rubyrubyruby

Chase's aerial ice attack hits one of the speedy vessels, and acts almost as a snapshot in time. The sails are frozen, the masts encased, rigging and some crew caught in icey timecapsules. The weight unbalances the ship and it starts to tilt alarmingly. It starts to fall back, and the figurehead pulses with a holy nimbus. A high-tone like chimes of a holy choir sing out and his magical ice starts to fracture as the martyr flexes its might. The ship bobs alarmingly as conflicting magics tussle.

The Beast is bounding along like a rampaging walrus, smashing through large waves as it careens to close upon the nearest vessel of the trinity. Though favourable Pathian winds and storm gear, it crosses just in front and there's a loud ~screeeeeeek~ as hulls trade paint. Both ships have boarding crews ready for the suicidal crossing, and it's at that moment that they swing and leap. It's another miracle that no-one from either side collides with one another in the exchange, though in the commotion, it's hard to say if everyone made it. And like two mangy fighting dogs, they trade piratical and swashbuckling fleas as they swipe past each other.
The Beast is now hosting approximately a dozen highly zealous not-pals.

Cela goes almost horizontal, but not upon the deck. Clinging to the stair rail to the aft deck by the handle of her parasol, she manages to just hold on as the splintering sideswipe of ships sends stuff sailing. Her piercing scream is lost in the roar of sailors rushing to trade places on both decks. She gasps the last of her air back in as her balance returns in time to step out of the way of the Beasts' hardcore defenders.

Wynter strains to keep the massive amount of winds needed to keep the Beast at this pace. Her face is pale and sweating even under all the winds. She takes a knee to steady herself as the ships clip one another and raises her bow,eyes briefly finding the dragonform of Chase above. To him she whispers to the wind, letting it carry a message to the dragon general still aloft.
Then more muttered words as she pulls back the silvery bow, an arrow of air, almost invisible, forms and then she fires it at the closest boarder foe.

Chase belows in rage a his icy assault is resisted by his target. The white scaley beast cant's his head then dives arrowing like a bolt from the gods toward the churning sea.

Ruby, for her part, is maintaining her position at the wheel. Bracing her biological cargo with one hand (still inside), and pulling free a hand cannon with the other. The poor sailor at the wheel will have tinnitus in one ear if he survives the boarding and Ruby's barrage of orders and curses. "Aim us for tha next sh..." She spots Chase dive-bombing and spittle speckles the nearest sailor as she yells, "Carve us a path tah tha next! Tha neeeeext! Give it a volley as we pass but go tah tha next!"

Sidonie manages to keep her feet under her during the collison. Cela's scream makes her whirl her head back to check on the journalist, and once she sees her regain her balance, she turns back to gape at the enemies now landing onboard. The barber-surgeon draws her blade and makes for the closest zealot. Wynter's arrow whizzes past not far from her head, but she barely notices.

The congregation that have made a successful landing on the Beast's deck and rigging have come bearing pistol and cutlass, along with bandolier of holy wax symbols, ammunition and daggers. They go for the nearest crew members and passengers. The sound of multiple hammers being thumbed back punctuates the lusty battle cries as the battle is joined.

The ship's purser/storekeeper/whatever-rather-convincing-lie-he's-been-telling-people had been near invisible in the lusty hue and cry of a ship clearing for action. In the meantime, he's adjusted his wardrobe appropriately. Waterproof leggings are still applied, running a up a pair of leather ankleboots, but the greatcoat's been cast off. A waistcoat keeps his shirt in place, and as the ship approaches, he calmly loosens his tie, and adjusts the derby on his head, before bending down to take up the smallsword he'd placed on the ground, scabbard and all. He gives a winsome sigh, one hand wrapping around the manrope, before the crash and boarding occurs. The sword is efficiently removed from the sheathe, and forward he goes.

Something is wrong about this water. It is foul tasting with what feels like that metallic hint of blood about it. A classic zig-zag course is set below the water, constantly sampling and listening as Clive swims about, working to narrow down the potential source of it all. The sounds of battle eventually play at his ears and the whole task becomes easier. Now, he is able to put all of his attention and strength into paddling away moving along like a bullet underwater. Eventually, the form of a seal can clearly be seen after he takes himself low, turns an arc, and swims with everything he has to launch up into the air to get a view of the battle above the surface, popping up off one side of the Beast. The words are Thari, but the voice is decidedly that of a seal as he calls out, "Ahoy there!"

