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Reference: http://begma.roadtoamber.com/geography
Maggie accepts the flask. Opening it as she listens and assesses, she lifts it to take a swallow before passing it back. Surprise and pleasure settle over her features as she registers what she took a drink of. When she swallows it, she takes another bite of cookie. Cookies and brandy. Yum. She and Raphaela are leaning against the railing at the prow of the ship. Or sitting on them, in Raphaela's case. They are sharing conversation and snackage. Ahead of the ship are whirlpools fitted together one by one by one from one horizon to the oither. The Dancer is not currently moving forward to meet the challange.
Raphaela shakes head "You trust me too much, you know." Just drinking without even taking a sniff. Raph has good PR.
Maggie shrugs, looking at Raphaela fondly, "Maybe. But I doubt it. I suspect that you are more likely to brutally, subtly and effectively murder anyone who did me in. And if I am wrong, then that's okay. We'll have fun while I slowly expire."
Raphaela considers "You're not wrong." She pulls out a small sketchbook from one of the pockets of her coat, returning flask in the other and cookie in her mouth, she climbs onto the railing, scouting the front. "Mhmmmmm. Gonna be fun."
The Sea of Begma ostensibly stretches on a great deal beyond the continent, perhaps with other lands on the other side, within the same shadow. Vessels are seen on the adjacent horizons, coming and going, so it's certainly possible to get past the vast series of whirlpools by simply changing course and sailing around the turbulence. However it's only when the ships approach at the prescribed angle, and the Begman coastline is but a smoggy smudge to aft, that the first of the Shadowpath nodes truly springs into being.
It begins as sound, tinkling in over the waves, gaining shape and pattern. Trilling, frantic, enthusiastic music, somehow infusing the circling tides with anthropomorphic glee, although in the larger whirlpools it takes on a friendly menace. Hey, come closer! Sail right up! See you later!
Sound reference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWVFEVWJMz8&feature=youtu.be
Ruby inches along the rail, her brows being draw together like there was some sort of anxious magnetism. Her bottom lip protudes. Leaning over the rail, she cups a hand by her ear to collect the sounds. "...Tha's not just in me 'ead, is it?"
Wynter steps out into the ocean air with a frown on her face. Her head turning this way and then looking for something or one. "What is that noise? Is that.. music? Did we take on a traveling troupe in the last few hours?" She too moves towards the rails trying to find the source of the strange sounds.
Melina hms "Well I can't say for certain your highness as these things go , but if it is, it's certainly mine too' Despite the relative pleasantness" she's frowning as recent experience suggests music can be friend or foe
Maggie is near the prow, watching as Raphaela goes about her drawing and tests. She has taken note of ships entering the area without bothering with the whirlpools, but has not commented on that, yet. It is added to the mini-list of 'Things to ask Martin' though. After making sure that Raphaela is safe on the railing, she glances back to see others beginning to wake up and gather. Morning has well and truly broken. Lifting a hand, she waves but is stopped by the pleasent, if peculiar noises from ahead. Turning, she watches the 'come hither' business with wide eyes, "Uh. That... was odd. DOes anyone know what it was?" Glancing up to the forecastle, she waves to catch Mr. Anderson's gaze. Signaling, she directs him to ease the ship forward then come to a stop again.
Martin's back in relaxed adventure clothing after dealing with the big wigs in Begma. He seems pleased so that's a good sign. He's also had some booze and a smoke, these things always help. Unfortunately he looks slightly puzzled, like he might need some kind of sign to point him in the right direction. Shadow paths never did come with hard and fast rules, nor do mirrors. He glances about and the slightly puzzled look fades as he goes back to showman. "What what was?" Whatever happened he missed it as he was thinking something through on the way up from belowdeck.
Dirk is pacing back and forth like a trapped cat. He's quietly doing his best to wear a path in the deck.
Merrisol emerges from the lower deck as well, having met up with Martin in the corridor and followed along. Doing up the catches on his coat, he glances at the sky first, then heads for the front of the ship where Maggie is and the music is most clearly heard. "That'd be the node. We're on the right heading."
The alternate surface currents are clashing at their edges, spraying surf like sparks from a saw mill. The churning forces are capable of sucking a ship into the start of the vortex, or spitting one out into calmer waters. It all depends on the skill of her helmsman and the will of her captain. But once the approach crosses the threshold, there is no way out but through to the other side.
Wynter turns about to note the return of even more people to the deck and then turns back to the swirling masses of water. A brow is raised slowly as the thought of traversing those surfaces occurs. "Are we really going to sail into that? I mean.. I guess it can be done but without death and dismemberment?"
Dirk spins around and looks up. "This is going to be great!"
Maggie turns to smile a welcome at Martin and Merrisol. "Ah, is that it?" Her welcome is turned to include all of the others. Looking back to the whirlpools, she inhales, "I think... that we need to try to time it so that we coincide with the music and mayhem that just passed. Or, plot a course that intersects that bit." Glancing back at Martin, she lifts a chin, "What do you think? Oh," she adds, "Raphaela is mapping them. The whirlpools, I mean."
"Sounds loike madness." Ruby yammers and ceases her Grinch posturing. The strange currents taint her expression with sourness though. "Must be Pan-de-monium down there." She adds, "Nobody better fancy a dip I 'ope." Grim attempt at humour made, she just murmers, "Better get noice an familiar with it, re-gardless. Pathfoinders' Keepers. Gotta understand it if we gonna maintain it."
Dirk looks over "Hey Ruby woo. long time no see.
"Its a shadowpath, there are times when there is danger like this. I'm sure that you have to concentrate hard through this one." Martin tells Maggie. Merrisol's right, that's the node, there's a way out, just follow the heading." He assures her. "I'm not sure what to expect and when to expect it but I think everyone with their mirrors might want to be on guard, just in case something happens."
Amy is lazily curled up on the deck, in dragon form, half asleep. She's mostly enjoying what sun there is.
Merri does not look concerned at this stage, slipping his hand into his pocket to touch the mirror stone there. "As far as I can see, there's nothing amiss here," he offers to the others after listening to Martin. "Heard no complaints to the Pathfinders about this path, other than the enemy raids along the way. The peculiarities of Begma's nodes might be confounding to them, I'd hope, which is good for the safety of the realm." He glances toward the stern although the Begma mainland can no longer be seen.
Miriam had been down below, resting. She returns topside though, to look about at where they are and what's going on. When the mirrors are mentioned though, her hand slides into a pocket to wrap around hers. "Is there something happening?" she asks, looking to the others. Sometimes, she misses obvious things when her mind is elsewhere.
With the music's volume increasing as the Dancer approaches the whirlpools, Maggie turns back to stare at the mess. Lifting her hand, she signals Mr. Anderson and the ship is brought to a graceful, if drifty, halt. "Okay." Her hand falls and she wraps her arms around herself as a strange, but not unfamiliar, disquiet settls over her. Turning, she begins to walk back toward the stairs up to the forecastle. Passing Martin, she asks, "What is the heading you wish? Or is it... Second whirl to the right and straight on until we reach the other side?" Though she did ask, she does not pause to hear the answer. She trusts Martin will make his wishes known to her. Merrisol is given a smile, though it is fleeting, if warm. Her hair is done in a near-basket weave of tiny braids that hugs her head with varigated reds though some is hidden beneath her hat. Ruby, Amy and the others are offered encouraging nods, though Amy is likely a-snooze. Gradually, her arms lower and one hand dips into a pocket to curl her fingers around a mirrored stone held there. Looking up when she gets to the stairs she calls, "I've got it. Mr. Anderson. Please see to the crew. Some might need a tonic if what is coming gets bad. Upset stomachs."
Ahead and above, Mr. Anderson sounds relieved, "Aye aye, Captain."
Ruby makes with a ~hey~ to Dirk, with a chin-lift gesture. To Miriam she chirps with mock cheer, "Comin up on one 'o those Begman Path nodes. Looks loike it'll be real swishy-loike. At tha very least, at least it functional, or at least all this on purpose. In wassit...theory."
Wynter keeps her eyes on the whirlpools of ..carnival sound? She closes her eyes for the briefest of moments to gain a better sense of the magics or things otherwise that are involved into the shadowpath guidpost. Her eyes open back up and she smile wryly and shakes her head.
Dirk stands near the railing and sings a song of red headed princes and purple penguins. Niether prince nor penguins resemble any entity living or dead.
