It was nice Node-ing ya - Part 4

[rubyrubyruby]

Clive's Selkie Squadron are a blasted thorn in the side of the Consortium ships. They're trying to run the border and manuever out of the lightning zone. There's no shortage of desperate attempts, but they've yet to be able to find an opening between the Steel Seal's ships or do enough damage. The lightning strikes are really riled up and produce bursts and cascades of elemental power, perhaps due to the large amount of warfare and death. Two Consortium ships are struck dead on their tallest masts and crack catastrophically from top to bottom. Their powder stores don't ignite, but they're sundered violently in two, sparks flying and the vessels being broken messily into two halves. Two vessels in particular are trying to shadow the Chimera. Slick corsairs with wicked streamlining and swept back sails. They have almost outrigger-like runners deployed to either side and are what ship transformed from a wave would resemble. They carve like cutlasses, their crews made up of dusky lithe marauders with shortbows and curved knives. They seem to be rather cool and collected during this madness. Faint nimbus' of menace drift from their ballistae. They shriek a challenge from some part of their ships. Throats or instruments, it's like an avian cry.

Maggie's forces are barraged by what Consortium ships can be brought to bear on her. The tactic of the enemy now is to try and bog her down and rush in close. Here too are hopeful blockade runners that want to escape their disasterous positioning to try and break out and manuever better. Hopeful grapnels are fired and attempts to turn her ships into a blazing bonfire aren't meeting with expectations. The air hums with quarrels and bolts. All of the sudden, there's a churning of water from beneath and around Maggie's ships, and those she fights: Oblong shapes being blarped to the surface of the turbulent ocean. Eggs and oval of steel and wood. Windows built into them. Smaller submersibles that must have been part of the enemy fleet and brought here. At the viewports that aren't already burst are flickering lights. Faces appearing with bulging eyes and banging fists at the cracked glass. Horrible discharges of hydraulics and fuel and bubbles of escaping gases from the doomed subs. In some of the viewports, backlight by failing light sources, are insane flickering flails of eel-like forms that lash insanely. Some of the subs simply explode like grenades when they reach the surface. But there's enough, in effect, to create a sea of treacherous WipeOut contest stepping stones between some vessels.

Ruby's got a number of allied ships with her as they try and make their own dash towards the Ark. She's lost sight of many of her comrades' squadrons and the unholy weather, while not stopping her, isn't helping. Squalls of bloody looking rain come out of nowhere and slap a fresh coat of drizzle sideways on everything. "We're takin on water!" A deckhand manages to deliver a message from belowdecks, having barely missed getting barreled into by another sailor. Ruby curses and pushes the log book into the waiting hands of a trusted sailor. Behind her, one of her escorts is rammed by a Consortium vessel and falls out of formation through sheer impact. Another is harassed by so many grappling hooks that it is slowed and reeled in by a number of others in concert. One by one, her ships are being picked off as they provide protection. The sound of gunpowder boom-booms has ended, but weird shadow armaments and sorcerers find their abilities still useable. A real bugger back there has something like Archimedes' damn mirror weapon mounted on their prow, and is somehow playing a searing beam across sails like a kid and a magnifying glass. The turbulence of the waves makes holding the beam steady a difficult thing, and works against it. But there are still other stranger weapons being deployed that haven't been smashed to kindling or sunk yet. "Bog's bloody nostril 'ole!" Ruby gestures to keep heading towards the Ark. "Stay at yer posts! There's worse in tha water! We're more than a match for any one 'o these bastards!" Problem is, it isn't one on one. She crouches down and checks the fitting on some footwear. She rises and finishes buckling, buttoning and tightening things upon herself. A ballistae as thick as an Arden tree pistons ~through~ the space between Ruby's sails, sucking the very air from lungs in its passage...and cores a sister ship to the Beast on her Port side. The thunderous crash makes everyone duck and risk a moment to see the poor ship capsize completely sending up a massive spray of charnel-house water.

