Overboard, Above, and Beyond

[rassafraggin]

Merrisol hears the name Wildfire and looks sharply at the brass player, following his nod to '10' and '2'. "Careful Temp-.." his blurt only gets that far when one of the revealed mercenaries tries to drop the merchant. Turns out he doesn't have to lift a finger to help, which is not as surprising as it could have been, when Mercier and the blinded pirate go down amongst a bevvy of buck-naked bodies. Doh. He'd warned about the threesomes, but hadn't mentioned the fivesomes!

The other pirate, looking for his own window of opportunity when his mate and Merc go at it, grates out a curse as Maggie sears his clothes and skin while lopping his belt free, the scimitar dropped, tugged, and stomped out of reach. Lucky for him, the goddess' rain hasn't yet dried from his tunic and the flames smoulder out before he gets all lit. He darts Maggie a murderous look and despite the storm pistol, the flame sword, and the quietly imperious command, he hisses right back, "There ain't no route like that, y'numb twat. SAVVY? My brothers're everywhere'n'when they get you they'll bend you-" THUNK. He abruptly pitches over on his face.

Standing there fiercely unapologetic in his place, Merrisol pulls a length of cord from the bundle on his harness, slices it off with the scythe, and crouches to hogtie the varmint like a true seacowboy. "He wasn't going to help us sneak up on his pals. All this ink they've all got.. it means something to them," he mutters. "Ruby may be able to offer a plan if she or the others have seen any other ways in and out." Once he's finished tightening the knot, he grabs a section of the man's tunic like it was a hockey jersey and pulls it over his head and eyes. "Need some rope, Templeton?" He bounds up again, intent on picking his way over to the first of the chuffing hookah stations.

The other pirate's fight had not ended similarly with a cracked skull and clothing over his eyes - he struggles to get his arms free and his hands grope Mercier's shoulders up to his neck and jaw, trying to dislodge or choke the merchant out before the carpeted floorboards beneath his own head give way from all the slamming. The next punch out of nowhere ends his grunts and snarls, and he goes limp, a quality not shared by many others in the Saloon. The group half-broken up by the tussle apparently want their turn with Mercier as well. The bedraggled woman at least wraps her arms around him and clings, while the men shove and curse indignantly to chase him off.

The musicians have backed off into the alcove again to try and get the feeling again, but it's more a Copacabana vibe here now. The frustrated cellist kicks his foot through the body of his tired instrument, then stalks for the archway.

Anger rises in Maggie's gaze as the pirate speaks. Her eyes narrow against that spark. She brings her blade up, then has to whisk it out of the way, flame describing afterimages in the air and what is left of the drug-haze as the man suddenly goes bibbeldy and collapses. Eyes wide in surprise, she looks up at Merrisol. Swallowing the anger, for it is not directed at the man before her, but the one being hog-tied at her feet. Stepping gingerly to one side, she bends to sweep up the fallen scimitar by catching a loop of the belt between two fingers. Standing, she looks over to see how Mercier is doing. Compared to the shock at seeing the pirate fall, her surprise at Mercier's now clearer knowledge of exactly where and how to punch someone is underwhelming. Trying not to breath deeply of the drug-laced air, she starts toward the hookahs. Distracted by the cellist's abrupt change of profession, she hisses softly, "Can't risk it. Please see to the hookahs. I'm going to follow him." Sliding her sword into the sheeth, she puts out the flame it is wreathed with. That does let her catch the scimitar by the sheeth rather than the belt remnants. With the flame's quenching, the light returns to dim and... well. Not seductive. Creepy.

Mercier reachs above his targets head aftter he drops limp to grab the collar of the coat, peeling it away from the now hopefully unconscious pirate, as he glances to his side as the other fellow, who is shockingly impolite to Maggie before he's dealt with in an appropriate fashion. Mercier seems, at the moment, unconcerned with the lack of surprise from the couple of Fire and Brine, shaking his head, "This has started, I would like to know why the associates of these people are going to suffer the risky results of such a dangerous profession, soon." The merchant asks, "I don't believe we have time for rope. Either we'll be done by the time he wakes up, or we aren't, and if we aren't well that provides its own prob-" He's cut off by the woman clinging on him, and response to men jealous of it, as he gingerly uses a free hand to pry one arm away and wriggle out of her grip, "I'm afraid I have to see a man about a horse, below decks, madame, but perhaps when we're through." Mercier uses a phrase, not knowing Ruby's perdicament. He notes, providing a winning smile to her, and a nod to her guests that he's not going to be interfering with /their/ fun. He tosses the coat back over his shoulder, and reaches down to collect his other things, turning his head as Maggie goes, before looking at Merrisol, "I'm taking a risk by trusting a man of your profession, Mister Merrisol, in assuming you're on the right side of this little cross. We should swiftly if we plan on taking the ship."



The Pit pharmacist is backpeddaling away from Ruby so fast, when he does trip he somersaults and winds up on his knees, tray clutched like a shield. "She's not supposed to do it /herself/ and she's supposed to be in The Pit now!" he flusters nerdily, in the same way a nuclear scientist would be freaking if the uranium suddenly got loose. "Get her in The Pit!" He probably knows what he's talking about. He loaded those syringes.

Ruby probably meant to remove the syringes after injecting the unknown contents into her leg like a frantically applied duo-EpiPen of doom. Every tattoo on her skin capable of doing more than wiggle with flex of a muscle decides that now is obviously the time to be more fabulous than any other. Her palm contains an eclipse that blazes out an insane light source and strobes to her accelerating heartbeat. A scarred Salamander under her bicep does a weasel-war dance. The eel living in the cliche undersea skull creates a moebius strip blur of movement in and out of empty eyesockets. And the Jokeresque mask stretches in broad strips back to her hairline. "Wena'n gobah man-jeee!" she shouts, eyes alight, pupil a pinprick. She throws her arms wide because she thinks she's going to explode the way her heart is fracturing the underside of her ribcage. Froth and bile collect at the back of her throat and scorch her esophagus. She's finding it hard to keep her fingers from being entirely closed or open. The back of her head feels like it got bisected and someone is doing surgery with an icepick. "Igazi!" A drumming from within, overpowers the sounds of tympani from the previous room. The syringes quiver from her thigh and almost topples onto her face while the drugs really start to take hold. "Im-yamah...You're...all, fook'n Im-yamahaaahaahahahaha!" Her voice climbs the register until its an shrill ululation keening from a throat far too constricted.

Nobody moves, however. Not at first. The flaring, dancing, wriggling tattoos, the huge woman's distending nerves and muscles, the gibberish, and then that chilling warcry.. it's too much grotesque performance art in itself to interrupt over such fiddling matters as /public safety/. The perpetually zonked spectators in the group, including various foppish gents who may be the original clientele and a number of general ship's crew, and even a few of the pirates, begin chanting and cheering the new challenger, drowning out the rest of the druggist's complaints. "We're YAMAHA!" Whatever that means!

After a few more heartbeats, or about thirty more in Ruby-Time, Squeeze shakes his head, swallows, and beckons to his nearest brother to both come up behind Ruby to try and goad her to the cage. "C'mon, you're up with LuBaio, like we said," he cajoles with just a /hint/ of uncertainty in his tone. He decides to draw his scimitar from the cloth ties, just, you know.. because. "Get ready to open The Pit!" he yells to the brothers standing by the makeshift gate, holding long pointy sticks. They hurriedly get to work prodding the tall crazy man back from the gate so it can be safely winched to a low angle.

Haggerty pulls himself up by the table's edge and pounds the surface with his fist. "Hell's Bells, we can't let 'em do this," he whispers to the unsettled prisoners, who shuffle uneasily in their seats and stare over their shoulders at the keening giantess. Murmuring. Yeah, they've laid eyes on that singular woman before.. at the matrimonial armistice. The Wave Dancer... she's really come for them.

The musicians, inspired by the tense scenario, begin to whale more intently on those drums and that erhu. It only passingly sounds like the Jaw's Theme.

OOC> Merrisol says, "Hmm. Challenge a 9, use whatever gifts you see fit. Spectacular fail and everyone in the room dies, Fail and enemies die w/ a bunch of collateral damage, Success and Ruby is basically able to choose to spare people. Wits or Resolve."

RPG: Ruby challenges a difficulty of 9. Ruby chooses Wits and the gifts BLD-OB and STY-DF. Ruby succeeds.

Ruby has another moment of vertigo as her sense of balance is attacked. Ruby's eyes shiver in their sockets but have trouble locking onto any one thing in particular at the moment. Beads of sweat proliferate all over her flesh. A gooey chew of froth from the back of her throat tries to spill from the side of her mouth and she bares her bloody gums to the room. A muscle spasm in the leg she injected kicks out and she goes down on one knee. A poor imitation of what the retreating pharmacist managed. She nearly dislocates her own shoulder as she twists and swings in a wild motion. Her hand springs open and rakes at her back searching for where the mule just kicked her. It heaves at her Kukri instead. "Goots first!" It's a wonder the knife comes free without the sheath still attached, wrenched as it was at an inefficent angle. Clawing at the decking with knife and hand she then lurches herself at Squeeze with a hungry roar of savagery.



Reaching the first hookah with breath already being held, Merrisol can only fire a 'you're kidding, right?' look over his shoulder at Mercier for stating the glaringly obvious about his reservations concerning their fragile alliance. With Maggie's announcement, he stares after her, but there's nothing for it but to get the room secured as quickly as possible so he can rejoin her. He feels up the offending brass pipe, getting a handle on its plumbing, and finds the key that shuts off the coal fire first, then screws the valved nozzle back into the leak. All puns intended. The flamesword has already gone out, but the poor remaining light is just sufficient to skirt the obvious entanglements on the way to the next contraption. He releases his breath and tells Mercier, "I told you we're in this place to find a good man and his crew before they wind up dead or worse." He throws one arm wide to indicate what he apparently believes is 'worse', muttering, "If you'd trust your own eyes and ears for once you wouldn't have to ask." Then raising his voice, "Do you have a trump of Ruby? She went below with Maggie's cousin Michio and one of the WD.. if she found the others she'll need backup." He's already gotten to the next hookah, but he takes a moment to find his belt pouch containing a very scant number of trump cards. "I've got one but it's too damned dark here.." He shuts up and works on shutting down the hookah instead, with one more to go.

Mercier returns Merrisol's look with an impassive sort of one of his own, a gray one, "I know what you said, shipmate, but its something that needed to be said... qualified, even." Mercier notes, collecting his things and shoving them in a corner, of the room, not intending to take it down on a their ultimate objective, "Life's an opera that can't be written by on set of eyes or ears. You said you were here to save a ship. I don't know who the crew is, if they've split into factions, if this is their choice or something to do with the storm... that was the storm, wasn't it, before with the trump?" He asks, letting the oilskin coat fall next to the bag. "Who the men with the tattoos are or if thats why everyone is here." He shakes his head as he stands up, "I don't know any of that, and action dictates I don't have time to learn, not as thoroughly as I'd like. So I'm placing trust in you...." He strikes a thin cigerette lighter illuminating his face, the man of stone, holding it out so he can get a good look at his trump, "The word I want to have with you after this revolves around it, so its important you know. For the moment we're on the same side, so at least turn your wit to the flat side. No, I don't have her trump, but I've got a light."

Merri listens with head cocked as he gets the second hookah to stop spewing indiscriminately, coughing softly into his hand. There is no noticeable change in the feverish enthusiasm of the party activities around them, nor in his agitation from pointedly observing them. Still, he makes his way closer to Mercier without intentionally disturbing any of the enthusiasts, and reaches to take the lighter from him with a nod. "All right, then. See if you can shut off that last pipe, I'll take this somewhere less cluttered in case I find myself pulling people through on our end. The close key is above the base, then reattach the hose valve to stop the fumes. And.. we did not have time to gather all pertinent data ourselves, so you're not the only one operating half-cocked. Though given the circumstances... nevermind." Hey, this might be the same lighter they shared in Kitezh! Good times. What with one thing and the other, the gasps, the groans, the sound-absorbing velvet decor, the bothersome number performed by the three-piece quartet, Merrisol misses the primal screaming happening somewhere below decks. When trumping doesn't work, of course, he'll have reason enough to be concerned.