"Just consider it all part of the fun." Martin glances at dirk, smile tugging at the edge of his lips. To Miriam he nods, "We're going down the shadowpath." He acknowledges everyone present as if putting them into a mental manifest. "Just keep going until we encounter something, Maggie. At this point anything is possible. Just keep us on the path to the next node. We don't want to get off the shadowpath."
The pull, like gravity, drops the ships, seemingly into another realm. The whole sea is cyclonic watery conveyor belts of relative speed as far as the eye can see. The music, once madly dreamlike, crashes in full orchestral circus mode. Rising from the funnel of each whirlpool and the negative spaces in between are steel and concrete constructions of ridiculously glaring commercial intent: Billboard advertisments of the latest in domestic gadgets, animatronic stage shows of the nation's cultural greatness, funhouse mirrors magnifying recorded loops of Begma's friendly ministerial propaganda! So enlightening! The displays are invariably surrounded by big brass tuba horns geysering smoke and open flames detonating regularly into gouts of gassy colour. Welcome to Begma! Do not be alarmed by the ingenuity! Thank you for coming! So Long, Farewell! Did you remember to visit Reginald's Cigar and Gift Shop on your way out? Never fear, a kiosk is /here/!
Oh right, and there are also flashing arrows mounted here and there as clues for the novice traveler trying to find their way from wave to wave in either direction. Wouldn't do to have a mind forever wandering the Cogs of Cognizance... or would it? Nevermind.. Good-bye, good-bye!
A merchant galleon coasts by on the edge of another whirlpool and disappears beyond a chorus of hard-working engineer puppets singing about their work on the Great Iron Horse Railroad. Take a trip into the East, where they still ride real horses!
Dirk winces and plugs his ears. He closes his eyes and laughs though.
Maggie steps forward on the forecastle, one hand still clenching the mirrored stone in her pocket. The other lifts to direct Mr. Anderson who directs the crew similarly. It would be foolhardy to shout commands in this musical malestrom. Steady as she goes, then turn. The ship shifts from the first whirl to the next, which takes her in a different direction. Around a half turn and another shift. Maggie stands straight and true, unwavering in her certainty of course and direction. As with any other sort of storm, she ignores the irrelevant, isolates the important. Another shift takes them deeper into the collosal, intricate and rather ingeneous advertizing construct.
There's a dragon, who seems to have her ears flat back, a disgruntled look on her face, and a paw over her head, ducking her head to make some of the noise go away. Yes, it would be Amy, who is literally trying to hide under her own paw, to avoid the noise. Unsuccessfully.
Miriam has no illusions that she can be helpful here. Even if she tried to be helpful and calm the sea, that might throw off what the experts are doing. So, instead she finds something to hang on to with her free hand so she doesn't end up sprawled on the deck, and stays out of the way. The sounds and sights just seem overwhelming, but as long as she's holding on and out of the way, it's okay to be overwhelmed.
Dirk heads over to Amy and shifts knto cat form so she can have a furry earmuff purring in her ear... and hiding his face and ears in it two for the price of none.
Merrisol remains near the forecastle, within arm's reach of Raphaela, just in case her mapping zeal causes the Baroness to topple into the drink, or worse, onto the stage with some rusty cyber-entities.. doomed to perform scientific earworms forever! As the funhouse trip through Begma's nearest and dearest node begins, he glances back at Maggie with an apologetic smirk, despite the knowing she won't see it. He's Begman, and this wildly patriotic place kind of embarrasses even him. Then his gaze moves about, from face to face, checking his comrades for signs of mirror-vision acting up.
Martin remains focused, eerily so. On any normal adventure he might be doing something super crazy, like surfing during a sea battle, but for some reason he is intent and focused. Almost as if... well, almost as if he's not entirely there. "Keep going!" he orders, in a voice far harsher than anyone might have ever heard him use. "Don't stop here." His eyes... well... what's usually blue... contain flecks of sea green and silver.
Wynter blinks with eyes wide as they pass by... whatever this is. Advertising gone mad. It's almost interactive. Her hands come up to cover her ears to protect them from the raw volume of the place. Turning she looks about to note she's not the only one to think this place is a tad much.
RPG: Maggie challenges a difficulty of 8. Maggie chooses Resolve and the gift SKL-SC. Maggie succeeds.
It wouldn't be stopping so much as maintaining a holding pattern. The course, of course, ensures that every shipload has the opportunity to regret leaving and to anxiously look forward to a return trip. In fact, all one need do is deliberately (or accidentally) miss one turn-off, and ride right back around to the exit into Begma shadow proper. Fortunately, it's not really that difficult to depart, when one is determined and a fair hand at the ship's wheel. Eventually, the aggressively cheerful slogans and salesmanship peters out and the final whirlpool elbows both the Wave Dancer and the Son of Serminia into a wide open sea speckled with floating scrap pieces off what might have once been large scale machinery.
Maggie does not see her mate's smirk, apologetic or otherwise. Her concentration is as absolute as she can make it for she must signal their turns enough in advance that the helm can make adjustments before the ship sails past their exit onto the next whirlpool and into the range of the next wave of clockwork adverts. What does come close to shaking her focus is the sound of Martin's order. That is not like him and she knows it. But, her job right now is to keep them going, to get them safely to the other side. Really, it is lucky that ships turn ponderously or the constantly shifting trajectory might spark nausia in those with weak stomachs. As it is, the waves rock the ship, causing the ship to sway and yaw. And then they are free. The Wave Dancer slips into calmer water and the collective sigh of relief from the crew almost seems to come from the ship herself. Maggie does not leave the forecastle until she takes stock of their surroundings and what is to come. The scrap does catch her eye and she blanches a bit, "Ugh. I wonder what happened here." And, after a pause, "We should clean this up. Just leaving it here can't be good for the sea creatures who live here."
Merrisol looks over the rail and takes on a pained expression at the bounty of evidence of mechanical waste and suffering ecology. "The next node holds an island of ice, held together by a massive cooling system," he lifts his voice to reach Maggie. "Hope this doesn't mean it's coming apart."
The air coming off the sea is fairly temperate, not at all the sort of Kitezh-y climate that could support a sizable iceberg indefinitely. The bits of technology on the waves appear to form a path across the ocean, guiding ships to another nexus in the shadowpath.
Maggie frowns on hearing what the debris could well be from. A bit absently, she instructs Mr. Anderson to follow the machine-crumb trail until they either reach the island or the pieces peter out. Moving slowly down the stairs to the deck, she ponders, then motions to two sailors who quickly present themselves. "Get some netting from below. Open the cargo hold and collect as much of the debris as you can. Store it in the hold for now. We may need it when we get to the next node." Glancing toward Merrisol and the others, she adds, "I doubt that there is anything that Captain Merrisol and Lady Sorgo can't fix." Or... make more interesting. The sailors salute and with a nearly synchronos 'Aye aye, Captain' are off to see how much of whatever it is they can fish out of the sea while the Dancer sails. Nodding after them, Maggie turns again to rejoin her husband and friends near the prow. "Ominous... It is too warm for an iceberg without assistance."
Raphaela tries not to get in the way but to scout the bits and pieces which do come on deck. "Magic?"
Wynter steps over to Captian Maggie and offers some assistance. "Perhaps I could help you bring things to the net if not on deck. A small nudge here and there with Arcanis? And perhaps there is magic that clings to a pieces we bring up. One can hope that it would give us a clue to what's gone on. Or enough pieces found to let us know what they're from."
Raphaela nods "I can start cataloguing them."
Maggie smiles at each in turn, "Both would be very helpful. Please." Sobering, she considers a moment, "We must be careful, though. If there is magic on them, it is likely to be foreign. Most Begmans eshew magic entirely and do not believe in it. So, as you say, Wynter, knowing what it is could be very useful." Her eyes track along the pathway marked by detritus, "Though we might have to make several trips to gather all of the stuff. Which... may be a bridge to fly over later. We can store some things on deck, I guess. Let's see how much is out there. Thank you, both."
Raphaela asks "Should we secure it from affecting ship?"
"Well. Perhaps we should just start bringing it on until we find something of magical note or technological danger. Though I'd need someone knowledgeable with technology to tell me what's what." She looks about to find what side and where the netting os being set up. "Going forwarwd to nudge things toward the net."
