaged shoulder. She recalled Satoshi.. Mahri... the pain. And Leo. Gagging on her arid throat's attempt to swallow, the woman did her best to sit up, and failed. "Gods..." Yeah, like they ever listened to a thing she said.
Satoshi has long since set the golem to stalking Dergious, armed with half a mop, to clean up after the dwarf.
Dergious eyes the deposits, most of which had hit the deck but some ended up running down his beard, and looks to a deckhand with a mop. "Whut? Be ye hungry?" he says, pointing to the snail-esque discharges, "Eat it er clean it... but do it NOW!"
Leoxander disappeared somewhere in that enclosed vicinity. The rogue was very skilled at hiding out, when necessary.
Caedan goes back to sleep as everything seems under control, or semblance thereof.
Tenebrae suffered the agony of her bad arm, while her good one swiped for a bottle of medicinal rum someone'd left handily by the ragged couch in the Captain's quarters. Sixteen slugs of that, one for each dead man on the Eternity's chest this day (okay and four left over, but she was so out of it by then, who's counting?) and Tene sank to a blissful oblivion, in which she wasn't frail, and all the looming shadows wore Cheshire grins.
Trey finally left the crew to the rest of the tasks. Most of it was cleaning now, and she was nearly blind with exhaustion. When was the last time she slept? It was sometime at the very beginning of the voyage, before their battle with the ships. Now she found the bunk she had claimed and collapsed onto it, the white furball that had obediently stayed in her bag slipping out nose first to join her.
Satoshi paces the railings of the ship. Possibly the only one not tired onboard?