Meanwhile in the mid-lower deck corridor, the cellist has turned towards the stairs leading up to the main deck. Muttering about needing another blast of blasted rain, he doesn't notice Maggie shadowing him, but he pauses in the darkness at the bottom of the staircase to listen to a shrill undulating howl... Is it the tempestuous winds above, though, or is it coming from the lower deck level?

Following the cellist, Maggie slinks from shadow to shadow. She is not trained in this sneaky business, but is observant enough to step where bodies are not likely to be and without the garishly flickering light from her sword, the shadows outnumber the pools of light and haze helps. When the fellow seeking blasted blasts pauses at the base of the stairs, Maggie uses the cover of writhing, grunting bodies to close the distance a bit. Her hand still holds her storm piltol, so she is not unarmed. The ululating cry comes and gives her pause, for it sounds so... familiar. Sort of. Was it the wind? Ruby's full-throated call? A drug-induced hallucination? All of the above? Get a grip, Maggie. Her free hand falls to her sword and she speaks to the musician quietly, "Are you with Captain Scallion or not?" Her tone is low, urgent and edged. Reading only the edge, it should be clear that this one gets one chance to answer.

The goat-beard cellist startles into a half-turn, and cringes away slowly when he sees that crazy broad with the fancy weaponry. So sweet or sassy one moment and so seething the next - hmmm. Musical inspiration abruptly plucks at him, without a drop of the storm above making contact. Err.. wait, damn, his instrument's broken. He starts to form a gripe in his throat, then blinks at her question. "Uh. Uhhh.. No? I'm with the Xan Entertainers, lady. Scallion.. Captain's got him locked up in her quarters, I think. Would've been a shame if they ended a lyricist of his caliber in The Pit. What /was/ that.. y'think that fiend LuBaio got loose down there?" he babbles. "Lady, I really gotta take a fiver up there, y'know?"

Maggie listens, eyes remaining focused mostly on the man. She nods to his information, but then shakes her head slowly, "I think that's a friend of mine giving... LuBaio what for. Before you get to take a fiver upstairs, you are going to take me and mine to the Captain's quarters. Then you can go upstairs." She motions with the gun, indicating that he should lead the way back into the den if iniquity the two just almost left. "If you raise an alarm, you are a dead man." Yeah, Maggie's not entirely in control. Blame the drugs and the storm. Probably in that order. Or... the unfamiliarity of the situation. Into a den of thieves? Not her style. Nuke it from the safety of her ship? Yeah, that's her MO. Or was. Before she started to care about the innocents. Before the freedom to make one's own choices, however stupid they may be, was even a blip.



The big woman with blood singing off-key tunes propels herself towards Squeeze but isn't choosy when it comes to singling him out. His brother in ink is close enough to include in the dance. There's nothing graceful or too skilled about how she drives her forehead into Squeeze's companion coming to help goad her to the Pit. It may appear a little unsettling how she's not even bothering to close her eyes when she fractures his skull, like she's wearing a mask incapable of changing expression. Ruby doesn't check on whether he's stunned or dead because she's barrelling into Squeeze next, throwing a knee into his nethers and carving downward into his shoulder, trying to make both meet in the center.

The crash of skull against skull is never a pleasant sound, but the echoing volume with which Ruby's noggin caves in the pirate's forehead causes the startled audience to /cringe/ first and whoop after. Only when the man hits the floor and doesn't stir, does it start to dawn on them that this isn't quite part of the show. Ruby's swift turn on her former 'Handler' (a-ha) just brings that notion home, as Squeeze becomes viced between her iron knee and steel blade. His scimitar clangs against the latter as he swings up desperately and yet still cannot stop the forgemistress's superior mettle - and metal - from bearing downwards to sink deep into his left shoulder tattoos to carve into bone. His howl brings more tattooed brothers running, shoving out from the roiling gathering and leaving LuBaio roaring in The Pit.

Foppish gentlemen begin to rise from their seats, waiting for someone else to tell them whether they should run, hide, scream, or all of the above. Nasty business, being gutted or torn limb from limb - they should know, they've watched it happen.. from the other side of the bars, of course. Haggerty leaps to his feet as soon as he sees Ruby bound amongst the two tattooed pirates like a deranged slinky, and the blousy pirates follow suit in a straggling line, fighting off their bleak despair and it seems also the remains of a sedative... sway... lurch. The general crew and staff of the Xan begin backing away from Ruby's vicinity, with the notable exception of the Captain. She is standing there beyond Squeeze as he drops, gushing, away from Ruby's curved blade, and looks up into the sinister visage.

"Get my ladies and lads out," she says in a clear, calm voice. "Get them out. The blood you spill tonight shall wash away." Sounds like Captain Sow has finally gotten to the negotiations stage, after all. As six armed Wildfire pirates close in from the back and sides, the rotund woman, having said her peace, lowers her impassive gaze to the sprawl of mortally wounded men on deck and waits on Ruby's verdict for her.

The head to head confrontation reopens Ruby's previous headwound and it begins to add a red rivulet to the sweaty sheen that is making her bare skin all oily. With the sprays of blood and the mingling of fluids, hopefully no one has too nasty a blood-born contagion. It's a concern nowhere on Ruby's current priority list as she howls back into Squeeze's opened mouth, as if trying to challenge his mortal cry and engulf or consume it with her own. Before jerking the knife free, she follows her partner down as he crumples, and kisses him...full on the mouth. She twists the Kukri and heaves it out after performing mouth-to-mouth anti-resuscitation, her mouth coming off his face with a trail of bloody foam. LuBaio's roar reminds her hind brain that there's still a threat and she clownishly grins to more tattooed brothers in arms closing in. To Sow, she rasps and dribbles, "I kiss...everythin...still 'ere..." She lurches to her feet, grasps Squeeze's scimitar in a downward grip like a dagger and uses for leverage getting to her feet. She has great difficulty enunciating further to Captain Sow and starts to double over, thrusting a pommel into her stomach to try and make herself vomit. She quakes and sweeps the stolen weapon behind her. "...Loife fer tha runnahs! Git oot! Run fer yer fookin loives!" Part shriek, part bellow, part warning and the urges to kill are directed to the bearers of the Indigo tattoos and those holding weapons.

Oh! Run! Alright then! After shamelessly spectating Ruby's 'finishing move', the gentlemen clients are all on their feet and rushing for the archway with that screeching vow, although they have to take the long way around the group confrontation and those already fallen, gingerly stepping over running trails of blood if they have to. Squeeze bubbles at the lips, a look of frozen surprise in his fading eyes. The other downed pirate lies on his side with a darkening bruise blooming broad on his forehead, brain probably vegetablized by that skull crack.

Haggerty takes a quick count of the bunch Ruby has to face, and doesn't like the odds. He and his charges are also weaponless, so what help they can offer basically amounts to making damned nuisances of themselves before they die. Then again, that is apparently something at which the Mad Rhyme crew excels. Nodding reluctantly over Ruby's unhinged reprieve, he grabs the blousy pirates by the shoulders, shaking them in groups of two while he says, "Come lads, your mates in the casino are gettin' perforated like pinwheelin' pufferfish! Hurry!" That starts to work wonders on their motivation, and he successfully shoves them into a small-scale swashbuckling rampage, leaping over couches and skating across tables, to run for the exits.

That leaves the Xanthippe's own: pharmacologists, customs liaisons, and general crew. Perhaps they had been partipants or purveyors in the bloodsports, and other things besides. They're down here, aren't they? But now that the prisoners are running amok and the mercenaries are being hoisted on their own petard, or, in the case of Ruby, on their own scimitars... what now? The Captain is still amongst the living, and she seems quite bemused about that for a second or three. As the Wildfire pirates close the circle on Ruby, Sow is pushed dismissively to one side. Her eyes dart and snap, and she pulls her hands from her satin sleeves. The left one holds a long elegant knife, which she uses to slide silently between the tattooed bastard's short ribs, leaning her considerable weight into it. "You can Consider That to be a Void of Our Contract," she announces with surpreme graciousness, before releasing the jerking body from her partial embrace. Brushing off her robes, she sweeps out the archway after the gentlemen.

Of the five Wildfire pirates still surrounding Ruby, only one sees their sixth brother slumped twitching to the floor. Outraged, he snarls, "Take her down /now/!" and turns aside to run after the Captain, slashing out at the accursed blousy pirates as he goes. The team of four, certainly more than enough of a challenge with their drawn scimitars against her kukri, begin to take their turns distracting the feral femme while others move in to chop at her massive limbs or vitals. The strategy recalls that bloody fight in Kitezh.. only tonight, Ruby is the killer bear.

"Haaannrrraaawwg!" Ah LuBaio, nobody has forgotten about you. Well. Yes, they have. The Pit fighter prowls and paces behind the gate, raising a bloody cloth-wrapped fist and pounding at the bars. When he starts using two fists, the gate wobbles unsteadily. It's only a length of shelving, after all. There's no one standing by with pointy sticks to keep him from giving it a harder push.. and another, excitement and anticipation building in his grunts.

The steel tub on the cargo lift? It... runs a syrupy quantity of gore over the side as a bare arm creeps up then flops over the edge, caught bent at the elbow.



Martin sometimes knows what he's doing and sometimes doesn't know what he's doing. Whatever the case, he always knows how to bounce back from crazy plans and move on to another crazy plan. He always has PLENTY of those on hand. "On second thought, that might not be such a great idea but thank you." He takes the voice enhancer from the sailor who brings it and looks at it thoughtfully. "Maybe I can still use part of the plan. This'll come in handy." He stares balefully into the storm as though trying to will it to reveal what's coming towards them. It's not every day he has the chance to ride a dragon, though and might look a trifle petulant about not getting to do it. In any case, he shakes it off and looks to Mr Anderson. "Is there anything around here on the charts that provide any cover?" Maybe some rocks to hide behind and lie in wait. Crazy plan # 13213133355 in the works.

Amy eats the soup, and listens. She looks over at Martin and says, "If we need, I can carry you." Brave man to ride that dragon, already trembling from battling the storm for so long in the air. But she is resting, and that trembling is slowly subsiding. And is that more food being brought by Mouse? Oh, the glee! Amy is all in favour of warm, tasty good soup. (And thankfully it's not like anything over on that other ship!) "They might not be surprised to see me though. Nasty types." She shudders a bit, and then says, "I don't know if they have any prisoners but I wouldn't put a lot of money on it. Seemed they liked their prisoners dead."

"Ok so here's the plan." Martin grins over at Mouse and Anderson and affectionately reaches up on tip-toe to pat his sisters scaled shoulder. "See those crags over there? There looks like there might be some inlet we can hide the wave dancer in. Amy can carry me to the top of one of those crags where I'll sing and lure the ship to try and capture the dragon, then to their doom. Once they've hit a rock and start to take on water, Wave Dancer can come out and finish them off." Martin looks quite proud of said plan. It's not his craziest, after all.

Mr. Anderson is one of those people who is perpetually prepared. It may be why Captain Flame chose him to succeed Mr. Merrisol as First Mate. He nods to Martin, but does not need to pull out the map and check for crags surge out of the storm right over there. Jumping to action, he calls an 'Excuse me' to Martin and Amy as he ducks out of the pavilion. The 'land ho' from the crow's nest is met with a silent 'duh'. Calling orders, he brings the Wave Dancer off her current course. They lean a bit heavily on Martin and Amy's luck in bringing the ship around the viciously jagged rocks to the leaward side where they can weigh anchor and lie in wait. It takes a while, and when the ship is in place, he returns. All the while, Mouse is kind of lingering nearer to Amy. It is not that he is waiting to see if she would like more, exactly. It is more that he is just... watching her with an almost shy smile. Amy has a fan.

