SirLagginton
Shadow Cabal Caerbannog Bun-Bun
- Location
- Arrrghhh
[X]- Chief Engineer, Cecni Azir
[X]- Medic: Ammit Ibil
[X]- Medic: Ammit Ibil
The Ocean, Infinite: To Wander the Waters
- Thread starter Laplace
- Start date
- Original
Dust and echoes
Ghost of Shitposts Past
- Location
- Fortuna Penal Colony
[X]- The Occultist, Tuma Ten Yonda
(No, I won't stop. Yes, I am entirely willing to run this pirate joke into the ground.
)Buuut a pirates gotta know how to choose which hills to die on. Yar.
[X]- Chief Engineer, Cecni Azir
[X]- Medic: Ammit Ibil
Last edited:
- Location
- The Usual Room
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X]- Chef, Corba Lait
[X]- The Occultist, Tuma Ten Yonda
[X]- The Occultist, Tuma Ten Yonda
1.4 Port Calling
- Location
- boundless optimism
[X]- Cecni Azir
[X]- Ammit Ibil
One the second day out from Pyatine, any marks the arcology has left on the world has been erased. The pale ribbon of smoke first turned into a thread, then an indistinct line, then nothing. You haven't seen another boat, the last one being a fishing trawler, which looked like it could tow ten Whitespurs back to port! But still, now it hits you. You are alone, on the open ocean. You are leagues away from any help. Even if you'd broadcasted a distress signal, no one might even come. You shake your head and frown. Don't worry, you reassure yourself. You did this with a destroyer, you can do this with a cutter.
Except…
Your old destroyer operated in a dense naval formation of resupply ships, two cruisers, ten other destoyers, and multiple corvettes. Saftey in numbers. You are proving the opposite of that. Enough, you firmly decide.
You are standing on the aft of the boat, idly watching the trail of your ship, a wide cone of dark, rippling waters and white froth. You're playing a game, and that game is guess which monstrous leviathan is following you. So far, you've come up with a giant whale with three mouths and too many teeth, an outsized jellyfish, and some sort of malevolent grease clump. Childish? Definitely. Except you're the captain on this ship, ergo what you says go, and you say that thinking of horrible gribblies following you is not childish.
You take a deep sigh, turning to the superstructure behind you. You want to see how the engines are going. You walk into the guts of the ship, clean hallways covered in musty carpets lit by flickering but still shining lights transitioning into pipe and vent strewn corridors. It's noticably hotter down here, like the belly of a flame-worm. If you knew what the belly of a flame-worm felt like. Which you don't.
You slap your hand on the doorframe, the sharp sound drowned out by the roar of the engines. There's two, no, three figures moving around in the room. One of them looks up, a young woman, hair tied back in a bandanna. "Hey! Hey! Da!" she yells over the din, "captain's here!"
Cecni Azir stands up to his rather unimpressive five foot three high. "Ah, thank you, Felce," he says to his daughter. "What're ye here fer? Engine's not doing 'er bomb impression." He runs a fingerless hand over his stubbly chin.
"It's an old ship we're on-"
"-aye, an' it ain't getting younger," he turns and regards to bulbous engine, "I figure we've got another year till this bitch croaks out her last. She runs pretty fucking good now, oh yeah, but come next month or so we're gonna be singing a different fucking tune."
That's a lot of swearing, you notice dimly. That thought is superseded when you listen to his little speech. A new engine? God, those things cost somewhere north of a few thousand for a good one. You don't even have a single grand. Good waters.
"We don't have that kind of money," you desperately say, hoping that Cecni has some sort of plan to unfuck the engine.
"Them's the breaks, captain," he shrugs. "Figure if I go 'bout replacing all the fiddly bits, we might as well buy a new fuckin' engine."
Bleeding shits.
Ammit's little office is situated near the deck of the ship, a floor down from the bridge. It's a clean room that smells like disinfectant and formaldehyde. There's a desk opposite a table that serves double duty as a bed, with a single cabinet tucked into a corner. Ammit herself is hunched over the desk, scribbling something down. At your arrival, she starts, pen dragging a line over her paper. "Shit," she mutters.
"Sorry?" you offer. She squints at you, a gimlet stare. You're frankly a little uncomfortable, and you breath an inner sigh of relief when she turns away.
"S'all good," she sighs, shuffling the paper away. "Not really important anyhow. What'd you want?"
You take another look around. It's cluttered, very much so. Papers and pens are strewn everwhere, stacked in piles and heaps. Leather backed binders lie opened, medical books in the same state. "Listen, you know about your-"
"-crime, yes!" she irritably waved. "I stole some organs! From people who were dead! They didn't need them. What the hells does a corpse need kidneys for? Man next to me? He was selling prescription drugs by the crate! By the crate!"