Raphaela shrugs "If I were attacking ships, I'd place a bomb to what would be picked up. A body or wreckage." She smiles sweetly at Wynter. Good thing she uses her powers for good. Right? Riiiiiight?
Maggie nods to Wynter, "Raphaela and Kerf are the best that I know. Between them, they can likely figure it out." Turning to Raphaela, she blanches, "Uh, yes. That is a possibility. Though to my untrained eye, it looks to be remnants of something. Would..." She considers a moment then in silence before nodding, "Right. Be sure to look for bombs... And do what you can to neutralize them before sending them below. Please." Shaking her head either at her friend's deviousness or her own nievity, she settles on a faintly disturbed air. "Thank you, Wynter." About then is when the sailors sent on their detail begin setting a long bar on a wynch ready to lower the net and hoist up whatever is caught. Turning that way, Maggie calls, "Release any living sea creatures, please. We are not short on provisions."
Wynter blinks and then grins at Raphaela. "I like your thinking but lets hope they don't think like that whoever they are.. or were." She then nods to Maggie and moves to the prow of the ship and starts her mudges of magic apon those things that still float.
Raphaela grins and pulls out a notebook and a pen, ready for quick logging. "Please whatever you carry in, let me get a look at it first to file it. She positions herself in the middle of the deck. "Any recognizable bits, bits with design to one heap, other rubble to the right. Right pile goes down first."
RPG: Raphaela declares that she has the Organized (STY-OR) gift.
RPG: Raphaela declares that she has the Observation (SKL-OB) gift.
RPG: Raphaela declares that she has the Cross-Shadow Science (CSA-SC) gift.
RPG: Raphaela declares that she has the Cross-Shadow Mechanic (CSA-ME) gift.
The bits and bobs dredged from the tepid sea are slimed with a layer of yellow algae, which Merrisol has been busy studying off to the side. Thick and not that easy to wash off, it doesn't smell like fresh seaweed should. Surely this is the effect of the sort of lingering water pollution in this shadow, a conclusion one doesn't need a Warden to understand. As for mechanical function, there are a few non-generic pieces which must be part of an extensive system of motors, valves, and coils. Raphaela is able to separate the items into three piles of significance. There remains a visible trail of metal flotsam, which is probably just as well, since other ships on the path still require these clues to find the node.
OOC> Merrisol says, "The only magic involved with the pieces of machinery is the perpetual pattern magic that keeps the node stable, and this necessarily involves an imperfect mechanical system that is forever needing repair. If that's something Magic Sense can pick up, that's what you sense."
Melina looks at the piles of parts with a mild curiosity. She has been around enough tech not to be scared or put off but knowing how it works is another matter entirely. still under more mormal circumstances, the baroness' work would hold more interest for her and she would pepper the woman with questions, but once she has satisfied herself there is no danger from the gadget despite its being in a million pieces, she returns her gaze to martin with a frown of concentration
RPG: Melina declares that she has the Analyze Magic (MAG-AM) gift.
Following the line of debris, the Wave Dancer keeps to a mostly even course. The sides of the ship are washed by an ocean that has been poluted more than some, but less than others. Pieces of the whatsis that litter the water, leading them onward, are collected and brought aboard for examination. Though Maggie's intent was to gather as many of the pieces as possible, up to all of them, she is not able to. And, as has been noted, other ships need guidance lest they become lost. Turning from the prow, she also takes note of Martin's eye color shift and recalls the way he admonished her to keep to the course. Not at all like his normal self. Concern rises and her hand again moves to clasp her mirrored stone within her pocket.
Perhaps unpeculiarly, the dredging actions find no fish, mammals, or birds in the nets. Just thick yellow clots of scum. Merrisol tosses some pieces back onto the waves, and wipes down the rest to add to Raphaela's collections. "Looks like we've got algae blooms, devouring surface nutrients and oxidized remains, and releasing toxic levels of carbon byproducts," he sciences, sadly. "They've created hotspots in the sea, bringing up the overall temperature. Might be just the way it's going for this shadow, or might be a condition set by the properties of the node... either way, it's not reversible at this stage." He catches the odd looks Martin is getting but doesn't seem to be in on the newest weird stuff. Likely he has already seen Martin in a bad mood before this trip...
The island appears and grows upon the horizon, hazy in the vapours of its own slow demise. The typical island features, slopes and crags and gritty coastal shelves, are comprised entirely of glacial ice. Upon these sit buildings of hammered metal, overgrown with both rust and a frosty species of moss. Humanoid forms in shabby jumpsuits shamble along the paths which lead further inland to a large domed structure. Amazingly, smoke trails wind up from various locations on the great icefloe, as though the denizens are oblivious enough to set campfires upon ice in a climate already beyond melting point.
Martin does not seem to notice the looks sent his way. His brow furrows as they come into sight of the island. "No," he looks at it with some determination as if ... he just somehow knows. "Not here." Closer inspections by those curious might notice that his eyes have more silver specs in them than green. "Keep going," he snaps in Maggie's direction. "Do not linger. Time is crutial. We don't have much time." His fist closes slightly at the hilt of his sword but it could just be reflex. Perhaps he's just in a bad mood or under stress! Maybe it's a trick of the light in his eyes. Everything was so shiny before.
Dirk watchez Martin and stays quiet.
Quinlan is, as he probably has been quite a bit of late, on the fringes of things. Today, that fringe includes a spot in the open air, where he can keep an eye on Martin as they travel. But hey, at least he isn't pretending he's not a redhead today, that probably counts for something.
Maggie's brow lifts at Martin's tone. She turns to glance over her shoulder at the island of ice that smokes in the open air. Smokes? Or steams? The brow lowers to a frown when she spots the figures ambling hither and thither on the island's surface. Again, uncertainty touches her. Are they ambling? Or shambling? With a faint sigh over something, she nods, "Fine." Lifting her voice, she calles to Mr. Anderson, "We won't be stopping here. His Highness wishes to move onward." Not an afterthought, but a thought, has her calling upwards, "Quin? Can you see what is going on over there without getting into trouble?" Lifting her free hand, she gestures to the ice flow ahead and now to port.
Amy cracks open an eye, the Mandrake in her keeping watch on everyone. including her brother.
Half a dozen islanders, all sporting obvious and pronounced physical malformation, troop to the edge of the shore where a steep drop-off allows ships to come in closer than expected. A hunchback fellow with long double-jointed arms and a mouthful of uneven tombstone teeth is fumbling with some pegs and cables to establish and secure any gangplank or rope bridge thrown over by the crew. He waves at the Wave Dancer and the Son of Serminia, flagging them down with his weirdly hyper-extending elbows. Their docking seems to be an expected thing, and that is because nominal help must be offered by the captains before the node can be properly exited. If such is not already known, the troupe's ringleader, Dr. Margeaux, is only too happy to explain their situation by megaphone: Contribute parts or labour to repair the ice island's giant cooling system, and in no time at all the climate will get back to normal, and they can all go on their merry ways!
Merrisol probably did explain this a while back, on the Solar Flare, at least to Martin. Since this is apparently Not the Node They Are Looking For, however, he suggests, "We have an abundance of spare parts to send over," indicating Raphaela's well-organized troves of machinery detritus. Rising from his crouch, he puts his hands over his coat pockets into make sure the precious mirror stone doesn't accidentally tumble out... and hesitates. He looks down while slowly delving and grasping the rock in his pocket, weighing it, then bringing it up and close for an angled look-see. "Uh. Anyone else feeling a touch warmer?"
Dirk is snuggled into Amy's ear and purring. "I am in love with my Amy. and my maggie and my Ralph!"
Quinlan shakes his head. "I can ferry people over, if that's needed, but you have to know I'm more the 'break machines' than 'fix machines' type. I mean not on PURPOSE, usually, but this is definitely a mechanical problem."
Amy stirs a bit, as she looks over. "I am not much for breaking or fixing machines," she says easily. Dirk's purrsnuggles gets a small nudge with her snout. "I can fly things over, but that might not be well received."
Martin simply looks impatient for them to get moving. "You have to get around each Node the way you are supposed to." His tone is still sharp and he isn't really looking at anyone in particular. "Otherwise you go off shadow path, it's simple...it's simple.. Just takes time. Which we don't have, so someone take care of that." His eyes flick to to Merrisol. "Odd, but I feel cold."
