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Merrisol has a coat thrown over his shoulders and for now, he wears Maggie's tricorn hat. He who does not wear hats looks a bit like an overovergrown kid, since the hat is a wee bit small considering. He ambles wearily around the deck, receiving the damage reports and getting a report on their casualties and injuries, so as to create a new active roster with Mr. Anderson. The WD is still masted and fleet, and in no time she is tugging the Bloody Nag closer to Ark the Third. Perhaps if they can all be pointing in the same direction at least, some kind of judicious ship repair can be finessed through Shadow?
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Around the central mast is where the strongest pocket of resistance is. With Ailith and Maggie coming in from both sides, there's little avenue for escape. At the mast, there is a female Captain and male First Mate. Armed with flintlocks and shouting for the crew to replay something similar to Custer's last stand. Viciously sharp kukri's slash at those that encroach. Most of them Stand. They aren't automatons though. Flesh and blood, a goodly number find the WinterFae absolutely terrifying, what with their deadly exuberance. The ring of protectors fall until it's just the two upper ranks leveling pistols, practically back to back. The flinklocks look like they have limited volleys possible, and they're wanting to make the last one's count for something if they can. The Captain raises her voice. She's a woman of sinew and muscle. Not a hulking figure, but past middle age. Scarred and hardened. "Welcome aboard! The Bloody Nag offers death to our enemies!" Her First Mate looks like he's going to be sick, but the scimitar in his hand hardly trembles. He starts reciting a dirge or litany under his breath. Something about his time is up, and that sucks.
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The larger enemy ships from this zealous aggressive faction are starting to reposition. There's a low wind-up sound like an overly dramatic gossiper. ~Woop wooooooop~. A horn or siren that's cycled up to bray a challenge or intent. One rather fabulously ship, large and gilded, separates from the others. It starts carving towards the Wave Dancer and Honestas, but requires work to get up to speed. It's got guns baby. A proper toe-to-toe that would be a drool-worthy prize. And of course, well armed. It's companions let it go after a few answering whoops. It's hard to stop a Captain with a bone to pick. And apparently it's going to join the battle, by its very own self, now that the smaller craft are getting picked off. With only one smaller picket ship left that's not on fire, boarded or sinking, it starts taking pot shots at the prow of the third Ark (ice-repaired and last in line).
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Faced with certain death or the luxury of breathing a bit longer, the woman before Ailith chooses the latter. There's quite a deep reservoir of hatred boiling within her. She avoids nodding so her carotid artery doesn't get nicked. She blinks hard and lifts her chin. She parts her lips, still panting after the duel, albeit brief. She responds in Thari, with an accent that's thick but serviceable. "So be it. I envy my dead. At least they are safe from your predations." She sneers, the ache of wounds seeping past the adrenaline.
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The incoming ships will intercept in a matter of minutes. The six picket ships screen the slower and larger vessels behind. The first wave are the size of a caravels. Their configuration is not uniform, like a proper navy. Only their intent. They're quick. Compositions are mostly wooden, though there is a curious couple that are composed of what looks like metal. And without masts. Anyone well traveled through distant shadow will recognize a higher tech level than Amber present on a smattering of vessels. It's a strange marriage with the ~Age of Sail~. Sensitive noses and keen eyes will also pick out the arcane amongst the Frankenstein fleet. Gunnery hatches to run out guns are rare, because of their smaller size, and instead have more activity preparing on their decks.
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Ruby's ship continues to shadow that crippled Ark. While Ailith's vessel is being a good samaritan and not letting anything drown if her Captain can help it...the Beast holds at station with an almost callous regard for the plight of the drowning creatures.
Once there's been a conference between Ailith, Maggie, Merrisol and Ruby on who intends to do what, Captain Incarnate psyches herself up to go diving into choppy waters that Merri is already at work in. Ruby confers via Trump with her Bosun with some instructions should everything go pear shaped, with primo standing orders of 'Do not leave me behind'. With Maggie's heating of some metalwork, Ruby works at bare-handing crooked links and new lengths as she can, with a rather large fishhook broken link to serve at the prow, just below the water line. Engaging the tattooed gills at her neck means at least she doesn't have to worry about oxygen. Outswimming the Middle Ark while it bobs is an effort, though helpfully with a straighter course possible via Maggie making sure the damaged Ark behind it has a straight rudder, and Ailith reducing its drag by eliminating it taking on more water...the plan is made more possible. Ruby has to crawl through the water much harder, dragging the not insubstantial length of chain, though she lacks any sort of clear vision within the water, sticking near the surface to try and use the Lead Arkship in sight. Lots of thrashing motions. Hopefully Ruby's aura of unfriendly-to-animals keeps the worst undersea denizens at bay.
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That big gaping hole in the Middle Ark is pretty neat for anyone that likes cross sections of things. It's also super good if someone wants to yell down towards the ocean if someone happens to be swimming along beside. Ruby's staying dry at this very moment, and crouching inside the exposed hull, her hand against the blacked and splinter-filled edge of timber. Peering along the curved hull where the lead floundering Ark is occasionally visible when it crests a wave, Ruby scowls. She turns away from the troubled seas and untethered Ark. "Maggie thinks if we get them more or less t'gethah...we can move them t'gethah. Want yer opinions on tha, Truth. If we can re-attach, then they be ducks inna row. An ducks all travel at same speed when they followin, so I think tha sounds good. But tha sounds like wetwork. An there be monstahs in tha ocean. Risky. I ain't afraid though."
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For all of Ruby's vaunted prowess with manipulating shadow, she's still subjected to unforeseen uncertainties. When the shifting of shadow for her vessel and those accompanying, she can't manage to arrive in the slipstream of the Arks. The realm they translate into is also in the grips of a storm. The sky and the sea are having a bit of a disagreement. Waterspouts and microbursts are traded like blows in a fight. A tortured funnel swizzling up to try and sucker punch...aft. A sudden downward shaft of air pressure that brings snow and hail...starboard. And the Beast, Wind Dancer and Honestas have the honour of navigating the treacherous seas.
Ahead there's more wet rolling hills of ocean, but while they might not have arrived in the wake of the Arks, it looks like they might be lucky enough to come at them from the leeward side. The Arks are squat, and without sails, which is dreadfully annoying when trying to spot them when the horizon keeps coming in and out of sight. But they do have something going for them: Size. A keen and salty eye will note how they're not in formation. One seems to be trying to navigate the swells that they all blunder through, but the two others, which are farther, seem rudderless or inexpertly Captained.