You knew you should have pushed the issue harder when you were interviewing her, you consider as her voice raises to a shout. "You done?" you raise an eyebrow.
She takes a deep, calming breath. "Yeah. What were you saying?"
"You're absolutely sure that you're clear, right?" you press.
She nods. "Five years in prison, license for practicing at hospitals revoked, and so on and so forth. The constables won't bother arresting me when they have others to exhort."
You nod.
After two weeks, you touch down on port of Sumesh Ur. Well, more guided, as per standard regulations. A small tugboat intercepted you three leagues from Sumesh Ur, it's forest of towers and spires looming before you like a wall.
Papers are passed over, stamps press down, and you are directed to an open pier. There…
[X]- Someone awaits you: A person is calling out your name, searching the crowd.
[X]- Find your employer's customer: Alright, where is the undescriptive bugger?
Two weeks may be a short time. But people need rest, no matter what.
[X]- Long shore leave- 5 days: Rest, respite, and mended hearts: You'll have all of them.
[X]- Moderate shore leave- Three Days: Everything in moderation.
[X]- Short shore leave- 1 day: You have a schedule, and you refuse to let the Whitespur idle in port while there's work to be done.
[X]-None: Time is money! And you don't have the latter, but you'll certainly have the former!
Supplies:
Fuel: 9
Supplies: 13
Total Cash: $100
Crew Morale: 93
[X]- Ammit Ibil
One the second day out from Pyatine, any marks the arcology has left on the world has been erased. The pale ribbon of smoke first turned into a thread, then an indistinct line, then nothing. You haven't seen another boat, the last one being a fishing trawler, which looked like it could tow ten Whitespurs back to port! But still, now it hits you. You are alone, on the open ocean. You are leagues away from any help. Even if you'd broadcasted a distress signal, no one might even come. You shake your head and frown. Don't worry, you reassure yourself. You did this with a destroyer, you can do this with a cutter.
Except…
Your old destroyer operated in a dense naval formation of resupply ships, two cruisers, ten other destoyers, and multiple corvettes. Saftey in numbers. You are proving the opposite of that. Enough, you firmly decide.
You are standing on the aft of the boat, idly watching the trail of your ship, a wide cone of dark, rippling waters and white froth. You're playing a game, and that game is guess which monstrous leviathan is following you. So far, you've come up with a giant whale with three mouths and too many teeth, an outsized jellyfish, and some sort of malevolent grease clump. Childish? Definitely. Except you're the captain on this ship, ergo what you says go, and you say that thinking of horrible gribblies following you is not childish.
You take a deep sigh, turning to the superstructure behind you. You want to see how the engines are going. You walk into the guts of the ship, clean hallways covered in musty carpets lit by flickering but still shining lights transitioning into pipe and vent strewn corridors. It's noticably hotter down here, like the belly of a flame-worm. If you knew what the belly of a flame-worm felt like. Which you don't.
You slap your hand on the doorframe, the sharp sound drowned out by the roar of the engines. There's two, no, three figures moving around in the room. One of them looks up, a young woman, hair tied back in a bandanna. "Hey! Hey! Da!" she yells over the din, "captain's here!"
Cecni Azir stands up to his rather unimpressive five foot three high. "Ah, thank you, Felce," he says to his daughter. "What're ye here fer? Engine's not doing 'er bomb impression." He runs a fingerless hand over his stubbly chin.
"It's an old ship we're on-"
"-aye, an' it ain't getting younger," he turns and regards to bulbous engine, "I figure we've got another year till this bitch croaks out her last. She runs pretty fucking good now, oh yeah, but come next month or so we're gonna be singing a different fucking tune."
That's a lot of swearing, you notice dimly. That thought is superseded when you listen to his little speech. A new engine? God, those things cost somewhere north of a few thousand for a good one. You don't even have a single grand. Good waters.
"We don't have that kind of money," you desperately say, hoping that Cecni has some sort of plan to unfuck the engine.
"Them's the breaks, captain," he shrugs. "Figure if I go 'bout replacing all the fiddly bits, we might as well buy a new fuckin' engine."
Bleeding shits.
Ammit's little office is situated near the deck of the ship, a floor down from the bridge. It's a clean room that smells like disinfectant and formaldehyde. There's a desk opposite a table that serves double duty as a bed, with a single cabinet tucked into a corner. Ammit herself is hunched over the desk, scribbling something down. At your arrival, she starts, pen dragging a line over her paper. "Shit," she mutters.
