Evani woke with an arm over her, held fast. Carefully, hoping she would not disrupt him, she lifted his arm and slipped from the bunk. In the lowlit cabin, she moved quietly about, searching for her clothing. The tattered remnants of her shirt lay in a heap in the center of the room. While bloodied beyond hope, there was still enough left of it to salvage some cover. Tearing away the stained fabric, she worked at it until satisfied and pulled it over her head.
The newly fashioned blouce left the flat of her abdomen exposed. She found her leggings by the bunk and pulled them on slowly, hissing through her teeth at the discomfort. working her fingers and laces, she dusted off her pants and grabbed up the dagger before slipping from the cabin's quiet.
Evani padded barefoot to the deck, to the fore, and closed her eyes against the wind, leaninging againsr the railing. THe ocean rolled and the ship swayed, and she felt the wind againse her flesh as if for the first time. THis, she had decided, was most decidedly some sort of heaven. This sensation, she believed, was hope.
Ther was hope for them, after all. It was carried on the winds, like a whisper, and in hope lay freedom. It was the energy and peace of hope and freedom she had walked into Sundrash with, and it was with her again.
Whatever happened, she promised herself, se would always remember this feeling.
Dawn broke slowly. As the sliver of sunlight creeped up from the horizon, violet and tangerine and crimson spilled across the twilight, chasing away the darkness. Cool winds blew in from across the wide, endless ocean, billowing the sails and lifting the unruly toussled waves of Evani's hair. She leaned into the wind, glittering olive eyes closed, and allowed herself to exist, as a free woman, as a complete being.
Her life, since that hateful day, belonged to a concept, to the all powerful idea of vengance and retribution. Her gods had long fallen in the face of such consuming and all-powerful rage and loss. Her goddesses had long left her side as she walked the darkening, desperate path to her own brand of justice. The priestess had called her Evani of The Crossroads, knowing full well one day the very crossroads Evanalialaestra Alloranarra would come to would involve the path of her soul.
She had an opportunity here, a chance to live her own life on her own terms. Love or Violence. This was her choice, these were her options. As she stood in the wind, feeling the fine mist swirl in the air and coat her face, she tasted the salt on her lips and wondered what it would be like to let herself live. To let go of the past and forgive herself.
Confusion sent a tingle through her body, and sighed, turned to lean against the side, her ack to the sea. She could not face septimus just now, not till she had sorted through her own conflicted emotions. He was more to her than a concept, more than a legend alive. But the souls of those long dead followed her endlessly, and she felt, for a momen, betrayed by her own heart that she could be so swayed into abandoning her own quest to save the life of a mythic pirate.
Evani could not open this way for him, could not express herself to him about this and so she chose to run, as she always did. Her pack had been left by the bloodstained deck, the crossbow bolt stil against the wall where it had roled. Taking her pack she made her way to her own cabin, forgoing the bunk for the hammock. Pushing off from the wall with her toes, she setled into a gentle swaying and strubbed her lute, singing softly to herself.
Again she thought of Shaben. She hoped he understood that her questions were not meant to challenge his authority, but to help her get as big a picture as possible so she would have enough information to make decisions. Ones that may save lives. Shaben himself was a lifesaver, surely he understood. And though she could leave at any time once they found land again, she owed her life to Shaben. He had saved her life, and she owed him hers till her debt was repaid.
She remained in her cabin for a day and night, and rose the next morning with ravenous hunger and the desire for a long run through a wide green field. Instead she ate the last of her rations, and went topside for some air. Shaben seemed particularly distacted, so she did not approach but kept to the aft deck, practicing her meditative movements, and watching the sea.
The cabin was sufficient for his needs and those of his close knit family.
The Mercenary took inventory of his belongings and counted heads to make sure every member of his estranged family was present and accounted for, minus the 10 bolts that Ol Betsy had consumed in her lust for blood letting.
He laid each family member tenderly in the swaying hammock as he took the bunk in deference to the desire of his weapons to rest freely in the comfort of the swaying strands that kept harmony with the waves caressing the ship.