RPG: Ruby declares she is consuming token fyc:
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Author: Ruby Held By: Ruby
Date: Sun Nov 4 17:38:48 2018 Focus: 6
Title: Fleet Triskelion
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Created via Shadowfind Legion (PAT-SL): battle discount-6 persistent shadowfind story-token token-6 type-pattern
Gift description:
This character is exceptional at shadowfinding high-quality armies (and navies) Such armies are stronger than typical shadowfound armies for battle purposes, and the character is more efficient at recruiting them. Also, when writing a 6-Focus token using this gift, representing troops, the cost will automatically be reduced by 1. (The normal amount of Focus must still be available, but less will be spent.)
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Token Description
Since leaving the Golden Circle, Fleet Triskelion #TooBigToFail has grown to over a hundred ships and has left a long lingering wake of influence through shadow. The surviving vessels and crews #WhateverDoesNotKillYou have been seasoned by the trip via all the numerous shadow blocks, sabotage and naval engagements. Their composition runs the standard fare of frigates, galleons and ships of the line, with a van and rear of faster picket ships. The gamuts of vessels are from ship-builders, leasing privately owned vessels complete with Captains and crew, and prizes captured in battle. The Beast is considered the flagship, but to make things manageable within the fleet #DasBloat authority trickles down further to delegated ships, thereby carving the fleet into squadrons and flotilla. Smack dab in the center of the fleet #TemptingFate are three immense Arks that dwarf the other ships.
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RPG_System's amendment at Sun Nov 4 17:39:31 2018:
Ruby attached this token as a flag.
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RPG_System's amendment at Wed Dec 31 17:00:00 1969:
Ruby detached this token from the flagpole.
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RPG: Ruby used the following +token/use targets: Main Deck - Beast

Clive pops back up from behind the railing, spyglass in hand as he surveys the closest prospects for boarding. He only gets so far through this before spotting the pair of followers on their tail, his open eye narrowing at the discovery. "Two against one, huh? Let's see how bad they want this." Pulling it away, he smacks it back into the collapsed form and bounds back over to the modest poop deck, talking into the navigator's ear to relay his plan. Waving Barnaby over, he does the same with him before slapping him on the back to send him off spreading the word to the crew down below and the other ships in the squad. Only a short moment later, after seeing an acknowledgment from the Polsham and Indubitable, the closest pair in the squad, he cups a hand at his mouth and calls out, "We're comin' about! Ready for another salvo! Boarding crew to the main deck! Watch those flames below!" Right on cue, the Chimera starts to make a hard turn to port. Elsewhere, the Polsham and Indubitable bide their time, waiting to see if these pursuers will commit. Down below, the gun crew has pulled the guns back and shut the gun ports. Behind them, they've begun prepping their own arrows, soon to be on fire, for a bit of a surprise greeting.

The ships under Flame's command maneuver to cut off escape where they can. The captains know their jobs. Keep the enemy contained. Kill them all.
As the ships grow ever closer together, Maggie pauses in the flinging of fire arrows to assess the situation. The enemy is getting closer. Maybe too close. The thought itself seems to herald a mighty crash from starboard as two enemy ships come together with one of Flame's contingent between them. They veer off as the ally teeters from one wave to the next before falling in slow motion toward the next upswell. Sailors, those who have survived, flail and scream imprications to the hungry storm. Lightning lances down in a wicked blue-white crackle to strike one of the enemy ships, setting the rigging and sails aflame.
Grapples are sent from ship to ship as the Triskellion group tries to maintain their upper hand and the enemy attempt to wrest it from them. Sighting along the deck, Maggie sends a crackling, orange flame-bright arrow forward to set the ropes of an enemy ship to burning. This frees a beleagered ally's ship, though everyone knows that the reprieve is temporary. Leaning over the railing seperating the forecastle from the rest of the ship, she yells, "Shih! Get the trio of ships there," a gesture indicates the spot where the friendly ship was smashed on the waves. "We need to plug that hole!"
The ship rocks, sending some sailors stumbling for something to hold onto. "Now what," Maggie almost whispers when she sees that the roiling seas are shiver-shaking all of the ships in the vacinity.
"Captain!" a sailor shouts, "Look!" Turning, Maggie spots the unmistakable curve of a submersible rising to the surface. Ignoring the fact that Kerf's beautifully goofy ship is back behind them in another Shadow, her heart leaps! Only to dash again when the obvious discrepencies between the horror infested bubbles rising all around them register. "Harpoons," she calls. "Gunners, put holes in those things. And pass that along." Even as she calls, her voice taking on that thunderous reverberation that is part of her mother's heratage, another ally's ship crackles and pops from the many stones sailing from enemy ships. Unable to recover or flee, it begins to list to one side, ready to capsize. A third and fourth, gored by an enemy's lucky, or skillfully lobbed trebuchet flung stones, creak and crash together, plummeting rapidly into the deep.