Quinlan sighs. "Martin," he says, and it's...sharp. The way you'd say the name of a cat about to steal bagels off the counter in full sight of everyone, that kind of sharp, although he doesn't in any way appear to be angry. "Focus. I'll go ...do whatever the weird island people need. I can catch up and the rest of you can stay on course. Martin's probably right about the lack of time to be horsing around."
Now that Maggie understands what must be done, she sighs, "Right then." Calling to Mr. Anderson, she changes her order, "Belay that last, please. We have to dock and offload parts to pass though here." Looking up at Quinlan, she nods slowly, "Okay." Though hints of confusion tickle her tone. Another turn and she nods to Amy, "The Son of Serminia will need some of the parts we collected. in order to complete the Node ritual. WOuld you and Quinlan make sure that they have some while we dock?" Another half turn and she addresses the Chief Mate, "Ms. Ojomo, please see to having some of Lady Sorgo's piles shifted for quick offloading. I want to be in and out in a hurry." As the Chief salutes and replies before moving off to take care of it, Maggie turns to Merrisol, then to Martin, "Um... Nothing has changed for me. Are you two okay?" That Merrisol has his stone out and up causes Maggie to tighten her grip on her own, "Kerf?"
Now Merri *does* take notice of Martin's snark, and shifts eyes to him in an obvious Quizzical Look. Oookay Rainman. At least it got him to pry his own gaze away from The Preciouuusss. He says nothing, particularly since at least one other buddy has called their fearless leader out on it. Instead, he turns to Maggie while still holding his mirror at about chest height. "It's... fine, I think. No vision.. just.. a tingle of heat." Could be his imagination, on this fetid ocean environment. But he knows it isn't. He nods slightly to his wife, before pocketing the stone and moving to help get the donations transferred.
Both the contributions of spare parts and the volunteer worker(s) are accepted by the misshapen outcasts, although in Quinlan's case his use of magic is viewed with fear and confusion. At least nobody lobs an icerake at his face. Weirdos 'R' Us, no oddity too odd! It actually takes at least an hour of lingering before a slight improvement is sensed from the sea and the sky, enough for the ships' lookouts to discern a "clean" tradewind and current to bear them away. And the climate is *SO* not back to normal, unless Normal for this place is synonymous with Doomed.
"Good, Good." Martin says distractedly, approving of Quinlan's contributions. This will keep them on course. They've lost precious minutes, but it will be fine. Everything is fine. He shifts from one foot to the other. As long as they don't leave the shadowpath. Stay on course. Stay on course. "Soon." His words have a weird quality to them, like it's an echo of sorts. But then suddenly, he smiles. "Are we done here already? What did I miss? Someone trumped me."
His eyes are normal again.
Quinlan has spent an hour being stinky-eyed by mechanical iceberg people he was trying to help. That's probably the reason his internal censors are fritzy, because - quite literally before his normally-much-more-cautious mind can apply the brakes, his hand actually goes out to thwap Martin upside the back of the head. "Nobody was trumping you. *Focus*." And then, ah, THEN he realizes EXACTLY what he just did. You can see the exact moment, because he winces, facepalms, and sighs, a wordless sound that nevertheless manages to encompass entire paragraphs of 'I'm an idiot, shoot me now'.
Maggie nods slowly as Merrisol replies. She does not take her eyes off of him for a while though as worry sparkles in her gaze, "Okay, beloved." That said, she turns to see the status of their deliveries. A blink, though, as Martin speaks. She is about to answer him when Quinlan's smack lands. The blink turns into shock and she steps forward, "Wait. Quin..." His consternation is evident so she turns to Martin. So much for thanking Quinlan and Amy for their help. "None of that you two. We have things to do, remember?" Her hands come up, extending one to each. Yes, she abandoned her lovely stone in her pocket in order to keep the peace. Hopefully.
Merri's eyes widen and his brows hike right up there, when Quinlan totally does that. Um. He lifts a finger pointedly, then uses it to guide his own steps in another direction entirely. Gazing over the forecastle rail, he notes the clearing of the waves which begin to bear the ships onwards to their next destination. His hand rests over the pocket housing the tearstone, possessively, but also with anticipation. They need to hurry now... For Martin, of course.
There's a brief...hairline thin moment where it's almost not Martin in the eyes that look back at Quinlan. They are intense and bright. His fist tightens around his sword.... and then very suddenly his eyes return back to normal again as he blinks. He was clearly not expecting anything like that from Quinlan. He glances at Maggie, then around at everyone else, mouth open. "Huh?" He rubs the back of his head. It could have been worse, he supposes to himself, could have been Gerard. "Ow!" He grunts belatedly as he gives Quinlan a reproachful look. "I *AM* focused. What was that for? Of course I was on a call. Vialle called to ask if everything was going well and whether we needed any help with the mirror shards. Now my head hurts, and I need a drink." He steps a little closer to Merrisol for some reason.
There's a brief...hairline thin moment where it's almost not Martin in the eyes that look back at Quinlan. They are intense and bright. His fist tightens around his sword.... and then very suddenly his eyes return back to normal again as he blinks. He was clearly not expecting anything like that from Quinlan. He glances at Maggie, then around at everyone else, mouth open. "Huh?" He rubs the back of his head. It could have been worse, he supposes to himself, could have been Gerard. "Ow!" He grunts belatedly as he gives Quinlan a reproachful look. "I *AM* focused. What was that for? Of course I was on a call. Vialle called to ask if everything was going well and whether we needed any help with the mirror shards. Now my head hurts, and I need a drink." He steps a little closer to Merrisol for some reason.
First there's a relieved look, as Quinlan realizes that *wow* he lucked out, and will not in fact be in Really Deep Shit For A Really Long Time. Then it's a puzzled frown. One can almost see the abacus beads flicking from side to side in his head, deciding whether to believe what he's just heard or not. Then the physical world reasserts itself with a reminder that that call was very, very close and curiosity tends to cost unwary kitsune tails and also the butts those tails attach to. He shakes his head. "Sorry man," he says, and that sounds true on several levels at once. "I'll owe you a bottle of something good. Soon as I find something good enough."
Watching Martin and Quinlan, Maggie frowns at what she sees, at what she hears, though the frown eases when Martin can identify whom he was in communication with. However, she knows Quinlan and suspects much about her cousin's abilities with the trumps of their forebears. So, the situation bears watching until Martin moves off to seek Merrisol. She does watch that cousin for a few moments before stepping closer to Quinlan, "Quin? What makes you think that he was not in a trump conversation?"
Merri looks over his shoulder, seeing that the royal cousins have worked things out, and smiles a little. He shuffles over to make room for Martin at the rail, one hand pocketed, perhaps to retrieve a flask of rum, something no Minosian pirate should be without.
Quinlan plays it quite cautiously. He murmurs a small spell that temporarily isolates Maggie and himself, soundwise, from the rest of the ship - a thin sphere of vacuum, just enough to stop sound from passing. "There's a hell of a lot of really, *really* powerful magic around Martin right now," he says quietly. "He's messing with fundamentals, Maggie. Universe-level fundamentals. That's always got a big price tag, so I'm not *that* surprised to see it now. What's bothering me is I'm not all that sure how aware Martin is that he's in the middle of it. I mean I *was* busy with the islanders. Maybe he did get a trump call. But I know what I'm picking up and even if he did get a call there's more than that messing with him. It's just *now* I have the added worry that whatever's messing with him could give him a fake memory of a trump call on top of everything else. And yeah, the magic around him IS that powerful."
Maggie remains with her cousin in the bubble of isolation. Listening, she almost shadows Martin a glance, but refrains. Sometimes, her resolve is applied appropriately. "I see." Frowning, she adds, "I wonder if that is what has been setting me on edge. I don't usually get prickly with Martin. Let's keep an eye on him... Or a nose. Or whatever it is we do. You're better at it by far, though... so I'll try to follow your lead in this. Okay?" Her gaze finally strays to the two men by the railing for she means to keep an eye on her mate, too.
Quinlan shrugs a little. "He walked into this with what I have to hope were open eyes. He *can't* have figured he could do magic on this level without it touching him right back. Just...if he's not acting like himself, try to get him to focus, maybe. I'd feel better about this if I knew he's still behind his own mental wheel." He gestures - more to alert Maggie that he's ending the spell than anything else, because that ends with a soft whispered word or two. "Anyway. At the moment I'm just thinking I really need to add a Bayle to my list of contacts. I don't think I've met one."