"Sorry?" you offer. She squints at you, a gimlet stare. You're frankly a little uncomfortable, and you breath an inner sigh of relief when she turns away.
"S'all good," she sighs, shuffling the paper away. "Not really important anyhow. What'd you want?"
You take another look around. It's cluttered, very much so. Papers and pens are strewn everwhere, stacked in piles and heaps. Leather backed binders lie opened, medical books in the same state. "Listen, you know about your-"
"-crime, yes!" she irritably waved. "I stole some organs! From people who were dead! They didn't need them. What the hells does a corpse need kidneys for? Man next to me? He was selling prescription drugs by the crate! By the crate!"
You knew you should have pushed the issue harder when you were interviewing her, you consider as her voice raises to a shout. "You done?" you raise an eyebrow.
She takes a deep, calming breath. "Yeah. What were you saying?"
"You're absolutely sure that you're clear, right?" you press.
She nods. "Five years in prison, license for practicing at hospitals revoked, and so on and so forth. The constables won't bother arresting me when they have others to exhort."
You nod.
After two weeks, you touch down on port of Sumesh Ur. Well, more guided, as per standard regulations. A small tugboat intercepted you three leagues from Sumesh Ur, it's forest of towers and spires looming before you like a wall.
Papers are passed over, stamps press down, and you are directed to an open pier. There…
[X]- Someone awaits you: A person is calling out your name, searching the crowd.
[X]- Find your employer's customer: Alright, where is the undescriptive bugger?
Two weeks may be a short time. But people need rest, no matter what.
[X]- Long shore leave- 5 days: Rest, respite, and mended hearts: You'll have all of them.
[X]- Moderate shore leave- Three Days: Everything in moderation.
[X]- Short shore leave- 1 day: You have a schedule, and you refuse to let the Whitespur idle in port while there's work to be done.
[X]-None: Time is money! And you don't have the latter, but you'll certainly have the former!
Supplies:
Fuel: 9
Supplies: 13
Total Cash: $100
Crew Morale: 93
Dust and echoes
Ghost of Shitposts Past
- Location
- Fortuna Penal Colony
[X] Someone Awaits You
Yarr! I smell adventure! A maiden in search of a ship to take her to her sea-bound lover? A Leviathan hunter, searching for help with his hunt? Our long dead, third cousin, twice removed and returned from the grave? I'm sure we'll get treasure either way!
[X] Short Shore Leave
A pirates life be at sea lads! Don't be spendin' all yer doubloons on the local girls (or guys, pirates don't judge.)
Yarr! I smell adventure! A maiden in search of a ship to take her to her sea-bound lover? A Leviathan hunter, searching for help with his hunt? Our long dead, third cousin, twice removed and returned from the grave? I'm sure we'll get treasure either way!
[X] Short Shore Leave
A pirates life be at sea lads! Don't be spendin' all yer doubloons on the local girls (or guys, pirates don't judge.)
- Location
- Canada
Alright you convinced me
[X] Someone Awaits You
[X] Short Shore Leave
1.5
- Location
- boundless optimism
[X]- Someone awaits you
[X]- Short shore leave
Sumesh Ur didn't look too different from Pyatine and Oka Het. Some distance behind the waterfronts, behind a rampart where fashionably dressed dilliants and ragged beggars walk alike, are the monolithic towers, strewn with clotheslines so it looks covered in strings of flags, stretching high into the sky until the point that you feel craning your neck higher would lead to a broken spine. You see thick horizontal floors, at levels thousands of feet high, holding slices of city and livespace suspended by empty air and Kalim material science. The cries of street vendors and angry commands from captains drift in the air, mingling with the scent of salt and deep fried oil from the vendors' stalls.
The spice has gone through the journey unharmed by salt or water. It would take an stingy ass of unparalleled caliber to try to stiff you. If every journey was as this smooth, you'd have to go and check with the temples to see which god favored you. There had been no freak storms or waves, no migratory pods of horned whales that might decide to attack your vessel, etc, etc. Now, if only your contact could show his face.
"You see him?" you ask Crassa, standing beside you on the deck of the Whitespur. The two of you are scanning the crowds for someone fitting the person described in the letter. Tall, short beard, and has a long nose, name of Battim al Suta. That would describe three out of ten people you see. Well, except for the name, of course. Was your honored employer too cheap to provide a photo?
She shakes her head, scowling fiercely. You've been here for nearly an hour, and you didn't find. him. Neither did the crew you sent out in search turn up anyone.
You were just about to go inside and brood over a cup of steaming tea when you hear someone calling your name in the edges of your hearing. You perk up, twisting to the source. You can't find the person in the teeming crowds. "Grama Hemma? Hallo?" the voice calls again.