RPG: Clive declares that he has the Selkie (SEA-SE) gift.
RPG: Clive declares that he has the Human Tongues (ANI-HT) gift.

Hhhheeeerrreeee's Jondrim! Despite Ruby's attempt to leave him for dead with the treacherous monastical captains he seems to have weathered through. a darkness spreads from a hatch leading below deck, shadows creeping up along the floor like writhing, growing vines as Jondrim ascends the ladder. A long, slightly curved blade of blackness is held in his hand that he offers in salute to those on the beast with a grin before his features disappear, his form cloaked in shadow from head to toe. His voice falls calls out, modulated and disembodied, not quite carrying all the way to the beast but directed towards the sailors around him from he other ship.

RPG: Mercier challenges a difficulty of 8. Mercier chooses Wits and the gifts FGT-BT, SKL-AR, and STY-DF. Mercier succeeds.

RPG: Sidonie challenges a difficulty of 8. Sidonie chooses Resolve and the gifts SKL-SC, STY-PI, and STY-SW. Sidonie succeeds.

RPG: Chase challenges a difficulty of 10. Chase chooses Wits and the gifts ANI-MF, BLD-MA, and DRG-BS. Chase succeeds.

RPG: Wynter challenges a difficulty of 8. Wynter chooses Grace and the gifts ARC-AR, ARC-BM, FGT-MM, and SKL-MK. Wynter overwhelmingly succeeds.

Cela huddles back as one of the Beast's grizzled mates dances by with cutlasses clashed and tussled pistols firing wild. Iron splinters wood on the stair rail by her head, causing the newswoman to startle the other way, pelting blindly into midst of the roaring raging assault. She falls. Slides... hooks a zealot by the ankle with her umbrella, sweeps him off balance as she scrambles up. A Beast marine chops him while he's down. Blood spatter on her silks now, Cela shakes her precious parasol free - and the point of it arcs back and spangs a holy brawler across the nose, cra-ack. More blood. More shrieking!

Chase arrows toward the water, jinking as fire from the ship streak toward him, sliping left, right, barrel rolls, twisting at the last moment to allow shots toglance off his thick hide. The dragon picking his path with mathmatical accuracy as he draws closer forcing crews to stop shooting or hit their own ships.

RPG: Jondrim challenges a difficulty of 13. Jondrim chooses Grace and the gifts FGT-RE, SKL-WS, STY-CC, TEN-SA, and TEN-SE. Jondrim succeeds.

The Beast's wind dies for the briefest of moments as Wynter must come to her feet and then duck under a holy raider's blade. And dispite the stress of the magics already made and then murderous intent of the foes aboard ship the woman smiles. And then to giggle.
Andother step back and the bow is readied. Another arrow forming from nothing and launching through her attacker's chest and onwards into the boarder ten paces off, the arrow of air pinning his own gun and hand to his chest.
Wynter's giggle turns into a laugh. She pushes words though the amused sound and the Beast lurches forward again.

Blood and shadows. The deck of the ship he inhabits becomes covered with both as Jondrim moves forward in a sudden surge of motion. As he moves the writhing shadows spread with him like a flowing river and he carves a path through the sailors and officers alike, dancing among them with that dark blade sliding through skin and bone as he moves. He leaps on to the gunwale and into the rigging, swinging from one side of the deck to the other to bring his swath of carnage to the other side and those that may have fled from him before.

The first fellow Sidonie encounters is one with a big, bushy eyebrows, and what must be about five wooden rosaries hanging from his neck. Both of his cross and fish-tattooed hands grip a cutlass and he swings in a wide arc at Sidonie. She sidesteps and tilts her head back to avoid the blade, but keep close enough to riposte. Her blade swings low and slices at the back of his knee with surgical precision. With a scream, he tumbles to the ground, his leg now useless. The dark-haired girl wastes no time aiming a quick kick at the man's face, rendering him unconscious. Her face squinting against the sweat forming on her brow, she turns to her next target.

Mercier takes early advantidge. It might have been surprising to the first boarder, as a cutlass is parried out of the way by the sword scabbard, and the tip of the small sword drives into something vital, before its cleanly withdrawn, as the merchant moves past, face stone and nonchalant, even as his first victim tries to follow, stumbling, and falling over in an anti-climatic end to decades of life culminating to.... that. Another sword blow is dodged, and the scabbard is flung forward, leaving his hand and thwacking someone in the nose. The edge of the smallsword, as light as it is, deters another fighter... leaning down hand draws dust, grit, and sand from the deck and flings it into the face of an oncoming third fighter, and more stabbing occurs.

