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Dead God's Chest[Semi-Open] - Printable Version

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RE: Dead God's Chest[Semi-Open] - McBeefâ„¢ - 08-02-2016

For those onboard, the fall of the Doenhaemr was a tragedy. Those who weren’t knocked clear of the airship’s deck with shot and blade were scattered across the rocky hillsides of southern coerthas. In what was perhaps the only blessing afforded his crew, none survived the landing. Their torn and shred bodies were food for the jackals and vultures of the region, and in a few short months, naught remained of them but a few scattered bones.


For the crew, it was a tragedy, but for those residents of the nearby town it was a strange and unsought miracle. Fox’s Hollow was a sleepy place, as Ishgardian hamlets went, too far south to feel the true wrath of either the Calamity’s weather, or Nidhogg’s crusade. It, like the dozens of unamed and unheralded villages like it, kept Ishgard fed through during the dark times of the Dragonsong war. Here, on the rocky highlands, woolly Karakul nibbled at the thorny shrubs, while rock enclosed terraces grow popotos, grains, and vegetables.


Things were tough in Fox’s Hollow, though every village has a similar story. Bad Harvests, animal attacks, disease, and the annual march of the recruiter for the Holy See come to take their best and strongest. Leaving the village a perpetual home of the too old and the too young to fight. Things were tough but bearable, the life of the peasantry in all times and all places.


Then, the airship fell. Most of its ceruleum and powder were long since spent, the Doenhaemr’s final battle with Halone’s Teat more an act of defiance than of survival. Thus, instead of a flaming wreck, the airship’s armor and hull was kept mainly intact, its deflated gasbag falling over it like a burial shroud.


It was a young herder who found it first, this rusting hulk of wood and iron, thought it was a moon or more before any were brave enough to venture inside. Eventually curiosity overcame fear, and among the shattered spars and decking they found crates of silvery steel, along with weapons and gold worth enough to feed their village though an era of bad harvests.


The men and women of Fox’s Hollow hid their boon well, sequestering the goods in barns and cellars, selling them off bit by bit as not to raise suspicion. Fearful of bandits and taxmen both, they lived their lives much as before. The empty hulk was now silent except for the laughter of children playing knights and knaves among broken gundecks, and as the villagers broke ground with fine new Limsian tools, or kept the chill away with imported Ul’dahn linens, they gave silent thanks to whatever force sent the Doenhaemr hurtling down from the clouds.

Or at least, they did until the killings began.

RE: Dead God's Chest[Semi-Open] - McBeefâ„¢ - 08-03-2016

“Captain Merlfalkwyn. Why is it that some fish are sharks, and others are not?”


The Admiral’s chambers were sparse and and clean, more befitting an officer of the Maelstrom than any simple pirate. He stood, his back to his visitor as he gazed through the wide windows of the flagship at the Fleet..


His Fleet.


Sleek low frigates could be seen scattered around the harbor, the mainstay of his fleet, while a few airships could be seen moored to raised platforms near the cliffs. He turns to his guest after a moment, and despite the generous size of the cabin, the Admiral seemed too large for it, overwhelming in his sheer force of presence. His eyes shine with cunning from a craggy, sea weathered face, judging her as he waits for a response.


The small Sea Wolf waits at silent attention, holding herself with a military poise that well suited the pirate flagship’s clean lines. Despite her comparatively tiny stature, it would be impossible to describe the heavily muscled marauder as petite. Her stone hard face remains impassive, waiting until the commander stands fully facing her. Steely eyes glint back at him as she delivers the crisp response.


“All fish are not sharks Admiral, because not all fish be suited fer th’hunt.”


“True, Captain.” He nods curtly, “But that is not the whole of the tale.” The Admiral’s voice is a low rumble, a voice used to shouting commands across the cacophony of gunfire. One can almost hear glass rattle at every word.


“Every fish once had a choice. To survive…” He says the word with obvious contempt, “Or to hunt. To sharpen its teeth against its foes… or to huddle with its comrades hoping for survival.” His eyes flash with anger, “We were once a nation of Sharks, Captain. Now we have become minnows.”


He hops off his desk and paces towards her, “The choice is yours Captain. Will you be shark?” His words hang for a moment, until he is but a few fulms away, “Or minnow?”


“With all respects ter ye Admiral,” The woman replies with an undertone of pride running through her seasoned voice. “I be the eldest daughter o’ Merlfalk Merlahrsyn. I was born an’ raised in th’old traditions. I’ve stared inter the very eye o’the whorl an returned victorious.” Her face cracks a smile, with sudden wrinkles belying her true age. “The shark may shed it’s teeth, but it’ll never lose it’s bite.”


He breaks into a grin as well, his meaty hand slapping her side, “That’s the kind of fire we need, Captain.” His gaze drifts to the window, “You’ve got your orders then. Don’t dissapoint me, and you might be a captain again in more than just name.” The skeleton of a vessel lies in drydock, workers swarming over it like ants, “New ship’s almost done. Be a shame if we couldn’t find a captain for her.”


He pauses for a moment, letting his words hang in the air, “Understood?”

“Understood Admiral.”

RE: Dead God's Chest[Semi-Open] - McBeefâ„¢ - 08-04-2016

“We have to tell the Knights!” The man’s voice was a panicked hiss in the dim tavern, glancing between the door and windows as he spoke, “This is… this is the Fury’s punishment for our greed! We cannot---”


“ENOUGH.” A voice rings out over the crowd, and a tall  silver haired Elezen dressed in heavy blacksmithing leathers approaches from near the hearth, “...enough Reithardt.” Her voice turns softer, “You’re right of course. We cannot handle this ourselves.”


“We cannot!” A reedy voice calls out, “The Holy See will take…”


“WOULD YOU HAVE IT BE YOUR SON NEXT LAFORTE?” The blacksmith roars at him, anger once again clouding her features. “YOUR WIFE? YOUR MOTHER?”