"Should I?" you ask. Crassa shrugs. It's good to know that you have a source of unfailing support and good moral judgement. You shrug, and shout, "over here!"
A figure breaks away from the crowd, briskly walking to your moored ship. You peer down at the caller, who turns out to be a woman in a good leather jacket and tough denim pants. Not luxurious, by any means, but certainly not cheap, shoddy crap either. You don't quite recall her face…
"Name your business," Crassa barks. The woman flinches.
"I just wanted to thank him, is all," she sulks.
Teeth sink into your lower lips as you consider. You don't think you've done anything to merit thanks, recently. What have you done? Let's see, you've thrown some cash into the temple charities, you've helped your neighbor throw out his old couch, and you've oh.
"This is about the Ekora Liner, eh?" you ask.
"Give the command, Shipmaster."
You remember your fingers biting into your palm, drawing blood, flowing through cracks in your clenched fist.
"Is this insubordination, Shipmaster? Fire. I shan't repeat myself.
You shake your head out of useless remembrance. What's done is done. There's no use drowning yourself in bitter memories. That ways lies the bottom of the barrel and crippling debt. The woman nods. "Yeah. My brother was on that boat, and I can't tell you how much it means to me that his idiot ass lived that day."
You scratch your head. Just when you thought that you sailed far enough from Oka Het to escape the simultaneous heartfelt thanks and death threats, it catches up to you again. "Well, that's fine and all, but-"
"-Could I treat you to a cup of coffee?" she bursts out, wringing her hands. "I know you must be busy, but I mean, er. Shit, I'm not good at this. Look, I just feel like an ungrateful ass to give my thanks only, so yeah."
[X]- Say yes: It's free, after all.
[X]- Say no: Where the hell is Battim?
[X]- Short shore leave
Sumesh Ur didn't look too different from Pyatine and Oka Het. Some distance behind the waterfronts, behind a rampart where fashionably dressed dilliants and ragged beggars walk alike, are the monolithic towers, strewn with clotheslines so it looks covered in strings of flags, stretching high into the sky until the point that you feel craning your neck higher would lead to a broken spine. You see thick horizontal floors, at levels thousands of feet high, holding slices of city and livespace suspended by empty air and Kalim material science. The cries of street vendors and angry commands from captains drift in the air, mingling with the scent of salt and deep fried oil from the vendors' stalls.
The spice has gone through the journey unharmed by salt or water. It would take an stingy ass of unparalleled caliber to try to stiff you. If every journey was as this smooth, you'd have to go and check with the temples to see which god favored you. There had been no freak storms or waves, no migratory pods of horned whales that might decide to attack your vessel, etc, etc. Now, if only your contact could show his face.
"You see him?" you ask Crassa, standing beside you on the deck of the Whitespur. The two of you are scanning the crowds for someone fitting the person described in the letter. Tall, short beard, and has a long nose, name of Battim al Suta. That would describe three out of ten people you see. Well, except for the name, of course. Was your honored employer too cheap to provide a photo?
She shakes her head, scowling fiercely. You've been here for nearly an hour, and you didn't find. him. Neither did the crew you sent out in search turn up anyone.
You were just about to go inside and brood over a cup of steaming tea when you hear someone calling your name in the edges of your hearing. You perk up, twisting to the source. You can't find the person in the teeming crowds. "Grama Hemma? Hallo?" the voice calls again.
"Should I?" you ask. Crassa shrugs. It's good to know that you have a source of unfailing support and good moral judgement. You shrug, and shout, "over here!"
A figure breaks away from the crowd, briskly walking to your moored ship. You peer down at the caller, who turns out to be a woman in a good leather jacket and tough denim pants. Not luxurious, by any means, but certainly not cheap, shoddy crap either. You don't quite recall her face…
"Name your business," Crassa barks. The woman flinches.
"I just wanted to thank him, is all," she sulks.
Teeth sink into your lower lips as you consider. You don't think you've done anything to merit thanks, recently. What have you done? Let's see, you've thrown some cash into the temple charities, you've helped your neighbor throw out his old couch, and you've oh.
"This is about the Ekora Liner, eh?" you ask.
"Give the command, Shipmaster."
You remember your fingers biting into your palm, drawing blood, flowing through cracks in your clenched fist.
"Is this insubordination, Shipmaster? Fire. I shan't repeat myself.
You shake your head out of useless remembrance. What's done is done. There's no use drowning yourself in bitter memories. That ways lies the bottom of the barrel and crippling debt. The woman nods. "Yeah. My brother was on that boat, and I can't tell you how much it means to me that his idiot ass lived that day."