RPG: Merrisol challenges a difficulty of 10. Merrisol chooses Wits and the gifts SKL-SC, STY-CC, and STY-OR. Merrisol almost succeeds.
RPG: Merrisol declares he is consuming token ejs:
-------------------------------------------------------------------[ ejs ]----
Author: Ruby Held By: Merrisol
Date: Sat Apr 18 13:01:48 2015 Focus: 3
Title: Merri's Flesh Light
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Created via Mark of Storm (INK-MS): power-token rechargeable token-3 type-magic
Gift description:
This tattoo depicts a thunderbolt, and it may be realistic or stylized. If this tattoo is prominently displayed, the wearer may expend the tattoo rather than take a physical consequence from lightning, thunder or another weather based phenomena. When this happens, the tattoo will flash dramatically, then become faded.
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Secondary gift used: Living Art (INK-LA): token-0
Gift description:
This tattoo may depict anything the artist desires, realistic or stylized. With an act of concentration, the recipient of the tattoo can cause it to become animated. The tattoo does not leave the skin, and can only perform a set 'loop' of actions. Obviously, this has very limited applicability - it is merely an interesting novelty.
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Secondary gift used: Radiant Ink (INK-RI): token-0 type-magic
Gift description:
The artist is able to create an ink that is capable of releasing mystic light on command. While the methods can vary from artist to artist, the result is the same; whatever the form of the tattoo, it glows with a radiance equivalent to a torch at the will of the bearer.

Additionally, a secondary gift may be used to provide dramatic color to this gift: an appropriate STR gift might provide electrical arcing across the lines, FIR gifts might cause flames to flicker, etc... Whatever the case, the effect is purely color and cannot be used to bring even incidental harm to anyone or anything.
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Token Description

Circling Merrisol's left wrist like a cuff is a sampling of reef coral, tattooed to his skin with artful realism. Mint green blending to depths of azure bring out the ruffles and rucks of texture that are purely illusory. Lighter accents of rose lace coral, a delicate and pale species which spreads in many angular branches, dangle onto the top half of his hand. They are fairly stark upon his deep tan, and the middle most ornament in particular tends to resemble a complex fork of lightning whose path happens trace the main vein of the hand. It reveals itself to /be/ that thunderbolt when the tattoo's power is invoked, causing it to flash on his skin before fading to a mere after-image. Ancillary to the main effect, the lace coral can be made to grow out in longer branching polyps until the design covers the expanse of his hand, including some delicate wisps beyond each knuckle. Further directed concentration results in the lattice developing a glow that builds to a radiant light source, as though his whole hand is sizzling with deadly bio-electrical currents.

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RPG_System's amendment at Thu Jun 9 20:46:48 2016:
Automated RPG message: Merrisol used up this token. Declaration made to Crags.
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RPG_System's amendment at Tue Sep 27 21:11:17 2016:
Automated RPG message: Merrisol recharged this token.
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RPG: Merrisol used the following +token/use targets: Main Deck - Beast

Quinlan is....not having a good night.
First, the Duchess is going to catch fire any moment (what with all the tar and lamp oil and gunpowder layering the damaged planks) and so the well-intentioned mageling started tying surviving sailors to bits of spar - anything that might float - and launching them overboard to use the spars as floatation devices in the choppy waters.
Then there's the giant monsters in the water that are quite ready to eat those spar-tied sailors. That's a problem. It's not burning-alive levels of problem, but it's pretty close. And Quinlan's looking rather....*frazzled*. A little wild, a little...Redhead. And once the last sailor is liberated from the 'probably will burn to death' problem, the mageling dives right after solving the second problem. Literally. Calling the winds around him, the skinny mage flies straight up - and then down into the waters. ...With the sea monsters. *fwoop!* disappearing underneath the surface.