RPG: Sidonie challenges a difficulty of 8. Sidonie chooses Resolve and the gifts SKL-SC, STY-PI, and STY-SW. Sidonie succeeds.

While mayhem is occurring on the deck of the Beast (and who knows how it's going for the poor sods on the first ship they passed), gunports have been thrown open on Ruby's vessel, and snub barrels shoved out. The sound of them being rolled forward is like a tumult of thunder on it's own. The appearance of their gaping maws is heralded by fire from the one of the vessels they close with. Arcing chainshot whistles murderously towards Ruby's vessel and the a bank of sprouting smoke preceeds incoming cannon balls surrounded by glowing energy. The salvos will arrive in three heartbeats of an anxiety sufferer.

RPG: Clive challenges a difficulty of 10. Clive chooses Force and the gifts FGT-BL, SKL-AR, SKL-SC, STY-DF, STY-PI, STY-SW, and STY-UE. Clive succeeds.

RPG: Chase challenges a difficulty of 14. Chase chooses Wits and the gifts ANI-MF, BLD-MA, DRG-BS, FGT-MM, ICE-WM, ICE-WR, LIF-HH, and PHY-ST. Chase almost succeeds.

That 2nd ship, so troubled by Chase's initial ice attack, had floundered, but through divine might, fought back. The crew had poured shot after shot towards the nimble white drake, but not a single telling hit was made. The crew chanted and sent oaths as well, as if these could wound him through pure devotion. It's so infuriating, the figurehead itself animates into wood-creaking life. Clutching at its remains and metal cross and surrounded by power, the entire thing clambers up onto the prow of the ship to face Chase. The figurehead seems to have attained sainthood through a calamity involving fire, and it's this avatar that prepares to clash.

Clive makes a clean entrance back into the water, using it to dive down deep under one of the other vessels. Religion! Bah! No wonder there was such a foul scent carrying in the water! Another furious bit of kicking away sends him flying up toward the surface. Just as he is about to break through, be begins the transformation; changing from a seal into a human fellow in a shimmer of rainbow reflected through a splash of water droplets. And now for the tricky part: sticking the landing. Sadly, Clive's luck has never been very good. Sure, he narrowly avoids a cannonball in the air, but he winds up hitting a spot on the hull a bit off of a gunport, smacking into it with a thud before he can take hold of an upright door to swing on inside. "Aaaaagh! Sweet mother of the Unicorn that hurt!" A dagger is out in one hand and his cutlass comes out in the other while a wild grin unfurls. Close range against the gun crew with a bit of surprise! Minus the cursing. The seasoned man of the sea launches forward with both blades, working the close quarters and familiar setting of a ship to begin cutting his way through with impunity. An arm lopped off here, a dagger through a throat there, the arm with the still-attached sword is swung and tossed at another... Finally, he is eying a prepped and ready to pop cannon with a gleam in his eye.

The brawler with the spurting nose clutches his wax effigy into a tighter fist, which lashes out at Cela as she turns to see who she spanged. She shrinks backwards from him but he's got reach and still gets to clock her one between the eyes. She windmills and falls, again, this time on her posterior, a sitting duck for the grinning zealot's axe-handle sweep of his cutlass, aimed to split her in two. But thennnn, someone's scabbard comes flying out of the smoke and smashes the poor bastard an even better one, across his nose, again. The man rears in blinding pain, staggering..... and is assisted over the rail by the jab of a ragged silk parasol, applied to his midsection. Cela still clutches a dagger in her other hand, as yet overlooked. After the plunging scream cuts off in the froth of leaping waves, the journalist totters off into sudden shadows, hoping for a defensible position.

Jondrim is making a real abattoir of the first ship, even as the divinity lends its strength to the crew. The strange power he commands with shadow and blade carves through them without managing to land a single wound. The less the number of crew to face, the more power for those that remain, and the harder they are supposed to be to kill. Supposed to be. As their numbers are whittled down, there's a piercing cry of the figurehead at the front of the ship, and the chains cocooning the saint there melt where they connect to the vessel. The whole kit and kaboodle lurches off the ship to splash into the water, tearing away a piece of the hull with it.

The ice drake roarsunleashing a storm of frozen blades striking the 'Saint' where it is still anchored to the ship splintering wood to loosen the things grip. Just before Chase slams into the thing he blasts it's eyes and face seeking toblind it before he slamsintothe god thing ripping it from it's moorings and dragging it skyward locked in battle as they climb.