Sleep overtook him and he rested quietly through the night, only emerging from his cabin to silently make his way to the cabin where the injured man lay in a fitful, tormented sleep. It only took a few moments of time to lay his hands upon the injured kindred spirit to impart a small dose of healing recovery to the fallen warrior.
He took his meals in his own cabin where he could meditate and rest in private with his estranged family who enjoyed the idle time of swaying in the hammock.
Only when he needed to relieve himself or stretch his muscles for a round of exercise about the ship would the Mercenary leave his cabin for any length of time.
There was no need for conversation as his family in the hammock were all he needed to talk or listen to as the ship continued to plow its way on a steady course through the waves of the glistening sea.
Early on the morning of the second day the Mercenary paid another visit to the stricken kindred spirit, laying his hands upon the wounded warrior and imparting a portion of healing and restorative power to help the man recuperate and gain some measure of his fighting prowess, which most certainly would be needed with Shaben leading the way.
The Mercenary did not linger long as the laying on of hands only took a matter of a few minutes for the completion of the impartation. Without a word he left as he had arrived mere moments before, taking a leisurely stroll to the kitchen to collect a morning meal, before taking the nutritious morsels back to his cabin where he was more at home with the company of his estranged family, than with anyone else on board the ship.
Rest and relaxation was a precious commodity. There was no guarantee if and when another such opportunity would ever quite present itself again with the murmers of war willowing in the wind of the salt sea air.
Shaben took the time to plan, he slept at night and planned at day. Rarely leaving his room for anything but food, he knew he was considered a life saver but in truth he had killed many more them he had saved. Halfway through the first day he saw everyone walking around in tattered clothes and remembered about the ones he had had the captain buy for him. He quickly went to the captain and requested the clothes before seeking each person out to give them their new garb. For Septimus he had and exact replica of his old captain's clothes, right down to the detail on the belt.
He knew Septimus to be a flirt and so had seen fit to get appropriate garb for her, a dress of pale blue and soft soled shoes. The mercenary, he believed that he had of brought his own clothes for him and saw fit not to get any for him.
Exhaustion had overcome him past the night, and he had spent a day and a morning in morose contemplation. So elusive had he managed to be, that hardly a glimpse was afforded to anyone for the day that he rested. A swirl of onyx past the corner, perhaps, as he took the customary route to deck, a creak on a wooden stair, the firm, defensive slam of a door. He had taken to eating his meals in his cabin, skirting contact with humanity as befitted his solitary disposition.
On the morning of the second day he rose to the accustomed scream of the gull, bowing his head before the harsh sunlight that filtered in uneasily through the small cracked window of his cabin. He stretched leisurely and climbed reluctantly out of the swaying hammock. As he managed to stand to his full measure, the golden light resurrected a definite sallow cast to his pale skin, setting off eyes that imparted a rather melancholy expression. Dark bruised circles skirted the fragile skin beneath his eyes, and the hollows of his cheek seemed particularly pronounced. The thin man had become gaunt.
While the light afforded he inspected his wound and noted the thick knitting of scar tissue had begun to appear. A hint of curiosity inspired a half-imaged recollection, tormented and lunatic as his dreams, that which were but intangible shadows, mercifully vague in the lucidity of his conscious mind. He limped slowly over to the simple wooden chair that served as his dresser, and noted with some amusement and gratitude that new clothes had been given to him, so thoughtfully arranged and nostalgic. A faint smile brushed his lips as he ran his hand over the thin muslin material of the fencing shirt, the inlaid, intricate detail that speckled the belt. Memories reddened and memories hesitant flooded through his mind, bringing a hot burning of pressure behind his eyes.
He shut them, willing the tears away.
Gripping tight his emotions and dismissing them he stripped quickly and changed, finally twisting his head about the door to survey the corridor. Satisfied that he was alone he padded awkwardly down its length, stopping before one of the cabins. He rested his hand on the door knob. Fear gripped his stomach, and he hesitated, eyes half-closed, a thin trail of perspiration running down his brow. Unhappiness and a terrifying uncertainty forced him deeper into depression, and shyness, as always hindered him more than any physical impediment ever did. He paused, absurdly standing there without a word, cursing his inability. Finally, murmuring a rather unconventional word directed towards himself, he slunk away from her cabin, utterly hopeless.