RPG: Clive challenges a difficulty of 10. Clive chooses Force and the gifts SKL-AD, SKL-MC, SKL-SC, STY-PI, STY-SC, and STY-UE. Clive overwhelmingly succeeds.

As the cascading field of lightning licks across the prows of the Bedlam and Crackers, the hands in the rigging cut their tethers by order of the ships' captains and scramble down. Aboard all the surviving ships on the precipice of a mad dash into the elemental inferno, there are hasty crew rotations, sending all belowdecks except for the most able seamen and particularly the Minosians, despite there being only a select few who revel in the lightning's clawed touch. Turned aside by the exposed reefs, the posse slides upon the next coursing waves into a seascape crackling with energy webs and blinding bolts from the spinning thunderheads. The air is more ozone than oxygen, leaving the skeleton crews gasping and squinting to keep their sister ships in communication range. Mostly it's the Bedlam they dog after, the swift sloop favoured by Pattern experts, one of them being a particularly lucky sunnuvagun. Captain Merrisol has taken over the helm, uttering mantras that keep the blood thread at a lively flicker, and using that for dead reckoning through the treacherous storm, skirting the devastation of blackened wrecks along the way. If they can just push through the next steep tidal dip, they'll ride back out of the thick of...
And then one can almost pinpoint the moment Martin's luck turns on a dime, and deserts the small fleet just as the outer edge of hell is in sight. A dozen shafts of lightning writhe into being, curling around masts and leaping across the wet decks to touch everyone in their path. Begmans at their R.A.D.I.O.'s just manage to relay initial hails before the equipment is spectacularly enrobed with incandescence. Even with grounding measures in place, crew are seized and then cast smoking to the deck. At the ship's wheel, Merrisol has his shirtsleeve wrestled up to display in full the blazing tattoo that has overtaken his hand, and though sizzling briars course up and down his frame for several heartbeats, he stays upright, yelling savagely for the stunned crew to get back to their stations.
The Bedlam breaks out of the node's furious reactor core, bringing with her a limping line of ships. The dozens of fires that sprouted are even now guttering beneath the prevailing rains. And there are more enemies and allies ahead, winking in and out of view between battering waves and a layer of ship detritus. Merrisol's gaze rivets to the silhouette of a matronly frigate, and begins to turn the squadron astride the waves in that direction. A look of pure rage emerges on his rain-glazed features, as if the lightning had stripped away sensibility like a thin veneer. "..Ballista units! Ready for battle to starboard!"

The sleek Corsairs do indeed take the Selkie's bait. The sharkish twins have a good crew who step lively to a change of course. Where some other Consortium ships may flounder on these troublesome waves and cantankerous winds, these might seem more sympathetic to the reavers. They slice towards Clive's business, treating the waves like ice and they're a pair of gold medalists. The sailors on her decks lever harpoon weapons and rest them on the stylized razor wire railings, holding their fire. As a final bit of edgy-ness, they tug strips of glyph-drench cloth up over one eye as prepare to fire.

The undersea vista that greets Quinlan is pretty dark and murky. The troubled clouds above mirror problem below, but less elementally tempestuous. Lots of suggestions of ~things~ down there. A couple of diving bell submersibles that were dragged from shadow are drifting in the depths down here and each one has a little drama playing out inside while systems fail. Leviathan shapes cruising the depths and chasing smaller shoals of wriggly noodles that are keen on flailing sailor-things near the surface. Bleeding isolated sailors in open water are the easiest to locate, so those are snapped at first. They're not as fast as an arrow from a bow, but they are ~bloody~ quick. They bite, and wrap, and rend.

