Thread Closed
Preparations
(Any appropriate gearing-for-battle music is fine here, but to keep it in-setting I prefer For The Sky.)
The Firmitas
The ship was humming with activity, though this was an understatement amid the drone of gunship engines as engineers fuelled and refueled, checked, and rechecked, armed and re-armed. Movement on-board the ship-carrier's flight deck happened in a highly-efficient chaos; the Special Expeditionary Cohort had trained and re-trained for exactly this moment, and all performed their roles in the way a mummer on the first night of a performance, fueled by a restless energy and anxiety, a knowledge that this all had to go right, that first impressions counted, and there would be no second chances.Â
Pilus (No; he supposed commander was more appropriate at this point or simply Ulf) Hartsblood strode amid the bustle with a centurion on either side, not so much a serene point of calm in the chaos as a catalyst, spurring the soldiers nearby into movements even-more efficiently hurried than had been the case at but a word from him. "Make sure those markers are visible on the wings. I want no accidental fire from the Eorzean anti-air," to one crew. "Refit that one for bombardment, reassign it to the second squadron," to another. The centurions dutifully recorded his statements for those not in earshot, to make a better record of what went right - or how it all turned into an utter disaster. Either was possible, thought Ulf.
At one crew, he paused, glancing at the centurions with nod. They stepped back for him to speak, and that took a moment in coming to pass, letting the engineer crouched on the ground in front of him finish adjusting a panel on the side of his charge's hull. "Veteranus Ironfist."
Sveinn was too old and too long in the service to jump and be startled at the sudden address - Garlean commanders enjoyed their dramatic entrances, or if not enjoyed, performed them as if they were accustomed to the role. The engineer rose to his feet and, despite being half-stained in grease, offered a sharp salute. "Pilus." Ulf was glad he had chosen to wear his helmet today. It hid the wince.
"Put down the wrench and clean yourself. I have orders here for your reassignment." One of the centurio stepped forward and offered a parchment. "You will be piloting one of the assault craft for this operation."
Ironfist's brow furrowed. He had served his punishment at the Pilus' behest dutifully and without complaint, but had made no requests to pilot again in either man's recollection. "Sir?"
"I believe I was clear, veteranus. See yourself to the First Assault within the bell. They'll have your orders."
"Yes sir, only it's been some time since I've piloted an assault craft, and a boarding action - "
"I said nothing about a boarding action." Again, Ulf was glad of his helmet. It hid the smile. "You are damned and determined to keep the people safe. This shall be your chance."
The Lucky Lord
"Sorry, Slae," said Hannah, her voice only a little raspy. She hadn't taken a fatal hit in the exchange, but if a shot puts enough shards of wood in a woman Half-Gil's age, even a woman in her shape, it's bound to have an effect. "Think I'll be sitting this one out."
Slaeglac, seated in the one chair in her quarters that could be found among all the trinkets and charms Hannah left scattered around the room, offered only a nod. "No shame in that, miss. You've more'n done your part." Indeed she had, he mused, letting his hand drift to the sahagin-tooth necklace at his chest.Â
Yesterday, The Lord had set off on its scouting mission early in the morning, and limped into Gloam's harbor well after the twelfth evening bell, sporting an injured crew, torn sails, a damaged hull, and a bleeding Captain Half-Gil, grinning broad and bright enough that her gold teeth glittered in the dark. The ship had come upon a Garlean cruiser in the afternoon and given battle. It had been a rough exchange from the look of things, but the Lord had gotten the best of the fight, and one Garlean vessel was even now making itself comfortable on the seabed of the Sound, settling in for a long and fruitful career as a sunken hulk.
Sinking part of the reprisal force was more than enough of a feather in Half-Gil's cap, but she also seemed to have come back with intelligence, a picture of the incoming forces. Cruisers as screeners suggested some larger vessels, and Hannah, a veteran of raids in Garlean waters, supposed they were bringing a pair of their "big guns," heavy vessels with long-range ordnance. It was like the Garleans to seek to bomb from afar, after all.
Hearing that, Slaeglac had laughed fit to burst. Fog had settled in on the Sound yesterday and seemed to have no intention of leaving. Their ability to sight would be limited to their own cruisers, and their ability would be limited. The circumstances were perfect for the Immersabilis to do its work. Slaeglac had yet to see the whale-ship in action; seeing it in action against Garlean vessels was, he was sure, going to be the high point of his day.
"Well you rest, Hannah," he said, patting her on the shoulder that didn't have a bandage, closest to him where she rest in her bed. "Keep the Lord in the harbor. She'll float, yeah?"