Unhappiness had caused him to become caught in a cycle of self-destruction. Wave after wave of disgust and the fulfillment of prophecy washed over him, completely obliterating all optimism. Silently, he began to question himself in ways he had never explored, seeking answers that were impossibly bleak but possibly true. Miserable, and counting himself obviously unworthy he retreated back down the length of the corridor, eyes riveted stubbornly on the interesting pattern of dust and grime that decked the length of the floor.
He was about to retire, when an idea came to him, and forsaking his own rest, his forced himself to perhaps make one more visit before he denounced the merits of society. Approaching the mercenary’s cabin, he rapped lightly on the door as a courtesy. When he was allowed admittance, he shuffled into the cabin, eyes carefully averted from the stranger. In an attempt to appear friendly he managed a faint smile that in his current condition resembled a grimace more than any apparent gesture of good-will.
“I wish to thank you, though perhaps you would have it otherwise”, he murmured quietly, with a curt little nod in his direction.
“If it was not for your healing prowess I would almost certainly have died”. He smiled at the absurdity in that statement. “Not that that would not have solved quite a few things in the eyes of society. Wars, crimes. “He shrugged. “You do know the risks involved with aiding fugitives from the law, my anonymous friend?” He finally made eye contact, his gaze twinkling with sardonic humour and curiosity.
“You are one of us now, are you not?”
He bowed very slightly.
“Captain Septimus Sandalwood, at your service, sir”, he introduced himself softly.
“For what it is worth, I am quite glad to be alive”.
Posted on 2008-05-07 at 23:28:30.
Edited on 2008-05-07 at 23:41:14 by Septimus Sandalwood
The Mercenary had been expecting the inevitability of this intrusion, but such action was to be expected when Septimus was involved in the situation.
Although inwardly annoyed at the timing of his intrusion, the Mercenary chose to let the recovering man enter.
“I wish to thank you, though perhaps you would have it otherwise”, Septimus murmured quietly, with a curt little nod in the Mercenary's direction.
“If it was not for your healing prowess I would almost certainly have died”. He smiled at the absurdity in that statement. “Not that that would not have solved quite a few things in the eyes of society. Wars, crimes." He shrugged. “You do know the risks involved with aiding fugitives from the law, my anonymous friend?” He finally made eye contact, his gaze twinkling with sardonic humour and curiosity.
“You are one of us now, are you not?”
He bowed very slightly.
“Captain Septimus Sandalwood, at your service, sir”, he introduced himself softly.
“For what it is worth, I am quite glad to be alive”.
The Mercenary glared at his uninvited guest and put a finger to his lips as he looked in the direction of his weapons in the hammock and whispered, "My family is asleep ... but you may remain if you do not disturb their slumber!"
He motioned Septimus to join him at a small table over in the opposite corner of the cabin where two sturdy wooden chairs sat opposite one another.
The Mercenary took his preferred seat and nonchalantly rolled a cigarette, lit it and began smoking with deliberate drags, refusing to offer Septimus the same pleasure.
He did, however, bring forth one of the bottles that the ship's captain and the kitchen crew had so graciously bestowed upon the Mercenary to enjoy with his meals.
"This ain't sippin' whiskey," whispered the Mercenary as he pulled the cork out of the fresh bottle with his teeth and took a long drink himself before offering the bottle to Septimus, "but rum seems to be the only strong drink available on this voyage!"
The Mercenary took another long puff on his cigarette and blew the smoke in the direction of Septimus, but slightly above his head and not directly in his face.
"I know who you are Captain Septimus Sandalwood," the Mercenary responded matter of factly as he placed his pistol on the table in a non-threatening manner, "and you need not be alarmed by The PeaceKeeper here! She just wants a closer look is all."
Then leaning forward the Mercenary raised his voice a bit louder [but still not loud enough to wake his slumbering family] and snarled, "You must have forgotten me Septimus ... my name is Rex ... Rex the Reckless!"
Apparently it would do to step carefully around his new opponent.