The booms of the cannon from the ship they approach causes Wynter to cut all wind form the sails of the Beast. Only the natural wind pushing the ship along and again the deck heaving as the great ship slows. Her voice raises to a scream. "BEWARE INCOMMING!" He bow pulling back and then launching again another bolt of air..towards the incoming missles?
There is a WHOMP as the arrow bursts outwards in a huge push of air as it strikes the first missle mid- flight. Pushing the deadly cannon shot and other shot nearby it aside or off course.
Some drop straight down and splash into the waves. Others skip of course and thunk into the Beast like stones. But she can't get them all.

Next for the surgeon is a man with a pistol and a round, shining bald spot on his head like a monk. He has loaded it and is pulling back the hammer when Sidonie slashes the blade up with enough force to almost slice his hand off at the wrist. She screams, he screams. Sailor-monk drops the pistol, falls, and Sidonie catches the pistol before it also hits the ground. She raises it just in time to aim and shoot down the next fellow approaching her with cutlass raised high. And with that she falls to the ground as well, lest her head make an easy target for the oncoming cannon shots.

Thanks to the efforts of those on deck repelling the boarders, Ruby's been untouched, and the fellow at the wheel can get on with all this daring steering without creating a massive fail at sea. Ruby squints an eye shut and takes aim at one of the attackers. But there's too great a chance at grilling someone accidentally. Ruby lurches when the deck shifts and then steps lightly over towards Cela's position. Wynter's warning has dropping to her knees to slide the rest of the way while explosions of splinters shoot every which way after a successful hit. Bodies go flying and the ship shivers its timbers.

Jondrim neatly removes the head from the holy infused sailor in front of him and his stance shifts forward as the figurehead at the front suddenly tears itself away and the ship lurches, is prow no longer cutting the waves but scooping them. He turns and moves leaps to the mast, the sword disappearing in a blink and then climbing up the rigging quickly with one hand and his legs, his hand making a rounding, repeated motion like he was shoving a sack full of loot from the air... but instead, with each motion of his hand a globe of water as wide as the ship is shoved in through that hole in the hull to fill its hold.

RPG: Jondrim declares that he has the Water-Shaping (SEA-WS) gift.

Mercier continues his advance, into the desperate melee of men who would capture a prize or find a final rest on it. His eyes travel towards the escaping Journalist, and he winces, giving the barest attention to the distraction, adjusting his stance to try and provide the reporter a bit of a berth to escape. Dead boarders are dead boarders, however they're angled, after all. The fight is not honorable. Coats are tugged, shin's are smashed, noses are broken. The gentleman uses any number of ungentlemanly tactics, before responding like a veteran to the call of incoming artillery, dropping to the deck with a whump, and a pained grunt, covering his head.

There's a gun crew near Clive. Under the decks, the smell of incense is almost gagging, and instead of bawdy songs to time the priming and firing, it's holy chants following memorized hymnals. If one were Chantris, there'd be an almost-but-not-quite power there helping to focus and coax them on in the thick of battle. While crew are dispatched by Clive's skillful actions, the gunners have their orders to rain holy hell onto the Beast, and that's what they're going to do. Gunnery sergeant monks are reinforcing as they prepare to charge Clive en masse.

Cela appears to be wandering aimlessly now, veering between the pockets of fighting and mincing over the fallen. A man swathed in rosaries, bleeding from the leg and lolled in a dead-ish position abruptly bolts halfway up from the deck, all stupored. Cela resumes screaming as she whales on the chosen one with her umbrolla until the handle bends unfashionably, at which point it apparently becomes a hot poker and is dropped like one. Run, Cela! She veers off again, probably unaware that the rosary man is not hot on her heels -- partly because he's lacking a tendon behind one of his knees, but mostly because Mercier has waylaid him unfairly. "Aaaa- Oh! Ruby, are we winning?" gasps the reporter upon encountering the Beast's captain in a belly-wobbling ricochet as the other woman dives to her knees, taking Cela with her. Saved again! This time from spraying hunks of rail and decking!

Chase climb sky ward locked in battle tooth and claw with the enraged Saint. Once clear of the battling ships Chase rolls over and simply drops the snarling Mast head to fall into the depthsof the sea, let the world be rid of it at least for a time.