Maggie accepts the flask. Opening it as she listens and assesses, she lifts it to take a swallow before passing it back. Surprise and pleasure settle over her features as she registers what she took a drink of. When she swallows it, she takes another bite of cookie. Cookies and brandy. Yum. She and Raphaela are leaning against the railing at the prow of the ship. Or sitting on them, in Raphaela's case. They are sharing conversation and snackage. Ahead of the ship are whirlpools fitted together one by one by one from one horizon to the oither. The Dancer is not currently moving forward to meet the challange.
Raphaela shakes head "You trust me too much, you know." Just drinking without even taking a sniff. Raph has good PR.
Maggie shrugs, looking at Raphaela fondly, "Maybe. But I doubt it. I suspect that you are more likely to brutally, subtly and effectively murder anyone who did me in. And if I am wrong, then that's okay. We'll have fun while I slowly expire."
Raphaela considers "You're not wrong." She pulls out a small sketchbook from one of the pockets of her coat, returning flask in the other and cookie in her mouth, she climbs onto the railing, scouting the front. "Mhmmmmm. Gonna be fun."
The Sea of Begma ostensibly stretches on a great deal beyond the continent, perhaps with other lands on the other side, within the same shadow. Vessels are seen on the adjacent horizons, coming and going, so it's certainly possible to get past the vast series of whirlpools by simply changing course and sailing around the turbulence. However it's only when the ships approach at the prescribed angle, and the Begman coastline is but a smoggy smudge to aft, that the first of the Shadowpath nodes truly springs into being.
It begins as sound, tinkling in over the waves, gaining shape and pattern. Trilling, frantic, enthusiastic music, somehow infusing the circling tides with anthropomorphic glee, although in the larger whirlpools it takes on a friendly menace. Hey, come closer! Sail right up! See you later!
Sound reference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWVFEVWJMz8&feature=youtu.be
Ruby inches along the rail, her brows being draw together like there was some sort of anxious magnetism. Her bottom lip protudes. Leaning over the rail, she cups a hand by her ear to collect the sounds. "...Tha's not just in me 'ead, is it?"
Wynter steps out into the ocean air with a frown on her face. Her head turning this way and then looking for something or one. "What is that noise? Is that.. music? Did we take on a traveling troupe in the last few hours?" She too moves towards the rails trying to find the source of the strange sounds.
Melina hms "Well I can't say for certain your highness as these things go , but if it is, it's certainly mine too' Despite the relative pleasantness" she's frowning as recent experience suggests music can be friend or foe
Maggie is near the prow, watching as Raphaela goes about her drawing and tests. She has taken note of ships entering the area without bothering with the whirlpools, but has not commented on that, yet. It is added to the mini-list of 'Things to ask Martin' though. After making sure that Raphaela is safe on the railing, she glances back to see others beginning to wake up and gather. Morning has well and truly broken. Lifting a hand, she waves but is stopped by the pleasent, if peculiar noises from ahead. Turning, she watches the 'come hither' business with wide eyes, "Uh. That... was odd. DOes anyone know what it was?" Glancing up to the forecastle, she waves to catch Mr. Anderson's gaze. Signaling, she directs him to ease the ship forward then come to a stop again.
Martin's back in relaxed adventure clothing after dealing with the big wigs in Begma. He seems pleased so that's a good sign. He's also had some booze and a smoke, these things always help. Unfortunately he looks slightly puzzled, like he might need some kind of sign to point him in the right direction. Shadow paths never did come with hard and fast rules, nor do mirrors. He glances about and the slightly puzzled look fades as he goes back to showman. "What what was?" Whatever happened he missed it as he was thinking something through on the way up from belowdeck.
Dirk is pacing back and forth like a trapped cat. He's quietly doing his best to wear a path in the deck.
Merrisol emerges from the lower deck as well, having met up with Martin in the corridor and followed along. Doing up the catches on his coat, he glances at the sky first, then heads for the front of the ship where Maggie is and the music is most clearly heard. "That'd be the node. We're on the right heading."
The alternate surface currents are clashing at their edges, spraying surf like sparks from a saw mill. The churning forces are capable of sucking a ship into the start of the vortex, or spitting one out into calmer waters. It all depends on the skill of her helmsman and the will of her captain. But once the approach crosses the threshold, there is no way out but through to the other side.
Wynter turns about to note the return of even more people to the deck and then turns back to the swirling masses of water. A brow is raised slowly as the thought of traversing those surfaces occurs. "Are we really going to sail into that? I mean.. I guess it can be done but without death and dismemberment?"
Dirk spins around and looks up. "This is going to be great!"
Maggie turns to smile a welcome at Martin and Merrisol. "Ah, is that it?" Her welcome is turned to include all of the others. Looking back to the whirlpools, she inhales, "I think... that we need to try to time it so that we coincide with the music and mayhem that just passed. Or, plot a course that intersects that bit." Glancing back at Martin, she lifts a chin, "What do you think? Oh," she adds, "Raphaela is mapping them. The whirlpools, I mean."
"Sounds loike madness." Ruby yammers and ceases her Grinch posturing. The strange currents taint her expression with sourness though. "Must be Pan-de-monium down there." She adds, "Nobody better fancy a dip I 'ope." Grim attempt at humour made, she just murmers, "Better get noice an familiar with it, re-gardless. Pathfoinders' Keepers. Gotta understand it if we gonna maintain it."
Dirk looks over "Hey Ruby woo. long time no see.
"Its a shadowpath, there are times when there is danger like this. I'm sure that you have to concentrate hard through this one." Martin tells Maggie. Merrisol's right, that's the node, there's a way out, just follow the heading." He assures her. "I'm not sure what to expect and when to expect it but I think everyone with their mirrors might want to be on guard, just in case something happens."
Amy is lazily curled up on the deck, in dragon form, half asleep. She's mostly enjoying what sun there is.
Merri does not look concerned at this stage, slipping his hand into his pocket to touch the mirror stone there. "As far as I can see, there's nothing amiss here," he offers to the others after listening to Martin. "Heard no complaints to the Pathfinders about this path, other than the enemy raids along the way. The peculiarities of Begma's nodes might be confounding to them, I'd hope, which is good for the safety of the realm." He glances toward the stern although the Begma mainland can no longer be seen.
Miriam had been down below, resting. She returns topside though, to look about at where they are and what's going on. When the mirrors are mentioned though, her hand slides into a pocket to wrap around hers. "Is there something happening?" she asks, looking to the others. Sometimes, she misses obvious things when her mind is elsewhere.
With the music's volume increasing as the Dancer approaches the whirlpools, Maggie turns back to stare at the mess. Lifting her hand, she signals Mr. Anderson and the ship is brought to a graceful, if drifty, halt. "Okay." Her hand falls and she wraps her arms around herself as a strange, but not unfamiliar, disquiet settls over her. Turning, she begins to walk back toward the stairs up to the forecastle. Passing Martin, she asks, "What is the heading you wish? Or is it... Second whirl to the right and straight on until we reach the other side?" Though she did ask, she does not pause to hear the answer. She trusts Martin will make his wishes known to her. Merrisol is given a smile, though it is fleeting, if warm. Her hair is done in a near-basket weave of tiny braids that hugs her head with varigated reds though some is hidden beneath her hat. Ruby, Amy and the others are offered encouraging nods, though Amy is likely a-snooze. Gradually, her arms lower and one hand dips into a pocket to curl her fingers around a mirrored stone held there. Looking up when she gets to the stairs she calls, "I've got it. Mr. Anderson. Please see to the crew. Some might need a tonic if what is coming gets bad. Upset stomachs."
Ahead and above, Mr. Anderson sounds relieved, "Aye aye, Captain."
Ruby makes with a ~hey~ to Dirk, with a chin-lift gesture. To Miriam she chirps with mock cheer, "Comin up on one 'o those Begman Path nodes. Looks loike it'll be real swishy-loike. At tha very least, at least it functional, or at least all this on purpose. In wassit...theory."
Wynter keeps her eyes on the whirlpools of ..carnival sound? She closes her eyes for the briefest of moments to gain a better sense of the magics or things otherwise that are involved into the shadowpath guidpost. Her eyes open back up and she smile wryly and shakes her head.
Dirk stands near the railing and sings a song of red headed princes and purple penguins. Niether prince nor penguins resemble any entity living or dead.