Her shouting is interrupted by the tavern door slamming open, the chill air of a midsummer’s eve rustling clothes and causing flames to dance. A woman stumbles in, a bundle of cloth in her arms, face and eyes blank, “I… I thought we would be safe.”


“Fury Preserve us.” One man mutters, moving forward to assist the new arrival inside, “Marsia, we weren’t sure if you’re coming.” The rest of the room exhales almost as one, releasing hands from pitchforks and cleavers, “We almost thought you had…” He pauses, “Where is your husband?”


Marsia slowly walks forward, and as she enters the light, it is clear that the woman is covered in fresh blood. The sickly metallic stench of it fills the room, and the crowd edges backwards as one. The cloth bundle is placed on the table, and slowly unwrapped to reveal a leg. Most of the leg looks perfectly normal, aside from the blood, however instead of connecting to a body, the thigh ends in a ragged red mass of meat.


The room is silent for a moment, no one sure what to say. Then the woman collapses onto the floor, hugging the bloody leg and weeping.


“I’m sending out the message for Knights and Adventurers tomorrow.” The blacksmith repeats.

This time, no one challenges her.

RE: Dead God's Chest[Semi-Open] - Klynzahr - 08-22-2016

They didn't move a muscle until the last rustling murmur of conversation and rustle of foliage had faded off into the jungle.

Then Ex-Sargent Daniwyda spun to face the towering bulk of Doesfyr Freynahctsyn. "Subtlety ye damned fool! Is it too much ter ask fer ten minutes o'patience an' gods-blasted subtlety! By the Scholar's Arse!"

Turning her back on the other marauder, Dani threw open the oppressively hot maelstrom jacket and fanned herself with the thick red canvas. Underneath it, the middle aged commander wore a gleaming cuirass of pure ishgaurdian steel, elegant, well-fitted, and certainly not standard issue. The so-called privets under her command were already throwing their Limsian paraphernalia to the jungle floor, stripping to their sailor shirts and slops.

"Dunno what yer gettin' so high an' might about Sarge" Doesfyr leered down at the smaller Roegadyn. "Lubbers never stuck round ter argue an' if they had we could o'fucked that lot right back ter their swivving  camp! So what's yer bloody.."

His jibes were cut short by the crack of breaking molars, as the handle of Dani's long axe caught him square in the lower jaw. She had delivered the blow in perfect silence, striking before Doesfyr could so much as reach for his own weapon.

The trio froze into shocked silence, while Dani coolly wiped the splatter of blood from her axe handle.

"The problem is insubordination, Sailor. Yer tongue endangered our mission an' I'll not be tolerating that on my ship."

Reaching into the pocket of her sloppy officer coat, Daniwyda produced a tarnished, iron coin, no larger than a gil piece. She buffed her prize lightly against her sleeve and held it up for the group to see. One side bore the visage of a Hulking Roegadyn in an iron crown. The other showed the silhouette of a muscular woman bearing a shield. 

"There." She said in a quiet voice, brimming with confidence. "The shield maiden of Koen Eidendraga. This is going ter bring all four o'us the favor o'the Admiral. You three play yer cards right... an' mayhap I'll be reccomendin' ye fer ships of yer own."

The trio remained silent, casting hungry eyes to the prize. However the blood trickling down Doesfyr's chin and the brash grin of their seasoned leader was enough to hold them warily at bay.

"Now!" Captain Daniwyda Merlfalkwyn barked, gesturing to the discarded uniforms laying out on the ground. "Pick this trash up, an' move! By the time those lubberly researchers have themselves organized, I intend ter be back on the deck o'the Kyndstyr enjoying a double round of grog!"

The pirates started eagerly down the far side of Slaughter Mountain, spurred on by the promise of drink, and Dani ensured that she remained in the rear of the group.

RE: Dead God's Chest[Semi-Open] - McBeefâ„¢ - 08-26-2016

Gerent was so stupid.

...Or maybe she was just so much smarter than him!

Clarent did her best to stifle a laugh, not wanting her hard work to be wasted. Besides, her little hollow was comfortable. It was a curved piece of metal, thrown two dozen falms from the airship’s wreckage. At the expense of her hands and dress, she’d borrowed her way through the loam, slipping herself underneath.

Her mother would be furious, of course. Clarent grins, what would be the fun otherwise?

The muffled shouts outside grew more frantic, and she could imagine the frustration of the other children, especially Gerent. The Miller’s son was always teasing her, now he would taste how it felt to lose at hide and seek for a change. The hollow was dry and warm, and Clarent’s eyes drooped…

…

Time passed

…

For a moment, Clarent wondered why she couldn’t see the exit. Then, shaking sleep from her eyes, she squirmed out, greeted by a starry sky. She saw no sign of the others… her mother would be more than furious now, and with a stab of guilt she imagined the woman’s worry.

The distant howling of a wolf shattered her revelry, and she scampers back to her hiding space, hair and dress covered with dirt and leaves. She’d simply have to wait for the morning… if Gerent couldn’t find her in here, surely the wolves couldn’t?

She tries to find a comfortable spot, her arm brushing into something strangely warm. It was circular and hard, and Clarent cups it in her hands, using it to ward off the night’s chill. Her stomach rumbled, and suddenly she thought of fresh meat. It had been a while since she’d had mutton…

-Scratch-

Something claws at the metal.

-Scratch Scratch-

Something forces itself under the lip of the hiding spot, snorting and yipping. Clarent screams and falls back against the opposite side. The beast howls and begins to dig, scraping at the earth.

“Child…” Something calls to her. A powerful, deep voice. She can feel her fear fading, replaced with something else. Rage?