With remarkable poise, he inclined his head towards him, wordlessly reevaluating the situation. He moved cautiously, replying with a noncommittal nod of his head to express his willingness to comply with the odd set of rules he had suddenly been presented with.
It seemed he had no other choice.
Despite having all the logic of a lunatic, it was painfully obvious that the mercenary was an exceedingly dangerous individual, and it was feigned calm that prevented him from murmuring an apology and racing from the room. Calculating emerald eyes tracked him, weighing the importance of each new, bizarre development.
It was with hesitance that he followed him to the cramped table in the corner, and following the impression of his companion, he sat opposite him, folding his long legs gracefully out of sight. Silently, and with total animal watchfulness he followed the larger man’s deliberate movements, unconsciously running his tongue across his lips at the appearance of tobacco. Faintly disappointed, he decisively brought forth his own pipe and light, and offered him a noncommittal, rather charming smile. “No need to trouble yourself”, he retorted dryly, and lit his own device. Contently, he drew the smoke deeply into his lungs, a small smirk across his lips, eyes never wavering.
The tense manner of the encounter electrified him, and his dark eyes lighted at the sight of the alcohol. He tilted his head slightly, declining, his gaze shining murder. Not yet mad enough; perhaps, to take a drink, he egged him on with his silent refusal, sensing that he was in the presence of one who would just as soon sink his teeth into your throat then offer you a drink. He sat back, waiting, the hard line of his shoulders relaxing only when the mercenary had drunk from his own bottle. He received the liquor passed to him with a soft word of thanks and then tipped his head back, taking a long draught. He passed the bottle back, colour back in his cheeks. “It is share and share alike aboard this vessel”, he replied darkly. “A vile mistake”.
“Do you”, he whispered, not entirely surprised. He leaned back in his chair, calling his bluff. His eyes flashed suddenly to the pistol, a dire moment of weakness, and then returned reluctantly to his opponent’s face. “I do not blame her”, he intoned, his movements hyponising, precise. Never averting his eyes, his hand dropped below the table and drew his own weapon, a vision of rosewood and steel. He took another long drag of his pipe, satisfied, placing the pistol on the table within an inch of his reach.
“It is a well known fact that I cannot be trusted”.
In the time it took for the Mercenary to finish his sentence, Septimus was on his feet, and had gotten behind him. A thin trill of metal echoed through the eerie silence as he drew his cutlass, leveling across his opponent’s throat. It stopped a comfortable distance from his skin, a definite threat, albeit a cautious one. He lowered his head to his level, calmly executing the game.
“Recklessness is the precursor for weakness”, he murmured, his voice low and musing in the quiet that followed. “But of course, you would have never given me that impression…my friend”. He chuckled softly. “Next time, I suggest that you do not test me. I do not take well to it”.
He suddenly stepped back and sheathed his weapon, nonchalantly walking back around to his chair. He sat down again, a twinkle of humour in his gaze as he regarded him. He positioned himself; his chest completely vulnerable to an sudden rain of fire should his old peer desire. He glanced down to the pistols on the table, shrugged, and placed both hands behind his head, seemly fearless of attack.
“Know thy enemy”, he stated softly, his eyes half-closed. “I do not think that you know me…Rex the Reckless. At least…not to my satisfaction. But are we enemies?” He smiled. “Ah, that is the greater question. You see…I do not think that we are. After all…there were plenty of opportunities for you to eliminate me and yet you did not. Now what is that? Weakness of character? Lack of forethought? Or perhaps an altruistic trait that you were previously unaware of?”
He gestured to himself, and then leaned back, half-closing his eyes again. “Shoot, if we are enemies. I will not think badly of you. But I do say so myself, I believe I am worth much more alive. An idea that you must have had, with your incessant healing. Quite uncharacteristic. “
“But very becoming”.
Posted on 2008-05-11 at 21:16:12.
Edited on 2008-05-11 at 22:55:14 by Septimus Sandalwood
And suddenly, it came to her, a thought, a truth, whispered on the winds and carried in every thread of her being. A simple, dynamic and profound understand flooded her, yet it filled her in silence and breathed easily with relief.
She did not have to choose.
She did not have to change.