Amy listens to Martin, and has to shake her head as Mr. Anderson makes it so. Well. That first step wasn't too bad, viciously jagged rocks and all. Lucky them. Literally. She finishes up that second tub of soup, licks her lips, and then nods to Martin. "I can get you up there, but getting down might not be a lot of fun. Also, do you think we should trump Maggie or Merrisol yet? Or the others, but I don't have their trumps." She slowly realizes that Mouse is hanging out there with her, and her attention goes that way. "You okay?" she asks him, twining her neck so she is looking directly at him, watching as he answers.

Martin grins faintly and assures Mr Anderson in that way he has of making everything sound awesome. "With a little luck we might just be able to pull this off. Just think how pleased Captain Flame will be when you have the Wildfire all trussed up and waiting for her to decide what to do with them." He gives Amy a gleeful look, "Just don't get hit and we need to make sure the storm cannons are ready for them. We'll come out and hit them hard when they have just let loose trying to get the Dragon and have not had time to reload. As for trumps, I think we have that covered. Don't worry about me." He looks about to give Mouse a trump card but his eyes stray to Mr Anderson first. It's shiny, and in a fancy waterproof sleeve. "I imagine Mr Anderson you'll be caught up in directing things. I think it might be a good idea to let Mouse have control of the trumping if that's alright for you. Don't worry about me up there, Amy, I'm pretty good when it comes to maneuvering in all kinds of three-dimensional places." Sometimes it's more like pulling maneuvers out of his butt, but hey he still manages to make it look cool. "And as for Maggie and Merrisol, I can give her a quick call now to let her know what we are planning if you like while you get ready to take off with me."


The beardy music man skirts around Maggie and away from the staircase up, and goes before her back into the Grand Saloon, where Merrisol and Mercier have seen to the hookahs. Now they are attempting to raise Ruby by trump, without success. The room is still poorly lit, but Mercier's cigarette lighter is held close enough to bring out the details in the painted card. Merri looks up swiftly from his concentrated stare, tracking past the cellist to find Maggie as she comes into view beyond the archway. The look lingers in silence for several moments until the musician blurts, "It's the fog, y'know.. keeps everyone, like, moist? Breathe it in long enough, you'll agree to /anything/..." He nods over to the fivesome, case in point. See? He's /helpful/. "Uh.. Captain Sow's quarters, the officers' rooms, they're abovedecks... thattaway," he points aftwards to the back of the ship. "You've kinda gotta go up and through the rain to get there, though." He looks at Merrisol looking at Maggie, and laughs weakly. "State you're in? Well.. guess we could try it.." What have they got to lose? Either way, he gets to watch!

Merrisol gets enough of the gist of the musician's description that he realizes he's just staring, and pulls his gaze back down with a shake of his head. He lifts the Ruby card and says without making eye contact, "She's not answering. I don't like it, she should have been back by now or trumping us with what she's discovered below. The crew are down there, Maggie. Scallion.." he grumbles, and rubs at his brow with his knuckles, conflicted.

That is when Mercier goes and gets his oilskin coat and umbrella, which compared to the nothing Merrisol is wearing up top, and Maggie's almost see-through blouse, makes the merchant the most prepared person in the room.. perhaps.. the entire ship. Oh gosh... Idea. Send Templeton through the rain to liberate the Pirate Captain from his shackles! That would totally work out. So long as they don't use the term 'pirate' when they ask him...

Moving into the depths of the ship again, Maggie walks carefully around the bodies on the floor. She lifts her gaze to find Merrisol's gaze. Her attention snaps to him and she almost stumbles on an outflung appendage. Almost. She hops over the offending body part and lands carefully on the other side. By then, the cellist has given his report, so Maggie amends it with some useful details. "Scallion is in Captain Sow's cabin. But, I am pretty sure that we heard Ruby. I could not tell if she was screaming or not." Listening to Merrisol, she frowns more deeply than before, "Right. We need to split up."



Ruby whips her head back and forth, momentarily confused at who to go for first. At least they're all similarly tattooed and that makes it easier to distinquish present enemies and the soon-to-be victims. Still holding scimitar in one hand and Kukri in the other, she bobs her head eagerly before another acidic bite of horrible chemistry turns her blood closer to sludge. Her teeth feel like they're wiggling, her hair growing an inch every second and her heart is a spinning top. But bloody Bog is there an energy in it. Her heart is that tympani in the next section. It feels like there's nibbling the insides of her veins like hungry ants, stabbing at her joints with scorpion stingers. She sweeps around in a wild circle, just in case someone gets too close, and at the end of the imperfect arc, throws the scimitar end-over-end into the stomach of one of her adversaries, ruining the fine detail of his tattoo. "Rrrraaah!" Ruby runs forward and give the pommel a vicious kick with her calloused heel and lurches towards his nearest companion. His sword is chopping towards her ribs and she smashes it aside, gouging a chunk out of the metal before she jabs forward with her fist, impacting into his jaw. As he staggers, Ruby gouges a claw-like hand along his face, two fingers finding his eyesockets and scooping and skewering viciously, her thumb hinging into his mouth where teeth used to be. She has this horrible urge to make a puppet of him but the whole thing is so disgusting that she carries him bodily into one of his companions like a meat shield. "Blooody Booog!"

The Wildfire team of four gets cut down to three so fast, the pirates don't even get a chance to rethink their strategy. Ruby's reach is too long and her focus too intense for this fight to be rightfully compared to a wild animal hunt. The man impaled by his fallen brother's sword stares dumbfounded at his split abdomen, the blade representing both injury /and/ insult. Then Ruby doubles up on both by kicking it in past the hilt, the impact sending the pirate flying to land on his back, so the scimitar is forced back out at a slicing angle. He understandably does not get up from that. But it is almost preferable, if one just had to choose, to the miserable crunching, squishy fate of the next opponent to go down, dragged by his dribbling face to then be swung as a flail weapon into yet another of the brothers. That pirate raises an arm to buffer the crashing blow and goes tumbling briefly, barely getting his feet under him before he charges the crazed would-be gladiator with an enraged roar. Someone has to get in past her reach if they're going for a hit that counts. He comes in low and tries to throw himself underneath her, aided by the fluids coating the ground, to swing his blade into the tendons of her inner thigh. The very last mercenary standing steps into range to occupy her kukri with a sweep for her knife-wielding arm.

Haggerty was running after his Mad Rhyme charges as they ran pell-mell for the archway, but the pirate coming after Sow has gotten too close for his liking by slashing cruelly into their unarmed ranks. Launching himself, he hits the madman broadsides and his wiry weight is just enough to overbalance them both into a tumble. A grapple ensues for the sword, rolling and grunting in the pools of blood. Haggerty gasps and coughs as the mercenary winds him against a table leg and straddles him, trying to force the scimitar edge into his upper chest while the sailor struggles to benchpress him away with his grip on hilt and wrist.

The gate to The Pit suddenly teeters over and hits the floor with a resounding clang. LuBaio steps out, free at last. He's about to make a beeline for Ruby.... when that thing in the steel tub.... the abomination, finally manages to drag itself over the side. Whatever had been going on with the rigging clamps piercing the victim's shins within the Pit, the final result is suggested in the unquiet remains of this dead man partially split up the center and dragging all sorts of tubes and bags that are supposed to stay hidden within. The body somehow gains its balance and begins shambling towards the one that made such a mess of it.

RPG: Ruby declares she is consuming token ef6: Ruby's Iron Tattoo

Ruby drags her gory hand free and dislodges the twitching mess from her grip. The stink of the place is getting a little too intimate for her nose, amplified by the sensory input flooding in on fewer channels, but a more intense feed. There's no time to kill both. One of them is gonna carve her. There's no retreat allowable though. Not with the aggression pounding away inside. Ruby grits her teeth and concentrates upon a tattoo on her hide, holding back the insane desire to just attack, attack, attack. She stands, towering like a ebony colossi, grinning inanely. The sword from below sweeps up and connects perfectly with her inner thigh where it comes to a completely halt. It even rebounds a little, as if it had connected with a stone pillar. Likewise, her arm absorbs the vicious stroke. A tattoo of a round Kitezh-like shield comes to life...Her smile turns upside down. The knife slices up the outstretched arm of the one who sought to keep her occupied, tugging along inked flesh like she was carving a sumptuous turkey, leaves his flesh and whips to gouge into his neck. There's a gout of wet blood to accompany the painful shriek. Her face and hair whips to the side and downwards. Beneath her, and within her guard she a half-hearted leap and then drops her knees and all of the weight behind it to smush the Wildfire pirate against the decking. Whump-crack. The pirate's breath is expelled forcefully and she straddles his body, follow up with her forearm pressing way too hard against his throat, her face inches from his. "Ffffffffff!"

When the sword refuses to cut through skin? The pirate knows his last ace has been played. He is still looking at the spot on Ruby's arm that should have winked open a deep well of pink meat, when her curved blade does strike and work like a blade should, leaving his flesh split and his neck spouting. His sword drops, and he staggers backwards, still just staring at that one spot, then over in a heap he goes. Underneath Ruby, the resourceful fighter does gamely try again, thwock, and again thwack, while Ruby is busy ending his last ally in the room.. if you don't count LuBaio.. and he definitely doesn't. "Shiiit," he hisses unhappily, realizing his gambit is all for naught. Then a load of bricks all labeled 'Rubeh' comes down on his chest, doing more than just winding him. Ribs all up and down around his sternum go fracturing in roughly the outline of her knees, and he coughs a spume of bright red as the jagged splinters dig into his lungs. As Ruby proceeds to crush his windpipe, the blood and air escape through punctures in his chest cavity instead. Fweeeee~



Mr. Anderson does arrive in time to bow slightly before he hears the plan as it stands. His gaze flickers to Amy, assessing her improved but still weary condition. Mouse blinks twice at that and blushes crimson. He bows once, then turns to receive Mr. Anderson's slim deck of cards. Flipping through them to familiarize himseld with them, he nods, "Aye aye, sir." Mouse beams, glad to have a hand in the shennan... Er... plan! Mr. Anderson, more sober and quiet, also nods, "I will get everything ready." After turning the deck over to Mouse, he ducks out into the rain to begin calling orders. The gunner is sent for. The sails are angled to keep the ship more or less steady in her position. Shouts sound, then die away to silence as the sailors get themselves mentally prepared.

Amy opens her mouth and closes it, tongue flickering briefly. Mouse gets a long stare, and then Amy looks at her brother. "Just - I don't usually have riders, it'll be a bumpy ride," she says. Yeah, cause that's why it will be, not that she's exhausted already and pushing past it. She'll pay for it. Later. Tough dragon. She gives no warnings about places to not touch or anything, perhaps too tired to think of it. She finally moves out of the pavillion and pauses to stretch her wings testingly. The shivering has completely gone, so she seems warm enough, and ready, if not raring to go. "So we going to go sit up there on the crag and watch for them?" she asks Martin casually.

It's been much anticipated, perhaps.. so expected that when it does happen, the effect of the tall rippling sails in the light of the next thunderstrike may be somewhat uneffective in properly jangling the nerves of the Wave Dancer sailor who makes the sighting from the nest. Coming back to its staging grounds by night, and angling for the lower-slung pleasure ship drifting out in the open, the formiddable two-masted brig, the Wildfire, returns. With the tumultuous swells cascading across the sea scape, the distance seems deceptively far off, but in the next lightning flash, one can glimpse the red tints on the bodies still swinging from the yardarms. They are within a nautical mile of the craggy island formation as they begin to turn broadside to maneuver towards the more distant Xanthippe.