Who was this wolf to hunt her? She snarls and darts out of her hiding place, meeting the wolf with a yell…

…

…

…

For a moment, Clarent can’t open her eyes to greet the morning sun. Too much blood cakes them shut. Wiping them, she stands unsteadily, what remains of the wolf scattered around her. Strangely the site doesn’t unnerve her, only fill her with a sense of pride.

“Child…” The voice calls again, the coin hot in her hand, “...I have much to teach you.”

RE: Dead God's Chest[Semi-Open] - McBeefâ„¢ - 08-30-2016

Captain Aleyn straightens her tricorn, shoving a brace of pistol into her sword belt and smoothing her uniform as she heads from her cabin. She has failed her nation and her duty, but at the least... she could die with honor.

The gun-deck on the frigate was strangely quiet, moonlight filtering through gaps in the gun-ports as she moved through her ship in the dark. Hammocks hang from the beams, crate and rope lie stacked, yet it did not impede her path, for it was her ship, and she knew it like an extension of her being.

Once again, she wondered how it had come to this, as she moved up to the spar deck, stars bursting into lift as the sails lied limp as they had been for the last week. Their ship had lost the Navigator's blessing, her first mate had preached, and in unspoken accusation, so had she. This is how it had been, ever since their scouting party had found that damn ruin. 

The only sound on the deck was that of soft prayer, the entire crew arrayed kneeling before the forecastle. Her first mate, the man she had trusted like a brother, stood above, leading them. "Oh Great Navigator! We beseech you, return your blessing to us!"

"Mr Darby" She tries to keep her voice calm, "Why are the men not at their watch?"

The Hyur that was once her first mate looks up, "The Navigator no longer blesses you, captain. Your services are no longer needed."

"Like hell." The fur rises on her tail as none of the crew rise to her defence, "The Navigator doesn't rule here." She slides out a pistol and points it at him, ears pressing back as she bares her teeth in a snarl, "I do, and I charge you with Mutiny, Mr Darby. The punishment is death."

She cocks the pistol's hammer, the crew eerily motionless around her, "Any last words?"

"Yes. We've known each other a long time Captain. I had hoped you would see the error of your ways." He turns away from her, "Crew, dispose of this Heretic."

"Dispose of this!" She fires as the crew erupts around her. A hand nudges the barrel, sending the shot wide. Then her cutlass is out, glittering in the moonlight as her former crew comes at her like animals. "Aye, come 'en you scurvy whore'sons." Blood and steel flash...

Minutes later the crew looks stunned at the twisted figure of their captain. She had taken a full dozen men down with her, her body riddled with sword and pistol wounds, tail wet with her blood. They look at each other, doubt flashing between their eyes, when, like a spell being broken the canvas above snaps taut. Wind fills the sails, and the crew feels the ship lurch into motion.

"The Navigator is pleased with our sacrifice." Darby calls out, something cold and round glinting in an outstretched hand, "You have done well, men."

With that, their doubt is crushed, and the men kneel down before their savior.

RE: Dead God's Chest[Semi-Open] - Klynzahr - 09-01-2016

        The sleek hull of the frigate was like a dolphin through the waves as it completed its trials. From where Captain Merfalkwyn and the Admiral sat, it darted back and forth around navigation buoys, sails tacking hard as the steersman called out commands. While the cannon were not yet aboard, the row of gunports above the waterline spoke of its teeth. Built from tropical heartwood that was solid as Iron, the ship’s menacing profile was enough to stop the heart of any merchantman that saw it. Or at least, it was until the Maelstrom’s reforms...

      “It’s a beautiful thing, Captain.” The Admiral smiles, as they look into the bay, “The Maelstrom may switch to steel and steam, turning their back on the Navigator’s winds...” His typical harsh demeanor fades as the ship dances among the whitecaps, “But not I.” He turns to the captain, “How do you like her?”

      “She flies like a gull in th’wind, Admiral.” The new captain replies with a touch of emotion.   

       Decked out in her finest coat, Daniwyda Merlfalkwyn watches the newborn vessel with a swelling of deep pride. Every ilm of her being is brushed and polished to perfection, wearing her stripped down dress uniform with a passion that would make any officer blush.

      “There’s not a steamer out there, that can outsail a trim frigate in good hands.” She continues crisply. Naval service shining through, as she maintains the military baring honed over many years. Yet her iron-grey eyes flicker with a youthful mischief.   “...together she and I will dance to the wind.”

     The Admiral grins, “Aye, I had hoped as much. We can’t compete with the fleet on tonnage, but we can on skill. I expect you to dance circles around them Captain.” He turns, light glinting off the massive axe on his back, “What are you going to call her?”

     “Bad luck ter tell you, befer she’s properly christened.” Dani chides her commander, with a faint smirk. Her own eyes never stray from the ship, drinking in it’s clean lines and reading each tack and turn. “The crew would never stomach it, Admiral, I’m certain ye know.”

     “I had to try…” He slaps her on the back, “Forgive an old sailor’s curiosity. I almost wish she were mine. The Flag has its benefits, but a dancer of a ship like that isn’t one of them.” He nods solemnly, “Drink it in, Captain. That’s what they’re trying to take away from us. That’s what they want to resign to history.”

      Daniwyda finally breaks into an open grin, which seems to melt ten years off her visage. “There’s still the old spirit livin’ in Limsa.” She says, with a deep rooted confidence. “Ye see the old crews flyin’ her banner in the city but the sea be callin’ to them like it does ter us all. Give them a different flag ter rally under and they’ll remember the sweet taste of freedom.”

       He nods, “Aye, I think so. That’s why we’re here, Captain. The Garleans are a threat, aye, we all know that. Yet we don’t need to give up on who we are to beat them.” He reaches down to grab a cluster of grass, lifting it up and watching it drift with the breeze as he lets go. “The Navigator blesses us, and we travel along her winds…. To explore, to conquer, and to pillage. We’ll set things right, Captain. That’s why getting that coin was so important.”