You scratch your head. Just when you thought that you sailed far enough from Oka Het to escape the simultaneous heartfelt thanks and death threats, it catches up to you again. "Well, that's fine and all, but-"
"-Could I treat you to a cup of coffee?" she bursts out, wringing her hands. "I know you must be busy, but I mean, er. Shit, I'm not good at this. Look, I just feel like an ungrateful ass to give my thanks only, so yeah."
[X]- Say yes: It's free, after all.
[X]- Say no: Where the hell is Battim?
[X]- And it's final!
[X]- Set a later time.
[X]- Set a later time.
Dust and echoes
Ghost of Shitposts Past
- Location
- Fortuna Penal Colony
[X] Say no
-[X] Set a later date
A pirate always see's to buisness first. Erm....usually. Except when they don't. Regardless, its free stuff, and my adventure senses are still tingling.
And a pirates adventure senses never be wrong, lad!
-[X] Set a later date
A pirate always see's to buisness first. Erm....usually. Except when they don't. Regardless, its free stuff, and my adventure senses are still tingling.
And a pirates adventure senses never be wrong, lad!
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1.6
- Location
- boundless optimism
[X]-Set a later time.
You sigh. A cup of hot drink would do you a world of good. A cup of hot drink in a nice, cozy shop would do you two worlds. Sadly, you'd like to find Battim first. Work before pleasure and all that rot. "I'd love to, miss-"
"Muyya af Maziziad," she supplies.
"- but I have work to do, a man to find. Coffee must be delayed." She is undaunted by the refusal.
"Then I must help you." You attempt to wave her away, but it's of no avail. Crassa watches, torn between amusement and consternation. "I will not accept a refusal. Please. Tell me what you need."
You mentally shrug. There's no reason why not, but she's getting a bit clingly. Suspicious, a paranoid mind may say. Strange woman, coming up to an old, disgraced sailor and thanking him. Odd. "I'm searching for Battim al Suta. You know of him?"
"Battim? Al Suta? why, he's a greengrocer for one of the noble families. I forgot which one, but he does business out of the corner of Wire and Corner over on Hasat Quarter." She took a hand out and glanced at her watch. "He'd probably be working, now."
"Thank you. Would you be so kind to give me directions?" Her charm is wearing off fast, and you'd rather brave an unknown city full of inbred twits then to walk anywhere with this chattering limpet.
She turns around, raising an arm to the raised path. "You follow that path until you get to Fisherman, then keep going. Turn a right at Netting, then take the elevator to the second level. You should be on Corner then, and Wire Street is at the end of the path on the south side. It's simple, really. I can get you there."
"Got it." You make a mental note of this. "I don't think I need someone to tell me where to walk. I had about enough of that in the navy. Thank you, though. Meet me again here, tomorrow at seven?"
She nods, and soon slips into the crowd. You breath a sigh of relief, and turn to Crassa, who's smiling. Not the friendly kind, but the wide, heartless one of a shark, exposing filed teeth. "Looks like someone's popular."
"Stow it," you hiss.
Crassa chuckled, bending over the railing. Then, she straightens, composing herself. "I'm sorry, Grama," she snickers.
"You should be," you fume in response.
"More seriously, though, something's up with her. She wants something, I know it," she thought out loud. "Or that's just me. What's your mark on her?"
"She's a bloody limpet," you complain. "She might not be malicious, but by deep water, she is annoying."
Crassa nods, obviously thinking. "How much you're willing to stake on that?" she bluntly asks you.
You hum. "I'll eat my hat-"
"-you don't have one-"
"-I'll buy a hat and eat it if she assults me," you finish.
"At least take someone with you. Me, one of the crewmen, it doesn't matter."
You consider. Crassa would be a sizable deterrent against any run of the mill toughs, but the Constabulary is there. They can earn their keeps. But paying a Constable is easy, pathetically so. For a handful of Talents, a beat constable will look the other way while one pummels another to a pulp. For some more, the constables will do the pummeling themselves.
[X]- Yes
[X]- No
With that decided, now, you have to find Battim. Shall you go, or should you send a runner?
[X]- Send a runner to Battim.
[X]- Go yourself.
You sigh. A cup of hot drink would do you a world of good. A cup of hot drink in a nice, cozy shop would do you two worlds. Sadly, you'd like to find Battim first. Work before pleasure and all that rot. "I'd love to, miss-"
"Muyya af Maziziad," she supplies.
"- but I have work to do, a man to find. Coffee must be delayed." She is undaunted by the refusal.