Just as Martin is about to shimmy onto the Dragon's back the other ship is sited and it appears as though they were too late, or maybe not. They could still lure them back with a little luck and the Wave Dancer can stay hidden. "Mr Anderson, douse the lights. We don't want them to spot the Dancer." And with that up he haules himself up onto Amy as if he'd been riding dragons all his life. A least, that's what the act appears to be. In reality, he has no idea what he is doing and just hopes he doesn't hit anything sensitive on the way up. "We gotta do this quick if we're going to."

Mr. Anderson glances over to Martin and salutes as he climbs up onto Amy's back. He passes the order along and one by one, all the lights flicker and die. Soon, the Wave Dancer is lost to rain and darkness. Still, the sailors know their home well and can still get where they are going using the storm lines that keep them from sliding or blowing off in the weather.

Luckily, Martin doesn't seem to hit anything sensitive, in his climb to dragon back. But then again - dragon. scales. One would think it's not so easy to find such sensitive spots on the big beautiful behemoth. She waits for Martin to get up there, ruff flattened, tail tip lashing for just a moment, and then she nods. "Let's do this," she says solemnly. Martin can feel muscles bunch as she gathers herself, and her wings unfurl and push air with a large leap. The initial launch leaves Amy as always at that rakish angle, but it's nowhere near enough to toss off her brother. And in a few moments, she is airborn, heading dangerously close to those crags just as lightning strikes there, the sizzle near enough that they can smell it, even though it missed them by that much. The ride is bumpy, as Amy rises up, and moves out a bit, so she is in clear sight of the Wildfire. "All yours, Martin."



The merchant returns from shutting off the Hookah, as directed and tips his hat to Maggie as she returns, offering a polite greeting. "Captain Flame, I didn't have the time to say hello." He says, with an idle congenialty, before turning towards Merrisol as he notes his lack of success with trumping, "There's likely more men below decks, by the sound of things. If the Bosun is having trouble, its likely the more pressing matter. We won't get terribly far capturing the ship with a kicked down door and nothing else to show for it." He adjusts his oilskin a bit, "And you two tend to work together. I'll take the ancillary objective, if its quite alright."

Merrisol cannot argue with Mercier's logic. Sometimes the man does hit upon complete sense. Only sometimes! Merrisol tucks the card back into his belt pouch and nods, "You've got it then, Templeton." Picking his way over to the archway, where the air is not noticeably cleaner but he /is/ closer to his wife, he briefs Mercier, "This fellow here.." He looks pointedly at the musician, who hedges a bit then admits to the name Jeremy. Merrisol pauses a second as though struck by the name somehow, then nods again, "Jeremy will point the way once you are above decks. Scallion is.." A Pirate! "..greying, salt and pepper beard. Tell him you're with me, Flame, and the Wave Dancer, he'll trust you. We know that there were two other members from the Wildfire company above, who took the rum we brought over, ostensibly towards the cabins. Tybalt and.. something. Twins.. tattooed in the same manner as these," he nods to the unconscious two near the center table, and finally lets his gaze trail to Maggie again. After another short pause, he holds out his hand to her. Just because. "Good hunting," he tells the merchant before Jeremy takes him back to the stairs and up into the storm. "Let's go, Only."

Maggie turns a hesitant glance toward Mercier and offers him a quiet, faintly grim smile, "Good to see you, Mr. Templeton. Thank you for being here." A belated reply to his belated greeting but such is the nature of this place. Once the briefing has been concluded, she adds, "Good luck. Be careful." Or sneaky. Another smile, albeit a brief one and she lifts her gaze once more to her husband. Though she has been trying to keep her inhalations comparatively shallow, there is something about looking up at him that... She twitches a smile and reaches over to take the offered hand. A flicker warms her gaze though she does not give voice to the notions that may very well be chasing themselves through her gaze. Only. The smile warms, crinkling the corners of her eyes. Inhaling, she touches her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue as though in preperation for a pronouncement or a kiss. Instead of indulging in either, she tilts her head in the direction Ruby, Michio and Haggerty went, "I think Ruby may be glad of backup." Which reminds her a bit jarringly of that cry she heard earlier. Some of the stars fade in her eyes as focus returns. Her smile fades, though she squeezes his hand a bit, "Uh. Seriously." Turning reluctantly but resolutely, she starts off in that direction.



Martin, Dragonsinger of Minos, that's what the legends will say, if the shadow lasts that long. He hangs on with a determined grunt. And here come those crags, jutting out of the water like spears from the sea... which admittedly, he's quite proud of. His Sea, so marvelous in its majesty! Moire considers herself the Queen of all the Sea and the Sea does not end and so does he. "Drop me off there." Casting a quick look about, he spots a location where he can hide. "I'll sing, you encourage them to use that cannon. Mr Anderson will take care of the rest." Lucky for that voice enhancer! The Storm practically drowns out anything, it's so vicious! He's played to crowds of screaming teenage girls... and that's a sound that in it's very magnitude is 10 times worse than this storm and he's prepared to belt it out now for all he's worth. The first chords of the song are instrumental and rise in tempo and yet remain wordless. For now it's a soothing tune the storm, fighting the wind and rain to be heard. It's an inviting voice straining against the tempest. It promises good fortune, if one can capture it. The tempest rages about, but the song... it begins to filter through the cracks in the storm, resolved to break through. He has a pretty good voice range so he manages to sound female. The song is pretty and mournful then speaking of a lady trapped in a Dragon's Nest, being forced to care for the eggs all these long days in the storm, waiting to be found. It talks about the power of the eggs, how eating them would give her special powers and would protect her from the storm but she has no fire to cook them. Lament, Lament... if only a ship would come, a prize of dragon eggs to be won. Dragon eggs, one two three ... to eat if only I was free.

RPG: Martin declares that he has the Siren's Inspiration (SIR-IN) gift.

RPG: Martin challenges a difficulty of 9. Martin chooses Wits and the gifts BLD-PT and STY-CC. Martin succeeds.

Amy drops Martin off where he asks, finding a plateau just big enough for her to land on. It's a near thing, perhaps more so than Martin even realizes, as she fights against the buffetting wind, to set her feet down. gently. Which is good, as a small part of the plateau crumbles off. With Martin there, and ready to sing, Amy takes to the air again, wings spread. There's even a crack of lightning to highlight her as she ROARS out a challenge. Not that she can do anything about it, but - hey, Wildfire? There really is a dragon here. That done, she goes quiet, trying to judge her distance to get the wildfire annoyed enough to fire at her, but miss. Cause that miss - it's kind of critical! Still there it is - purple dragon in the storm, apparently heading at the wildfire with murderous intent. After stealing their catch - erm, ketch.

The problem with having a Dragonsinger singing a dragony song of riches and a nubile young woman in need of rescue so near to a ship just filled to the brim with strapping sailors of all persuasions is that rescuing damsels in distress (or dis dress) is "What They Do (tm)." When he hears the song, Mr. Anderson knows that it is going to be touch (not really!) and go. He starts making the rounds of the deck, cuffing a shoulder here and there to keep the sailors ready to fly around the crag and pick up the miscreant monsters who are the real culprits. He does have to haul one eager fellow out of the shoreboat, then passes out ear plugs. Dragonsinger? Dragon Siren is more like it. A bit belatedly, he remembers Mouse and hurries back to the tarp only to find Mouse seated calmly, bits of sail cloth stuffed into his ears. Looking up, the youth gives Mr. Anderson a thumbs-up signal, then goes back to watching the tableau.



Frightful cries to one side of the Illustrious Stores prove that not everyone's a runner. The staff and crew of the Xanthippe, they just don't want to run into the corridor and get trapped against a knot of fighting near the casino. They might have tried the alternate exit up the cargo lift... but there's a thing coming off it that cannot be rationally explained. Therefore, they are effectively trapped as Ruby takes out her opponents in terrifying and explicit fashion. Then one of the pharmacologists gets the door to the drug lab open, and the whole group clamors around to crowd themselves within the windowed room. Better than nothing, right? Just.. mind the volatile ingredients..

Haggerty buzzkills Ruby's triumph by crying out as his own upper chest is split open by the pirate on top of him in what might be a copy cat move, taken from Ruby's playbook. He forces the scimitar blade into a deeper cut, relishing the pain and panic in the sailor's eyes.

Dude should really be paying more attention to his surroundings. Ruby's battle is over, but LuBaio's has begun. He may have been hopped up on goofballs, but it doesn't seem to matter one bit to the undead waste that lurches and gloms onto him. The Pit's champion tears at loose viscera and wrenches limbs out of sockets, but still 'Terry' wraps around him with all pulsating moveable parts. Soon the combined horror is stumbling drunkenly across the cargo hold, a threat to the sanity of all who might behold it.

Ruby pulls herself up from atop the Wildfire Pirate, hand still gripping the Kukri hard in her hand. She eyes the corpse, daring it to move. Haggerty's cry draws her attention and she's doing a clumsy pirouette to bring her tunnel vision towards the sound of his voice. Chemically induced acoustics and all. She physically pries her other hand holding the weapon so that she can get it out of the reverse-grip. With the 'uck' coating her hands, there's enough to make this happen. She squints both her eyes as if trying to make out a target miles distant, rears back her arm, and then chucks the knife towards Haggerty's murderer. The crooked knife slips from her grip, divests itself of more yucky stuff, and has a short flight. Enroute it makes a wobbly /whup-whup/ sound before it buries itself into the base of the Wildfire sailor's spine. "Fooker!" she shouts and stampedes over towards both her target and poor Haggerty. LuBaio and his BFF are making an awful lot of ruckus, but she concentrates on one thing at a time. Seeing two monsters grapple has the risk of drawing her in like a whirlpool and complicating matters. Like living to see another day.



In the close quarters of a randomly lit mid-deck deck corridor, Merrisol draws his hand-scythe from over his shoulder, left-hand for now since he isn't about to let go of Maggie's hand. They pass the side hallway leading to the boudoirs and he considers it briefly - in the interests of thoroughness. Really. "I.. doubt anyone is working for pay, anymore," he murmurs, giving voice to a previous concern, and it is clear his insistent urge to stopper the hookahs had not been entirely for personal safety reasons. "Maggie, the Captain met us, surrounded by Wildfire. If she no longer has control over the ship, every word she spoke has been a delusion, or..." He ponders, falling quiet as they get to the top of the staircase that bends in upon itself as it accesses the lowest deck. Judging by the protracted echoes of men shouting and bodies thudding, it is just as lively downstairs as up, only in a rather different sense. Whatever Merri had been trying to suggest, he only looks at Maggie and nods, leading the way down.

Moving with Merrisol through the mic-deck corridor, Maggie makes no move to retrieve her hand from him for she is just as determined to retain the contact as he is. She listens as they move, her gaze flashing this way and that to guage movement or occupation, though she does not turn into any of the boudoirs they pass. By the time they reach the top of that staircase lower, she has drawn her sword rather than the pistol and determination has settled in her gaze. A reply formulates, though when she gets an earfull of what is going on down in the depths of the ship, she shoves it aside mentally. They can discuss the Captain's bizzare behavior later. Right now, it sounds as though there are people in serious trouble. She follows Merrisol down those stairs.

The flamesword's light and heat reaches into every corner of the stairwell, alternately brightening the cobwebs or scorching them black. Sprawled on the steps just beyond the turn of the landing midway down, a gent wearing a disheveled violet waistcoat had evidently expired mid-crawl. A hatchet is sticking out of his back between the shoulderblades, a spreading stain of red darkening the satin. Merrisol looks down at him critically from around the corner, but without recognition. He shrugs his eyebrows at Maggie, not attempting remark, as the noise has risen to a veritable din. Releasing her hand now, he swaps the bladed hook to his right, and darts to the far wall of the lower stairwell, giving Maggie room to come around the corner with her own weapon, and steps over the obstacle before reaching down to pry the handaxe out of the fop's spine.