She could love and still seek the destruction and, ultimately, the demise of her enemies. She did not need to give up that part of herself, that core, in order to possess again the one thing she had lost. A family.
The feeling of gratitude lfet her weak in the knees, and stunned, slightly dazed. Or it could be the wound, she surmised. She had finished her exercizes upon the deck and returned to her cabin to find the gown and her guns, and suddenly she had simply just known.
Evani's hand hovered over the daybreak blue of the dress, hesitant, not wanting to ruin the loveliness. Though simple, it was elegant and completely unlike anything she would have considered getting for herself. She suddenly felt very dirty, felt each layer of dirt and grime and dried blood as if they were weights upon her. She backed away, turned to the basin of water and the clean rag beside, and stripped the clothes away, leaving herself bare. Washing as best she could, she scrubbed the filth from her skin till her flesh was rosy, and ran her fingers through her hair. There was only one she thought would have gone through such pains, and she imagined that it was not only her who had recieved such finery but all of them. All of them...the thought sent a shiver along her spine. It had been days since Septimus had spoken to her, and her heart twisted at the thought of him.
He had not sought her out. He had made no effort to claim her, and she had made it no easier for him by hiding. Without him, the path was no clearer, no more defined to her. Evani felt herself standing upon the razor's edge, able to fall one way or the other, into the arms of love to take up her quest once the business at hand had been completed, or to fall before the feet of her family, to spend her days and nights in ceaseless searching.
She sighed as the fabric slid over her bare skin, and turning, admired herself from the angles she could see. Shaben had done well in choosing. She had to thank him, had to check on him. After all, he had saved her life. She was indebted to him now.
Evani eased her feet into the matching slippers and stepped into the hallway, closing the cabin door behind her. She could hear him, Septimus, a little ways down the hall and she sighed, wishing she had the words to explain herself.
And suddenly he was there, brooding and unhappy, wounded like a boy whose candy had fallen in the dirt. He would not let her pass but stood there, his eyes burning into her.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, not wishing to draw attention. Suddenly she was at a loss for words, and she stared at his mouth, needing something to help her focus.
"You're right. Before you even say it, I know you are right. Leaving that way was cowardly, but I have had much on my mind I just needed some space. Some Time. Some air. Just to clear my head."
Evani sighed, daring to look into his eyes. There she saw the gathering storm, and knew she would have to confess.
"I know you struggle to reconcile yourself with all of the terrible acts you have committed, but I am finding it much harder, suddenly. I have lived my life for years without stopping to...to...stop looking at me so, Septimus. "
Evani paused to brush away a lock of hair from her face.
"I know the things I do are not done in the name of justice, but in the name of revenge. I can not stop that. I can not change that. In all honesty, I do not wish to. But I have spent these last few days trying, and what I need to know is this. Would you have me still, knowing I will not change? Knowing that I am, and always will be, Evani of The Crossroads, and that I will always hunger for revenge?"
And as she stood there, in the lonliness of the hallway, she waited for Septimus to break her heart, and thought that, if he did, at least she would look like a lady.
The Mercenary was amused by the game that Septimus played, goaded by his recuperating ego and the need to at least think himself in control of the situation.
Rex kept a watchful eye upon his family in the hammock to make sure they were not disturbed by the actions of Septimus and his blade.
There was no fear or concern with the blade at his throat as Rex tilted the bottle and let the contents wash over his taste buds and slowly trickle down his throat.
When Septimus had completed his little dance of imagined authority and superiority, Rex merely continued, "Once long ago we both were betrayed by someone we trusted. The smell of betrayal is in the air once again. We are not enemies to one another friend Septimus ... only enemies of our own well being from our own self inflicted wounds."
Rex arose from his chair and walked to the door adding, "Perhaps you will remember the time when our paths were entwined in conspiracy and bloodshed. We will talk of such things another time. For now I must attend to the needs of my family ... and you have a destiny to fulfill beyond this very door!"
Rex politely opens the door and motions for Septimus to exit with no ill will regarding his conduct with the sword at the Mercenary's table. Allowing for Septimus to have a final word if he chooses, Rex locks the door behind the departing Septimus and then drains the Rum bottle and stretches himself across the bed to rest himself for the challenges that are certain to soon present themselves!
