The Great Ship Walk - Part Three

[rubyrubyruby]

The battle is still raging when the first signs of the Pattern are having an effect. Amidst the chaos and strife of battle where lives are being spent, a mirage of rainbow hues is draping over a section of the smoke and sky. The hint of an incomplete soap bubble of visual distortion curls from the sky to wrap a weird choke-hold around a swath of ships. It originates from above Ruby's forward position, and is probably her attempts to drag a portion towards Cibola, Friend and foe. Her Begman communication messages suffer a rapid degradation into unintelligent garble, the system losing its wig over the competing magick-power-ability use. She might have been trying to acknowledge Maggie before her particular transmitter went nuts. Ruby does her best to finesse a quick and rapid shift before the enemy can maneuver beyond her range. What she does wrestle with becomes more insubstantial looking, but it doesn't stop the hostilities.
The efforts to endure, confuse, glitter, carefully manipulate, conjure and corral are quite effectively done by all. Clive's squadron are unleashing a torrent of lightning hell on some sumptuous troop carriers after a gamble of navigation and positioning has paid off handsomely. Wynter's airborne flyboys and flygirls have come out on top of the sky battle, and now greatly outnumber the serpentine drakes, thereby controlling the air unless reinforcements suddenly appear. Lhasa's squadron have sammiched that white ship and blasted the black so good. Squishing and cannonfire raise quite a tally as she goes. Martin's own particular brand of style seems blessed by luck and his flair. There's a whole bunch of little things that add up to a barrel of positives to support his priorities.

With the Pattern firmly in the forefront of her brain and the visual impact of Ruby's beginnint to draw the bubble of transportation ahead, Maggie knows that the time has come and the time is now. She lifts her hands a bit to reach bodily as well as with her mind. There is a bit of a flare within her own head as things come into alignment or attunement. A thread of rainbow light shoots from above her to bloom into an answering fuzziness above. The sphere of her influence grows, pushed out and out in an effort to engulf all ships, friend or foe, in this quadrent. Keeping her breathing even, she tunes out the fighting, having given her first mate and captain Shih instructions for both offense and defence. To whit, keep as many alive for the shift as possible without sacrificing too many of their own. Not an easy task, certainly.

The strange rainbows and colors are a que for Boaz who has been grumbling and pacing back and forth apon the small sloop known as The Whiskers. Ordered to detail that has him chafing inside but knowing it's importance all the same. When the rainbows appear he calls out to the small crew. "AYE! That's it! MOVE! Lets get out dere and do wha' we spose ta do! Raise sail!"
The small ship's sails and hoisted fast. Every inch of cloth raised to catch as much wind as possible and the little ship begins to move out from behind on the small islands where it was hiding and then Northwards towards the battle of ships and shimmers. Each moment gaining more speed.

The vessel grouping to starboard is a ballet of dogged maneuvers, enemy crews distracted and slow to catch on to the way Merrisol's line of ships stays with them; alternately offering their flanks as targets too tempting to resist and launching volleys of shot that discourage the Consortium cluster from spreading out into an arc to form a noose around the pesky posse. It's when the atmosphere, subtlely at first, begins to fluctuate and the ocean swells they ride run and bleed into themselves like acidwash, that they realize the true snare. By that time, they will find themselves separated from their motherfleet, and chased ruthlessly in and out of shadow seas that only turn darker and wilder as they go.

Ruby's collection of boats shimmers from existence. That raw amount of tonnage trying to kill each other simply sailing into the ether leaves a weird visual distortion before this shadow's sea is left in shock as something that was there, is no longer. A few salvos of cannonfire escape range of the pattern-shift to do bizarre things with physics, as does the smoke from powder and burning things. Somewhat like the chomped-moon sometimes spied in the heavens above, something just took a big old bite out of things and went buh-bye. Ruby's garbled and distorted communiques blart and then silence to be replaced by whomever is transmitting and yet to shift.

Quinlan has been waiting for this. This is the whole reason he came, useless mageling that he is otherwise. Hanging on hard to whatever he can - the sea being the unpredictable and occasionally unkind being that she is - he focuses with all the will of a Pathi-trained magician to shift as many vessels as he can. And hopefully not get swatted overboard in the meantime.

Martin is standing quite solidly on deck. It's somewhat difficult to tell what exactly he is doing though he is mumbling some kind of lyrics and keeps the pattern steady in his brain in the same way a swashbuckler wields a dashing sword. The problem is, unless you can see into his mind, it's not nearly as exciting. In fact, he looks a little crazy as he mumbles to himself in the middle of battle. In the likely event that positive things could happen to Merrisol's people its possible that probable things will and just as likely they will be flamboyantly useful. In the likely event that negative things could happen to Merrisol's people, the effects of being led through the stuffs of shadow by Random's blood is a double edged coin toss. It's better than a kick in the teeth, however.

From afar, Quinlan laughs. No, he just knows his strengths and weaknesses. Take away his magic, and he's really not much use compared to most other people. And he hates getting into fights, so mostly he's a wall-hugger. Add on a generous helping of over-thinking perfectionism from being raised Fionaspawn AND Pathian and...well, you get a healthy mix of brainweasels!