The fight is definitely going well. The last of the devote scallywags are being dispatched or put down through the frightening skill or insane luck of those present. Ruby hasn't fired a single shot, and now she's almost in a proposal-position with the reporter. "Aye!" A heartbeat. "Prolly! We need tah get tha fleet underway!" Ruby pushes the chunky storm pistol into Cela's hand while she gets to her feet to assess and call for a signaler. "Wyn'tah! Can you skewer an ear'ole or three for me?"

The ship Jondrim is perching on the mast of, does a nose-dive as it tilts precariously and takes on gallons of water. The broken nose is great ragged orifice that accepts shaped-water. And when the ship lists badly enough, forward momentum just compounds things until the forward-tilt becomes a Michael Bay arse-over-teakettle. The whole damn thing doing a slow-mo death-flip.

Jondrim stands at the top of the mast as the ship tips over, facing the Beast, and raises a hand to his forehead in a sloppy salute towards it before splashing into the waves.

The fighting style being employed by Clive would probably be best described as utilitarian-savage. There aren't any lines that he won't cross, any niceties that he'll observe. The fact that the gunners keep on firing only seems to anger him more as he is cutting his way down the line. "Hey! Look what we have here! Oh, you are all so very, very spoiled! I don't get to play with *this* very often." Clive reaches a barrel of powder, plucks the plug from the top of it, pushes it over, and gives it a good kick to roll it on down the deck. He lets it carry on its merry way while reaching over to pull one of the matches. Running it along a cannon, he sparks it to life, tosses it at the line of powder. Running back away from this, he kicks over another of the barrels and sends it rolling before leaping on out of the window toward the water.

When the cannon fire hit the Beast shrapnel abounded and one such piece found it's way to Wynter's side. The woman too busy tryign to knock the incomming down from the sky to be ducking as she should have.
She side-steps, looking down at the overlarge splinter of Beast sticking out and winces as it starts to seep blood. But then the giggles return as Ruby calls. "Which captians you want? Nevermind. I'll send to all I've met." Her mouth begins to work whispering to the wind that is quick to take her wrors to the ships of the fleet. Message same to all. Get moving! That way!
She moves across to a lashes down crate and sits gingerly as she relays Ruby's messages.

The ship that's been enduring the attention of the ice drake isn't exactly a spritely or very organized vessel anymore. The surviving crew of it watch as their figurehead is grappled with, and they pray very fervently for victory. With dismay they watch as their saint is dropped from way, way up high. No wings appear, and it plummets, hitting the water with a huge gout of water and disappears from sight. The ship lists and becomes sluggish, as if in mourning. No fire comes from it, no fight remains within it.

Sidonie rises to a crouch and realizes she is next to the whimpering man who now lacks a hand, thanks to her. She frowns at him, then pulls a bandanna from her pocket and quickly wraps it around his wrist. He grits his teeth at her, not exactly thanking but not quite attacking her either. The surgeon squints to look from Ruby to the one she is addressing, Wynter, and sees the blood at her side. With a grunt, she picks up the pistol and sword again and, head crouched down, makes her way toward the Pathi sorceress.

Finishing off the last foe around him, Mercier takes moment, willing his fingers loose from a death grip around the smallsword, inhaling as he takes a deep breath, fighting to regain a clear head amongst the heady natural drug of life-and-death combat. Neutral calm comes back easily enough, and the merchant takes a knee behind an errant barrel to take stock, looking down at himself. A strike to his mouth had him tasting copper, and the stinging of a number of slashes and pokes, none terribly serious, assault a clear head. He grunts a bit, standing and collecting as discarded musket and its accurments from a corpse on deck, calmly making his head up towards the poop and a railing near the wheel, kneeling there as he peers at the device, working quickly to understand its mechanisms, before loading. He turns his head towards Ruby, "Terribly dangerous associates you've picked up, Captain." He notes.

Chase banks swinging back toward the beast, hoping to be aboard when Ruby makes her escape...getting left isnot something he intendstodo twice in a voyage.

~Ca-ruuuump!~
There's a flash of light as the gunpowder touches off on the ship Clive just leapt from. It blooms in a popcorn of massive blasts that blow out one whole side of the ship. The concussion wave radiates outwards and reaches the Beast like a sudden storm front. Wood and iron catapults upwards, trailing lovely arcs of smoke. A force tries to maintain hull integrity succeeding in creating a freakish skeletal cross section, but unable to save the crew. Like all the meat was blown off a body after a atomic blast, a new half-mad ghost ship is created and it screams as it burns and tilts.