The progress of the steamer was fast, it plowed through the water not stopping for anything, that was until it stopped. The boilers were going but somehow the water was resisting, but it was more then that, it was holding the ship back.
You all rushed to the deck to see this as the ships abrupt stop almost toppled everyone. Slowly, out of the distance a second ship drew closer, this was almost impossible because the wind was strong and against it, and it came at unnatural speed. It slowed and stopped, three people boarded, an elf and two humans, dressed in armour seemly fashioned out of vines. The demanded for Shaben and powerless to resist he stepped forward, he was like under a spell. As them marched him onto there ship he broke free of whatever enchantment was holding him and turned to his friends.
"Friends, do not follow me, warn the council and keep hidden."
He then turned, this time out of free will and boarded the other ship, it was at that time the elven lady turned round.
"Attempt to follow us will result in your ship sinking, you are outmatched."
You find this an odd statement to make as they have no weapons on deck and no gun ports but the lady's voice carries a definite authority.
A small unassuming smile flickered over his lips as the soft words of the mercenary hovered in the silence of the little room. He settled back in his chair, content. “I remember”, he breathed, his voice gentle and almost reverent, rising like smoke from a funeral pyre to the low, white-washed ceiling. His eyes glinted in the faint light that crept in through the grim portside window that scanned the mists and lowlands of his world as if through the filmed eye of a blind man.
He rose wordlessly, feeling himself dismissed, his footsteps uneven and surreal as he limped past the seeker, past the keeper in the infuriating quiet. Pale faces resurrected in the moonlight, names, words that caught in his throat, and he was to stay, like a child, the titles that would have granted power over his fear forever slipping through his fingers like grains of sand, like shine.
And then she was there, the woman for which he had no name. He felt his heart convulse in his chest at the sight of her as she floated towards him on effortless steps, ethereal, heartbreakingly beautiful, and in the dim cavern of his mind he hated her.
He stood, unmoving, feeling distantly a biting pain as his nails dug into the tender flesh of his palms. His slender body, outfitted as it was with finery, moved in a cold, distant rage to block her path, eyes suddenly fixing on her with a fervid, frightening intensity. There was no rational mind behind the savagery of his gaze as they seared through her every uncertainty, penetrating through every weakness, every hint of hesitation. Madness, that irresponsible jester capered behind the justifiable rage, and one knew at once that he was a creature of exquisite danger, a creature that could kill.
“Look at me”, he whispered into the deafening abyss, his voice terrifying in its chilling simplicity.
Fury fired through his body, warming his frightened, frantic heart at her callousness. He snarled suddenly at her, in a guttural, wordless expression of defeat, tearing his eyes from her to the harmless, unharmable paneling. A sharp, humourless laugh escaped his throat unbidden with the sound of shattering glass. “How little do you know me”, he whispered, his eyes meeting hers once more, black as insect blood in the underbelly of the vessel. “I am a dead man”, he murmured through numbed lips, “a specter made flesh. What know I of revenge” He brushed his dark hair from his eyes, his face a sallow landscape of hills and valleys in his grief.
“What know I of being human?”
He faced her then, bright as the sun. “Am I not a pirate lord”, he questioned angrily. “Who slew the cowards, the deserters and the blind? Did not I? Take back your love again, for you do not love me. Take back your words, for if you love me, I cannot love”. He broke off then, and staggered back, shoulders slumping with the weight of his words. Pressure rose behind his eyes and he choked it back, fighting against himself.
“Pariah”, he murmured softly.
“So spoke the Keeper”.
“I cannot love, but I love you”, he whispered. “The question is not of whether I will take you. My heart belongs to you, regardless. The question is whether you will take me”. He stumbled back another step. “But what woman would? “ His eyes met hers, tortured and sad and for a split second they shimmered with tears.
“Love me then, or kill me.”
For a moment he hesitated, drawn by an inescapable power, and then he was gone, running from her despite the pain that resulted from his rashness, desperate to be away from the torrid emotions her presence caused, the love that was so strong, so overpowering that it was like dying, the uncertainty that was drowning. He tore up the stairs to the deck, and stumbled into the open air, almost crumpling to his knees in his haste. He staggered to the rail, and leaned against it, closing his eyes to the garish sun.