Ruby seems relatively satisfied with where they end up, but gives another glance at the back of an entirely different crew member for some sort of reference. Or ~feels~. It's a bit unorthodox using a person and a tattoo they bear as a potential waypoint. Barking out a series of orders for the crew , it's repeated by the First Mate so everyone gets very loud voice with a three second delay. "Fook, they look even bigger. Can't be possible?unless I came wrong and think I got it roight." She gives her head a shake. "No tellin 'ow close the sholes an reef be. Dunno 'ow much toime we 'ave?'ow many we can tackle?" She blinks away sea spray.
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Ruby has sent messages, runners, swimmers and probably even people via other people's trumps. Her ship is offered to be the sole vessel to do a quick shift into shadow, but she'll not refuse to make it a multi-ship-trip.
Currently on her deck, which is still being fixed after a boarding action, The Beast is seaworthy but could use TLC. She tries to explain as a group or staggered as people can arrive. "There be'ah tradition tah 'elp sailors tha be in trouble, no mattah friend or foe, if they in bad enough peril. I know, s'funny. An I don't know if it counts when not at war...I getting distracted." She takes a breath and tightens her belt holding knives and useful sundries. "Anyway, I know Merri can't stand tah see things goo unsaved, an for once, me thoughts runnin parallel. But I ain't weak or big 'earted, Truth. An there be three bloody ships tha are gonna run aground on a reef for certain. For ~certain~. An I gots a new respect for loife an it shouldn't be wasted if it can still serve a purpose. What say you? There be zero bloody way I can doo't meself...an it be perilous." Of course.

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It's something that could only happen in shadow. A godlike whale hooting and warbling upon a crushed wooden cradle that used to be a Viking ship, in communion with the Rebman Merrisol. Wet whistling and clicking noises that grow more energetic before more strength returns to the miraculously mending sea creature. If anything, the lattice of silver along its stomach becomes brighter and more vibrant. This having urged Captain Merrisol and any other brave souls to venture /inside/ the guts of the Narwhal. Inside it is a worse discovery: Stanchions of harpoons and timbers to maintain a cavern within the innards for easier piece-meal butchering of its flesh.