      The new captain’s eyes follow the bits of grass out towards the frigate in silent appreciation.
Without hesitating, she withdraws a small pouch from around her neck and removes the coveted iron coin. Like everything else about her person, the tarnished metal has been polished to a sheen and the shield-maiden’s sign winks at the Admiral. With an almost careless confidence, Daniwyda flips the coin high into the air and snatches it before it falls again.

      “The shield-maiden of Eidendraga…” She muses “...... buried with salt and iron as she had lived.” Dani’s iron eyes slide towards her commander, “Aye… I remember the stories, I know who she is, but no songs sing of iron coins.”

      “Now that… that story will come in time, Captain.” His eyes watch the coin spinning through the air, “Does it feel different, than other coins? It should. They have a certain life to them, a certain history. Some say if you talk to them, they’ll speak back.” He coughs, “Course, such things aren’t fit to let the crew know. Captains aren’t supposed to talk to strange coins.” He grins at her, in high spirits, “But a woman can be curious in private, aye?”

        Lifting her eyebrows in polite scepticism, Daniwyda carefully weighs the coin on her palm. “Tis the role of the captain to know an’ revere the crew’s superstitions...” She quotes thoughtfully “.... but remain apart and unswayed by them, so their head canna grow clouded.”

        Her iron eyes shift to the Admiral, taking measure of the man who has given her so much.

       “But yer no sailor’s fool.”

        “I’m not.” He confirms, “And that’s no regular coin.” He turns away, “In any case, keep my advice in mind… and keep it close. Let me know when you’ve got a crew ready for that ship of yours, I’ve a job in mind for it.” He nods at the airship straining at its moorings further inland, “What do you think of Blaetusyn?”

        The coin winks away, as Dani stows it safely back into it’s pouch, and tucks it beneath her glinting breastplate. “Ye know we sailed t’gether once, many years back” She offers  “....His father Blaetu was Captain at the time and Blaetusyn a mere cabin boy….” She trails away considering her comments with care.

        “Blaetu was a ruthless man, known fer getting things done at any cost. That same reputation follows his son. If he’s given a good crew, Blaetstyrm Blaetusyn will never waver or shirk from a fight but…” She cautions fixing the Admiral with a humourless, iron stare. “Ye run a gamble any time ye send him out. The man’s like a rampaging auroch; no notion of when ter stop. He’ll run his crew inter the waves before he admits defeat an he’ll raise the cry of ‘Pirate’ everywhere he strays.”

          “Aye.” The admiral admits, “But every good pirate is a gambler, Captain. In any case, captain, you’ve a ship to crew.” He nods at her, “Return once you’re ready for the next mission.”

RE: Dead God's Chest[Semi-Open] - Klynzahr - 09-07-2016

Two Suns Before the Spinning Coin's Capture   


      It was hardly a wise decision to moor the newly christened Nortyrliht so near to the Moraby drydocks. With half of her small crew grumbling because they were too deep in maelstrom waters, while the other half grumbled because they had been denied the leave to go ashore for a round of ale, the situation could only invite trouble for her freshly promoted captain.

          Daniwyda was not generally a woman to make such rash decisions. She had long since outgrown the wildness of her youth and learned to keep the warrior’s wrath in check. Twenty years ago, she had been the first to board each enemy vessel, and the last to concede one ilm of the deck. Marriage, time, and experience had long since curbed that reckless nature, moulding her into a dependable, upright and cautious captain. However this morning the old pirate had woken with the thrum of courage rising in her breast and the inexplicable need to revisit the town that she had once called home.

        Now she walked down blacksmith’s row for the first time in over two years, with a deeply rooted fear nagging her at each step. At the farthest corner of Blacksmith Row was a little shop front, filled to bursting with kettles, ploughshares, and barrel hoops. Over the doorway, swaying jauntily in the breeze, was a elegantly carved sign that read “Iyrnahct and Sons.” Dani stared at the sign for nearly a minute of sickening dread. Then she sucked in a deep breath and swung the door open.

       Three boys sat at the counter, playing a game of dice for orange sections. Their heads popped up curiously as Dani entered, staring up at the fully armoured sea wolf, who’s ishguardian armour glinted even in the dim light. The younger two, both freckle-faced hyurs, quickly swept away the remains of their game and scuttled to the back corner, while the third and only Roegadyn among them took his place behind the counter and addressed Dani with a jaunty “Welcome ter Iyrnahct an’ Sons, What brings ye ter our fine shop terday?”

         “I’ve a fine mail coat that wants mendin’. Some acid damage to the sleeve.” She replied unfolding the light bundle to show the small hole burnt into the rings.

        The kid whistled lightly “Is that full Ishguardian steel? I’ve only heard o’coats like these!” Then in an attempt to remain professional, he grabs a slate and chalk, adding “I’ll need ter have me Da look o’er it. What’s th’name I ken be givin’ him?”

        “Tell him it be ‘Dani’.... Daniwyda Merlfalkwyn.”

         For a moment the boy stared up at Dani with iron grey eyes that perfectly matched her own. Then his face broke into a wide grin. “Really! I’m called Dani too, Danisil” he declared with a trace of pride.

         “Would that be a family name?” Daniwyda asked softly, trying to stifle a sudden pang of regret.

          “Aye, twas, on me Mum’s side though.”

         Little Dani scratched her name down on the chalkboard list, with his tongue stuck out in concentration. Then he hopped down from his stool and trotted off towards the back room. The muffled cry of the anvil beyond rang suddenly clear as he opened the door and bellowed at the top of his small lungs. “Hey Da! Customer!”