"Then I must help you." You attempt to wave her away, but it's of no avail. Crassa watches, torn between amusement and consternation. "I will not accept a refusal. Please. Tell me what you need."
You mentally shrug. There's no reason why not, but she's getting a bit clingly. Suspicious, a paranoid mind may say. Strange woman, coming up to an old, disgraced sailor and thanking him. Odd. "I'm searching for Battim al Suta. You know of him?"
"Battim? Al Suta? why, he's a greengrocer for one of the noble families. I forgot which one, but he does business out of the corner of Wire and Corner over on Hasat Quarter." She took a hand out and glanced at her watch. "He'd probably be working, now."
"Thank you. Would you be so kind to give me directions?" Her charm is wearing off fast, and you'd rather brave an unknown city full of inbred twits then to walk anywhere with this chattering limpet.
She turns around, raising an arm to the raised path. "You follow that path until you get to Fisherman, then keep going. Turn a right at Netting, then take the elevator to the second level. You should be on Corner then, and Wire Street is at the end of the path on the south side. It's simple, really. I can get you there."
"Got it." You make a mental note of this. "I don't think I need someone to tell me where to walk. I had about enough of that in the navy. Thank you, though. Meet me again here, tomorrow at seven?"
She nods, and soon slips into the crowd. You breath a sigh of relief, and turn to Crassa, who's smiling. Not the friendly kind, but the wide, heartless one of a shark, exposing filed teeth. "Looks like someone's popular."
"Stow it," you hiss.
Crassa chuckled, bending over the railing. Then, she straightens, composing herself. "I'm sorry, Grama," she snickers.
"You should be," you fume in response.
"More seriously, though, something's up with her. She wants something, I know it," she thought out loud. "Or that's just me. What's your mark on her?"
"She's a bloody limpet," you complain. "She might not be malicious, but by deep water, she is annoying."
Crassa nods, obviously thinking. "How much you're willing to stake on that?" she bluntly asks you.
You hum. "I'll eat my hat-"
"-you don't have one-"
"-I'll buy a hat and eat it if she assults me," you finish.
"At least take someone with you. Me, one of the crewmen, it doesn't matter."
You consider. Crassa would be a sizable deterrent against any run of the mill toughs, but the Constabulary is there. They can earn their keeps. But paying a Constable is easy, pathetically so. For a handful of Talents, a beat constable will look the other way while one pummels another to a pulp. For some more, the constables will do the pummeling themselves.
[X]- Yes
[X]- No
With that decided, now, you have to find Battim. Shall you go, or should you send a runner?
[X]- Send a runner to Battim.
[X]- Go yourself.
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Dust and echoes
Ghost of Shitposts Past
- Location
- Fortuna Penal Colony
[X] Go yourself, and Bring Crassa with you
A pirates no coward! He...isn't above taking someone friendly and bigger along with them though....
A pirates no coward! He...isn't above taking someone friendly and bigger along with them though....
- Location
- boundless optimism
Just to clear up any confusion, Crassa's offering to accompany you on your coffee with Muyya, not Battim.
Dust and echoes
Ghost of Shitposts Past
- Location
- Fortuna Penal Colony
You know what kinda pirates we would be if we went alone and got mugged?Yeah, but seeing how Dust and Echoes had the idea to drag her with us to Battim anyway, I can't really find a downside in that plan.
Not very good ones.
XD
- Location
- Canada
[X] Yes
[X] Go yourself, and bring Crassa with you
[X] Go yourself, and bring Crassa with you
1.7
- Location
- boundless optimism
[X] Yes
[X] Go yourself, and bring Crassa with you
You shrug. What's the harm in bringing a person that regards 'bare knuckle cage fights' to be a healthful evening sport? Probably none, unless some twit challenges her to a duel, in which case, they got what's coming to them.
Or they get bitter at losing, and set their thugs on you. Eh, sod it. What happens, happens. That's a problem for future you, which you are most decidedly not. "Very well," you concede. A flight of fancy strikes you. "You'll also be accompanying me to meet Battim," you declare. "Seeing as you have such a vested interest in keeping my entrails where they should be, you should obviously accompany me. Congratulations."
Crassa squints at you, as you begin to head down the plank, producing a clanging sound with each heavy step of your boots. "I don't get paid more for this, do I?"
"Nope!" you cheerfully throw over your shoulder. "I barely get paid more than the lowest seasman on the ship. All of us are brothers and sisters in the society of poor people."
"Damn." She catches up to you in a few long strides.
The two of you walk in companionable silence for a while, past the grime and rotting walls typical of a ramshackle port district. You spy beggars, desperate merchants that you suppose you're a part of, brutes with skulls the size of peas and armored in rolls of fat, and slick businessmen in clean suits and hats.