After removing the artificial and crude supports, the agitation and pain from the Narwhal diminishes, and true power floods easily into the entity. The harassed tone to its gurgling cries attains a deeper resonance. Magic sense shows a restoration. And as the power is drawn back into it, the stench of the dark depths comes back to taint the area in its own special way. Stinky whale. The creature focuses within itself, the tusk from its head curling and bearing new fresh glyphs from where it extends past its cranium. Wet and glistening, they herald the whale diminishing in size once trust is firmly established. To say that the whale 'accidentally' rolled onto the ship and caused it damage in a purely accidental way, would be false. It is still immense, but now the same size as the vessel, rather than dwarfing it. And while the awkward dimensions are reduced, its weight has increased, causing fractures along the ice in a dramatic sunburst ~crack~. As ridiculous as it may seem, through aura or presence, the whale bears whorls and patterns along it's sides like a heraldic coat of arms.

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The aftermath of the battle is still fresh. Things are still twitching. Bodies of warriors and hounds alike are either still, or frothing pink at the mouth or wounds. Such is their supernatural endurance before, they could take an enormous amount of punishment. Some of them has diminished, along with the biting wind that seemed to be on their side.
The great half-uncovered whale is capable of moving more of itself, with more of the ice cracking from it. The scent of living things and the whale in particular, fill the nostrils with a buffet of things. The thrashing that it does, makes the shelf of ice underfoot quake every so often. Closer to it, there is more evidence of how tangled its fate was with the Norse ship. Harpoons protrude from it, grappling lines and parts of the ship itself, now looking much the worse for wear.

Chase looks over the carnage, a flick of his wrist sends crimson droplets across the ice from the razor keen edge of his sword. He sheaths the weapon. The whip of ice and snow coils about him as he walks toward the others, his eye on the thrashing whale, "is he the good guy?" Chase asks over the wind.

Ruby laughs, a bit of blood bubbling on her bottom lip. She raises a foot and rests it on the chest of a fallen Kitezhian. It's chest expels trapped air in its lungs, tongue lolling. She starts wiping the head of her hammer along the fallen warrior's thigh. "It be done. It be stopped. Drown yer shades...Yer ink walks. Way more dangerous than mine, aye? We both gots tools. Mine will always protect, nevah project." She rumbles wetly.

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None of the villagers offer much besides tall tales and dubious looks to what the foreigners are wearing. Either they're naturally suspicious of the strange motley of individuals or have been instructed to be pleasantly distant. And if anyone takes a peek at those rather well-made grey harpoons they've got stacked within their shelters, a family member is summoned to move them to another room or toss a tarp over them.
The long trek requires blazing a trail through snow drifts that are layered upon uneven terrain. Deceptively soft looking as the snow is, when the wind carries it into a fierce enough gust, it can sting the eyes and exposed skin. And it's so very cold out. It is anyone's guess how much bearable it is during the daylight hours. The stars above shine like pinpricks in the void. A few of the constellations match those of certain patron elemental spirits respected by the village's shaman and some of its more talkative residents of Alornerk (oddly enough some of the others called it Pattangayok rather dismissively).
Some sort of blizzard is definitely in store for the group, making visibility poor and stumbling into crevices more likely. The sound of the wind howling between the mountain peaks has curious tonal qualities, as if there was something nearby that was hollow or porous.

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The journey into shadow was made by ship. The Beast was rigged with her strongest sails and Ruby has promised a short trip to colder climes. While the vessel has been undergoing renovations to ensure quick access to cargo holds via overlarge hatches on the main deck, and the Rebman Merrisol has installed some unique organic beds along the railings (covered and insulated), what also can catch the eye is the metal covering at the bow. Looking like part of an enormous blade of grey metal, it shields the nautical figurehead of a kraken and Undine. Probably cuts down the Beast's top speed, but is bad news to things in the way.

The passage out of Amber lacks peril and is as easy sailing as it can be. But beyond her influence, the Beast is carried within the grip of the Pattern by her Captain. Shadow nodes of Golden Circles are avoided, though the course of the ship was initially headed for the path intended for New Kitezh. None of those scuffs-in-the-carpet are heeded though, and the Beast sets a new destination that's referenced from a particularly chilling looking charcoal drawing that a cabin boy holds for Captain Incarnate to reference. Then the passage upon the water gets choppy and far less easy.