RPG: Martin declares that he has the Alter Shadow (PAT-AL) gift.
RPG: Martin declares that he has the Adaptive Shifting (PAT-AS) gift.
RPG: Martin declares that he has the Finessed Shifting (PAT-FS) gift.
RPG: Martin declares that he has the Shape Shadow (PAT-SS) gift.
RPG: Martin declares that he has the Expectations of Form (PAT-EF) gift.

Captain Flame stands on the forecastle of the Sea's Treasure. The Pattern in her mind thrums with power as she bends her will to collecting the tag ends of the various fleets. She pretends that she is a force of nature, fire and wind, power and destiny all rolled into one. Maybe she is, on some level. Her head lifts, eyes half lidded against the sun, the spray or the pattern's riotous rainbow hues. Gradually, her arms rise as well, power trailing in imaginary sparkles from her fingertips to weave strength into her desire. Before her ship, the fight grows heavier as captains under her command harry the enemy, trying to keep them driving before Flame's intentions. She means to hold here until the others fade into the myriad branching expectations that exist between what is here and where they are going.
When Incarnate's ships shimmer, fade, then sparkle away, Flame may sense it. Others see it.
A sense of rage rises from the ships around her as news of the vanishing spreads. With it, the fighting intensifies as ships exchange blows from cannon or trebuchet. The ark of flaming stones flyingn from the Sea's Treasure brings her to the attention of two enemy ships and a dangerous dance begins. Captain Shih calls warnings, then has orders passed from one sailor to another. Clearly, however, at least one of the enemy ships will come in close enough for boarding actions to be a possibility. Cutlasses are drawn in a ringing swoosh of sound and light all along the Treasure's deck.

Cannonfire traded between Merri's posse and the chunk of Consortium armada comes as hot flashes in the dim and fog, and a distorted moan as the shots warp through dense atmosphere. The bad weather has crept into the shifts and hasn't let up since. That would seem to be one of those negative gifts that keep on giving, though the crews of the Bedlam, Crackers, Aries, Flynn, and Doggerel Deux had fair warning of where Martin is taking them. Rain slickers, tether lines, and the powder supplies encased in tarp, they are able to batten and hunker down through the roughest patches, whereas the enemy flounders and scrambles on flooded decks, firing their cannons off somewhat wildly until spent.

And it turns out, the storm was the positive probability point for the posse, as the next set of swells morphs for several chilling moments into the reticulated backs of long and winding serpents, slippery with a layer of oil slick rainbow slime. The storm competes with the cries of terror and amazement as ships take the crazy slide high on undulating spines and low into dark valleys of scale and unblinking viper eyes. The Warden of the Deep snaps out of the hypnotic fascination, and attempts to bust them like bronchos, and have the ships be ferried intact until the danger noodles sink back into soup... nasty bubbling soup, but any sort of liquid is preferable! "If that was a step in the right direction.." yells Merri to the Bedlam's captain, "we'd better break out the harpoons!"

The sloop known as The Whiskers runs full out towards the thinning battleground on the waves. He lets a grim nod go as the first group phases from one exhistance towards another. That trick newly gained and rapidly mastered as the battle approached. Meanwhile there are a few whoops as part of the enemy fleet is dragged off unwillingly and he doesn't have the heart to shoosh them.
"Haggins!" He calls up to the young lad on the top of the mast. "Eye out. Count'n on ya ta tell meh where any floater and wavers be! Call out and point ta dem, aye!" The young lad grins and waves his understand adding in a higher pitched 'aye!' to boot and then he's already pointing to where Ruby's group left space wide open. "Five points to Starboard!" Boaz repeats the call to the helmsman who adjust heading as others aboard get out either gaff or long spear ready. "Double check dem floaters and wavers! No killin friend-ly tyopes, eh! Nor pickin up foes! First catch of the day be here!" Boaz says as he points to a man waving in the water. Time to save lost sailors.

The large assortment of foes that are involuntarily brought along on this wild ride when the Pattern Walkers do their thing don't notice right away. They're hell bent on adding new wrecks to the bottom of Ruby's homeshadow sea, and add yet another swath of empty monuments to war and strife. While the shift is ongoing, some close in to trade paint and try to launch grappling hooks to capture more vessels of their long hated enemy. Getting up this close, their more traditional looking vessels do bear a strong resemblence to ships birthed from Amber's shipyards, or the Golden Circle. Are some of these vessels lost to old forays by bright eyed Oberspawn that sought their fortunes in the deep unknown of shadow? Or are these facsimilies: Ancient figureheads of unicorns, Princes or Amberite family sigils are in attendance...and defaced: horribly, tauntingly, viciously. Beheaded wooden unicorns, proud visages dolloped with clownish paint, honoured symbols hacked by hatchets.
But ignorance of their predicament can only last so long. There is panic cooking off upon them. Those within Ruby's Pattern umbrella-ella-ella really get the hint when the previous conditions of the old shadow are exchanged to overcast skies and strange tides. Quick and dirty alterations to bring them closer to Cibola's unique properties, they must experience the wild and bizarre changes.
Ruby is too busy concentrating to do anything other than apply herself to the transit, and she stays close the wheel, her hand on the shoulder of navigator. Ballista and shot scream over the deck at disembowling height. What finesse she's got goes to brute use instead, and she endures. Ruby takes wounds of shrapel and velocity where her protection can't assist, and some of her crew fare far worse. Cut down or blasted clear.

....Damn. Quinlan would have very much liked to keep clinging to his boat and just shadow shift. But there's people in the water now, people in *increasingly strange* waters, who are likely to have unhappy endings and...everybody's busy. Biting his lip on, probably, imprecations of his own idiocy, Quinlan spares the time to risk magic. Namely, angled waterspouts under swimming sailors - any side, doesn't matter to him particularly, just that they don't drown. Waterspouts to launch the swimmers at the nearest shifting ship, and hope the spell doesn't go *too* wild...

The roar of battle growing nearer is not allowed to penetrate Maggie's concentration. A tug tickles her consciousness and she spots three slightly different shimmers, echoes of trails, hints of the passage her blood kin took before her. Choosing one, she shifts, dragging the ships near her along for the ride.
The waters darken along with the sky, rain stuttering a bit, then slashing down in sheets. Cries of consternation and a growing fear are lost amid the rain's drumming and the thunder's roll. Waves build as the sea answers the sky's call, each reaching toward the other. A crack of a pistol near her perch is echoed by a cry as a sailor goes down, instantly avenged by one of Shih's sailors. A savage cry, the ululation of battle joined rips through the sounds of rain and skirmashes. A ship comes about, cutting into the Duchess' line. She comes about, but the crunch of wood and the scream of metal make it clear that one of the two will not survive the day.
Faintly, distantly, a myriad small stinging sensations glance up Flame's side, followed by a brief rush of warmth.
Shih, acting as captain for this journey, calls tactics to her crew, both the original group and those already serving aboard the Treasure. Knots of sailors rush forward to meet the borders in a grappling back and forth struggle that spills past the line of seige weapons onto the deck proper. The kaBOOM of canon rips through the side of the enemy ship and it begins to list as sea water swirls in deadly spirals into the hold. Still, Flame compells them onward.

Martin's doing the best he can, but if he drops concentration too much.. then he has an idea. Soon, possibly in the nick of time, there is quite a lot of floating debris comes in on the next wave. One can use to cling to until rescue comes if one is lucky enough to notice it. That's the best he can do for now. He wipes sweat from his brow and goes right into the next verse without missing beat. It's becoming a little louder now, this song of the mighty fleet.

RPG: Martin declares that he has the Siren's Inspiration (SIR-IN) gift.
RPG: Maggie declares that she has the Sense Shadow Trail (PAT-ST) gift.

Although they have left that horrorshadow behind, elements of it recurr for the next leg of the chase across tempestuous vistas. Beside this ship or that, funnels swirl into being and reveal a feral eye rolling to glare at the passing vessel. Sailors are thrown ragdoll to the deck as a wave breaks against the hull of their ship with a semi-solid crash, and suddenly they are knee-deep in the goopy guts of a monstrous jellyfish. But the worst is shared by all: a distant inhuman silhouette outlined for milliseconds against the red sky by a backdrop of sheet lightning. Why in Incarnate's name are they all heading in /that/ direction?

That vision becomes the impetus for the enemy to make a hasty and desperate decision; flags are waved and lamps flashed, and the twenty-odd ships cease to be a cohesive unit. They're done with this, and they're turning to flee in various directions under the sound reasoning that, this way, at least some of them will be able to escape the deadly pull of Pattern. Curse you, royal oberspawn!

Merrisol snarls an angry expletive when he realizes, and then cuts his tether with a flash of sabre, bellowing for all ally ships to close quarters and hook into the divergent vessels. Begman radio transmits the command, followed by a hundred cutlasses and axes flashing out to follow suit. They're all going to the Bad Place together, if it means being stuck together like a plate of cheezy fries!

There's probably a unique kind of terror to going over the side of a frigate in battle ~and~ during a pattern shift. It's a long way down, and if you're left behind, well, there's some pretty grim songs sung in taverns that speculate on what happens to those lost souls. Today however, some very fortunate souls get a second chance. There's a bit of residual from that strange cataclysmic shadow to give Quinlan's spell the juice he needs if he puts just enough of his thumb in front of the garden hose of hocus pocus if he chooses to be measured in how he meets out whirly salvation. The risk pays off in sputtering dividends on deck where Quinlan denies the sea her dead.

Speaking of being left behind: The skies above Boaz are encouraging weird weather patterns with each group that's whisked away. Fliers that didn't keep close enough to the fleets effectively miss the bus. Some serpentine snakes that are wounded or fleeing combat fill the skies with unhappy sounds and try to return to the cliffs of the mainland. If Auntie's people aren't underground yet and are watching, they're probably reinforcing a few folk tales. And new uncomfortable dramatizations for sure. In the water, the handful of ships that were not ~walked~ turn about, abandoning their waterlogged wounded or crippled sister ships, disengaging from battle completely.