Lavel's End

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Simon Kinsley
Character
*scowls in Draconic*
Level
01
24 / 24 HP
20 / 20 MP
0p / 0g / 0s / 50c
Race: Ue'drahc
Class: Summoner
Posts: 6
Joined: October 1st, 2019, 3:25 am
Been thanked: 4 times

Lavel's End

Post by Simon Kinsley »

(( Aboard a ship somewhere in the Shimmering Sea, very late at night, with the acrid scent of oceanwater all around. His grumbling is unlikely to be heard by those landbound, but thankfully the incorporeal - such as @Druilin - are less likely to be concerned with such limitations. ))

The San Augustine had been a fine ship: hollowed from the oldest tree in northeastern Ninraih, built in a promiment wharf along the coast, manned by the most merciless crew to weather the sea, guided by a Wind Whisperer who could make a storm from a sneeze, and captained by a ferocious fae with the attitude to more than make up her stature - there were very few faults one could point out about the ship, and merchant vessels all the way from the Ninraihi coast to Verdant Row knew better than to scoff at the flag of the flying dragon.

There was just one problem with the San Augustine: it had been a fine ship. It had been manned. It had a captain - it no longer did, and hadn't for many years yet - not since the hull had been smashed against the Craggy Strait, trying to outrun Fellsgardian privateers. Not since the coast had been scoured for months and only driftwood and ill-gotten gains washed ashore. Not since the many recon teams had finally seen bodies in the water, and knew better than to disturb the sharks.

Simon had always liked the story of the San Augustine, because it had always been a story to him. He didn't like it any more; it was no longer a story. It was now a ship.

"I should've asked them to let me drown. Silly me - thinking I could not die this week!" he lamented to no one in particular, head pressed against the bars of his door and hands hanging out into the hallway beyond. His "room" was very cozy indeed: four walls claustrophically tight, a ceiling low enough to force him to crouch, a set of chains rattling on the far side, no windows - it was a ship! - and a bucket in the corner that had already been sliding every which way, knocked about, and reeked of a horrific smell he liked to remind himself was not real. He noted, spying into the hallway through his barred-door, that there were only a couple more "rooms" like his; the rest down the hallway didn't have the cutouts and didn't creak with unused chains. Oh, and then there was Sharrup. He was the gruff individual standing "watch" or whatever it was.

"Sharrup," barked Sharrup. "Come shore, you'll be answerin' ya crimes ta the Cap'n!" Talking to him had been futile; Simon had already tried all manner of conversation. Nothing seemed to sway the brute.

"Augh," he gave out with a great sigh instead, knocking his forehead against the bars in want of less of a migraine. His horns clinked against them harmlessly instead, only adding to his frustration. Then, a twisted smile as a macabre sense of humour took him over, asking, "All right, and how far is it to coast, matey? When do I get to meet this illustrious Cap'n?"

"Sharrup," barked Sharrup. "Come shore, you'll be answerin' ya crimes ta the Cap'n!" he parroted all over again. Sharrup was a squat individual; he looked dwarven, but Simon couldn't rule out that he was actually just a very stocky human, either. His beard was braided in two strands, his eyepatch had a lovely skull and crossbones 'lest the ue'drahc questioned what kind of ship he was on, and his bandana was a ripe shade of blood-red-not-yet-dried. Oh, and he was translucent.

"Auuuuuuugh," Simon bellowed again, returning to his grand entertainment of hitting his horns against the door. He grew bored of it after a few enough minutes, now at peak ire of the tiny little room that didn't make any sense. See, he could also see through it; the ethereal glow of the Shimmering Sea glinted somewhere beneath him, the floor of the San Augustine only holding a partial figure. There was also a fog that surrounded the vessel. The outlines of other floors and bodies moving about him glittered oddly in the moonlight, and the researcher in the very wrong place at the definitely wrong time had finally learned to stop questioning it all.

Instead, he turned his head to Sharrup once more and inquired, "Is that one your room? The one with the 'Lasses of Domrhask' calendar hanging on the wall?"

"Sharrup," barked Sharrup. "Come shore..."

Simon stopped listening. He closed his eyes and held out his hand, concentrating intensely and whispering in draconic for «the key to end this nightmare.» He knew it wasn't going to work. Conjuring something useful? Still, he'd kick himself if he tried in another few hours and it actually was that easy.
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