"Just consider it all part of the fun." Martin glances at dirk, smile tugging at the edge of his lips. To Miriam he nods, "We're going down the shadowpath." He acknowledges everyone present as if putting them into a mental manifest. "Just keep going until we encounter something, Maggie. At this point anything is possible. Just keep us on the path to the next node. We don't want to get off the shadowpath."
The pull, like gravity, drops the ships, seemingly into another realm. The whole sea is cyclonic watery conveyor belts of relative speed as far as the eye can see. The music, once madly dreamlike, crashes in full orchestral circus mode. Rising from the funnel of each whirlpool and the negative spaces in between are steel and concrete constructions of ridiculously glaring commercial intent: Billboard advertisments of the latest in domestic gadgets, animatronic stage shows of the nation's cultural greatness, funhouse mirrors magnifying recorded loops of Begma's friendly ministerial propaganda! So enlightening! The displays are invariably surrounded by big brass tuba horns geysering smoke and open flames detonating regularly into gouts of gassy colour. Welcome to Begma! Do not be alarmed by the ingenuity! Thank you for coming! So Long, Farewell! Did you remember to visit Reginald's Cigar and Gift Shop on your way out? Never fear, a kiosk is /here/!
Oh right, and there are also flashing arrows mounted here and there as clues for the novice traveler trying to find their way from wave to wave in either direction. Wouldn't do to have a mind forever wandering the Cogs of Cognizance... or would it? Nevermind.. Good-bye, good-bye!
A merchant galleon coasts by on the edge of another whirlpool and disappears beyond a chorus of hard-working engineer puppets singing about their work on the Great Iron Horse Railroad. Take a trip into the East, where they still ride real horses!
Dirk winces and plugs his ears. He closes his eyes and laughs though.
Maggie steps forward on the forecastle, one hand still clenching the mirrored stone in her pocket. The other lifts to direct Mr. Anderson who directs the crew similarly. It would be foolhardy to shout commands in this musical malestrom. Steady as she goes, then turn. The ship shifts from the first whirl to the next, which takes her in a different direction. Around a half turn and another shift. Maggie stands straight and true, unwavering in her certainty of course and direction. As with any other sort of storm, she ignores the irrelevant, isolates the important. Another shift takes them deeper into the collosal, intricate and rather ingeneous advertizing construct.
There's a dragon, who seems to have her ears flat back, a disgruntled look on her face, and a paw over her head, ducking her head to make some of the noise go away. Yes, it would be Amy, who is literally trying to hide under her own paw, to avoid the noise. Unsuccessfully.
Miriam has no illusions that she can be helpful here. Even if she tried to be helpful and calm the sea, that might throw off what the experts are doing. So, instead she finds something to hang on to with her free hand so she doesn't end up sprawled on the deck, and stays out of the way. The sounds and sights just seem overwhelming, but as long as she's holding on and out of the way, it's okay to be overwhelmed.
Dirk heads over to Amy and shifts knto cat form so she can have a furry earmuff purring in her ear... and hiding his face and ears in it two for the price of none.
Merrisol remains near the forecastle, within arm's reach of Raphaela, just in case her mapping zeal causes the Baroness to topple into the drink, or worse, onto the stage with some rusty cyber-entities.. doomed to perform scientific earworms forever! As the funhouse trip through Begma's nearest and dearest node begins, he glances back at Maggie with an apologetic smirk, despite the knowing she won't see it. He's Begman, and this wildly patriotic place kind of embarrasses even him. Then his gaze moves about, from face to face, checking his comrades for signs of mirror-vision acting up.
Martin remains focused, eerily so. On any normal adventure he might be doing something super crazy, like surfing during a sea battle, but for some reason he is intent and focused. Almost as if... well, almost as if he's not entirely there. "Keep going!" he orders, in a voice far harsher than anyone might have ever heard him use. "Don't stop here." His eyes... well... what's usually blue... contain flecks of sea green and silver.
Wynter blinks with eyes wide as they pass by... whatever this is. Advertising gone mad. It's almost interactive. Her hands come up to cover her ears to protect them from the raw volume of the place. Turning she looks about to note she's not the only one to think this place is a tad much.
RPG: Maggie challenges a difficulty of 8. Maggie chooses Resolve and the gift SKL-SC. Maggie succeeds.
It wouldn't be stopping so much as maintaining a holding pattern. The course, of course, ensures that every shipload has the opportunity to regret leaving and to anxiously look forward to a return trip. In fact, all one need do is deliberately (or accidentally) miss one turn-off, and ride right back around to the exit into Begma shadow proper. Fortunately, it's not really that difficult to depart, when one is determined and a fair hand at the ship's wheel. Eventually, the aggressively cheerful slogans and salesmanship peters out and the final whirlpool elbows both the Wave Dancer and the Son of Serminia into a wide open sea speckled with floating scrap pieces off what might have once been large scale machinery.
Maggie does not see her mate's smirk, apologetic or otherwise. Her concentration is as absolute as she can make it for she must signal their turns enough in advance that the helm can make adjustments before the ship sails past their exit onto the next whirlpool and into the range of the next wave of clockwork adverts. What does come close to shaking her focus is the sound of Martin's order. That is not like him and she knows it. But, her job right now is to keep them going, to get them safely to the other side. Really, it is lucky that ships turn ponderously or the constantly shifting trajectory might spark nausia in those with weak stomachs. As it is, the waves rock the ship, causing the ship to sway and yaw. And then they are free. The Wave Dancer slips into calmer water and the collective sigh of relief from the crew almost seems to come from the ship herself. Maggie does not leave the forecastle until she takes stock of their surroundings and what is to come. The scrap does catch her eye and she blanches a bit, "Ugh. I wonder what happened here." And, after a pause, "We should clean this up. Just leaving it here can't be good for the sea creatures who live here."
Merrisol looks over the rail and takes on a pained expression at the bounty of evidence of mechanical waste and suffering ecology. "The next node holds an island of ice, held together by a massive cooling system," he lifts his voice to reach Maggie. "Hope this doesn't mean it's coming apart."
The air coming off the sea is fairly temperate, not at all the sort of Kitezh-y climate that could support a sizable iceberg indefinitely. The bits of technology on the waves appear to form a path across the ocean, guiding ships to another nexus in the shadowpath.
Maggie frowns on hearing what the debris could well be from. A bit absently, she instructs Mr. Anderson to follow the machine-crumb trail until they either reach the island or the pieces peter out. Moving slowly down the stairs to the deck, she ponders, then motions to two sailors who quickly present themselves. "Get some netting from below. Open the cargo hold and collect as much of the debris as you can. Store it in the hold for now. We may need it when we get to the next node." Glancing toward Merrisol and the others, she adds, "I doubt that there is anything that Captain Merrisol and Lady Sorgo can't fix." Or... make more interesting. The sailors salute and with a nearly synchronos 'Aye aye, Captain' are off to see how much of whatever it is they can fish out of the sea while the Dancer sails. Nodding after them, Maggie turns again to rejoin her husband and friends near the prow. "Ominous... It is too warm for an iceberg without assistance."
Raphaela tries not to get in the way but to scout the bits and pieces which do come on deck. "Magic?"
Wynter steps over to Captian Maggie and offers some assistance. "Perhaps I could help you bring things to the net if not on deck. A small nudge here and there with Arcanis? And perhaps there is magic that clings to a pieces we bring up. One can hope that it would give us a clue to what's gone on. Or enough pieces found to let us know what they're from."
Raphaela nods "I can start cataloguing them."
Maggie smiles at each in turn, "Both would be very helpful. Please." Sobering, she considers a moment, "We must be careful, though. If there is magic on them, it is likely to be foreign. Most Begmans eshew magic entirely and do not believe in it. So, as you say, Wynter, knowing what it is could be very useful." Her eyes track along the pathway marked by detritus, "Though we might have to make several trips to gather all of the stuff. Which... may be a bridge to fly over later. We can store some things on deck, I guess. Let's see how much is out there. Thank you, both."
Raphaela asks "Should we secure it from affecting ship?"
"Well. Perhaps we should just start bringing it on until we find something of magical note or technological danger. Though I'd need someone knowledgeable with technology to tell me what's what." She looks about to find what side and where the netting os being set up. "Going forwarwd to nudge things toward the net."