        Old Iyrnahct took his time, wiping off soot stained hands, and slowly made his way to the front room. His elder son moved into his place and the anvil sang out again. The smith was a giant even among sea wolves and his massive bulk dwarfed Daniwyda. Deep blue eyes acknowledged her briefly and settled on the delicate mail shirt.

       “Now this’ar a bit’o fine craftsmanship an’ no mistakin’.” Iyrnahct mused in a thick northern brough “Not oft’ I ketch a chance ter work a piece so fine. This bit ‘ere needs ter be removed, cleaned up an’ fresh links crafted fer her. I’d be honored ter take th’job.”

      He gave Daniwyda a professional nod, before adding “Findin’ steel ter match ul’ be th’great trick ‘ere. I’ll need ter have an order up from Ul’dah.”

      “I’ll pay extra for yer troubles.”

       “It be a deal, Mam! We be right glad fer yer custom.”

       The huge blacksmith extended his hand, easily engulfing Daniwyda’s smaller one, but his grip was gentle and warm. He turned to note down the job in the shop’s ledger and Dani’s attention turned back to the little boy at his elbow. The resemblance was clear in the shape of their eyes and the curve of their broad smiles. However little Danisil’s face was far narrower almost hawk-like and he bore short jet black hair, where his father had blue waves.

        “Yer lad makes a fine shopkeeper fer his age.” She noted, with a small smirk. “He’d be how old, ten year?”

          The giant raised his eyes from the ledger for a moment. “Dani’s risin’ thirteen.”

          “Looks like he’ll be a small one.”

           Daniwyda drew herself up slightly, barely scraping five-fulm-six herself. The massive Iyrnahct glanced back to his small, grey-eyed son, quickly brushing her observation aside. “Oh thar’s plenty o’time fer him ter shoot up yet! Lad’s hardly begun growin’.”

          He glanced down to the slate for her name and suddenly hesitated. “......Daniwyda.” Iyrnahct spoke her name slowly, with surprise and an undercurrent of confusion. For one moment he hesitated looking back at his little Dani and over to his customer and Captain Daniwyda felt the faintest stirrings of hope.

          Then Iyrnahct shook his massive head, brushing aside all qualms with a stoical grin, and Dani’s heart plummeted. Through a fog of defeat, she shook his hand again and promised to put in upon her return from Thanalan to retrieve the coat. Then the bold captain of the Nortyrliht scuttled out of the shop like a frightened school girl and struck out hastily for her vessel.

         Back inside his store, Iyrnhact stood silent and preoccupied, unable to shake the feeling that he had forgotten something of great personal import. After nearly a minute, little Dani gave his father a light nudge. “Ye all right Da?”

         The giant shook himself again, forcing a smile. “Aye lad, right as roega…” Glancing to the open door he added, “Ye ken… I thought that woman right handsome.”

RE: Dead God's Chest[Semi-Open] - McBeefâ„¢ - 09-10-2016

Though the trials were many and great
The Koen was not the only to sieze fate
Companions he had, heros of legend 
Each in as many tales is mentioned
Yet for all of their might, for all of their fame
Their loyalty the Koen did claim


For even the great could recognize signs
They might be heroes, but he was Divine.


Wuoti of the Axe, his blood fire
None could save those who rose his ire
Cursed by the witches as to never find rest
Unending rage burned in his chest
Fearing himself more than the death he craved
He through himself into battle, more drunk than brave


Moeri of the shadows, her blood of ice
None saw her blade before it striked
From the darkness she kept peace in the land
The blood of tyrants and heros both on her hands
For she had a mission, whatever the cost
If she faltered, but for a moment, all would be lost


Recovered Fragment, The Saga of Eidendraga

RE: Dead God's Chest[Semi-Open] - S'imba - 09-21-2016

(Warning extreme edge/angst/emo post)
S'imba would walk into the company house tracking blood the whole way. He walked into the company washroom examining himself in the mirror. He was completely soaked in Kraken blood. He pulled off the coat and just stared at himself replaying the events in his head. 

That was a battle that would possibly be sung about in taverns by minstrels, maybe even receive a good degree of embellishment to the ballad. S'imba Tia, Captain of the Sultana's Revenge and his duel with the Kraken. Well his crew deserved a good amount of the glory, but with recent events he was feeling doubtful the crew would even claim to have been in that battle. 

The beast that had resisted cannon fire and still tried to sink the ship, that in a desperate move the captain took up his sword and lunged from atop the ship onto the top of the mighty beast. Wrestling with the beast that all sailors feared until he emerged victorious. It did sound like a great tale to be told, one that could possibly fit in with Klyn's stories.

So why didn't it feel like it was a victory? Well he knew the answer to that. A good number of the crew were trying to remove the kraken's eggs from the ship. Though S'imba had made the decision to fight the thing. Planning to end it before it could sink them like many other ships in that graveyard of sunken vessels. He stared at himself, they had called him a monster for it. He kind of felt they weren't that far off the mark, he had literally bathed in it's blood. Well he guessed he was one step closer to having Cinna see him as an equal. He could already hear her applause when she was told about what he had done. 

He started to fill the tub with water before he stared at himself in the mirror before he would suddenly yell out in frustration. Why? He knew he had made the right call. What was he supposed to do, hope that once the eggs were off the ship the Kraken would have turned around? He knew he was looking to shoot it before it ever reared it's head, but hearing the stories and having seen the destructive results of it's abilities, it wasn't exactly something you wanted to give any sort of chance at getting a grip on the ship. He splashed a little water on his face, as the blood ran down it would briefly look like a red beard. 