Time passed, of which he was barely aware. Memories of the nightmarish encounter with Evani still burned fresh within his mind. It was with an exhausted reluctance that he lifted his head to the unmistakable sound of the ship, suspicion managing to light in his eyes the instant before the abrupt stop of the vessel. He grabbed for the rail, managing to keep his balance despite his unsteady legs.
Gazing towards the wide expanse of sea, towards the oncoming enemy, he drew forth his pistol in shaking hands, trailing it on the figures of each foe in turn as the great ship groaned and turned broadsides. He stepped back cautiously, body held tense, weapon outstretched, as the three oddly-attired warriors boarded. He glanced sharply to Shaben as they arrogantly voiced their demands, silently cursing his friend and grinding his teeth, he watched a spell-bound Shaben tramp unconcerned over to the unnatural vessel.
“Always have to be the martyr don’t we”, he called out sardonically over the raging ocean. “Lovely”.
He cocked his pistol, eyes squarely focused on the elven female, gauging her to be the leader.
“Nice to know you aren’t entirely self-involved”.
Posted on 2008-05-13 at 22:52:42.
Edited on 2008-05-13 at 23:00:27 by Septimus Sandalwood
Rex the Reckless awoke from his rum-induced slumber and decided that it was time for the family to get out from the cabin and get some fresh sea air.
He gathered them together to himself one by one as he donned his studded leather armor and spiked light shield.
Every family member had their place as the Mercenary secreted his Dagger and Pistol, donned his Spiked Gauntlet, holstered his Throwing Axe, and with a precision born of many hours of practice, Rex the Reckless outfitted himself with his Battle Axe, Spiked Chain, Great Club and Whip for a period of exercise on the deck of the ship where Septimus would be able to take note of the weaponry and perhaps curtail his attitude of superiority towards the Mercenary.
Rex also had his trusty Repeating Heavy Cross Bow slung across his back with his 3 remaining quivers of bolts. He knew the ship would be landing somewhere soon and the Mercenary needed to get himself back into a semblance of fighting shape, or at least be able to carry all his weapons as was his custom when needful.
As Rex began his journey topside, suddenly the ship lurched to a sudden stop, causing the Mercenary to momentarily lose his balance before he recovered and raced for the stairs.
In mere moments Rex the Reckless and his family were witness to the strange ship and mysterious Elf that was in the process of taking his employer Shaben to parts unknown.
Rex cautiously but boldly and determinedly made his way to the upper deck where he could view the proceedings from the partial shelter of the catapult.
Once in position, his ears burned as the Elf gave her warning and Shaben seemed to voluntarily board the mysterious vessel under the power of his own volition.
Rex had learned long ago that even a Mercenary must know when to refrain from drawing a weapon or sword and when to silently observe to weigh all options before deciding upon a course of action.
His words cut into her, wounding her like lashes of a whip, and she could not speak in the face of such animosity. As he turned from her and fled, she thought him a coward and returned to her cabin, pacing in frustration. After long moments of fuming, she busied herself with her gunbelt, fitting them to her over her dress. Perhaps she could avoid him at the other end of the ship, firing at seagulls .
Yet as she mouted the stairs and came into the clear, she watched Shaben leave. All thoughts of target practice left her. The world became quiet, so still for her that she could hear the pounding of her blood in her veins. An Elven woman warned them to fall back, to resist the urge to follow.
Evani was having a harder time resisting the urge to fire her weapon into the Elven woman's eye.
"By whose authority are you taking that man?" Evani called out, striding across the deck. The wind blew the ends of her hair, and she stood tall, head cocked and defiant.
Posted on 2008-05-14 at 19:46:50.
Edited on 2008-05-14 at 20:22:38 by Glory of Gallifrey
"I go with these people under my own will and the command of The Emerald Enclave, I owe them my servises and abandoned them to help you. Keep away from Lantan. Keep away from The Emerald Enclave and keep away from the on-comming war. Make something of your lives, don't wast them like I did."
And with that he dissapears below deck of the other ship.