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Contesting The Maw - Part 3
Dec. 11th, 2015 01:48 pmThe ship with the ragged sails and few souls left alive, which the skiff has manuevered so close to on its passing orbit, lurched and dips into a swell. A vertigo-inducing lift as the bow juts upwards and the stern appears to sink, obscuring the name of the vessel. That cascade of loose objects careens along its deck in another direction. A flash of metal amongst them. Rigging flaps wildly from it. And those two half-mad sailors clutch at the railing as they watch the skiff close in. There's a shout from one of them and he flings a bottle towards them, ineffectually. An odd choice of act at the first sign of potential rescue or comrades in peril.
RPG: Merrisol challenges a difficulty of 12. Merrisol chooses Resolve and the gifts PAS-DE, PHY-ST, and STY-PI. Merrisol succeeds.
Finding his way through the chaos by the transient glow of lightning flashes, Merri makes swipes at what he needs from the piles of stuff at the bottom of the boat. When he straightens up again, he's dragging not one but three coils of rope and their weighty boarding hooks. That's two more than Ruby called for, but maybe he's trying to up their odds of actually hitting the one big target as it hurtles around again. Or, given said hurtle and their own skiff's precarious location, more ropes mean more rescues. Glimpsing those survivors near the rail, he yells to them: "GET BACK!" His voice goes thin, swallowed up by the tumult, proving his blood to be common Minosian only, if any at all. Still, he goes ahead with the directive with an able seaman's poise, a wide stance held and aided by Maggie's guiding their course through a (relative) sweet spot between the swells. He starts the build-up with small controlled circles of his wrist, the iron hooks spinning just overhead, then plays out the ropes with his other hand until the heavy boarding implements are swinging in inexorable radial arcs of around five feet. His elbow joint works now, every muscle from his forearm to his obliques pulling and bunching hard with the effort. His eyes search the airspace with grim focus, as though looking hopelessly for a sweet spot through the winds like what Maggie found through the waves. When the rowing heaves the skiff up to catch the next upwards swell of the Sea, Merri's even huffs of breath bell into a snarl and he leans into his throw, loosing the gaffs and the cords that uncoil like striking adders to follow. Punching through the batter of wind and rain, the hooks rise and fly outwards, and with any luck, there is enough yardage to span the gap even as it narrows or widens between their boat and the ship. "Grab a line!" he invites any of the others, though to what even, he can't say. But he does know if it's just him, the ship's momentum will surely drag him right out of the skiff.
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RPG: Merrisol challenges a difficulty of 12. Merrisol chooses Resolve and the gifts PAS-DE, PHY-ST, and STY-PI. Merrisol succeeds.
Finding his way through the chaos by the transient glow of lightning flashes, Merri makes swipes at what he needs from the piles of stuff at the bottom of the boat. When he straightens up again, he's dragging not one but three coils of rope and their weighty boarding hooks. That's two more than Ruby called for, but maybe he's trying to up their odds of actually hitting the one big target as it hurtles around again. Or, given said hurtle and their own skiff's precarious location, more ropes mean more rescues. Glimpsing those survivors near the rail, he yells to them: "GET BACK!" His voice goes thin, swallowed up by the tumult, proving his blood to be common Minosian only, if any at all. Still, he goes ahead with the directive with an able seaman's poise, a wide stance held and aided by Maggie's guiding their course through a (relative) sweet spot between the swells. He starts the build-up with small controlled circles of his wrist, the iron hooks spinning just overhead, then plays out the ropes with his other hand until the heavy boarding implements are swinging in inexorable radial arcs of around five feet. His elbow joint works now, every muscle from his forearm to his obliques pulling and bunching hard with the effort. His eyes search the airspace with grim focus, as though looking hopelessly for a sweet spot through the winds like what Maggie found through the waves. When the rowing heaves the skiff up to catch the next upwards swell of the Sea, Merri's even huffs of breath bell into a snarl and he leans into his throw, loosing the gaffs and the cords that uncoil like striking adders to follow. Punching through the batter of wind and rain, the hooks rise and fly outwards, and with any luck, there is enough yardage to span the gap even as it narrows or widens between their boat and the ship. "Grab a line!" he invites any of the others, though to what even, he can't say. But he does know if it's just him, the ship's momentum will surely drag him right out of the skiff.
( Read More )