That made him frown thunderously, he was becoming Sven. "The world isn't perfect flowers and roses, S'imba." He could imagine the mage's words in his mind. "Only a fool would believe that, the fact is that you must be willing to do what is necessary. Your concept of a black and white world is both childish and foolish." The fact that he seemed to be agreeing with that concept sickened him. He was slowly losing his mind.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an iron coin. On one side the head of a sea wolf wearing an iron crown. On the other side, a bloody axe. The symbol of the man that served on Eidendraga's crew that was simply known as the Berserker. While it seemed mostly unremarkable it was far worse than that. The Berserker lived inside it. Possessing anyone who held the coin so that it could complete it's mission. Whatever that was. It was certainly hushed about that. While he had resisted it's influence for the most part so far, he knew it was slowly eating him away. 

But who could he give it to? Everyone else who had touched it so far had gone completely mad when it was in their hand. Turning them into murderous versions of themselves. Could he honestly risk that? He growled and he through the coin across the room. "I HATE YOU!" He would shout at it. He wanted to hide it, but that felt irresponsible too. These coins had a will of their own and they were going to find their way to someone they could possess. 

There was only one thing that could come to his mind as to why this was happening. Koen Eidendraga was returning and would try to rule the five seas. How this was possible he had no idea, but he knew one thing and that was he had to be stopped. Unfortunately his best lead was that damn coin. He walked over and picked it up off the ground. Soon...they would be able to destroy it soon. The answer had to become clear soon enough. Though he felt he was wandering blind, he would have to eventually catch a break, right? He would slip the coin into his pocket. Then pulling off the bloody boots and pants he would settle himself into the tub. Closing his eyes and simply trying to clear his mind.

RE: Dead God's Chest[Semi-Open] - Klynzahr - 09-25-2016

        It was a quiet evening in blacksmith’s row. The last forges had been doused for the night, leaving the lull of the sea to sing solo. Most of the smiths had long since made their way down to the old bar but a handful of late closers remained, tidying their storefronts and offering their nightly prayers to Bryegot.

       Iyrnahct was up late, sealing and labeling a massive shipment of axe heads bound for the Gridanian botanists’ guild. Jobs like this were typically left to one of his boys but they had begged to spend their evening with two new carpentry apprentices from the drydock. Apparently one of them owned a particularly elegant greataxe. The knock at his door took the old smith by surprise, but he was far more startled to hear a female voice calling him by the long forgotten nickname. “Oh Ernie!”  

       As he pulled the door open, the tiny form of Daniwyda scurried inside out of the wind. It took him a moment to recognize the woman, without her heavy armour and axe, but one glance at her worn green face jogged his memory back sharply. “Oh is’ ye lass, I’ve yer chainmail aready.” He blurted in surprise, forgetting to keep a check on his northern accent. However the odd dialect seemed to give Daniwyda no pause. “I’d hoped ye would. Sorry ter call back so late. I thought we might talk a wee bit.”

      The blacksmith pulled his eyes away from her with some difficulty, retrieving her freshly repaired chain coat from behind the counter. It was more than the smiles of a strong and pretty woman, which he had long since believed himself immune to. Something in Daniwyda’s dark grey eyes and sharp face stirred deep memories that he could never exactly place. Each time she passed through the town Iyrnahct found himself wondering for days when and where they had met before, before reluctantly concluding that they never had.

        While she examined his work, the blacksmith found himself examining her yet again, with a puzzled smile. Eventually she caught his eye and laughed, sending the old man’s heart fluttering like a schoolboy’s. “Ye look tired, Ernie.” She told him, placing the payment firmly in his hand. “When’s the last time ye’ve been out ter relax over a drink?”

     “Oh I donna gerr’out oft’ese days” He answered quickly, forcing his thoughts back to the business at hand. “I’se a shipment good as done ternight…”

     “Well ye should. I’ll pick up the tab?” Her dark eyes looked up at him, with an inviting smile, but underneath Iyrnahct could detect a low current of sadness. It was a look that touched him with a familiar pang. He knew instantly that she had lost someone very close.

      “Then I’ll jus’ have ter set th’locks an’ hove to.” He replied, folding and packaging the chainmail tenderly. He tucked Dani’s package under her arm and offered the small woman his elbow for the walk, only to pause just outside the door.

    “Why’d ye call me ‘at?”

    “Call ye what?”

     “Ernie. No one be callin’ me Ernie since… well not fer a good long while.”

     “Not sure,” She smiled up at the towering smith. “Reckon it just felt like it belonged ter ye.”


____________________________________________________________________________


       They arrived home in the small hours, flushed, and still singing the sad chorus of ’Three Fishers’.  Iyrnahct offered Dani a hammock, with gentlemanly grace. Then stole a kiss when refused. She lingered for a few moments just outside the door before starting out on the long hike to the strand.

        Fifteen minutes out from the town, Captain Daniwyda Merlfalkwyn was slowly sobering up humming Three Fishers softly to herself, when the sudden rush of footsteps brought her great axe to hand. The three figures behind her instantly ceased their charge, throwing their hands in the air. She could make out two Sea Wolves and a Midlander, all carrying sea bags and axes. From their silhouettes in the night, she knew they were little more than boys.

       “Mam, Please wait! We’ve heard yer Captain o’ a privateer frigate” Their leader called out breathlessly, “We want ter sail with ye!”

       As he stepped closer, the boy lifted a lantern and Captain Merlfalkwyn felt her heart leap into her throat. The boy staring eagerly down at her was Merlanka Iyrnachtsyn, the blacksmith’s elder son. The trio begged eagerly, while she wrestled with her conscience. Finally the captain quietly asked “Do yer families know?”

     “Yes!” Merlanka blurted, unaware that his young face could be read like a book.

      Captain Merlfalkwyn hesitated for a moment more but Merlanka’s eager face woke a deep motherly instinct, which could not be silenced. “Alright,” She sighed “I’ll take ye on. Step quick now.” Towering over his new Captain, Merlanka’s boyish face broke into a massive grin, exactly like his father’s. Daniwyda lead the trio down to her skiff, wondering duly if she would ever have the courage to face Iyrnahct after this.

