It was nice Node-ing ya - Part 5

[rubyrubyruby]

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.

The Consortium is being hit from so many sides, they are splintering. That big impressive mass of ships from Ruby's shadow is fragmenting down lines of close loyalty. More often than not, there's communications between enemy vessels to reconnect with their kin and flee. The only place where there has been an effective wolfpack is hounding after Ruby's substantial wedge of vessels (now greatly diminished), and to cluster around the Arks like fleas on a dog. It's uncertain of who is exactly winning over there, but it's looking like it will be the last big uncertain cluster of resistance.

Moxon, hunkered on one of Ruby's ships on the outer wedge, does his best to distract and confuse by sending false information by flag and signal-light-- it's said that those of his line are immune to inclement weather and certain kinds of lightning, which Captain Lieutenant-- either dearly hopes or outright dares-- with all that scurrying up-and-down the mainmast for the sake of misdirection!

While the conventional cannons are silent, there's flocks of arrows that rain down, along with strange shadowmagic. Some of that inclement weather, blood-tinged squalls and lashing wind, helps to hinder death delivered by bowstring. The huge tree-trunk ballista missiles take almost as long as gunpowder cannon to load and prime. But sizzling quarrels tipped with flame or acid are sent at Ruby's ships making for the Arks. The ship Moxon's doing his best on happens to be one of the many targeted now. Incoming!

The fighting has begun to grow less frenzied in Maggie's quarter. Sending a message to the ships remaining in her command, she begins the slow process of herding their enemy into a tighter and tighter space. The line curves, gradually angling to create a ring. Fires are still sent into the fray and ships flare into orange light that is augmented by the bluer, hotter flames kindled by lightning's kiss. Arrows fly through the air, hissing with hunger as they seek tender, unprotected flesh. Landing amid screams of pain, some thunk into their targets while others prickle the wood nearby and others skitter off the silent cannons, arrowheads glinting underfoot. Three times an archer may have thought that they scored against the wild red-head sending firey death their way. Three times she staggered or ducked and three times she came back to send more fire into the enemy ships. As the cordon tightens around the Consortium ships, allied vessels lacking room to maneuver peel away to race toward the Arks and Ruby's fleet.

RPG: Moxon challenges a difficulty of 10. Moxon chooses Wits and the gift SKL-OB. Moxon succeeds.

Surrounded, the pair of Corsairs break apart after only a matter of minutes under the sustained fire of the three primary ships of the Selkie's squad. A few rounds of lightning are delivered into the water of the wreckage for good measure and then Clive is motioning for the crew to return to normal battle stations. Signals are going out to the Polsham and Indubitable as the Chimera fills her sails once more, now on the prowl and looking to see where she is needed most. Emboldened, Clive climbs partway up in the rigging before snapping his spyglass out and giving a look over the battlefield. "Hot damn..." Around he goes, panning across the action until he comes to a stop on the view of the Arks. "Barnaby! New course. Thirty degrees to port and push 'er to the limit! Let's get both guns on the starboard side. Still in good shape on that side, yeah?" There is some nodding and then both are moving in opposite directions to handle tasks all about the ship.

Moxon, watching the loading and directing, rapidly calculates 'shit's about to go down--' directing the crew, he uses the precious minutes to order the lifeboats flipped to face the attacking ships as a kind of ablative armor, meanwhile changing course amid the fire and spray to deflect the massive quarrel's impulse and/or detonation!

An earlier manifestation of something far off, vast and terrible makes another appearance. The thing, ambulating upon three cyclopean pillars, has always been in motion. Coming nearer...or stalking away, it is leagues upon leagues away and suggests an impossible massiveness. It is coming to a standstill. Each pillar sinks into the ocean and it simply stands.
The troubled clouds that tumble overhead are stirred by numerous invisble cotton-candy batons. Whipping them into what might herald further funnels and waterspouts.
That area of intense lightning, and its dangerous border of sky-stabbins, is by happy accident or trigger squeezing its real estate into a tighter area as well. The thunder is coming closer together there, and is like some Napoleonic rolling artillery barrage.
The area is stupid-thick with magical energies already. Magic-sensitive nostrils that purposefully snort in a good whiff will be getting a real dumpster fire of aromas. And yet more stoonch is layered onto the curb: A thick coppery dollop, like the inside of a surgeon's cabin, or some heavily stained stone altar.

Quinlan surfaces when the undersea beings decide right now isn't the time to make the acquaintance of several hundred thousand Jadean sushi chefs. Everything else seems to have gone by the wayside for him, at least for the moment. It's get these sailors ....okay, probably not OUT of danger, that's not happening around here, but at least to SURVIVABLE danger. Probably survivable danger at worst. Which means, at the moment, getting them out of the water. Boaz's sailors are a welcome aid in this endeavor, and Quinlan starts manipulating the waters to send the sailors thattaway so they can be lifted out. He's got his eye on those waters. Any more angry underseabeings that want to come up for a snack are going to get serious burns.

The edgey Corsairs that get turned into toothpicks by Clive's squadron serve up a great visual for those others that share the Reaver ship template of the Consortium. Pot-shots are loosed that are loaded and primed, but the ships are using their swept-back sails to quickly arc away and seek to disengage. They're not going to tangle anymore and need to lick wounds and consolidate.
Ordinance rains down on Moxon's quickly erected defenses. With the change of direction and clever angling of makeshift shields, what could have been disasterous to life and limb is neutralized or sent careening off into air and sea. They make lovely noises as they deflect and warble off into different directions.

The Arks have always been the slowest of the fleet and hindered the maximum speed. Their method of propulsion never had the benefit of sails, and so they make easy targets to intercept. But at least the height of their hulls makes them bastions. Itty bitty silhouettes at the very top do their best to cut away the ridiculous amount of grapnel lines or fire upon the boarding attempts with crossbows. 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. Collisions of ships against the hull due to the dangerous ocean conditions show breaches present.

Boaz and those able and free are at the rails of the varrious ships with lines, gaffs, hooks, ladders.. Basicly anythign they can find to haul living bodies from the drink and back up on to soild wood.
The sight of the sea itself sort of pushing sailors toward and then up nearer to deck level has Boaz taking a step back from the rail with wide eyes and good arm up as if to fend away this strange deviltry that's befallen the waters around his ships. "Oi! OI OI!" He shakes himself free from cold dread of cursed seas and steps back to the rail to pull folk up, yelling at them as they flop aboard like caught fish. "Ya lads an' lasses be blessed! Youse all seems ta upset the belleh of tha sea enough for it ta re-gur-imatate you back oop an' out! Just in tiome for us ta catch ya too!" He cackles to cover his wide rolling eyed fear of all this strangeness even as he keeps checking the massive three legger in the distance.