The corridor is a riot of menfolk. More bodies litter the floor, mostly former fancy men, and unfortunately none of them appear to belong to those tattooed devils. With the monopoly on formal weaponry, they hold the edge over the makeshift items wielded by a small group of rogues, identifiable by their blousy shirts and sashes. Two Wildfire pirates immediately beyond the steps are guarding the way up and out, while another forges ahead in the limited space, hacking menacingly at the clamouring mob of about a dozen sailors. The first open archway branches to the left, the room beyond similarly gone bananas with angry combat.

Still crouched to one side of the sprawled body, Merrisol takes a moment to study the faces of the corralled sailors, and mutters to Maggie, "Rhymers." Then, as the flickering glow of her sword alerts the other swordsmen, he jerks his head to encourage her ahead of him to act upon it. Strategically, with his size he'd only block her way if he took the lead now.



The last Wildfire merc in the cargo hold goes from hunched to arched as the weighted blade thunks through his lower spine, erasing all impulse to and feeling from his legs. Releasing his pressing hold on both ends of the scimitar to claw uselessly behind himself, he topples over, screaming in agony. As Ruby comes upon both men, Haggerty rolls shiny eyes in her general direction. His arms, braced against the floor by the elbows, had been desperately benchpressing the sword all along, the right hand a mess of blood from grinding against the sharp edge. Even with the pressure off, the scimitar remains wedged in his upper chest as though he lacks the strength to push anymore even a tiny bit. More likely he is frozen with pain and fear, of any further movement in any direction that might hasten the life currently leaking away from him. "Lass..." he whispers. "Tell Captain..." He trails off in a wet wheeze. Where's that sinister Erhu musician when you need him for a dramatic dirge?

LuBaiOMG lets out a gurgling yowl, like.. How dare somebody not give him their undivided attenion.. he's the Alpha here! The star of the show! Mad frustration instead of pain, for he does not quite /feel/ the chunk of flesh tearing from bone as the risen corpse gnaws at his face. The erratic lurching about makes escape to the cargo lift a chancy proposition, but a couple of braver Xan crew and a wiley sales rep have been watching for their chance, and now they leave the un-safety of the windowed laboratory to skitter that way, trying to use the overturned furniture as cover. As they try to dart past The Pit, someone trods on the fallen gate, rattling it against the floor. LuBaiOMG swings towards the clatter and the gibbering nightmare lunges amongst them. Only the merchant manages to dodge free from the ensuing carnage and scrambles for the cargo lift.

Ruby kneels down next to Haggerty and the screaming Wildfire pirate. Her hair seems to reach for Haggie like a mop of Gorgon hair. Her eyes shiver from the protruding scimitar to her weapon still embedden in her fallen target. A weird almost-but-not symmetry in the two fallen men. In an effort to completely destroy the mirror-ish effect, she tugs her knife out of tattooed bastard with a grunt and holds it over Haggerty's head, using it to frame the tableau. "Whut?" She bares her teeth and winces as another jolt of microscopic swordfish drunkely take a scenic route through her veins. The montrous howl of LuBaio reminds her once again that there are threats afoot. But the drugs are starting to turn real ugly. She turns her head to gauge how soon she'll have before she's set upon by the dual horror. "Sweet fookin Bog..." The unnatural and self-destructive symbiosis of the embrace slices into her growing fog. More runners. Extremely reluctantly, she fumbles the knife into its sheath, which is hopefully in a good enough state to keep it secure. She turns back to Haggerty and rasps, "Stow't. Keep't. Tell't yerself." she reaches forward and pinches his earlobe between the nails of her finger and thumb enough to draw blood and then starts to scoop him up. On her feet, she blurrily makes her way quickly and impolitely towards the cargo lift with her baggage.



Meanwhile! Above decks, while Merrisol and company do their bloody business below, the merchant of undetermined things was busy doing things above decks. Departing from his initial trump-ingress point of the tangled body room, Mercier stands at the threshold of whatever portal leads above decks, peering out into the rail, oilskin coat on to protect him from the water, as a purely practical affair. And umbrella sits under the crook of his arm, and before stepping out, he deploys it, before heading out on a stroll to where the fellow is likley being held hostage.

Above, Jeremy stands for a moment or two as Mercier starts that stride across the rain-soaked deck. He had wanted another hit, but not like this. Not leading a madman, friend of a madman and a crazy lady to the Captain's private quarters. With a heavy sigh that belies the spark of hope that digs into his soul, he takes off after the man in the slicker, "Hey. Wait up. You don't know where you're goin'." The rain pelts down on his head and, while he would like nothing better than to sink into the numb delerium, he pushes it aside. For now. Closing the distance, he nods toward the fore, "The captain's cabin's under the forecastle. This way."

Mercier turns his head as a muscician comes out to guide him towards the Capain's quarters. After first, he provides a polite smile, and nod, looking amiable to taking the man's advice, as he starts to follow him. Then the man turns around. Mercier remains smiling, and it takes careful effort for himself to keep from getting wet, or to keep as dry as possible, angling between the cover of sails and deck fittings. He stops, as the man heads towards the back, "I do not have time for misdirection, Mister. The foc'sle is /forward/ of foremast." Mercier says, motioning with his head, "This way. Not aft." Sorrowfully, Mercier appears to know his way around a ship. He looks at the muscian for a moment, under his umbrella, dull hazel eyes relaying what his smile does not. There was a time for entertaining such things, and a time conducting action. This was the latter.

Jeremy nods, "Yeah, yeah, I know. But the Captain's quarters are aft. Sorry. It's this blasted rain. It gets me turned around. I mean, Captain Sow's cabin's back this way. This ship's kind'f a mess, if you know what I mean." He looks back at Mercier, "I'm not intending t'lead you astray. Cap'n Scallion's in Cap'n Sow's quarters." He is in earnest and already soaked to the skin. Waiting for a moment or two more, he looks anxious, then turns to begin walking toward teh stern of the ship. Lightning crackles about the ship with thunder rolling slowly to and fro. Jeremy ducks his head and hastens his pace, "Come on." It is almost, but not quite, a mantra with him.

The polite smile never leaves the merchant's face as he listens to the musician spin an excuese, before Mercier gives a nod, and lets the man lead him in the direction he'd prefer to lead him in. Wincing at the lighting strikes, and looking up to his umbrella, he sighs and reaches up to close the thing. He was... hopefully still well enough protected from the rain, at least, from what he heard of it, but... a lighting strike wasn't on his agenda today, and who knows what /that/ would feel like. He glances up towards the sky briefly, and shakes his head, "I don't suppose you'd consider letting her sails dry!" He calls up, futilely before hurrying along behind Jeremy, flipping his oilskin coat's collar as he goes, and adjust his hat.



Moving down the stairs with Merrisol, Maggie walks with care and caution. Creeping is not required in this instance as the noise from below masks their bootfalls anyway. Cobwebs chared black filter down in a fine mist of grime that settles on hair and clothing, skin and the floor. A light dusting of the stuff settles into the spreading pool of blood that the hatcheted man lies in. Maggie winces with an almost physical pain on spotting the way the man died. Poor guy. That... Well, it just had to hurt. Nodding to Merrisol's eyebrow shrug, she looks grim. Stepping around the corner, she pauses while Merrisol retrieves the handaxe from the corpse.

RPG: Maggie challenges a difficulty of 9. Maggie chooses Grace and the gifts BLD-OB, STY-PI, and STY-SW. Maggie succeeds.

As she takes stock of their surroundings, the faintly macabre notion that either her brother or an absent cousin would have a lot of material to work with crosses her mind and is dismissed. Though really, this ship might benefit from a Feldane down the road. If she does not burn it where it lies. Possible. Merrisol's whisper shaps her attention that way and she nods once more. In the same moment, she ducks ahead of Merrisol. With her sword wreathed in flames, hair finally nearly dry and glowing with color, her eyes flashing with anger, Maggie swings into action. Rather than try to walk down the final stairs, she jumps into the air, one foot kicking off the hand rail that edges the wall. Using that to change her trajectory and, hopefully, surprise the WildFire Pirates, she angles her sword such that she should cleave the man's head from top to bottom. Lobotomy and cauterization at the same time! So considerate.

It is terribly poetic when a Wildfire pirate meets his end by fiery sword, but the only thing truly wild about it is Maggie's crazy curls. Her angle and stroke are so precise that the slice of scalp and skull that sails off is nicely seared on the inside and merely warm on the outside. The man drops away from her as her momentum takes her beyond the other pirate guarding the stairs, and he has to pivot the other way to find her again. As a preemptive strike, his scimitar flashes out in an arc as he wheels, but as she is only just cushioning into her landing, his blind attempt goes over her head by a foot and and still leaves him as open as before. Ahh shiiii-..



The madman in the crow's nest of the macabre brig flashes a lantern signal at the Xanthippe, then waits, while the ship turns into the wind with sails trimmed. For a larger ship, they appear to have fine maneuverability even considering the storm, or a crack helmsman who loves his job. The Xan does not signal back, but by the time that would be a real problem, the haunting melody has already traveled over water and through wind to catch the ears of the Wildfire's deck crew. Shapes of men gather closer to the rails on that side of the ship, and a few even make it overboard, diving to their deaths in the unforgiving sea. The rest must be tied to lines or more receptive to the baritone sirens. The yelling of the officers to get the ship turned around presently begins to make sense to the sailors; if they can't swim to her, they'll sail to her! They don't want no dragon eggs, nope. They want that pretty little lady. With them, she'll learn there are better things to do in this storm than boohoo over eggs. With their dogged work at the rigging, the ship arcs away from the Xanthippe, and as she comes around, the dragon roar is heard, breaking many of their trances. They've heard that roar somewhere before. Just to confirm suspicions, the lightning flash gives them the shocking visual of Amy wheeling through the currents towards them. Alerts are howled out, and more mercenaries boil out on deck to man the battle stations. There's no sign of a storm cannon yet, just those nasty ballista, and the mounted crossbows.

Oh the unfairness of being stuck up here so! The song goes on in a plaintive endearing manner. How sultry must she be to have been chosen as the mistress of a Dragon! If only there was a man who could come here and get her down. When Amy roars, the engaging voice rises in challenge against the beast who snared her so! For most people, the idea of being as high up as he is and in the middle of a tempest and singing and without any ropes or other life saving equipment might be terrifying. It's not every day that one fakes being a Siren with actual siren blood running in their veins, enough to inspire in this way, at least. The song continues to challenge the weather and draw the Wildfire to the treacherous waters and a Dragon's ire. While Martin... plasters himself against the ledge and finds a groove here and there to nudge a foot against and keep from sliding down. Please don't let this rock crumble... please don't let this rock crumble.

Over on the Wave Dancer, the crew stuff cotton of all sorts into their ears. This gradually lessens the number of sailors who try to leap over the railing. Those that do manage to do so dangle from the ropes that hold them aborad until their fellows haul them back and reinsert the cotton that is supposed to keep them from hearing Martin's song. Those who can't control their reactions, due to a combination of rain-induced lusts or the impact of Martin's song, are escourted below decks. Mr. Anderson takes note of where ropes or other tethers need to be replaced or shortened. Finally, the deck crew are back in control and ready for action. Mr. Anderson sends a spry young lass up the rigging to check on the man in the crow's nest. She will return once she has an update on the WildFire's position.

Amy is up in the air, buffeted by the wind. She circles and menaces, flying just in theory out of range of those ballistae. As she flies, she gets her own hairbrained idea, because Martin totally doesn't have that market cornered. Nope. C'mon, there's lots of sharks there, imagine the fun of a shark on deck. That - tickles her fancy, so she looks for a likely target, okay, maybe a bit away from the Wildfire, but still. Here, sharkey sharky shark.