"Aye, she will." She pushed herself into a sitting position with some effort and a sharp grunt. "Captain - "
"That's fine. Get those sails repaired and keep yer ship's boats ready in case we need to move out those what are still on shore in a hurry. You leave it to us, and - "
"Captain, why'd y'want to hang?" The question took Slaeglac by surprise, but it looked as if Hannah had been chewing on it for a while. Her jaw was set and her stare unblinking, and her usual brassy cheer, present even in injury, was long gone. "Y'can't quit on people like that. It's givin' up th'game 'fore you've laid down yer hand."
He ruminated, dragging his hand across his chin and the scars thereupon. In the circumstances, it deserved an answer. "No makin' yerself a legend, a'right? You've done enough of that," Hannah went on. "Not a damn soul here doesn't know that. Ye spit in the Garlean's eyes an' ye stood up for us, to quit where we please without their say-so. Y'don't need to kill yerself for that."
Slaeglac snorted. "Hells, Hannah, makin' a legend's the last thing I want. It's the opposite. No big public hangin', no Slaeglac the Secessionist hangin' from the gallows. No legends. Just a quiet little death in a dark corner where nobody can watch. Think I could've swung that, if ye'll pardon the jest."
"But why?"Â
"Because, damn it, this is still my island, an' it shouldn't be," he said at last. "Goldie's tryin' as speaker, but people still talk t'me. I'm the one they settled on. This's the sort of thing starts Admiral's an' Emperors, Hannah. Treatin' legends as if they can fix everything on account've who they are. But tha's not free." He shook his head. "If I wanted a fleet, didn't need to split from Limsa to do this. Freedom, Hannah. Just one place, free from all that, from legends and heroes and saviors, their deeds tellin' y'what to do into th'next era. If I could hang, like, or disappear, then that'd be the thing for it, wouldn't it? Nothin' dramatical, just a fadin' off."
Hannah stared at him. Despite his size and his stature, Slaeglac felt himself shrinking from Half-Gil's stare. "Yer daft," she said at last, and nothing more, as if that explained everything.
Slaeglac could only chuckle as he rose, "Maybe so, but that's how I think," he said, crossing to the door. "Rest up, miss. There's more work yet."
The door closed behind him, and Half-Gil found herself crossing her arms in irritation. The man gambled on everything. Pulled away the old salts of the privateering crew, trucked with Garleans, built his own island, turned the Garleans against themselves, and now he was running up against a Garlean force in front of a combined fleet of two nations.
The only way he was walking away from that without some kind of legend, she thought, was if he failed.
(Any appropriate gearing-for-battle music is fine here, but to keep it in-setting I prefer For The Sky.)
The Firmitas
The ship was humming with activity, though this was an understatement amid the drone of gunship engines as engineers fuelled and refueled, checked, and rechecked, armed and re-armed. Movement on-board the ship-carrier's flight deck happened in a highly-efficient chaos; the Special Expeditionary Cohort had trained and re-trained for exactly this moment, and all performed their roles in the way a mummer on the first night of a performance, fueled by a restless energy and anxiety, a knowledge that this all had to go right, that first impressions counted, and there would be no second chances.Â
Pilus (No; he supposed commander was more appropriate at this point or simply Ulf) Hartsblood strode amid the bustle with a centurion on either side, not so much a serene point of calm in the chaos as a catalyst, spurring the soldiers nearby into movements even-more efficiently hurried than had been the case at but a word from him. "Make sure those markers are visible on the wings. I want no accidental fire from the Eorzean anti-air," to one crew. "Refit that one for bombardment, reassign it to the second squadron," to another. The centurions dutifully recorded his statements for those not in earshot, to make a better record of what went right - or how it all turned into an utter disaster. Either was possible, thought Ulf.
At one crew, he paused, glancing at the centurions with nod. They stepped back for him to speak, and that took a moment in coming to pass, letting the engineer crouched on the ground in front of him finish adjusting a panel on the side of his charge's hull. "Veteranus Ironfist."
Sveinn was too old and too long in the service to jump and be startled at the sudden address - Garlean commanders enjoyed their dramatic entrances, or if not enjoyed, performed them as if they were accustomed to the role. The engineer rose to his feet and, despite being half-stained in grease, offered a sharp salute. "Pilus." Ulf was glad he had chosen to wear his helmet today. It hid the wince.
"Put down the wrench and clean yourself. I have orders here for your reassignment." One of the centurio stepped forward and offered a parchment. "You will be piloting one of the assault craft for this operation."
Ironfist's brow furrowed. He had served his punishment at the Pilus' behest dutifully and without complaint, but had made no requests to pilot again in either man's recollection. "Sir?"
"I believe I was clear, veteranus. See yourself to the First Assault within the bell. They'll have your orders."
"Yes sir, only it's been some time since I've piloted an assault craft, and a boarding action - "
"I said nothing about a boarding action." Again, Ulf was glad of his helmet. It hid the smile. "You are damned and determined to keep the people safe. This shall be your chance."