The Beast climbs steep and treacherous waves, requiring most everything to be firmly lashed down, and people warned to have a place to anchor close at hand. Fog collects around the vessel. Then air becomes frigid, with frost threatening to form on the rigging and there's a bite to inhalations to the lungs. The trip goes through a number of turbulent phases as the canvas above flaps harshly with contesting gusts of wind. The ship barrels through it and the wind howls. The water below is as dark as the gloom above, though at least the stars are out, and they're wheeling beyond the capacity of a sextant to sight by, or the rational mind.

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Pull the harpoon things out. That is what Maggie heard. She dances back as the behemouth crumples to the ground. Anxiously, she glances around to be sure that no one was injured in the crush. Relief floods her when she sees that Merrisol is moving, which means that he is alive and relatively okay. Liya is also spotted, which adds to Maggie's relief and she offers the other members of their party a wan, fleeting smile that turns to concentration as she moves in close to the stink-tastic beastie. "It's okay, girl." A croon mared by a slight gag as the scent from the creature overtakes her. Calling on breezes, she guides them to gather the stink and bear it up and away, which will make working close to the creature sort of bearable. Grasping one of the shafts, she tries to draw it out but of course it sticks. Not thinking about the structure of the harpoons that she knows about she does not ease up, but pulls harder. Poor Nelly. The shaft draws out a bit more and sticks. So close. Maggie adjusts her hold and pulls yet again. Hard. Her efforts are for naught, however. For one thing, the barb at the end of the blade catches again. The jerk pulls Maggie forward, then her hands slip on muck and she looses her grip. Stumbling back, she avoids falling with a hop and a skip. That has to hurt! Tears well up in Maggie's eyes, though that could be from the smell... "Poor thing..." A moment's reflection and she adds, "This isn't going to work... What if we put her to sleep? Then we can cut the spears out... Could you and Liya heal her? Maybe if Kerf keeps her calm...? Or asleep? So it does not hurt so much?"

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Concentrating not only on where she is going, but on where she is taking them, Maggie can only grunt an affirmative when Merrisol reminds her that their beastly charge must be kept with them. No losing the charging charge before its time, right? Right. Dodging a trailing vine that turns into a serpent, Maggie skids across a bit of frozen muck, sending a spray of melting ice across a meadow in the next moment. "Ruby, can we..." Her call is lost when Merrisol is lifted bodily from between the two femmes and hauled above by the child-given muffler. "No! Oh, no you don't, Stickbutt..." Whirling mid-stride, she screws her determination to the sticking point, or there abouts. She is not going to let that creature harm her mate. Drawing her swords, she leaps for a bending sapling. "Get ready to grab on, Kerf!" Onto what? Really, Maggie is not that good at communicating her plans, is she? She should work on that. Running up along the young tree's slippery trunk, she races to the end to spring-board up toward Merrisol. Her aim is to slice him free, perhaps then to stick the beast with her blades to avoid a rumble-tumble fall.
The running leap along the sapling does springboard her into the air. Just... not high enough. She flexes in an attempt to throw herself higher and that does work, but... in her hurry to get to Merrisol, Maggie did not take the monster's oddly roiling gait into account. A joint lifts about when she reaches it and she collides with it with a resounding SMACK. The rebound sends her flying forward in a whistling, tumbling hurrah of Maggie trailed by her own hair and dribblets of blood. Luckily, she lands in a snowbank with a crystalline ploof of flakes and shimmer of ice.

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Gaval burst out from the underbrush along side the runners and peers back over his shoulder. Looks are given from person to person as they flee ahead of the large creature behind them. His lungs are working well and good, most likely already running to get to the meet point. A bland look on his face as he looks once again at Ruby. "I take it I did not miss much of things? Or am I well and truely late. Things seem to have kicked off already."

Ailith can only give Gaval a shrug as she runs to keep up with the others. "The creature was something of a surprise. At least to me."

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There's a fine mid-Winter's day to be had around the forest village of Eastgate: Dealing in the open marketplace for good fresh ship stores; meeting a WD client to draw up a new transport contract for the year; and those maple sugar snowcones! The gaggle of kids attached to Maggie and Merrisol are lingering by the taffy demonstration, when Ailith is sighted, and the grown-ups leave the eldest boy in charge so they can go off and have grown-up discussions over adult-sized treats. Their walk leads them to the quiet-ish outskirts, boots heard crunching through the thin top layer of ice to the fresh snow.

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