Merrisol stays low on the stairs as Maggie bounces off the walls. Once she has cleared the incline and one very surprised mercenary out of the way, he yells out over the swaying, dodging melee, "Ruby! Big tall woman, curved blade, where is she!" He doesn't mention Michio or Haggerty, but perhaps it's just because Ruby is the most prominent of the three.

One of the sailors in the crowd yells back, waving an arm towards the furthest doorway in the hall, "She's in there! The Pit!"

RPG: Merrisol challenges a difficulty of 8. Merrisol chooses Grace and the gifts SKL-SC, STY-PI, and STY-SW. Merrisol almost succeeds.

Merrisol nods and gauges the space and risk as he aims with the hatchet and throws at a descending angle to catch third Pirate, the one menacing the group and keeping them from passing. It misses by swishing through the gap between his legs while the bastard lunges into a swing. Grarh! However, the weapon does thunk into the floorboards, and a Rhymer ducks down to pull it up. Yah-hah! Now they have at least have a real weapon.

The drag on Maggie's blade changes her trajectory somewhat, which might be all to the good. She lands in a low crouch, spinning on the balls of her feet to face back the way she came. While she does not see the brigand's swipe that zoomed over her head, she feels the rush of breeze that is the aftermath. Lunging forward, she brings her blade up with the press of her body behind it. As the pirate so kindly left himself open, she takes advantage of it. The slice is intended to enter low beneath his ribe and angle up. She puts the strength of her father's kin into the blow to try and be sure the man has no opportunity to try again.



Jeremy does lead the way, skirting coiled rope and the remnants of posters depicting the charms of the entertainments available below. He keeps to the edges of things, trying to shelter as much as possible from the rain. Though every now and then he can be caught giving the rain a sort of forlorn, yearning look. Maybe he still wishes for the oblivion of the uber-stoned. Finally he comes to a door set into a structure at the aft of the ship. Opening it, he holds it for Mercier. Within is a narrow hallway with several doors opening on either side. Lowering his voice, perhaps unnecessarily, he mutters, "Officer's quarters. Cap'n Sow's is the biggest on the end."

They arrive at the structure, and Mercier doesn't waist any time ducking into the door way, removing his oilskin with a practices flourish and shaking out the rain the covers its impermiable service, before doing the same with his hat. He motions for Jeremy to follow along, "Come along then... and focus..." He notes to the fellow, taking a brief moment to gauge the surroundings of the aftcastle or wherever they ended up finding themselves as he says so. "Slow now..." He states as he looks about the doors for nameplates or paintings, "How'd things end up like this? How'd the ship end up having two Captain's aboard?"

Once Mercier is within, Jeremy certainly means to beat-feet out of there. When he is called forward, told to follow and focus, he sighs deeply but complies. Closing the door after him, he frowns, "That's'a long story, mate. One I don't really have time t' go into. We've gotta be quiet. The twins'll be around somewhere and we really don't wanna run into 'em if we can help it." He motions toward Sow's quarters. The hallway is narrow, but shows the remnants of a garish sort of taste. The floor is carpeted with a once rich blue covering and the walls are paneled in a dark wood venear. The carpet is now thread-bare, the color darkened by the wet air and cheapened by mildew and mice. The paneling ripples, distorted and warped. A banister runs the length of the hall from fore to aft, held in place by steel brackets that still glitter with chipped and flaked gold leaf. As Jeremy creeps down the corridor, he grows more and more tense.

As quickly as it was off, Mercier lays the oilskin coat over his shoulders, not placing his hands in the sleeves however, letting it loosely rest as they make their way through the officer's quarters, shoes making a light shuffling sound, helpfully dampened by the carpet. Mercier's smallsword hands on a scabbard, visible now, but he doesn't go about drawing it, instead, clutching the umbrella as he proceeds. He nods to the man's need for quiet, but can't help but raise both eyebrows at the mention of 'the twins'. That was... ominous. The musician's deameanor is not unnoticed by Mercier, and he cocks his head. Something wasn't right...... if they'd arrive at Sow's quarters (a... strange name to be sure), Mercier would rap on the door lightly, remaining silent while listening for a response.

When Mercier raps on the Captain's door, Jeremy's eyes bug out in fear and he reaches ineffectually to try and drag the sound back. "Shhhh." But, it is too late. The door is opened by a big man, muscles rippling beneath a shirt slightly too small for his body. A scraggly goatee covers his chin and he peers at the two in the hallway with bright, if bloodshot eyes. Mercier is given a scowl, for even teetering a bit and smelling of rum, he does not recognize the merchant. Jeremy, however, is known to him and he leans a bit against the door. It creaks with the weight, "What'd'ya want, pipsqueak?"

Mercier takes a step back as the door is opened. Not precisely afraid, but, well a man that large tends to put a change into your rescue plans. Mercier peers beyond the man as he speaks, before snapping his head up, as if being drawn from a reveree, "Ah, yes! I'd want a word with you, if its quite alright. A business opportunity as it is." He proides a polite smile and turns his head briefly towards Jeremy, "That will be all Steward, thank you /very/ much for your assistance. I'd be an absolute juggins without it." He says, giving the scared musician the opportunity to leave. His head is turned full back to the tattooed man, "Might I come in?"



What is the deal with these crumbling spires and craggy ledges jutting out the sea, anyway? Perhaps it used to be a majestic habitat for sea birds and perhaps had a little launch with a little path winding up to an interesting little cabin, in which lived a fascinating little man possessed of wizened features and lost tales of the ancient times. Perhaps. Now, it is only the site of multiple thunderstrikes, a brittle, boney monument to the Goddess's power. If She notices the Rebman ruler perching daringly atop one of those brittle ledges, there's no need to send even /more/ wind to topple him. It is already plenty windy.

The Wildfire thrusts closer to the island, but now only because that heading lines up the ship's port-side artillery facing the dragon, although when she swoops off out of range, there is confusion and general consternation. Maidens lost in the storm, disappearing-reappearing purple dragons, and on top of that, their people on the Xanthippe aren't signaling. The Captain orders another hard about, the priority now to board the Xanthippe, damn those dragons and egg-tending maidens to the Goddess!

RPG: Amethyst challenges a difficulty of 10. Amethyst chooses Grace and the gifts BLD-OB, BLD-PT, and DRG-BS. Amethyst succeeds.

"Shark ho!" screams one of the deckhands from the rigging, one arm jutting out as he clings. Heads turn sharply to follow his pointing trajectory and then jaws drop... a-ha. An indignantly waggling man-eater, fifteen feet long from nose to tail-tip, is flying through the air, much too far above sea level to have gotten there with a mere leap. The huge flashing wingspan of draconic leather gives the mystery away. The ship is turning, turning, but two of the ballista are still viable, as are the three rear deck crossbows. Amidst bellowed orders and excited shouts from awe-filled pirates, the first volley of the night is aimed and fired as Amy lifts her toothy payload ever nearer her target.

It's amazing what you can do when your claws and hind legs are dragon skin. Yup. The indignant wiggling of the shark is felt, especially given tired Amy. But she concentrates and that sucker stays with her in the air, as Amy literally comes in at a good aim. She times it jus-s-st right, and lets go the shark to flounder in a writhing dangerous heap atop the wildfire's deck, sliding in over by the pilot if she's really lucky. And then her concentration turns as she angles away, with a zig and a zag and a omg are they angry enough yet? The wind buffets, and she slides two feet in the air, totally unexpectedly, and then her whole body angles to 45 degrees as she tries to catch her balance.

What wouldn't he give to be able to send lightningbolts from his hands? The Wave Dancer is ready to take action while the Wildfire is out of commission. It might now be time to call in the people who actually know what they're doing when it comes to ship battles or hey.... Idea. Martin lightbulbs like the best of them. Martin pulls a trump.

The report from the crow's nest sends the young sailor lass slip-sliding down a rope to land with a gallop that turns to a run to Mr. Anderson, "They're around the bend, sir. Miss Amy... I'm told it's Miss Amy. Looks like'a dragon t'me. She's flyin' toward the WildFire carryin' a shark!" Mr. Anderson's expression turns almost preditorily gleeful. He thanks the young woman quickly, then strides to the helm. The ship's heading is set to bring them around the side of the ship opposite the dragon's heading. Flanking is always a good plan, right? Sailors scurry to prepare the ballista fore, mid-ships and aft while a stormblooded gunner turns the storm cannon, ready to center the payload on the WildFire when it is in view.

Martin seems to get another idea instead and stuffs the trump back away. Ahem. Instead of the siren call he then begins to sing of a great and powerful ship. A terror to the seas... never bested in battle. A ship she knows that her lover is on coming to rescue her. A ship that would send fear into the hearts of men and hopefully into the hearts of any men on the Wildfire to surrender when coming into contact with it for it is from the heart of the sea itself and with the way the storm is the song would inspire anyone to see a ship coming upon them suddenly as bigger and more menacing than it really is with a crew so tough it might be best just to surrender.



The group of Xan staff and crew in the Illustrious Lab watches bleakly as the one lucky survivor makes it to the lift, tries for an unsuccessful moment to shove the ooky tub off the platform, then frantically throws the lever to release the hand-powered winch to activate the wheels and gears underneath. He gets the crank going and looks pathetic doing it, but the cargo platform does begin to rise off the mechanism's base. Slowly. He casts a hurried glance at LuBaio shredding into the sailors. He keeps cranking. Why is it so slow?? He looks again and almost loses his grip on the wheel when he sees Ruby loping for the lift with a wounded man cradled easily in her long arms. The panic and terror in his stare eats away at what colour he has left in his skin, but he isn't a calculating sales rep for nothing. After two heartbeats, he pulls the lever while the platform is only about four feet off the floor, and beckons at Ruby, c'mon baby, you can do it! Attagirl! Ahh, what a brute she is. A born crank-turner if he ever saw one..

Ruby stomps her way towards the lift, finally dislodging one of the syringes completely, the other a slim broken needle poking out from her thigh. It's easier to gain depth perception by nodding her head and skewing the weird Tardis-vision that's making things optically challenging. She may be picking things up from Amy, but careful transport is secondary to swift transport. Not bothering to give a wide berth to the danger that is LuBaio, she hurries forward and leaps atop the lift with a unsettling distribution of weight. Her wide eyes look to the Merchant. Look to the crank. Ping-ponging glances a few more times and she deposits Haggerty into the Bog-awful tub. Straightening, she swivels her head back to the carnage and confusion. She /wants/ to blast that nasty bugger. There might still be time to fling something at him. There might be time to ... Ruby has a small spasm and nearly topples off the platform. There's a moment when she almost vomits into the tub and poor Haggerty. "hha-yi okkkk...wamanjee..." She shoves the Merchant to the side if he doesn't get the hint. Before she starting heaving on the crank, she swings her hand to slap meatily upon one of her animated tattoos, which have started to flicker and stutter as the drugs take away everything they gave, five-fold. She hisses to the stranger sharing the lift, "Bleed you if...you cross me." Crank...crank-a-crank...

The cargo platform climbs upwards in a series of jerky increments until Ruby gets the hang of it, making much better time than the wiley customs liaison. That man is willing to be pushed aside, bowing and scraping noxiously to the warrior's superior everything. He makes a face as she leaves her charge swilling in the soup, then finds a rail to hang onto while she hoists them all towards the covered deck hatch.

Below, the monstrous hybrid of pit fighter and fiend lurches a few paces towards the escaping lift, then rears back in a cheated howl. LuBaio's one remaining eye glowers balefully up at Ruby, then rolls around in its socket as he turns looking for other prey... and spots all those wretched folks cowering in the laboratory. Lurch... lurch-a-lurch.

Haggerty is startlingly awake and clinging to the sides of the steel tub by his armpits, as one would be if one was taking a proper bath in that basin. That the bath is a congealing stew of gore, and he has a sword lodged width-wise across his chest... just extra technicalities. He rolls his gaze to one side, eyeing Ruby incredulously. It's so hard to be grateful to that Lass right now.