The Lucky Lord
"Sorry, Slae," said Hannah, her voice only a little raspy. She hadn't taken a fatal hit in the exchange, but if a shot puts enough shards of wood in a woman Half-Gil's age, even a woman in her shape, it's bound to have an effect. "Think I'll be sitting this one out."
Slaeglac, seated in the one chair in her quarters that could be found among all the trinkets and charms Hannah left scattered around the room, offered only a nod. "No shame in that, miss. You've more'n done your part." Indeed she had, he mused, letting his hand drift to the sahagin-tooth necklace at his chest.Â
Yesterday, The Lord had set off on its scouting mission early in the morning, and limped into Gloam's harbor well after the twelfth evening bell, sporting an injured crew, torn sails, a damaged hull, and a bleeding Captain Half-Gil, grinning broad and bright enough that her gold teeth glittered in the dark. The ship had come upon a Garlean cruiser in the afternoon and given battle. It had been a rough exchange from the look of things, but the Lord had gotten the best of the fight, and one Garlean vessel was even now making itself comfortable on the seabed of the Sound, settling in for a long and fruitful career as a sunken hulk.
Sinking part of the reprisal force was more than enough of a feather in Half-Gil's cap, but she also seemed to have come back with intelligence, a picture of the incoming forces. Cruisers as screeners suggested some larger vessels, and Hannah, a veteran of raids in Garlean waters, supposed they were bringing a pair of their "big guns," heavy vessels with long-range ordnance. It was like the Garleans to seek to bomb from afar, after all.
Hearing that, Slaeglac had laughed fit to burst. Fog had settled in on the Sound yesterday and seemed to have no intention of leaving. Their ability to sight would be limited to their own cruisers, and their ability would be limited. The circumstances were perfect for the Immersabilis to do its work. Slaeglac had yet to see the whale-ship in action; seeing it in action against Garlean vessels was, he was sure, going to be the high point of his day.
"Well you rest, Hannah," he said, patting her on the shoulder that didn't have a bandage, closest to him where she rest in her bed. "Keep the Lord in the harbor. She'll float, yeah?"
"Aye, she will." She pushed herself into a sitting position with some effort and a sharp grunt. "Captain - "
"That's fine. Get those sails repaired and keep yer ship's boats ready in case we need to move out those what are still on shore in a hurry. You leave it to us, and - "
"Captain, why'd y'want to hang?" The question took Slaeglac by surprise, but it looked as if Hannah had been chewing on it for a while. Her jaw was set and her stare unblinking, and her usual brassy cheer, present even in injury, was long gone. "Y'can't quit on people like that. It's givin' up th'game 'fore you've laid down yer hand."
He ruminated, dragging his hand across his chin and the scars thereupon. In the circumstances, it deserved an answer. "No makin' yerself a legend, a'right? You've done enough of that," Hannah went on. "Not a damn soul here doesn't know that. Ye spit in the Garlean's eyes an' ye stood up for us, to quit where we please without their say-so. Y'don't need to kill yerself for that."
Slaeglac snorted. "Hells, Hannah, makin' a legend's the last thing I want. It's the opposite. No big public hangin', no Slaeglac the Secessionist hangin' from the gallows. No legends. Just a quiet little death in a dark corner where nobody can watch. Think I could've swung that, if ye'll pardon the jest."
"But why?"Â
"Because, damn it, this is still my island, an' it shouldn't be," he said at last. "Goldie's tryin' as speaker, but people still talk t'me. I'm the one they settled on. This's the sort of thing starts Admiral's an' Emperors, Hannah. Treatin' legends as if they can fix everything on account've who they are. But tha's not free." He shook his head. "If I wanted a fleet, didn't need to split from Limsa to do this. Freedom, Hannah. Just one place, free from all that, from legends and heroes and saviors, their deeds tellin' y'what to do into th'next era. If I could hang, like, or disappear, then that'd be the thing for it, wouldn't it? Nothin' dramatical, just a fadin' off."
Hannah stared at him. Despite his size and his stature, Slaeglac felt himself shrinking from Half-Gil's stare. "Yer daft," she said at last, and nothing more, as if that explained everything.
Slaeglac could only chuckle as he rose, "Maybe so, but that's how I think," he said, crossing to the door. "Rest up, miss. There's more work yet."
The door closed behind him, and Half-Gil found herself crossing her arms in irritation. The man gambled on everything. Pulled away the old salts of the privateering crew, trucked with Garleans, built his own island, turned the Garleans against themselves, and now he was running up against a Garlean force in front of a combined fleet of two nations.
The only way he was walking away from that without some kind of legend, she thought, was if he failed.
Verad Bellveil's Profile | The Case of the Ransacked Rug | Verad's Fate Sheet
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine