rubyrubyruby

Boaz brushes sand off himself spitting and hacking up more sand from his mouth. The rest of his crew, that remains alive and unhurt, comes around the far end of the ship and then slows to a halt. Boaz grins toothily at them and motions to the downed men about them. "Ay! Gets rope and tie dese up tight, eh? Make sure they all good for travel back with his royalness here. " He says poking a thumb towards Ashby. "Secure da beach and stoof. Maybe even pick up dese weapons and gloves too." He looks over to Ruby and Ashby briefly and then blows a sigh dejectedly. "And no hid'n any of dem in our ship. No playin wit dem unless ya want yer head blown off."
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The Beast is racing along the waves, sails full, in headlong pursuit of a duo of ships that have flags owing allegiance to no GC nation. There is a jolly roger on the duo, but its a rather angular and abstract artistically speaking. The Beast is flying official Navy flags herself, denoting some manner of official status for this pursuit. A smaller but swifter naval sloop has cut ahead and stealing the same wind as the unknown ships that are fleeing. All the tricks of the trade are being attempted to try and overtake the strangers. A complication up ahead is obvious within these Sukho waters: A motherloving huge assortment of volcanic archipelagos.
Ruby is barking and barking, trying to squeeze every ounce of excellence or anxiety from her regular crew. She's been trying to Trump in assistance...even going so far as to try and arrange for friendlies to warp in with their own ships, or simply come on deck. But storm clouds currently forming would give any Captain pause for concern.
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Do you pay your dues
When Amber calls
Have you heard the news
That Amber falls
Oh if only you would not kowtow
Maybe /you'd/ be the stronger one now

Not one more daughter
Not one more son
Sent to the slaughter
Not /your/ war won
Not your gods nor goddesses
Not gods at all, unless of losses

See these faces up close
Their true names you will know
Know those you must oppose
Know the lies they sow
Know the gold they throw hither
Know another land left to wither

Will yours be the next?
The question if you dare!
The answer in any context
Is one you should beware!
Have you yet to learn
Those who you must spurn!

Now! It is they who falter!
Now! Your hand they demand!
Never again! May they find shelter!
Never again! Shall we not stand!

Our turn now!

Or never again!
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The Chipped Tooth Tavern is a place that doesn't have a menu. It serves beverages and food according to what is on hand at the time and hasn't run out. The main source of this is what has been ~liberated~ from merchants and vessels that trade with Amber. This place isn't the kind where royals will normally frequent unless they're dabbling in some honest to gods slumming. Or perhaps need something done way beyond the proper channels. It has been burned down, rebuilt, trashed and renovated so many times, it is almost as it has some sort regenerative blood running through its timbers. It has a legit reputation for not giving a care of who you are or what you want as long as you can pay your bill. Optimistic Ophelia runs the joint, and all its past incarnations. She's got about a dozen children and they all have a turn tending the bar. Tonight her string-bean third born son is slinging drinks with a perpetual cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth and hairy forearms you could scrub pans with.
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Ruby joins in step with Maggie and Merrisol as they compare sensory notes. "What you mean? There's ~nuthin~ out 'ere, promise." She reaches up and rubs at the swelling at the center of her forehead where impact happened. "It all just be green an green an sometoimes poisonous things out 'ere. This more impenetrable than a member 'o tha church 'o tha Unicorn. An you can call me Rosie if it isn't so."
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The usual lush unbroken coastline of Cibola has been interrupted by the aftermath of the recent battle of its shadow path. Derelict ships that could not reach the Port of Antukt City are at anchor or have run aground. Over a month ago, one such vessel had beached itself spectacularly in sight of the Port but far enough away to be within the domain of the jungle rather than civilization. The ship is fully out of the water after making a significant furrow and jammed up into the treeline. Its hull, rigging and sails create a backdrop, like some sort of theatre stage backing, against the dark forbidding Cibolan jungle. Perhaps a ghoulish nautical sight for shipwrights. A number of more recent longboats and skiffs are pulled up onto the beach after having disgorged some Pathfinders that required ferrying to this location. Torches have been lit and thrust into the moist sands, lanterns hung from the ship. And snakes. The rigging is snek town, tongue-flick county. Ssssso many sssnek. The side of the hull has a piece of canvas hung from it. Something is cooking on a spit nearby that has many vertebrae. And there's a barrel of spirits nearby to disinfect the palette. There's a faint breeze to carry the scent of the food and the heat of the day along the coast. The sounds from deeper within the jungle promise interesting times for the unwary.
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The Hawsepipe Tavern usually caters to those that work at the Docks and ships that harbour there. It is well supplied in spirits and high caloric meals, with nothing getting too fancy. The menu is not high gastronomy but it doesn't pretend to it. The tavern and its back rooms have been rented out for a couple of days for the Pathfinder Corps. Staff has been retained and paid to slings drinks at the bar, cook up uncomplicated mass-quantity meals and keep a beady eye on the particular patronage. The tavern is usually given over to multiple scattered tables for waitstaff to rove between. Today these have been mostly pushed to the edge of the room. A set of four have been pushed together at the center and hold a large parchment map of Amber with spokes of sea routes and paths that lead (sometimes more aesthetically than accurately) to Golden Circle realms. The edges of the big parchment are weighed down by an assortment of knives and tankards. Objects sit on certain realms like monopoly pieces, and Ruby's bias towards the different GC realms is blatant.

Those entering will be welcomed by a scent of pipesmoke, alcohol and meats that have sazzle. The beams of the ceiling have been inundated by a blue haze of the aforementioned puff-puffs. There's no one to take hat or coat but plenty of places to hang or fling once out of the dockside weather. It's sporadically populated by perhaps two dozen other individuals.
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The shadowpath battle has been transpiring for some time. With all the sailing, shooting, boarding and repelling going on, the exact amount of time is nebulous. Squadrons under the command of Clive, Maggie and Merrisol have dealt significant battlefield altering blows to the Consortium ships. Boaz and Quinlan have lent wildly different skills and abilities, to sometimes similar purpose. There's been an amazing mix of adaptibility and tactics from people in positions of leadership, and of resilience against the odds and even savagery on tap.
The seascape is a gumbo, and like the surface of a witches' cauldron: An assortment of bleeding and burnt ingredients. There's no need for lanterns to sail by, as dozens and dozens of ships are burning, and weird lights in the ocean make long and short-lived bulbs themselves.
The Arks have always been the slowest of the fleet. Their method of propulsion never had the benefit of sails, and so they make easy targets to intercept. The height of their hulls makes them floating bastions. Silhouettes of people at the very top of the Arks do their best to cut away grapnel lines, and fire down upon those attempting numerous boarding actions. A number of Consortium troop ships that survived the pattern-walk are drunkenly grinding against one of the lead Arks and helping to bracket the massive ship. Kind of like a big old hotdog hugged in a bun that's too small. Ships hounding the Arks inevitably scrape and collide with the bigger hulls but are determined to give naval hugs. There's desperate actions to try and pry open the big side hatches of the Arks with grapnels and winches to get at its nougaty center.
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The battle at the center of the shadowpath has been raging for quite some time. All that manuevering after being scattered around the Node and its treacherous environment, and using it to one's advantage. The efforts to hamper and harass the enemy. The horrible butcher's bill that keeps mounting.
The seascape is a gumbo, and like the surface of a witches' cauldron: An assortment of bleeding and burnt ingredients. There's no need for lanterns to sail by, as dozens and dozens of ships are burning, and weird lights in the ocean make long and short-lived bulbs themselves.
Attrition and skilled sailing of Maggie and others are keeping a large number of Consortium vessels bottled up within a zone of lightning that keeps punishing them dearly. Lightning competes with fire on both sides for the most devastating element. Quick corsairs thinking to run Maggie's blockade have been cut down by the Steel Seal's squadron. Merrisol's risk of running some of the lightning zone has paid off with his forces being able to hammer at a weak flank of the Consortium. Boaz's arrival and boarding actions have neutralized a number of ships and there's even attempts, much as Quinlan's waterspouts and fish-frying magic, have even tried to save souls from the waters.
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Merrisol's wedge is up against superior numbers in terms of ships and crew, but he still manages to pull off an upset tactical move on the line of Consortium ships. The excellent Captaining and determined way the squadron slices between the enemy formation is super effective. Enemy archers and crossbow are perforated before they have a chance to return effective fire. Men fall over the side as well as very critical deckhands in the rigging. The next enemy to receive a volley on both flanks don't fare any better while they try and track on Merri's squadron. Those not killed outright are forced to keep their heads down. The loss of life is very bad for them, and the passage of the wedge breaks up the enemy formation as they veer off to avoid further assaults. Whatever their plan was, it's been thrown a big wrench.
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