Clive is out in the air as the explosions begin, his arms and legs all flailing about in the air as the shimmer of rainbow begins to form about him. His form goes smoother with arms shrinking in and legs merging together when he hits the water in another belly flop. This one hurts like all hell in the partially shifted form and he lets out a loud, garbled yelp while going under the water.

With the amount of severed limbs and blood on deck, it won't be long before there are interested critters following the Beast. Cries call out from the wounded. With less chance of imminent death, telling friends from foes becomes harder with all that crimson soaking into everything. The deck is now a practical field study in the ravages of conflict upon the human form. Everything from environmental injuries, to direct weapon wounds. The latter is sometimes a blessing in how focused it has been delivered. The former, just as ugly, if not moreso.

The ice drake swoops in shifting form even as his feet touch the bloody quarter deck. The man stretches to finish the reset of his bones and draws his pistol.

"A very close thing, we will say, O Captain!" Cela spins Ruby's uncertainty into first-page gold. Then - UNF - the captain leaves her holding a formidable hand cannon of iron and brass. Oh dear. Swaying to her feet, Cela drags the stormpistol up on one side and the unused dagger up on the other. Behind her, somewhere beyond the rail, the vicinity lights up explosively, obliging her with a dramatically flashy backdrop for that singular bad-ass moment. She's torn and blood-stained, begrimed and poster-perfect poised. In the next moment, Ruby's gun is heading deckwards. Cela finally casts the dagger aside and grabs on with both hands, then goes tripping along after Ruby. "Mr. Templeton, you look all the worlds' assurance of victoriously alive!" she marvels an aside to Mercier as she falls in with that group.

Wynter sees Sidonie making her way towards her and gives a small smile and shake of her head. "I'll be fine.. for now. There are others that need you I think. At least more then I." Her lips keep moving then in silnce as she continues to work to pass messages.

The blast of the third ship makes Sidonie stagger and almost trip over one of the bodies strewn on the deck. She holds her hands out to steady herself, then continues the rest of the way to Wynter, all the while casting her eyes about her to note just who remains alive and in need of care. To Wynter, she nods. "Hold something to it if you can, and call out if you feel even the slightest bit faint." With that, strides to the back to pick up her medical bag, and sets to checking over the first body she encounters. Dead.

Ruby has to put on a show of unflappable authority, and gets to it. Still bewildered she didn't get worse, directions are given to get the Beast to the head of the fleet with the intentions of leading them out as quickly as possible. Her face winces at the sound of the ship explosion, and peers that way all squinty-like. She grins sickly and then brays, "Collect your keep an dump tha rest tah tha deeps! Bet their sharks ain't picky-pious about what they eat. Don't want a scrap 'o flesh 'o these god-lovers on tha ship if we can 'elp it. They 'ave already been given last rites, roight?" She stomps towards the aft and tries to catch sight of how the other ships fared. Her lips curl at the results. She rasps to a deck hand, "Ain't we just been ~blessed~ this day. Damage report an get a 'eadcount. We moight need tah pull sailors from tha soup. Need an eye in tha sky tha ain't Bog."

Mercier is looking towards Ruby at the explosion, and slides prone again, covering his head and face... giving it a moment, before recovering, shifting around on his feat, before the soles of his ankleboots catch traction and he rises, tusting himself off, wincing as he takes a step, hand reaching over the side to cover an ooozing wound, cut through the waistcoat and the shirt... and the other shirt underneath. One didn't go to battle improperly dressed of course. The flintlock, or its analogue, his slung across his back, and he provides an affable smile towards as he tugs that bottle of terrifying alcohol out of that vest, pouring some into a cupped hand, "Fortune smiled on us both. I don't quite know what happned of course. I was all off for a space little spot below decks." He notes, convincingly, or possibly so if he hadn't just stabbed a bunch of people. The alcohol is tossed on the wound, and the merchant inhales deeply in pain, teeth gritting suddenly as he rides it away... a hankerchief pressing against the wound next, the flask repairing to its space in his waistcoat.

Clive leaps up above the water again, spinning about as he goes. One might think this is showboating, but no! No, this is purposeful to get a good look around! How many new breathing holes are there in the Beast now? How many might be close to her water line? The Selkie sidles up a bit closer to the vessel, drops down a bit while tracking her hull, and then pops back up to leap on at one such hole that he had spotted. Once again, he transforms while exiting the water and then works to climb his way on inside. Now. Where is the celebratory rum around here?