Raphaela shrugs "If I were attacking ships, I'd place a bomb to what would be picked up. A body or wreckage." She smiles sweetly at Wynter. Good thing she uses her powers for good. Right? Riiiiiight?
Maggie nods to Wynter, "Raphaela and Kerf are the best that I know. Between them, they can likely figure it out." Turning to Raphaela, she blanches, "Uh, yes. That is a possibility. Though to my untrained eye, it looks to be remnants of something. Would..." She considers a moment then in silence before nodding, "Right. Be sure to look for bombs... And do what you can to neutralize them before sending them below. Please." Shaking her head either at her friend's deviousness or her own nievity, she settles on a faintly disturbed air. "Thank you, Wynter." About then is when the sailors sent on their detail begin setting a long bar on a wynch ready to lower the net and hoist up whatever is caught. Turning that way, Maggie calls, "Release any living sea creatures, please. We are not short on provisions."
Wynter blinks and then grins at Raphaela. "I like your thinking but lets hope they don't think like that whoever they are.. or were." She then nods to Maggie and moves to the prow of the ship and starts her mudges of magic apon those things that still float.
Raphaela grins and pulls out a notebook and a pen, ready for quick logging. "Please whatever you carry in, let me get a look at it first to file it. She positions herself in the middle of the deck. "Any recognizable bits, bits with design to one heap, other rubble to the right. Right pile goes down first."
RPG: Raphaela declares that she has the Organized (STY-OR) gift.
RPG: Raphaela declares that she has the Observation (SKL-OB) gift.
RPG: Raphaela declares that she has the Cross-Shadow Science (CSA-SC) gift.
RPG: Raphaela declares that she has the Cross-Shadow Mechanic (CSA-ME) gift.
The bits and bobs dredged from the tepid sea are slimed with a layer of yellow algae, which Merrisol has been busy studying off to the side. Thick and not that easy to wash off, it doesn't smell like fresh seaweed should. Surely this is the effect of the sort of lingering water pollution in this shadow, a conclusion one doesn't need a Warden to understand. As for mechanical function, there are a few non-generic pieces which must be part of an extensive system of motors, valves, and coils. Raphaela is able to separate the items into three piles of significance. There remains a visible trail of metal flotsam, which is probably just as well, since other ships on the path still require these clues to find the node.
OOC> Merrisol says, "The only magic involved with the pieces of machinery is the perpetual pattern magic that keeps the node stable, and this necessarily involves an imperfect mechanical system that is forever needing repair. If that's something Magic Sense can pick up, that's what you sense."
Melina looks at the piles of parts with a mild curiosity. She has been around enough tech not to be scared or put off but knowing how it works is another matter entirely. still under more mormal circumstances, the baroness' work would hold more interest for her and she would pepper the woman with questions, but once she has satisfied herself there is no danger from the gadget despite its being in a million pieces, she returns her gaze to martin with a frown of concentration
RPG: Melina declares that she has the Analyze Magic (MAG-AM) gift.
Following the line of debris, the Wave Dancer keeps to a mostly even course. The sides of the ship are washed by an ocean that has been poluted more than some, but less than others. Pieces of the whatsis that litter the water, leading them onward, are collected and brought aboard for examination. Though Maggie's intent was to gather as many of the pieces as possible, up to all of them, she is not able to. And, as has been noted, other ships need guidance lest they become lost. Turning from the prow, she also takes note of Martin's eye color shift and recalls the way he admonished her to keep to the course. Not at all like his normal self. Concern rises and her hand again moves to clasp her mirrored stone within her pocket.
Perhaps unpeculiarly, the dredging actions find no fish, mammals, or birds in the nets. Just thick yellow clots of scum. Merrisol tosses some pieces back onto the waves, and wipes down the rest to add to Raphaela's collections. "Looks like we've got algae blooms, devouring surface nutrients and oxidized remains, and releasing toxic levels of carbon byproducts," he sciences, sadly. "They've created hotspots in the sea, bringing up the overall temperature. Might be just the way it's going for this shadow, or might be a condition set by the properties of the node... either way, it's not reversible at this stage." He catches the odd looks Martin is getting but doesn't seem to be in on the newest weird stuff. Likely he has already seen Martin in a bad mood before this trip...
The island appears and grows upon the horizon, hazy in the vapours of its own slow demise. The typical island features, slopes and crags and gritty coastal shelves, are comprised entirely of glacial ice. Upon these sit buildings of hammered metal, overgrown with both rust and a frosty species of moss. Humanoid forms in shabby jumpsuits shamble along the paths which lead further inland to a large domed structure. Amazingly, smoke trails wind up from various locations on the great icefloe, as though the denizens are oblivious enough to set campfires upon ice in a climate already beyond melting point.
Martin does not seem to notice the looks sent his way. His brow furrows as they come into sight of the island. "No," he looks at it with some determination as if ... he just somehow knows. "Not here." Closer inspections by those curious might notice that his eyes have more silver specs in them than green. "Keep going," he snaps in Maggie's direction. "Do not linger. Time is crutial. We don't have much time." His fist closes slightly at the hilt of his sword but it could just be reflex. Perhaps he's just in a bad mood or under stress! Maybe it's a trick of the light in his eyes. Everything was so shiny before.
Dirk watchez Martin and stays quiet.
Quinlan is, as he probably has been quite a bit of late, on the fringes of things. Today, that fringe includes a spot in the open air, where he can keep an eye on Martin as they travel. But hey, at least he isn't pretending he's not a redhead today, that probably counts for something.
Maggie's brow lifts at Martin's tone. She turns to glance over her shoulder at the island of ice that smokes in the open air. Smokes? Or steams? The brow lowers to a frown when she spots the figures ambling hither and thither on the island's surface. Again, uncertainty touches her. Are they ambling? Or shambling? With a faint sigh over something, she nods, "Fine." Lifting her voice, she calles to Mr. Anderson, "We won't be stopping here. His Highness wishes to move onward." Not an afterthought, but a thought, has her calling upwards, "Quin? Can you see what is going on over there without getting into trouble?" Lifting her free hand, she gestures to the ice flow ahead and now to port.
Amy cracks open an eye, the Mandrake in her keeping watch on everyone. including her brother.
Half a dozen islanders, all sporting obvious and pronounced physical malformation, troop to the edge of the shore where a steep drop-off allows ships to come in closer than expected. A hunchback fellow with long double-jointed arms and a mouthful of uneven tombstone teeth is fumbling with some pegs and cables to establish and secure any gangplank or rope bridge thrown over by the crew. He waves at the Wave Dancer and the Son of Serminia, flagging them down with his weirdly hyper-extending elbows. Their docking seems to be an expected thing, and that is because nominal help must be offered by the captains before the node can be properly exited. If such is not already known, the troupe's ringleader, Dr. Margeaux, is only too happy to explain their situation by megaphone: Contribute parts or labour to repair the ice island's giant cooling system, and in no time at all the climate will get back to normal, and they can all go on their merry ways!
Merrisol probably did explain this a while back, on the Solar Flare, at least to Martin. Since this is apparently Not the Node They Are Looking For, however, he suggests, "We have an abundance of spare parts to send over," indicating Raphaela's well-organized troves of machinery detritus. Rising from his crouch, he puts his hands over his coat pockets into make sure the precious mirror stone doesn't accidentally tumble out... and hesitates. He looks down while slowly delving and grasping the rock in his pocket, weighing it, then bringing it up and close for an angled look-see. "Uh. Anyone else feeling a touch warmer?"
Dirk is snuggled into Amy's ear and purring. "I am in love with my Amy. and my maggie and my Ralph!"
Quinlan shakes his head. "I can ferry people over, if that's needed, but you have to know I'm more the 'break machines' than 'fix machines' type. I mean not on PURPOSE, usually, but this is definitely a mechanical problem."
Amy stirs a bit, as she looks over. "I am not much for breaking or fixing machines," she says easily. Dirk's purrsnuggles gets a small nudge with her snout. "I can fly things over, but that might not be well received."
Martin simply looks impatient for them to get moving. "You have to get around each Node the way you are supposed to." His tone is still sharp and he isn't really looking at anyone in particular. "Otherwise you go off shadow path, it's simple...it's simple.. Just takes time. Which we don't have, so someone take care of that." His eyes flick to to Merrisol. "Odd, but I feel cold."
