Can you outrun bad news?

[rubyrubyruby]

Since the incident the previous year (+flag fki), the shadowpath to Cibola had become treacherous. There have been rare sorties via Pathfinders, and some risk takers that are willing to gamble their lives on moving trade along the path. Not counting intrepid individuals that work in their own mysterious ways, general mercentile traffic has dropped off considerably.
However, on this relatively calm afternoon on the ocean...
Those that might be dutifully keeping watch on the entrance of the path to Cibola that possess keen eyes or twitchy instincts for self-preservation might feel their small hairs rise or catch a glimpse of something fleeting.

Since the strangeness of that path, it's always been a 'blood run' to work where the way to and from Cibola is situated. The stories from the picket sailors who have rotated into that posting have been, well, /red/. After initial encounters, the picket run has been modified slightly further away from the instability, but within view. Still, it ain't no milk run at all...
Captain Paris was a few days into this blood run, leading the rotating task group patroling the vast area. It'd been reduced, since the trade had dropped, but they were still the eyes and ears. Paris, on the deck and watching the horizon, is one of the first to feel the unease.

Around about where ship traffic is meant to begin the first of a set of conditions to use the Path...A ship is appearing. Perhaps the very thing to herald some wariness of sailors worth their salt. It might have been a fine looking Brig at one point. It still has one of its two masts standing proud and tall, and half of its square-rigged sails. The rest is tattered, blackened and flapping like a bloody banshee. Like a teen exiting a washroom after vaping, it drafts wispy stuff. Clingy vapours caught within the rigging appear loath to relinquish their oily hold, and they create an atmospheric wake, similar to the frothy pink-foamed stuff mingling with perfectly fine sea that trails the hull and rudder.

Paris lowers his spyglass and stares a moment, thinking about his orders. His first impulse, upon seeing a ship, was to inspect. Then it was to render aid. Now he feels that maybe they should keep a good, healthy distance.
"Beck," he shouts, and the second lieutenant approaches. He's also seen the ship. "I don't like the look of that much."
"Aye, Captain," Beck agrees, staring. He's seen some wild things on prior blood runs, but this seemed new. After some murmuring between the officers, and Paris calls orders. Sailor up to the crow's nest to try to get a message by mirror signal to the nearest ship. Look lively, prepare for a fight if needed, and helmsman, keep a distance to see clearly but not *too* close. The ship's crew swing into action.

If someone has a spyglass or blessed with eagle eyes, the ship's name can be made out to be The Mavourneen. It's a ship not unfamiliar to Amber's docks, registered and flying flags that mark it as ship that's plied trade within the Golden Circle. Its gun ports are open and half of them are blackened. It has suffered hull breaches that have crispy stubby bits of hull as evidence of a fight. Possibly gunpowder of all things. Previous impacts of quarrels and ballistae make patches of the ship look like it's trying to grow hair. Scorch marks show where sailors were successful in putting out fires.
The Mavourneen has activity all about its deck and rigging. Desperate attempts to keep the ship sailing as fast as is possible. Someone is at the ship's watch bell, and there is a fierce ringing of it. Two deckhands are running to the bow. One with lanterns and the other with cages containing birds. It's a tricky sprint with the slick patches of blood.

"Approach and hail!" Paris calls, upon closer inspection. "Prepare to render aid to a ship in distress!"
It's a different sort of activity, though the details of the stricken ship don't set everyone at ease with the new orders. Still, orders are orders and the picket fleet does respond to distressed ships. The man in the crow's nest relays their new intent, plus the name of the vessel, and gets acknowledgement flashes at the horizon, after a few repetitions.
As the Aegis turns under Paris's orders and approaches, Beck prepares to lead a boarding party. Rope, fire fighting tools... and swords.

The Mavourneen has spotted the navy ships and an injured man in its crow's nest manages to shout down to the surviving officers. Deckhands shout at the top of their lungs, making a gumbo of mumbo jumbo words congealing together. At the bow, the winner of the footrace is fumbling with a pigeon to carry a message, but with the Aegis closing, he slumps against the rail, and the feathered messenger stays within its cage for now. There are many scratches along his forearms. There are many empty cages by the railing. A junior officer is helped down from the quarterdeck where he croaks out orders to heave to. A quartermaster supervising some damage control sweeps his arm and directs men forward to help if boarding lines are deployed.
An argument breaks out between a well-beared Bosun and the junior officer. It carries. "...Don't stop! Damn you, don't cut sail!"
"We might have stolen a march on them...We make contact, as ordered, fool." The officer waves one arm, the other having been amputated. "Ahoy! We come from the Node!"

"Ahoy!" Beck replies. "We stand ready to give aid! Are you sea worthy?" Pause. "Are you pursued?" The followup question causes some murmur from the Aegis crew.
Ropes are cast out to begin the process of bringing the ships together, but half of them pause at the questioning. Many look back along the path the ship came from. The ship's doctor has joined the boarding party, already grimacing as he surveys the injuries he sees. "By the Unicorn...." he is heard to mutter.

The bosun elbows himself forward, pawing past his fellow crew to stand like an equal to the junior officer who is doing his best to have a stiff upper lip. A professional sailor even if an independant. The Bosun brays, "For the love of the Goddess, they're right behind us!" His fellow crew are already worn out and anxious, and this doesn't help with the raw emotions. On the deck are loose weapons, blood and splinters from an engagement. A score of dead are swept to what corners may temporarily anchor them. The wounded not belowdecks are trying to muster. The junior officer hobbles with help to the railing damp with salt water and blood. "It's very important we get out a message. We tried to get here first...Nate's birds, Unicorn's blessings, but the storms in the path are so bad...and the arrows...we couldn't get any away!"

More vessels are appearing from the direction of the troubled shadowpath. They appear to course correct to bear down on the damaged ship. They don't look like they've made the journey unscathed either, but they're in far better shape. Man O Wars and Galleons that are using a rugged sails fit for sailing in gales. The brutes are spattered by reddish streaks, as was the Mavourneen. Has it been raining blood? They bear no markings of fealty to Amber or the GC. The prows of their ships are elaborate individualized figureheads of martyrs suffering under different torments.

Beck is a sharp lad, and has done half a dozen blood runs in his short time assigned to the pickets. But as he quickly absorbs their words, the urgency, the blood drains from his tanned face. Then, steel, though it takes a moment to build his customary shout. "Take this man's message and signal it to the task group," he snaps to a nearby sailor. "Get the survivors aboard this ship as fast as we can, before they turn about." They. They. "Go go go!"
Paris, a bit further away, sees the incoming ships before he becomes aware of what Beck's sorted out. There is some confusion as the Captain adds to the orders being shouted, and two additional men begin climbing the rigging to help with signaling, or perhaps to get away from a bloodbath. It is to be a race to re-enforcements, if they can, with the living.

The crew of the Mavourneen eagerly assists in getting their bacon saved, and they'll be almost climbing atop one another to get to safety. The junior officer is insisting the crew be saved first. "Captain Nate swore to see us through. Did his best...Held the ship together through his luck and his arts. He took a ballista to the -" He grimaces and clutches at his bandaged shoulder socket. "Captain, please...Everyone has to stay out of the path. A day and a night she said is all that's needed. They've corked Cibola's side, but we sailed out the other. There's...soooo many." His breath has a healthy stink of rum on it, administered by the surgeon who has yet to appear from the abbatoir below the main deck. His thick accent can be heard orchestrating as quick an exit with wounded as is possible.
As the Aegis's doctor begins triaging the men coming aboard, Captain Paris listens to the officer. "We don't have the ships here to hold them off, but we can relay news ahead of us to Amber and the fleets. How many are coming through?" If they're not facing a large fleet, they could probably keep other ships from going in. But not both at once.

Beck and the rest of the Aegis crew get dirty, carrying wounded across the two ships and favoring speed over comfort. The message is flashed out from above, after the conflicting orders are sorted: Hostile ships coming from Cibola. Distressed ship. Aiding. Need reinforcements. Paris.

The three big boys working to reorient and attempt an intercept the Aegis don't even attempt to signal or parlay. They're large, but not as nimble as frigates. The figureheads on the prow of the vessels ~twitch~. The wooden depictions, here a woman with a noose around her neck, another depicted upside down and disemboweled, the third bound and its limbs missing, they have attained a kind of stuttering animation. A choir of voices rise from the middle ship. It isn't a bawdy tune, and doesn't have a lick of friendliness in it as they beseech their ship-ensconced deity effigies.

The junior officer introduces himself as Wallis. "Perhaps as 10 ships slipped through, sir." He coughs flecks of blood. "It's madness...We saw them lose 2 ships at least, Within the path. They steered too close to something and it tore into them like a saw. But they still kept coming, and trying to kill us. They. just. Kept. Firing." He takes a shuddering breath. "Captain Nate knew what to expect when we came back with Fleet Triskelion. We should have stayed to help the Arks. They're crawling with boarders...but we saw a enemy squadron making a run for it. Captain Incarnate told us and the Bulwark to carry word. We left them back there."

"Right." Paris has sized up the horrible situation. "Five minutes, we cut loose and make for Amber. The Admiral needs to hear what you have to say, what you've seen. FIVE MINUTES," he shouts, and turns to make for the helmsman.
Beck, streaked with gore and with a wild look, begins picking out Aegis crew to get going with prepping to make a run for it, including throwing heavy barrels overboard. Five. Minutes.

Three more ships appear behind the sumptuous sails of the first trio. Their formation isn't tight and some aren't even pointed in the right direction. Their transition to Amber's waters is fraught with unfamiliarity. They have visible battle damage, but were robust enough or lucky enough to follow. They lack the horrorshow figureheads. One of them looks to be a troop ship, lacking a lot of armaments in favour of being a great people mover. A seventh emerges suddenly, and then three more. Unlucky number seven is an odd thing, of alloys that aren't native to this reality. Of armanents that were sleek and crafted with shadowtech. Of swept-back stacks that belch smoke. It has vomited its engine room, crew and is just a superstructure falling to rapid entrophy. It's a miracle the hulk made it out of the path, but it can't survive a bit longer and is candlewax under a blowtorch.
Those that survive, numbering 9, get into a motley formation and perhaps indulge in the necessity of getting their bearings.

Five minutes seems like forever, but the Aegis crew and as many as can make it from the other ship do much with it. As someone actually keeps time, Beck is the last back aboard as the calls begin going out for sails and rudder. Ropes are cut, separating the two ships, and the Aegis begins turning.

Paris is watching the ships coming out of the shadowpatht through his spyglass and writing down what he sees in the logbook. No new messages are flashed out to sea, but the two ships within sight have acknowledged them and are moving to an escort intercept that the Aegis plans to make, some distance away from this current incoming mess. Paris adds to his log that he hopes the messages of light flashed between the picket fleet to a fast ship closer to Amber make it quickly. These things take time.

The choir boys aboard one of the lead Figurehead ships reach a timber shivering crescendo and disperse to rigging and deck duties. Their devotions have helped delay pursuit, but they move about with a renewed zeal. It and the two sister ships add sail as more comrades find their sea legs in Amber's waters. The wretched too-techie ship takes on more water and lists badly. The troop carrier and its escorts form up.
A sound like a 4-year old at a church organ brays out of the trio of zealot ships and they bear down on the abandoned ship like it owes them money. Their wooden figureheads writhe as ballistae are moved forward, so that the weapons are practically aimed over their heads and shoulders like some sort of bazooka.

The Aegis, picket ship of Amber, makes with all speed away, leaving barrels and heavy items in its wake. It's a smaller ship, well familiar with the winds, and not at all willing to engage the monsters behind it. The mood is professional but tense; some of the crew has faced more challenging situations with monsters out in shadow, but most have fairly routine ship inspections under their belts. Nothing like this.
Beck moves through the crew, murmuring to other officers to make sure the crew from the doomed ship are kept separate. The less horror stories they overhear about that group's experiences, the better for morale to get them to safety.

Ranging shots come from the lead pursuers, launching with loud ~phoots~ and ~twangs~. The gun ports that the strangers possess are gaping open, but are silent. The bores of barrels that catch a glint of ambient light betray their locations. Some could have viable firing arcs. The shots from ballistae fall short, sent in anger or to test. Three frigates from behind try to catch the wind and begin the process of arcing to a more southern position from the 3 man-o-wars. That being said, it looks like one of three big fellas is going to collide with the presents left behind by the Aegis. Eager as they are to catch up with the evacuated Mavourneen.

Beck, finally satisfied with the workings of his crew and the accomodations of the guests, makes his way to the captain and salutes, gives his report. "Sir, the Admiral will want to know--" But Paris nods, cutting off the point. "It is a detail for the next set of messages." He finishes that on a paper scrap and hands it to a sailor to carry and relay up to the folks with mirrors.
The Captain sighs, looking back at the abandoned ship being overtaken. "This is beyond us. Now we are messengers. And we will keep ahead of them." Beck nods agreement.
Meanwhile, Amberwards, the last message has pinged its way to a fast craft, which is making all haste to the True City. When the second message, including details of Incarnate and the neutered capacity to fire canon, reaches the closer pickets, another swift vessel is dispatched, and multiple homing birds as well, for redunancy.