In the riotous corridor, the Wildfire pirate does rather swiftly angle his missed swing into an overheard downward chop, fueled by a surge of sheer last-hurrah energy. Maggie's own strike is still a second ahead of his, coming in low at his side and pulling a flaming trail up the man's tattooed torso, and out the opposite shoulder. The scimitar leaves his nerveless hands and sails over Maggie's head yet /again/ this time to pin against the wall behind her, wobbling. The awful smell of burning skin and sinew fills the corridor as her opponent is lifted off his feet by the force of the swing and crunches into the other wall.

Merrisol's brows flinch in helpess self-disgust as the axe misses its mark, but at least he didn't totally fubar the throw and plunk it into a friendly. When the weapon ends up in a Rhymer's hands, Merri takes a breath and almost thumbs up... because he meant to do that.. yeah, that's the ticket. Instead, he opens the trump pouch again and fishes out a rather flawlessly painted card depicting the deck of the Wave Dancer, and treated with a coating of cellulose. "Maggie, I'll use the Dancer's card.. get those folks over here and I'll send them through!" he calls to her as the next pirate falls to her blade. "Ruby's in the.. Pit, the hold," he supposes, "Not certain about the others!"

The third and last pirate present takes a harried peek over his shoulder when he notes the newly armed sailor with the hatchet, and realizes he is about to be outflanked. Turning, he makes a break for the door to the Casino, where his comrade is dealing with the remaining prisoners who didn't make it onto the Wheel of Misfortune.

Swallowing bile, Maggie blinks a few times against the smell. Rising, she looks around to see if there is another foe nearby. Spotting the third pirate dashing for the door to the Casino, she almost gives chase when Merrisol's words register, "Ah. Right." She turns back to search the faces of the friendlies nearby. Softening her tone, if not her focus, she lifts her free hand, "Come on. We are sending you through to the Wave Dancer. The First Mage is Mr. Anderson. Anyone who can help out, please report to him. If you need medical attention, head below and gather in the galley." Mr. Anderson will read them the riot act about what happens to those who cause a ruccus... "Now, who wants to get out of here?"



Jeremy may be a bit timid and desirous of keeping his skin intact, but he is still a performer. When Mercier gives him a cue, he straightens and leans against the hallway wall with feigned nonchallance, "Cap'n said t'bring this guy to see you an' Tybalt, Guiles." Jerking a thumb toward the muscular, goateed man in the doorway, he mentions, "One of th' twins the Cap'n mentioned, Mister."

Guiles narrows his eyes at Jeremy, then turns to look Mercier up and down before sidling to one side, "Sure. Come on in." There is an unpleasent glint in Guiles' eyes and an oily hint of anticipation in his tone. A flash of a grin is aimed over his shoulder toward someone unseen. Red splashes mark the bronzed skin of his hands and arms and when he shuts the door, presuming Mercier enters, he leaves behind a bloody handprint.

The room has been decorated in an elegant style reminiscent of a Penglai courtesean's dream. The walls are draped in silken fabrics, green with scenes of gardens surrounding a central pagoda. Lotus blossoms describe a delicate border and play the part of recuring motif for the room itself. Two black wooden chairs have been pushed close together, their lotus blossom finials broken off and set as paperweights on a smallish, delicate table between them. Mostly empty mugs of rum rest in wet circles on the table. Pillows in complimentary colors fluff the expanse of a large, four poster bed bolted to the floor. Amid the luxury and style, signs of decay and misuse are everywhere. The dark wood of the bed, table and chairs is mared and scratched where someone has clearly used them for knife-throwing practice. Splotches of blood, wine and other fluids congeal on the floor.

A man with salt and pepper beard has been securely trussed up into a third chair. While his eyes gleam with defiance, there is blood around his mouth, dripping wetly onto the fabric of his shirt. When he spots Mercier, he shakes his head violently, then opens his mouth. A gutteral, groaning sound escapes along with another slosh of blood. The man's tongue lies amid the other disarray on the table. At the sound, a second pirate, clearly the first's twin by looks, reaches over and cuffs the bound man. It is not a gentle strike, the sound of a solid, meaty hand coming into contact with skin sickeningly loud in the chamber. The captive snaps his mouth shut and blinks to clear the dizzying effects of the strike.

The merchant provides a thankful nod to Jeremy, for both the obvious assistance and the more subtle playing of his role, before he steps inside the Captain's quarters, the door is closed, and certain fates sealed with it. Whos is still to be determined. He takes note of off-glints and offer-tones, adding them to the equations jumbling about in his head, the solution of which is rather troubling, given the musician's attitudes in walking to the place. Mercier takes a small glance to the side, observing the closed front door with his periphial vision, before taking stock of the room's exits first, including any windows that might be present. The rest of the room is taken into turn... the decour marred by the savage sort of apathy of the worst brand of criminal element. At its core, it was a lack of respect. For effort, for craftsmanship, for others... yes, there was a tounge, and the man it belonged too." Mercier isn't looking either of the twins for a moment, instead regarding the fellow tied up in the chair. He picks aspects about to decide who he should be, considering the primary option that if anyone was sent here, they possibly wouldn't be sent here for their best intereast. Still, he could always leave that in the background. Mercier places a frown on his face at the tounge, reaching out to pick the thing up, "Oh bloody bells." He turns towards the men, "This effects the markets you know, and his value for a sale." He tosses the appendage back where it came from, "I can place a man with a tounge, and they can just cut it off if they don't want it. Without drops our price..." He heaves a sigh, "But, what's done is done."

Guiles and Tybalt have not only cut the tongue of their prisoner out, but have been playing a macabre game of tic-tac-toe along one arm, the blood from shallow cuts demarking the board. There is a game of hang-man on the fellow's other arm, the winning word a misspelled version of 'massacre'. Or perhaps that is the losing word. Scallion's eyes blaze with pain and intelligence though his will flags on hearing Mercier's intent.

Guiles laces his hands together on hearing Mercier's opening gambit, then turns his hands outword to crack the knuckles of both in a slow pop-pop-pop. Shaking them out afterwards, he lets blood drops fly every which way. Looking at Tybalt, he grunts, "Can you deal with this? I'll go see what Sow's up to. I swear that cow is more trouble than she's worth. Dunno why the Captain wants t' keep her."

Tybalt frowns, for it is his turn at tic-tac-toe and he had just gotten the tip of his knife all nice and poised to make his mark when Mercier's interruption took his mind from the game. Scallion's moaned attempt at a warning only added to the man's irritation, so his brother's offer of play-time is accepted with a grisley grin, "Sure, Guiles." Lifting both hands, he pushes one finger between a circle in a crude guess at their captain's interest in Sow. "Ain't my type, but whatever, right?" Turning to face Mercier as Guiles steps out into the hallway he adds, "Am I right?" The knife is retrieved and he starts toward the Merchant with menacint intent, "Course I'm right." The knife gleams wetly, the steel edged in crimson, dripping blood.



The Wildfire is a largish pirate ship, of tall sails formation and many stations. Her Captain is on the rear deck along with the crossbow shooters and his navigator and steersman. His tattoos are covered up by a black coat, but still make a showing on his throat and upper chest. Glaring at the dragon as she gets choosy about her target and tries for the poop deck, while the wicked harpoons streak up at her and the crossbow bolts whiz. And... miss.. and miss, miss, miss, what the /ever-blazin'/ fuck? "Clear the deck!" he bellows, as he sees her soaring unsteadily away, while the shark goes into flopping freefall. Its confused gyrations make it hard to predict just where it is going to touch down.. and the bowmen and sailors look like they're caught in an impromtu flash mob, scrambling lucklessly about. The steely helmsman stays the wheel, great tattooed arms bringing the ship through her sharp turn. Did Amy's targetting account for that steep angled drift?

CRASHPLAT! The silver, black-tipped body of the shark hits the high side of the deck, taking out a crossbow mount and knocking some lashed barrels loose. No one is squashed flat by the initial impact, for a wonder, though it does kill the shark instantly. The wet, tipped deck adds to the body's weighted momentum to send it rolling and flipping across the deck like a deadly squeegee. The still-viciously lined jaws catch a hapless pirate by the legs, shredding him and then crushing him into a bloody smear. A number of the crew throw themselves to the sides, but the rest get walloped by the leathery mass and pinned to the opposite rail, which cracks, busts, and spills the whole lot screaming over the side, along with three mounted crossbows. Buh-byeeee.

It is all well and good for Mr. Anderson to say 'Make it so' after giving his orders to swoop around the crags and flank the other ship. The problem is that by this point the seasoned crew are used to having Maggie's talent with the air or Merrisol's precise course corrections to work with. Nothing wrong with Mr. Anderson, but like much of the crew, he has let some of his skillset lapse. Now, the ship does move forward, but in fits and starts rather than in a smooth rush. She skuds through the water, yawing wildly away from the rocks at a wide, jittery angle that would take them out to sea rather than in the direction they wish to go. Waves, driven by the Goddess' desire, rise up to starboard and splash across the deck, adding even more water to the rain-drenched and slippery surface. The wind drops, leaving the sails flapping uselessly for about two seconds before it picks up again from a new direction. The snap of sailcloth and creak of ropes sound amid the rushing fury of the storm. The helmsman, no longer familiar with a caprecious wind, over-compensates, spinning the wheel toward port. The sails fill and the ship begins to slowly climb the side of an enormous wave. The man's sense of relief at getting them back on the right heading is soon dashed when the sailor lashed into the crow's nest begins shouting and waving his arms to get someone's attention. He points frantically forward along their path. Although the wind carries most of his words out to sea, the one that makes it through is 'ocks'. "Ocks?" Peering through narrowed eyes forward, the helmsman spots the greyer-than-the-sea crags ahead. "Rocks!" Turning the wheel again, he braces against the heaving deck, straining to get the ship back onto the course Mr. Anderson wanted.

The feel of the bolts and such missing her - some of those are far too close for comfort. She winces, dodges, and her ruff flattens, tailtip lashing. Between the lightning, thunder, rain and crossbow bolts, it's a wonder there's any safe sky in which a dragon can fly. Amy can feel her wings starting to tremble again, the smooth energy from her rest and food starting to wear off. She'd be sweating except she's a dragon and is sopping wet. She looks for another shark though, perfectly willing to blast the wildfire once more. There's a look of grim determination on her face as she skims down to the water, willing to continue to bombard that ship with its own predator sharks. Seems somehow only fair they should get them back.



Suddenly free to rampage, or in fact be rescued off this accursed slaughterhouse, the survivors of the Mad Rhyme look to Maggie and Merrisol offering some sort of mystical shortcut. The man with the newfound hatchet has a strange expression on his face as he makes the terrible choice to stay a little longer. "It's not done, Captain Flame," he declares, with all the bluster a blousy pirate can muster (..a lot). "Some of our own are still at the mercy of the scum who still live! Allow us to rectify both matters!"

"Ayyyeee!" cheers the bedraggled group. Also: Arr! Another sailor pulls the scimitar out of the wall, and one goes for the one that clattered across the floor when Maggie dropped the first mercenary.

Taking the barest hesitation for assent, the armed men rush on through the archway to the Casino, where the fight begins anew. A few of the others follow to see what weapons they can scrounge up within, but those who have been wounded during the rush of escape stay behind, supported by their fellow crewmates. Before accepting the route offered by Merrisol's trump, one of them nods back the way they came and notes to Maggie, "Your Master-at-Arms'll need a doc if she still lives, an' I hope she does, her an' the marine both. Awful unlucky thing she did, Captains, though it meant freedom for us!"

Another asks, "Have ye found our Cap'n, Cap'n? We heard he was made the partic'lar guest of Cap'n Sow.."