Quinlan sighs. "Martin," he says, and it's...sharp. The way you'd say the name of a cat about to steal bagels off the counter in full sight of everyone, that kind of sharp, although he doesn't in any way appear to be angry. "Focus. I'll go ...do whatever the weird island people need. I can catch up and the rest of you can stay on course. Martin's probably right about the lack of time to be horsing around."
Now that Maggie understands what must be done, she sighs, "Right then." Calling to Mr. Anderson, she changes her order, "Belay that last, please. We have to dock and offload parts to pass though here." Looking up at Quinlan, she nods slowly, "Okay." Though hints of confusion tickle her tone. Another turn and she nods to Amy, "The Son of Serminia will need some of the parts we collected. in order to complete the Node ritual. WOuld you and Quinlan make sure that they have some while we dock?" Another half turn and she addresses the Chief Mate, "Ms. Ojomo, please see to having some of Lady Sorgo's piles shifted for quick offloading. I want to be in and out in a hurry." As the Chief salutes and replies before moving off to take care of it, Maggie turns to Merrisol, then to Martin, "Um... Nothing has changed for me. Are you two okay?" That Merrisol has his stone out and up causes Maggie to tighten her grip on her own, "Kerf?"
Now Merri *does* take notice of Martin's snark, and shifts eyes to him in an obvious Quizzical Look. Oookay Rainman. At least it got him to pry his own gaze away from The Preciouuusss. He says nothing, particularly since at least one other buddy has called their fearless leader out on it. Instead, he turns to Maggie while still holding his mirror at about chest height. "It's... fine, I think. No vision.. just.. a tingle of heat." Could be his imagination, on this fetid ocean environment. But he knows it isn't. He nods slightly to his wife, before pocketing the stone and moving to help get the donations transferred.
Both the contributions of spare parts and the volunteer worker(s) are accepted by the misshapen outcasts, although in Quinlan's case his use of magic is viewed with fear and confusion. At least nobody lobs an icerake at his face. Weirdos 'R' Us, no oddity too odd! It actually takes at least an hour of lingering before a slight improvement is sensed from the sea and the sky, enough for the ships' lookouts to discern a "clean" tradewind and current to bear them away. And the climate is *SO* not back to normal, unless Normal for this place is synonymous with Doomed.
"Good, Good." Martin says distractedly, approving of Quinlan's contributions. This will keep them on course. They've lost precious minutes, but it will be fine. Everything is fine. He shifts from one foot to the other. As long as they don't leave the shadowpath. Stay on course. Stay on course. "Soon." His words have a weird quality to them, like it's an echo of sorts. But then suddenly, he smiles. "Are we done here already? What did I miss? Someone trumped me."
His eyes are normal again.
Quinlan has spent an hour being stinky-eyed by mechanical iceberg people he was trying to help. That's probably the reason his internal censors are fritzy, because - quite literally before his normally-much-more-cautious mind can apply the brakes, his hand actually goes out to thwap Martin upside the back of the head. "Nobody was trumping you. *Focus*." And then, ah, THEN he realizes EXACTLY what he just did. You can see the exact moment, because he winces, facepalms, and sighs, a wordless sound that nevertheless manages to encompass entire paragraphs of 'I'm an idiot, shoot me now'.
Maggie nods slowly as Merrisol replies. She does not take her eyes off of him for a while though as worry sparkles in her gaze, "Okay, beloved." That said, she turns to see the status of their deliveries. A blink, though, as Martin speaks. She is about to answer him when Quinlan's smack lands. The blink turns into shock and she steps forward, "Wait. Quin..." His consternation is evident so she turns to Martin. So much for thanking Quinlan and Amy for their help. "None of that you two. We have things to do, remember?" Her hands come up, extending one to each. Yes, she abandoned her lovely stone in her pocket in order to keep the peace. Hopefully.
Merri's eyes widen and his brows hike right up there, when Quinlan totally does that. Um. He lifts a finger pointedly, then uses it to guide his own steps in another direction entirely. Gazing over the forecastle rail, he notes the clearing of the waves which begin to bear the ships onwards to their next destination. His hand rests over the pocket housing the tearstone, possessively, but also with anticipation. They need to hurry now... For Martin, of course.
There's a brief...hairline thin moment where it's almost not Martin in the eyes that look back at Quinlan. They are intense and bright. His fist tightens around his sword.... and then very suddenly his eyes return back to normal again as he blinks. He was clearly not expecting anything like that from Quinlan. He glances at Maggie, then around at everyone else, mouth open. "Huh?" He rubs the back of his head. It could have been worse, he supposes to himself, could have been Gerard. "Ow!" He grunts belatedly as he gives Quinlan a reproachful look. "I *AM* focused. What was that for? Of course I was on a call. Vialle called to ask if everything was going well and whether we needed any help with the mirror shards. Now my head hurts, and I need a drink." He steps a little closer to Merrisol for some reason.
There's a brief...hairline thin moment where it's almost not Martin in the eyes that look back at Quinlan. They are intense and bright. His fist tightens around his sword.... and then very suddenly his eyes return back to normal again as he blinks. He was clearly not expecting anything like that from Quinlan. He glances at Maggie, then around at everyone else, mouth open. "Huh?" He rubs the back of his head. It could have been worse, he supposes to himself, could have been Gerard. "Ow!" He grunts belatedly as he gives Quinlan a reproachful look. "I *AM* focused. What was that for? Of course I was on a call. Vialle called to ask if everything was going well and whether we needed any help with the mirror shards. Now my head hurts, and I need a drink." He steps a little closer to Merrisol for some reason.
First there's a relieved look, as Quinlan realizes that *wow* he lucked out, and will not in fact be in Really Deep Shit For A Really Long Time. Then it's a puzzled frown. One can almost see the abacus beads flicking from side to side in his head, deciding whether to believe what he's just heard or not. Then the physical world reasserts itself with a reminder that that call was very, very close and curiosity tends to cost unwary kitsune tails and also the butts those tails attach to. He shakes his head. "Sorry man," he says, and that sounds true on several levels at once. "I'll owe you a bottle of something good. Soon as I find something good enough."
Watching Martin and Quinlan, Maggie frowns at what she sees, at what she hears, though the frown eases when Martin can identify whom he was in communication with. However, she knows Quinlan and suspects much about her cousin's abilities with the trumps of their forebears. So, the situation bears watching until Martin moves off to seek Merrisol. She does watch that cousin for a few moments before stepping closer to Quinlan, "Quin? What makes you think that he was not in a trump conversation?"
Merri looks over his shoulder, seeing that the royal cousins have worked things out, and smiles a little. He shuffles over to make room for Martin at the rail, one hand pocketed, perhaps to retrieve a flask of rum, something no Minosian pirate should be without.
Quinlan plays it quite cautiously. He murmurs a small spell that temporarily isolates Maggie and himself, soundwise, from the rest of the ship - a thin sphere of vacuum, just enough to stop sound from passing. "There's a hell of a lot of really, *really* powerful magic around Martin right now," he says quietly. "He's messing with fundamentals, Maggie. Universe-level fundamentals. That's always got a big price tag, so I'm not *that* surprised to see it now. What's bothering me is I'm not all that sure how aware Martin is that he's in the middle of it. I mean I *was* busy with the islanders. Maybe he did get a trump call. But I know what I'm picking up and even if he did get a call there's more than that messing with him. It's just *now* I have the added worry that whatever's messing with him could give him a fake memory of a trump call on top of everything else. And yeah, the magic around him IS that powerful."
Maggie remains with her cousin in the bubble of isolation. Listening, she almost shadows Martin a glance, but refrains. Sometimes, her resolve is applied appropriately. "I see." Frowning, she adds, "I wonder if that is what has been setting me on edge. I don't usually get prickly with Martin. Let's keep an eye on him... Or a nose. Or whatever it is we do. You're better at it by far, though... so I'll try to follow your lead in this. Okay?" Her gaze finally strays to the two men by the railing for she means to keep an eye on her mate, too.
Quinlan shrugs a little. "He walked into this with what I have to hope were open eyes. He *can't* have figured he could do magic on this level without it touching him right back. Just...if he's not acting like himself, try to get him to focus, maybe. I'd feel better about this if I knew he's still behind his own mental wheel." He gestures - more to alert Maggie that he's ending the spell than anything else, because that ends with a soft whispered word or two. "Anyway. At the moment I'm just thinking I really need to add a Bayle to my list of contacts. I don't think I've met one."