Maggie has the upper hand in her slug match. The limpet mine field of bobbing crippled subs get perforated rather dramatically. Some don't go silently into the deeps at all and become a flurry of bubbling squawling depth charges. Some too close to the enemy collide, and the result is very bad for them. Those that disappear under the waves implode at different fathoms.
The weakness perceived in Maggie's formation is spotted by some of the Consortium and they rush to capitalize on it, gambling dearly with brute force towards the gap. Overshooting the mark or presenting vulnerable sections of their ships is what they're willing to risk if it means escaping this hell as some of their comrades are attempting. They commit at least a dozen ships, with a real bruiser of a man-o-war in the lead as the spear tip. If it succeeds, it could mean a real breakout.

Ruby jams a finger in one ear and then the other. A wiggle and twist doesn't return all of her hearing back to 100 percent or remove much ear wax. A bit of blood perhaps from a damaged ear drum, but with everything going on, pain isn't perceived yet. The deck tilts alarmingly but everyone is seasoned enough to find this the easier challenge to overcome today. She claws her way over towards a second-in-command and grabs him by shirt collar and anchors her other hand to the railing. Behind and beside, there's more ships hounding Triskelion ships, who are giving as good as they get. Their priority to get to an Ark means more opportunities to be raked, with less weapons to bring to bear. With the failure of some cannons, boarding is on the menu and multiple ships are becoming mobile battlegrounds. Their decks, the rigging and cabins places where death is deal close enough to know what the other had for supper. It is not going well for Triskelion in this location, or at the Ark, as the Consortium's preferred tactic of using a wolf pack isn't prevented. Ruby presses her lips up close to her Bosun's ear, "Ellis?Assume command, ~noooow~." She slugs him in the shoulder with a short rabbit punch and grits her teeth so her words hiss out through a pearly white grill. "Loife fer tha runnahs." She gives him one last amicable mini-throttle to let that sink in, and vaults over the side.

Quinlan is shielded from the underwater tempest by being in his own bubble of air, that goes where he wants it to. That sense of *frazzle*, of too many people needing too much too quickly, hasn't faded a jot. In fact, seeing the scope of the problem, that sense of *frazzle* just gets worse. You could probably power a generator by hooking it up to the mage's nerves. But there's a job to do. He targets the creatures that snap at the injured, bleeding sailors first.
It is a popular and wholly incorrect myth that Pathian mages throw fireballs. They *can*, and sometimes do just for the theater of it, but Arcanis has no need to be created right by the mage. If a Pathian wants to set something on fire, they just have to speak the spell. Even underwater, even without any kind of fuel to burn, the fire will come.
Say hello to a billion calamari dinners, floating away on the current. If you're quick you might get there before the hungry fishies do.

RPG: Maggie challenges a difficulty of 10. Maggie chooses Resolve and the gifts SKL-OB, SKL-SC, and STY-PI. Maggie succeeds.

Thunder roars with each flash of lightning from the storm cannons on the Chimera as they open up on the closest of the two Corsairs, working to persuade one of the pair to keep her distance. Those flashes start to slow down as one gun peels back, now being winched over to the other side of the vessel. The Polsham and Indubitable now commit, changing course to intercept at the point where Clive is headed while the gaps in the line are filled by others. Meanwhile, the square-rigged Chimera hits that moment when she points on into the wind, right on time, and it's as if she hits the brakes compared to those sleek Corsairs. Her momentum carries her some and as the first Corsair zooms on up, she is greeted by the gun ports opening up on the Chimera to reveal sets of flame-tipped arrows. Pirate craftiness! Clive yells out the very moment he knows they're in range, "FIRE!" A volley of small flames shoot across the water, accompanied by another roar of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning that cuts across the water. The Polsham and Indubitable move in behind, closing the trap and opening up with their ballistii. Aboard the Polsham, the ever colorful Captain Giles can be seen stomping about with his wisely chosen Cutlass Hand now attached and waving about in the air as he barks out orders and riles up the men.

And just where the heck has that layabout Boaz been?! Busy and bleeding the young captian has had his hands full of just about everything at once. Having taken enemy ship one the crazed second in command of The Whiskers in turn dives aboard the second of the third vessels they assaulted. This one being less filled with fighters and suddenly having a hard time of things. The third ship turns tail to run, following after those already heading for the nodes exits.
Boaz calls across to both ships. "Follow! We gonna help dem arks!" Speaking of the two arks now being hazed by enemy ships. The young man not knowing if his sister is aboard one of them or not. Blood is blood after all.
The Whisker is in the lead and Boaz on the middle ship. A vessel that claims itself to be Redemptions Curse. The third ship straggling along as the skeliton crew struggles to get things running. That one blessed with the name of Wind Devil.

The hail of arrows falls again into and around Captain Flame's allies. Up go the shields to ward off the high shots, but that leaves the middle and low, with their torsoes and legs vulnerable. On every ship, screams rise adding a cacophany of wails to the crackle and snap of the lightning.
The beauty of the trebuchet is the distance that it can lob a payload. The problem is that when the target moves in close, it is harder to land a telling blow on the deck. At captain Shih's command, some begin to aim for masts and what lies behind their target ships.ssssss The whump, crash of impact is followed by a creaking, snapping as first one, then several masts give way, pulling rigging down with it. While most of this happens on Consortium ships, not all. Lightning crackles, licking along the railings of the Tail Spinner and the Sea's Treasure. The hiss of burning wood, glowing red-hot and spitting, is cooled by the crimson rain. Everywhere, the appearance of gore splatter masks actual puddles of blood or worse. Maggie is unfazed by the lightning, but the sight of some of her crew being charred by the electricity, falling to the decks like over cooked ribs is heart breaking.
Wiping red rain and tears from her eyes, she inhales and shouts, her storm blood fueling the cry, carrying it to the ships in her command and out to the enemy. While she could mimic a certain fictional wizard, calling 'you shall not pass', she does not. Instead, she releases the firey bow she has been weilding and lifts one hand to claim a blazing spear from the air, the flames shimmering in the rain, in the lightning. It grows, lifting like a beacon in the storm, "For Amber! For Incarnate! Today is our day!"
Sailors, survivors so far, take up the call. Maggie pauses, sensing someone dear to her nearing. For an instant, she turns a glance in the direction of Merrisol's approaching ship. For him, though he cannot see it, she smiles a warm welcome. To the fore, the Treasure is jerked toward a nearing Consortium ship as grappling lines land and enemy sailors prepare to swarm aboard and Maggie's attention turns to the job at hand. One of Shih's people leads a group of sailors to try and cut the lines and stave off the invasion. Perhaps as cover for their fellows, another barrage of arrows is loosed at the Treasure.
Aboard Fisk's Fist, things are better, for they have managed to keep their distance. Their, now smaller, contingent of ships turn to try and fill the hole left by the dying ship. Fisk, a tall, massively muscled bear of a man calls orders to his crew, avoiding the lightning strike that cooked Flame's deck hands. Spotting the approaching man-o-war, the Fist rolls out a long, sharply tipped tree-trunk of a 'figure head'. It is locked into place but the order to ram the ship is not given. Instead, the seige weapons are loaded, catapults and ballista alike. All along his command, the intent is the same. Sink those ships before anyone can slip free. It is a race, though.
Once the Duchess is empty of human cargo, she limps along on her current trajectory. Sailing unattended, she drifts with the sea's wimsy, angling for a grouping of Consortium ships. She is a ticking timebomb though, waiting for the right conditions, or the lick of lightning to explode.
At the end of Flame's line, the Tail Spinner juts forward like a witch's chin. She turns a bit, intending to lend aide to those closest to her. The ship nearest is caught by an upswell, perhaps inspired by the turbulance from an imploding sphere beneath the waves. Her prow swings wildly before her helmsman can regain control. A friendly fire crash is narrowly avoided, but they do share a kiss of paint that sends a shock through both ships. The Tail Spinner, pride wounded more than frame, lurches away to seek a less congenial target.

The supernatural fire produced by Quinlan is a big #nope to the things nearby that aren't consumed by it. The heat and impossibly manifesting element overloads sensitive staring eye things and offends creatures preferring cold darkness. The BBQ seacritters spread in a swath of charred bits. The largest things down there, and shoals nearby veer away and for the moment, giving the sailors using wreckage for safety and floatation, extra precious survival time.

The sleek and expensive looking Corsair has the Chimera almost bracketed perfectly. Trusting in their near indentical buddy ship to come in and help pin down Clive...doesn't happen. Gunports opening in their face, the uncovered eyes of the sailors drawing a bead with their harpoon launchers have their vision filled with all those firey arrows and a blinding flash that turns everything to light and thunder. Before they can loose, they're blasted apart by stormcraft and hit with that volley of arrows. Some of the enemy are atomized and the ship blossoms into crackling sparks of wreckage. Gunpowder might not work, but Minosian Storm cannons sure do. Shards of the ship are still twisting in the wind.

Where is Martin?Wherever he is most useful as he attempts to not die and ensure other's don't meet a similar fate. At least as many as he can. It's never easy, is it? At the same time he narrowly avoids getting hit by said lightning, skidding almost to the edge of the ship. He manges to grip a rope before sliding overboard and kind of skids and skips to avoid getting lighting bolted. The rope, however, is attached to other loops and ropes and pullys. All those kinds of things that you find on a ship. When his luck is weird, his luck is weird. In the end he winds up in the rigging, a little tangled up in it and upside down. That would be why he hadn't been able to do much else. His expression, however is very decidedly I MEANT TO DO THIS. Is he on the right side to do anything good? Maybe ... maybe not.

Assorted screams and grunts accompany Martin's less than graceful situation.

Now that they've returned to a more regular state of pandemonium, captainly yelling also resumes. Sailors boil up from below decks to form a full complement on deck, which is very much required as the Bedlam is wave-tossed into range of a few separate skirmishes. Handing back navigation to the rightful helmsman, Merrisol makes for the quarterdeck and opens his spyglass to see about identifying the various participants. The surface of the waves is thick with carnage, evidence of recent victories and losses by both sides, and along with those a high death toll among the sea's unnatural denizens. Grimacing, he pans over the waves still some several clicks distant and spots the blue-white flares of storm cannons discharging. Pan again, and there's magic fire flickering into being amidst yet another tangle of warring vessels. Both battles look to be going well under allied command, he decides, after a slightly lingering gaze. Closer, the defense of the ponderous arks is a clearer option... but Merri draws out his saber to light-signal to his captains: Onwards to where the Beast and her companion frigates have apparently come under intense ballistae and... lazar??? fire. Stalking to an unmanned launcher on the quarter deck, he unlashes a trunk-sized bolt and hefts it into the empty firing socket. Charging alongside various enemy ships, the Aries, Flynn, and Doggerel Deux are among the first to make their presence known with a full battery of heavy javelins into undefended Consortium flanks. Merri swivels the ballista as the swift Bedlam pulls ahead of it all, his sights settling on the Beast for a long moment of fierce intent. He blinks away sluicing rainwater, hot and tart as blood, perhaps catching sight of a reason to change his mind. With a wrench, he turns and recenters on a wicked corsair as she cruises into range, and with a buck of unleashed tension, shatters her bow beneath the bowsprit.

Cutting across the waters teaming with life and currents the trio of ships under the makeshift command of Boaz swing wide, trying to make the most of wind and wave to traverse said waters in quick time. Also tryingto sneak up on the ships too focused on the arks to be paying attention to just who may be approaching.. one hopes.
Boaz is at the helm of the Redemption with a sailor tying off a makeshift bandage about his shoulder, already seeping through with blood. The Whiskers ahead of him suddenly veers and cuts some of her sails and thus her speed. Boaz's lips press together, words of questionable nature trying to burble up and yell their way to the leading ship when he notes the waters are full of life. And not just squidly icky things either. Lights of fire below the waves and../sailors/.
"Shhhh...ite!" The young captain says with gusto. "Cut sail! Get dem sailahs aboard here! Come on, Come on! We gots places to be and ships ta save!"