rubyrubyruby

Forward! It's the direction Ashby's focus is on as he races back down the slope, carrying far more than he ought to! Having reached what he feels like is a safe distance, he begins to toss weapons both to and fro, spacing them out to a point where they may not react to one another. These judgements are all made based on observations from the past encounters of the day and not necessarily true science or understanding of the weaponry beyond this. Surely it's accurate! Behind him, the shadow hands are retracting to bring their own weapons closer and he spins about to scoop them and begin tossing! "Quite healthy, yes!" Having turned around, he sees Boaz has made it on down with the group and smiles for a moment before seeing the scene behind him, "Sweet Unicorn! Go! Go! Go!" His eyes widen and he hurries to pull his journal back out to scribble a quick few lines while continuing to run.
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Ruby looks for something good to hang onto for the up close and personal exposure to an amphibious landing. The sound of the sand against the hull sets her teeth on edge and sings out all sorts of bad signals to her blue water brain. With axe and pistol in hand, she clumsily vaults over the side after Boaz and his boys. She looks for better cover and can't find anything apart from the ship. Every moment means more weapons getting turned in their direction.
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The shadowpath battle has been transpiring for some time. With all the sailing, shooting, boarding and repelling going on, the exact amount of time is nebulous. Squadrons under the command of Clive, Maggie and Merrisol have dealt significant battlefield altering blows to the Consortium ships. Boaz and Quinlan have lent wildly different skills and abilities, to sometimes similar purpose. There's been an amazing mix of adaptibility and tactics from people in positions of leadership, and of resilience against the odds and even savagery on tap.
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.
The Arks have always been the slowest of the fleet. Their method of propulsion never had the benefit of sails, and so they make easy targets to intercept. The height of their hulls makes them floating bastions. Silhouettes of people at the very top of the Arks do their best to cut away grapnel lines, and fire down upon those attempting numerous boarding actions. 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. Kind of like a big old hotdog hugged in a bun that's too small. Ships hounding the Arks inevitably scrape and collide with the bigger hulls but are determined to give naval hugs. There's desperate actions to try and pry open the big side hatches of the Arks with grapnels and winches to get at its nougaty center.
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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.
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Whatever the submerged thing Boaz managed to avoid offers a gurgling trill as it corkscrews through the unfriendly waters. After Whiskers has put a few ship's distances behind them, there's a dull ~whump~ from in the deeps back there, and pieces of wreckage and a greasy oil slick seep to the surface of the troubled waters. Ahead of Boaz is a confused trio of enemy ships fighting to get back into formation. Their figureheads are as Anti-Amber as you can get, which may help identify friend from foe in this madness. Their gun ports are open and muzzles of cannons are being primed.
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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.
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It's soon after everyone has rushed to take varying actions to save crew and flottila. By this time, it's likely positions can be claimed within the fleet. There's time to return from ferreting the worse from the Beast to Mandrake charity, used strange wonderful methods to traverse the distances between all this displaced tonnage or absconding with conventional transportation to get someplace.
If Ruby hadn't realized how precious some fleet wide communication is, it would have certainly hit her like an anchor in the head now. There's a countdown of sorts, but with the chaos going on, the timer in her head isn't spot on. After a few minutes of concentrating, she's bringing the pattern to mind. "Ready or not!" Ruby's Bosun starts wailing on its bell to at least try a very basic warning klaxxon that its time for everyone to pull together and do their thang.
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