You're not jealous, you think as you watch a polished man with a suit that probably costs more than your apartment walk by with hardly a glance. Not at all. They had an advantage, one that you didn't have, but you surely can hack out a living. Somehow.
Crassa pokes you in the shoulder, jolting you out of your thoughts. Right. You were getting dangerously revolutionary, and that's never good. "This Netting, then?" she points at a sign. "Still not good with these letters."
You take a good hard look at the street sign, then nod. The two of you continue on your way. The grime recedes, as does the salt air of the docks. The shops have fewer and fewer bars on their windows, which is correlated with a sharp spike in product quality. You suppose you've entered the district where the wealthy merchants have their offices and their shops.
"Hey, Grama?"
"Hm?" you blink up at Crassa. The two of you are now in viewing distance of a tall, thin elevator spire connecting to the second level of the Polis. There's a long, long queue of people. You're two blocks away! Not even one block! This is going to be a truly long time. If Battim's delayed because of this, you understand completely.
"Been meaning to ask you." She stops in front of you, at the end of the winding line of bodies. "What happened with the Ekora Liner?"
"Fire, Shipmaster Hemma. Fire."
You take a deep breath, scratching your stubble. They say storing bitterness up only ferments it. Of course, 'they' are people who have self help books to sell, and should be considered with enough salt to last a Polis for a few months.
Still, you figure you ought to take a shot at this whole therapy talk. Except, of course, you don't have a therapist and you're going to talk about a possibly-classified incident to a civilian of a state labeled as 'pirates,' 'terrorists,' or 'bloody fucking maniacs' throughout the local nations.
"It was," you start, "a ship that was thought to be carrying known terrorists and other enemies of the state-"
"-knowing Oka Het, that's probably anyone who called the Grand Bitch fat," she helpfully points out.
You scowl. "Criticism of the Commissariat is legal, despite what everyone else would claim," you hiss. "And you think Oka Het's bad? Hey, at least we have something like the rule of law. In Pyatine, they drag you into an alley and beat the shit out of you. In Su-"
She claps a hand over your mouth. "Hist!" You struggle for a bit, before you see a whip thin man surrounded by what seems like trained shaven apes making a beeline to you.
He stops in front of you, looking like he had trodden on shit. You're the shit, and he looks like he wants to scrape you off of his hundred talent boots with excessive force. "So," he says, "you seem to have something to say about our fair city."
You know, the only thing surprising about this was that you're the one popping your foot in your mouth.
"Yes," you slowly say, careful of your tone.
"Cat got your tongue, eh? I'll have your name, vagrant. And your compatriot too," he sniffs haughtily. You want to punch him already. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the crowd clearing to form a wide circle.
"Grama Hemma," you say. You can never tell with these noble types. "This is Crassa Hait Mo." One moment, you're having a pleasant chat with them, and the next, they have a long knife out and they're challenging you to a few rounds of blade-play.
"Hm. You're Oka Het, if I'm any judge," he strokes his moustache. "And you? Crassa Hait Mo. That's not a name I heard of before."
Please don't let him find out about her being a Vi Senti, you pray. That would be bad for everyone. "I expect so," she says dryly. "You city people wouldn't-"
"-Pardon my rudeness, but was that a beginning of an insult I hear?" the noble shakes a finger at Crassa, who rolls her eyes. You watch on. It's rather like a ship crash. It's going to be horrible, but you can't help but look away.
[X]- Intervene
[X]- She can handle herself.
[X] Go yourself, and bring Crassa with you
You shrug. What's the harm in bringing a person that regards 'bare knuckle cage fights' to be a healthful evening sport? Probably none, unless some twit challenges her to a duel, in which case, they got what's coming to them.
Or they get bitter at losing, and set their thugs on you. Eh, sod it. What happens, happens. That's a problem for future you, which you are most decidedly not. "Very well," you concede. A flight of fancy strikes you. "You'll also be accompanying me to meet Battim," you declare. "Seeing as you have such a vested interest in keeping my entrails where they should be, you should obviously accompany me. Congratulations."
Crassa squints at you, as you begin to head down the plank, producing a clanging sound with each heavy step of your boots. "I don't get paid more for this, do I?"
"Nope!" you cheerfully throw over your shoulder. "I barely get paid more than the lowest seasman on the ship. All of us are brothers and sisters in the society of poor people."
"Damn." She catches up to you in a few long strides.
The two of you walk in companionable silence for a while, past the grime and rotting walls typical of a ramshackle port district. You spy beggars, desperate merchants that you suppose you're a part of, brutes with skulls the size of peas and armored in rolls of fat, and slick businessmen in clean suits and hats.