RE: Dead God's Chest[Semi-Open] - Grave - 09-25-2016

The captain’s quarters swayed back and forth, with the lull of the hidden bay’s gentle waves. Behind a polished and well-made desk, sat a small Hyur, with his feet resting atop a stack of paperwork. His hand moved lazily over a small candle, feeling its warmth and intently studying every flicker and sway of the flame. The normally bright and elegant windows at the rear of the cabin were covered in blankets to keep the harsh rays of sun away from the aching of his hung over mind.

The single hard knock came at no surprise to the Captain of the Eyritrachen. Leveling his white gaze on the door, he cleared his throat and spoke up. “Aye, aye..Welcome’board an’back, Khanafyr.”

The giant Hellsguard stooped to step inside, his eyes blinking quickly to adjust to the darkness of the room as he spoke in a booming deep voice. “..See ye found th’bottles I was savin’ fer th’crew’s next victory, Cap’n..Do’nae fault ye though. What with th’luck th’winds be pushin’ at us lately..” He trailed off, his crooked nose wrinkling as he scratched the back of his neck. “..Ye..Ye be havin’ more?” His usual broad smile appeared forced as he looked over to his Captain. “Ye might be needin’ it.”

Ginshaw sighed and swept his hand over the candle once more before standing to his full height of five fulm six. His white eyes piercing the Hellsguard as though the difference in their size was hardly worthy of note. “..I only’ad m’self a bottle with th’officer o’th’watch last eve..Nothin’ to get yer ‘ead twistin’ over.” His head shook slowly as he moved around the desk and leaned back against it, crossing his arms over oriental armor. “..But’at look on yer face ain’t got shite to do with what I been doin’ on m’off time... does it.”

Khanafyr shook his head slowly, still forcing his broad smile. He looked around the dark cabin, fidgeting under Ginshaw’s gaze. “..Nae, Cap’n Iyrnachtsyn..Nae..” His booming voice lowered as he finally moved to pluck a rolled up letter from the inside of his coat and offer it over. “..Words..From yer Da.” The smile finally faded as the Captain took the letter from him. “..Seemed’n a right panic..” He paused, clearing his throat. “Everythin’ else though I can claim be straight’n narrow from the Isles, got all th’supplies ye or--.”

An abrupt gesture from the Ginshaw cut off the giant Hellsguard mid sentence.. Quickly braking the leather tie holding the scroll closed, the Doman began to read. His mouth formed each word, mumbling  softly, then freezing. His jaw tightened and the parchment crumpled in his fist. Shaking his head slowly, Ginshaw muttered through clenched teeth.  “..Th’fuckin’ idiot o’a kid.” He circled back around his desk, sitting down heavily with a sigh, and began rereading the letter under the candle-light.

Khanafyr shifted from foot to foot as he watched his Captain’s reactions, his brows furrowing as he followed Ginshaw across the floor and halted in front of the desk. Khanafyr craned his head to peer down at the words, his own frown deepening.

“..But..Why?!”

The giant’s booming whisper betrayed his surveillance. His massive frame started, as he looked up from the paper. Only to be met with the icy cold, white-eyed stare of Captain Ginshaw Iyrnachtsyn. A broad abashed smile formed.

“..Er..’m sorry, Cap’n..Curious, ye see..Ha-ha-harr..” he muttered, the nervous laughter cutting off as he took a noticeable step away. “..But..I mean, th’lad’s old’nuff to start makin’ mistakes like’at, eh?” His smile twitched as Ginshaw’s own fox-like grin began to form slyly. “..B-But..I mean..S’stupid o’im, still! Jest! ..Er..” The Hellguard finally fell silent as he bowed his head submissively.

“..Khanafyr..I made ye Quartermaster fer yer grace with th’lists an’numbers, not to be givin’ me yer personal take on th’affairs o’m’blood an’kin.”

Ginshaw spoke softly, lifting his right arm stiffly to smooth over his brown and blond top knotted hair. “ ‘Owever! Ye speak sense on’is..That bloody brother o’mine has been rearin’ to seek out fame an’fortune fer years now, jest took a swift kick an’ a rumor ter have’im runnin’ fer th’false pretenders o’th’past..”

He paused, leaning forward to snag a opened bottle, giving it a sloshing shake, before pouring himself and Knanafyr a glass. “I’ve’eard the tongue waggles o’folk wantin’ to bring th’ol’Ways o’piracy back, to defy what our lovely Storm-Admiral has done fer us..Jest never thought m’own kin would be stupid’nuff to take th’bite..” Lifting his drink, he took a quick swig as he leaned back in his chair, frowning thoughtfully.

With a step forward, the Hellsguard spun one of the spare chairs in front of the desk and sat down heavily. Resting his elbows on the back of the small chair, he spoke softly. “Iffin’ I may, Cap’n..?” He ventured, taking his own glass between the thick digits of his left hand and holding it gently. “..Th’worst th’lad could be gettin’ is a rough beatin’ an’long swim to th’coast..Though..” He took a drink himself, finishing off the glass in a single swig. “..There be th’off chance’e could be caught up’n th’fued brewin’, ‘eard tale pirates be unitin’ under a new flag with their sights on th’ol’ports o’our Limsa..”

Ginshaw sighed again, taking another healthy swig from his glass as he slid the bottle to his Quartermaster. “So once they be satisfied with bullyin’ fishin’ folk or coastal villages, they’ll be wantin’ to take th’good life an’unity we be havin’ in Limsa  an’givin’ it to th’Whirl..Sounds’ right likely fer their kind.” The Doman nodded slowly, lifting his right hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “..Our crew be rightly filled with m’native country folk, ‘bout’ow many o’em be workin’ th’deck an’sails, Khana?”