Having stepped over the new bodies to get past the stairs and over to Maggie, Merrisol stares as the escapees rally, but he says nothing against their desire to visit some vengeful comeuppance on the Wildfire pirates, now themselves cornered. It'll be... cathartic. He keeps the trump on hand for the others, lifting the other to give Maggie's shoulder a quiet squeeze, having witnessed her swift efficiency with her opponents; she had granted them the quick deaths they'd denied countless others. "Ruby and Haggerty," he nods to the Rhyme sailor in confirmation of the descriptions, disregarding for now Ruby's mistaken title. "What of Lord Michio.. the Jadeaen fellow who was with them?" He frowns as the men offer puzzled looks. "Maggie, I'll send them through to the Wave Dancer and catch up with you.."

Maggie nods slowly to the pirates' decision to carry the fight forward. It is their choice. Seeking out the one who asked about their Captain, she shakes her head, "We have not found him personally, though we do know where he is and have sent rescue. We will meet up with them as soon as we can. We will bring him to the Wave Dancer." Alive, with any luck. Her free hand snakes up to clasp Merrisol's on her shoulder and she looks up at him. Studying him for a moment, she nods again, "Okay." An idea blooms in her eyes, though she does not yet give it voice. Much will depend on how this all turns out and there is no sense in planting idea-seeds until the parameters are known. The mental ground might be unreceptive. Squeezing Merrisol's hand gently, she looks from the Casino to the cargo hold and back. "I'm going after Ruby and Haggerty." Perhaps to give the Rhymers a chance to get some of their own back. "We can pick the rest up on the way out. With that, she turns a quick kiss to Merrisol's hand, then strides off in the direction indicated.

Once she's got a good rhythm going, Ruby stops watching the halo effect and odd trippy blur that the mechanism makes in its revolutions. She hangs her head and peers all squinty-like towards LuBaio before he's out of sight, in danger of guillotining herself when the lift moves upwards. Perspiring heavily, she wishes she had some parting howl or articulate words to offer while she escapes with Soup a la Redshirt and the opportunistic Merchant. She doesn't have enough spit to spare on a parting gesture. It's all drying up and the lining of her mouth and esophagus feels about as brittle as a shucked off snakeskin. On the pumping bicep, a cute little tattoo starts swelling up, up, up. Ballooning almost in time with how hard she's working out on the winch.



The spy absorbs the speech and actions around him, taking a moment to examine the battered and abused Captain, leaving the cold mask of a slaver, or slaver's agent on his face as he does so. He kneels next to the man, noting the cruel games played on the man's flesh. It wasn't terribly professional torture. He appraises the Captain's condition, position towards death, etc., leaving a casual mask of stone on his face, turning towards Tybalt as Guildes leaves, shrugging, "Its not my business to assauge the carnel needs of my clients. Just the men I'm selling their product too..." He shakes his head, "You had to cut out the tounge." He glances at the knife for a moment, and then glances towards the door, an internal clock starting. He prioritizes several questions, and then shakes his head at them all. Nothing the good Captain couldn't answer, and there was a clock running now. He provides a winning smile towards the front door, "How unfortunate." He looks back to Tybalt "You've no problem with us selling him, of course?" Mercier asks, a primarly posing question as he removes the coat from his shoulders, shaking it a bit and placing it over his arm, as if looking for a coat rack.

On closer inspection, it becomes clearer that the games played on Scallion's body are the result of bordom rather than an interest in actually doing him damage. It shows a lack of interest either inspired by the rum the twins consumed or the same lack of interest shown in the disarray within the room. With one twin out the door, the other steps in cloer to Mercier, closing the distance in two long strides. With a casual, almost ambivilant assessment, he draws a second knife from a sheeth at his waist, "Don't think you're gonna sell 'im. Think you're gonna join 'im." A flip of his wrist sends one knife in a straight trajectory toward Mercier's gut. If he misses and sticks Scallion in the thigh, so be it. No harm done to the attacker. The potential garbled screams of the victim would just add ambiance.

Scallion looks at Mercier with an expression that so clearly says 'Man, I tried to warn you' that he might as well have shouted it. Unfortunately, it would have been as unintelligable as his initial attempt. For a man used to using verbal eloquence to get his point across, he does do fairly well with silent communication.

RPG: Mercier challenges a difficulty of 7. Mercier chooses Wits and the gifts FGT-BT, SKL-AR, SKL-DS, and STY-DF. Mercier succeeds.

And not even giving Mercier the time to issue a pithy rejoinder. How rude. The coat that the merchant was taking enough care to put into position. The unconscious part of his brain registering the.... well it wasn't precisely a subtle demeaner. He lets his arm drop, the oilclock cloak sliding down, before he grasps he end of it. It wasn't his original intention, but, the glint of a flying knife has Mercier flinging his coat in one direction to deflect the blade's path and kinetic force to one side. Already moving forward after that, he lets the coat finish its travel, before dropping it low and sweeping it the other way to catch in the man's feet. The umbrella he'd been carrying is unceremoniously dropped as his free hand grasps towards his small sword, pulling it free of its sheath. He presses forward with a thrust right off, attempting to end the fight quickly.

Scallion stares as the knife is deflected with what amounts to a heavy raincoat. Tybalt grunts in irritation when the anticipated bloom of red blood does not materialize. He tries to recover, to take another step toward Mercier when his legs are tangled in the flying fabric and he goes down hard. Rolling toward the merchant, he brings the other knife up to bear, blocking the decending blade with a clang-snick of metal on metal. While a knife is no match for a sword, the man's strength is evident in the muscles that strain as he presses his smaller blade against Mercier's sword in an attempt to keep the merchant's blade from getting too close. It is, ultimately, a futile attempt. The blade snaps and Mercier's sword is driven home not only by the initial force, but by whatever strength the merchant applied to the brief struggle. The blade slices through Tybalt's head, embedding into the floor beneath him right at his nose.



Martin's new song, a rousing and romantic ode to yon approaching mighty ship, might strike some as unlikely to happen in the middle of nowhere in Minos as there being a maiden in a dragon's nest. It is not just lyrics however, that invokes emotion in the souls of the susceptible, but the genius of the melody, and the singer's own passion. Nevermind for a few moments, then, that there are no dragons native to Minos... the presence of that shimmering reptile and the damage she wreaks only supports the notion of a maiden and a hero as well. The Wildfire deck crew call to one another for confirmation of a ship sighting, lapsing in their activities as they strain their eyes out to sea in all directions... where? Where's the ship?

And then, there it is, the majestic brigantine with her shining white sails, appearing suddenly on the waves and closing in on firing range. That in reality she lurches and yaws and struggles with the storm as any ship might is a detail currently lost on the pirate crew. They yell for the Captain while running directionless between one station and the next, while the ballista crews call for sail support. To bring a ship to battle when the decisive command experience of her Captain is absent is taking a costly chance with the vessel and the lives of everyone on board. Strangely, at the moment, that bit of naval wisdom is applicable to both sides. The Wildfire turns, slowly, as the helmsman fights the whim of the storm while also looking frantically around to see who else had survived the shark bombardment on the raised aft deck.

Down in the valleys of the swelling waves, there are still fins aplenty. New food dropped into the water nearby has attracted their attention away from the Xanthippe, and a red patch blooms where the overboard crew and sharkbomb splashed down. As Amy goes skimming to catch another of their number, one of the fins heading in her general direction and towards the frenzy, dips silently below the surface as the critter gains speed. Large and white-bellied, it is more hunter than carrion-eater, and the opportunity for a fresh, living catch excites it into surging upwards under the fleeting shadow upon the waters. The dragon ambusher becomes the ambushed, as the snub-nosed shark suddenly erupts from the surface, jaws agape.

Oblivious to the hunting shark, and luck-struck, Amy continues to search out a likely victim for her own rampage. She could drop another shark on the Wildfire, she's sure she can. And intent on that, she skims the surface, making herself a target, all unknowing. But that Luck that runs in her family flies both ways and this time - it works against her. She turns just the wrong way, and pain blossomes in a flank, as the shark latches onto her left hind leg. It's a very startled Amy who tries to whirl around in midair, nearly capsizing directly into the water, and only pulling out at the last moment. Wings flap frantically, and the daughter of Random, grand daughter of Oberon, shows her toughness, as she manages to pull herself together. Stone skin might not stop the razer sharp teeth that have a hold on her, but it at least keeps her in one piece, if mauled and bleeding. Amy's roar comes out loud, angry and her tail lashes around to smack the shark hard. Get it off! Get it off! Get it- OFF! Mind you, crazy flapping wings bring her up in the air, buffetting by the storm pushes her this way and that, as she struggles with extra weight, screwing with her already precarious balance, and sending her careening through the air past a high crag that she misses by that much.

Now apparently it is time to pray to cheeses because two luck-struck individuals on the same team also have a tendency to strike out at the same time. Martin's luck is a legend and it is rare that it turns against him being usually flanked on all sides by people with voices in the realm of chance and futures. The Song reached its almighty crescendos and that's when the Goddess might just have had her fill because lightning strikes that crag and Martin...well. Martin makes a spectacular attempt at a crazy dodge in which he manages to escape the lighting... but... runs out of crag. Rut-Roh. For a split second he teeters on the edge, then slips and tumbles. He slides down that majestic crag hitting skin against rock here and there and f-uuuu.... that hurt, fast coming up towards the jagged rocks below. The loudspeaker in one hand he is unable to grasp for some balance and tumbles into the waves below him. Down, down, down he slide/tumbles and the only thing that saves him from dashing against the rocks is a jutted out skewer of rock that is just there at the right moment to slide up his shirt as he is sliding down and hold him there in place in a rather undignified manner... not for long. He gives a rather grievous Augh! as the shirt starts to split. Hey look, human on a skewer! Lucky for Martin there's a lot of rocks in the way between him and the sharks. Well, kind of lucky, anyway.

Under normal, balmy conditions even a great leathery wingspan would not be able carry the dragon's weight and that of this large flopping fish, easily twice her own length, out of the tossing waves. The gales that beat the sea to a froth fill and expand the flight membranes as she flaps and miraculously gains air enough to pull the shark from the sucking grip of the water, and off they flail. A shark on the leg is worth two in the sea? The powerful jaws of the bullshark have laid into Amy midway up the thigh, its rows of jagged teeth sinking in as multiple anchors. The hard scale hide holds firm, however, and there is no threat of the leg tearing clean off, so there's that. The sharp spikey club to the side of its head causes the shark to swing and slap its tail in an effort to dark away, to no avail. The only direction it knows is forward, but without water it's impossible Watchers aboard both ships are treated to the awesome, awful aerial display, spiraling at the cliff-shot isle around the same time as Martin goes for his tumble.

Just when you thought it was safe to stay out of the water... Amy careens by overhead, narrowly scraping by that crag. Only the shark doesn't. Its tail-end slaps the edge, the impact rippling up its body as the grip on Amy's leg jerks and separates with a sickening wrench, leaving a big sharknado flipping end over end through the air and a lucky dragon cartwheeling in the other direction, her haunch still punctured with numerous abandoned teeth. The shark glances off the cliff face, sending chunks and small rocks skittering down around Martin, then rides a grand slalom of a landslide before launching off the edge of a lower ciff. Whooosh.

Sailors aboard the Wildfire stare with fascination building to panic at the bullshark arcing through the air at their ship. While the updrafts from the little island have given it a bit of extra lift, it does fall short by a lot, but not before the sailors are utterly unnerved by the sight. By then, the Wildfire has completely turned back towards the Xanthippe, putting its port side to the closing Wave Dancer. The battle stations are in disarray from the scare, however, presenting no immediate threat to the other ship.



As Maggie forges on ahead, the voice of Merrisol can still be heard instructing the Rhymers in the trick of gazing at the details within the location painted on the card until its reality becomes theirs, enabling them to step through onto that deck. There's no time for natural skepticism or distrust in the esoteric, and Merri's serious tone of complete assurance is at its most compelling. Still.. it'll be a minute or so. Somehow, against all original intention, the band of rescuers is almost entirely split up.