You're not jealous, you think as you watch a polished man with a suit that probably costs more than your apartment walk by with hardly a glance. Not at all. They had an advantage, one that you didn't have, but you surely can hack out a living. Somehow.
Crassa pokes you in the shoulder, jolting you out of your thoughts. Right. You were getting dangerously revolutionary, and that's never good. "This Netting, then?" she points at a sign. "Still not good with these letters."
You take a good hard look at the street sign, then nod. The two of you continue on your way. The grime recedes, as does the salt air of the docks. The shops have fewer and fewer bars on their windows, which is correlated with a sharp spike in product quality. You suppose you've entered the district where the wealthy merchants have their offices and their shops.
"Hey, Grama?"
"Hm?" you blink up at Crassa. The two of you are now in viewing distance of a tall, thin elevator spire connecting to the second level of the Polis. There's a long, long queue of people. You're two blocks away! Not even one block! This is going to be a truly long time. If Battim's delayed because of this, you understand completely.
"Been meaning to ask you." She stops in front of you, at the end of the winding line of bodies. "What happened with the Ekora Liner?"
"Fire, Shipmaster Hemma. Fire."
You take a deep breath, scratching your stubble. They say storing bitterness up only ferments it. Of course, 'they' are people who have self help books to sell, and should be considered with enough salt to last a Polis for a few months.
Still, you figure you ought to take a shot at this whole therapy talk. Except, of course, you don't have a therapist and you're going to talk about a possibly-classified incident to a civilian of a state labeled as 'pirates,' 'terrorists,' or 'bloody fucking maniacs' throughout the local nations.
"It was," you start, "a ship that was thought to be carrying known terrorists and other enemies of the state-"
"-knowing Oka Het, that's probably anyone who called the Grand Bitch fat," she helpfully points out.
You scowl. "Criticism of the Commissariat is legal, despite what everyone else would claim," you hiss. "And you think Oka Het's bad? Hey, at least we have something like the rule of law. In Pyatine, they drag you into an alley and beat the shit out of you. In Su-"
She claps a hand over your mouth. "Hist!" You struggle for a bit, before you see a whip thin man surrounded by what seems like trained shaven apes making a beeline to you.
He stops in front of you, looking like he had trodden on shit. You're the shit, and he looks like he wants to scrape you off of his hundred talent boots with excessive force. "So," he says, "you seem to have something to say about our fair city."
You know, the only thing surprising about this was that you're the one popping your foot in your mouth.
"Yes," you slowly say, careful of your tone.
"Cat got your tongue, eh? I'll have your name, vagrant. And your compatriot too," he sniffs haughtily. You want to punch him already. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the crowd clearing to form a wide circle.
"Grama Hemma," you say. You can never tell with these noble types. "This is Crassa Hait Mo." One moment, you're having a pleasant chat with them, and the next, they have a long knife out and they're challenging you to a few rounds of blade-play.
"Hm. You're Oka Het, if I'm any judge," he strokes his moustache. "And you? Crassa Hait Mo. That's not a name I heard of before."
Please don't let him find out about her being a Vi Senti, you pray. That would be bad for everyone. "I expect so," she says dryly. "You city people wouldn't-"
"-Pardon my rudeness, but was that a beginning of an insult I hear?" the noble shakes a finger at Crassa, who rolls her eyes. You watch on. It's rather like a ship crash. It's going to be horrible, but you can't help but look away.
[X]- Intervene
[X]- She can handle herself.
- Location
- St. Petersburg
- Location
- boundless optimism
Think of it like this: most of humanity lives on arcologies that are in theory, completly self sustaining. In practice, years of neglect, a giant apocalypse that wiped out the builders of said arcologies, malfunctions in the repair system's code, and plain old overpopulation means that a Polis can sustain perhaps thirty percent of their population at best. Fishing, whaling, and algae farming only does so much to help this. To remedy this, certain Polises focus entirely on agriculture. This of course, means that you need a giant merchant armada to feed your population.
Enter the Vi Senti. They make a point to wander from wherever they come from and raid ships, merchant, ferry, they don't care which. This means that occasionally, Polises go hungry, and the leadership of the Polises are going to point at the Vi Senti super hard so that their population doesn't turn on them. Even pirates arn't as hated as them. Pirates generally target ships carrying luxury goods, not food. Vi Senti don't care, they'll hit any ship that sails in range of them.
The fact that they have a tradition of ritual cannabalism doesn't help. Like, at all.
TLDR: Vi Senti make families go hungry and also they eat babies.