“..I’d be sayin’bout..” The Quartermaster frowned thoughtfully, reaching up to scratch his stubbled jaw. “..Nearly less’n’alf our ‘ands, Cap’n. Why?”

“..’cause, Mister Coldsteel, we’re gonna be needin’ to find spots fer’em on neighborin’ ships to keep th’fight on’em Imperial dogs.” Captain Iyrnachtsyn said softly, leveling his gaze on the Hellsguard as a devilish smile began to form. “..I be a good son, an’when my Da pleads fer aid. He’ll always get it.”

Khanafyr blinked, staring at the Captain in unfeigned shock. “..Ye swore to not leave ’ese Doman shores till th’Effort be done, sir..Ye can’nae be meanin’..”

“We’re goin’ home, Mister Coldsteel. Call th’Captain’s o’th’New Dawn an’ Death’s Door, they’ll be gettin’ our Doman allies an’th’rest be returnin’ with us. We’ave rabble to ‘unt an’a brother to save.”

The door to his cabin closed and shortly after the pounding feet of activity and the roaring of his Quartermaster could be heard shouting his orders, shortly followed by the signaling horn to the other nearby ships. The creak of his chair sounded, as Ginshaw leaned forward, watching the candle’s small flame. “..M’blood runs Liminsian no matter where I be born.”

RE: Dead God's Chest[Semi-Open] - S'imba - 09-30-2016

S'imba stumbled drunkenly into a tavern in Vesper Bay, filled with rough sailors and other thugs. He walks up to the barkeep opening his mouth and slurring out. "Eyyy, gimme summat that salty whale grog..." The barkeep nodded before handing over a bottle of the drink. S'imba took the grog and started to suck it down. "Eyy...all ya's show me some respect...ya be in the presence of captain S'imba...captain of the Sultana's Revenge, king among pirates!" He called out to the bar. "Me an' my crew? We killed us a kraken!" 

A few of the men in the bar gave S'imba an annoyed look, while others were impressed most were thinking that it was just the drunk rantings of a Miqo'te. 

"People think I'm a monster for it though!" He called out taking another swig of the grog. "Mebee is true bu' not like I had any sorta choice...it was gonna drag us under!" 

A few of the rougher looking gentlemen stepped forward. "Oi, cat I recommend shutting yer trap." A rough looking highlander with an eye patch would say to S'imba. "Yeah no." S'imba responded at the three men. "See ya guys can't hurt me. *hic* I got this coin see...has the ghost of the berserker in it." 

The three men would guffaw at that. "Ghost huh?" The highlander chortled. "Think ye could come up with sumthin bit more creative than Berserker." S'imba shook his head before responding. "Oh ya prolly never heard the tale." S'imba said opening his mouth to continue before one of the men threw a hook and clocked S'imba up across the side of his face. S'imba hit the floor shaking his head. He growled as he stood back up glaring at the trio. 

"Bwa ha ha ha lookie 'ere boys, the kitty is all hissy." The leader of the group said before without warning S'imba lunged at him, he jumped up on the man, wrapping his legs around the highlander's waist with a python like grip. The without missing a beat, S'imba began pounding the man in the face as hard as he could with both his fists. The man fought back but he found it nearly impossible to pry the Miqo'te off himself. The other two men rushed forward both of them grabbing one of S'imba's shoulders and yanking him away from the man. Then one of them would take S'imba by wrapping his arms up under S'imba's underarms and locking his hands behind S'imba's head. 

While the third man went and pried S'imba's legs free of the highlander. S'imba growled and struggled but was powerless. The highlander straightened up, his face now looked much more like hamburger. "Oi yer gonna pay fer tha' one cat." He said with difficulty as he garggled on his own blood. He stepped forwards before punching S'imba swiftly in the gut. The keeper yelled out as the air was forced from his body, though before he could take another breath he was struck a second time. 

The beating seemed to go on for a long time, the highlander pounding every square inch of S'imba before he stepped back and the man holding him tossed him down to the floor. They laughed at him. S'imba tried to push himself up before one of the highlanders placed a bare foot on S'imba's back. "Ah ah kitty cat...yer gonna stay there on the floor." S'imba groaned as he grit his teeth. "I wish you hadn't done that." S'imba said before giving a growl and felt a second wind burst through him. 

He pushed himself up hard. The highlander staggered while he tried to catch his balance the second man lunged at S'imba. The keeper would reach out and grab hold of the man's arm, S'imba would follow up by giving the arm a strong twist. The man yelled out in pain as the Miqo'te kept twisting it would pop as it was pulled from it's socket. The man continued to shout out before S'imba gave a powerful kick to the side of the man's knee another crack and the man yelled out in agony as S'imba ruined the knee forever. 

As the man fell to roll around on the ground the first thug would charge him, S'imba sidestepped and tripped the man. The highlander would catch himself on a table before he could hit the floor. However S'imba was already behind him. Raising his arm he would bring his elbow down hard on the the highlander's spine. With a snap the man fell to the floor where he would cry out in horror as he found himself unable to get back up off the ground. 

S'imba turned his attention onto the leader. Without a word S'imba jumped up on a chair before he quickly lunged off again. S'imba brought his fist down into the highlander's face and dropped him to the ground. S'imba hopped on the man's back. S'imba grabbed the man by the hair before he began repeatedly bashing the man's face into the floor. The entire tavern looked on in horror as they watched S'imba stain the floor with the man's blood. 

Finally S'imba stood the highlander lying there motionless. No one made a move against S'imba at this point. They just stared at him in terror. "The weak are without rights..." S'imba said simply before walking out the door into the night stumbling slightly as he walked back out to wander aimlessly into the night. 

He found a spot on the dock where he could lean up against the wall and stare out into the sea. As he sat there he closed his eyes. He had to enjoy this short moment before he came to his senses and realized what he had done. Dreading the moment he would sober up.