Ruby's grabbed group of ships, friend and foe, batter and slide upon the shifting seas. Serpentine themes within the ocean lash the fleet elements. Flickering tongues, whipping tails and those undulating bodies influencing the watery currents with lots of strange. Presumably, this all for the purpose of being hell-bent for Cibola. Incarnate tries what she can to adapt to these environments for her own vessel and some of this spreads to nearby ships. It may be via happy accident that the enemies sailing towards the hellish vista ahead are also preserved. Her motives are preservation and endurance, but her ships suffer as she pushes for expedience. "We almost there! Can almost taste bloody place!"
A nice little trick that Doc Lhasa Bonesaw pulled off previously is now replicated by the enemy fleet. Ruby's ship, the Beast, gets thunderously sandwiched.

Within the fleet, the two surviving Arks are having issues. They're big and they have more challenging conditions than the more nimble frigates. To add to it, numerous enemy ships have risked running alongside the behemoths and have launched grapples. Whether it is to use them as wee fishies would a piece of driftwood for shelter, or to try and capture the large prizes, it is another layer of uh-oh.
It is hard for Ruby to judge how the rest of the fleet is faring with her blinders on. With the majority of the fleet parcelled and sectioned amongst Oberon's spawn, and those with esoteric Compasses and Charters, its many efforts that will see success rather than a sole individual.
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There's no time to explain. Except there is!
By the three isles, the fleet is mustering ever since the away team made it back to the boats. The big table had been bolted to the deck, there had been visitors rainbow a-poppin in for chats. Merrisol's Snoot had set a course to do some snoofling. Sails run up and guns run out.
Ruby is by the big table and there's been little time to set the chess board. There's a mess of biscuits to denote ships, and Incarnate looks like she's trying to psionically arrange them into formations, and it's not working apart from making her eyes bloodshot. She's put out a call to Captains and companions not blowing bubbles underwater to gather around to peer at the board. There are mostly groupings of edible ships, each needing a commander. A couple gravy boats mark out the arks.
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The fleet is underway, thanks to everyone here. The contributions gave a chance of success where one single facet would never have had a hope. The ships were kept in tight formation. The airships were hugged as close as they could without a hindenburg accident. People and beasts were saved. Disaster averted, but continued moments of terror a kind of barnacle that's hard to completely scrape off.
But! The fleet is one step ahead and still whole. It's hard to pin down the handing off of pattern responsibilities. With two Pattern walkers on board, there is the ability to hot-potatoe. And with previous talk of a creative way to block the shadow from those that may follow, an inevitable trading of mental muscle duties must occur before the fleet is very far from the frozen trap.

The stress of the fleet has been raised from a sour dip, but there are pockets of simmering filling burbling away if one knows where to stick their nose or cock an ear. When a perfectly lovely and normal looking ocean is shifted into and the ships all splash happily down into it through the shifting shadow, Ruby breaths with some relief. She stays at the helm and continues to manipulate the scenery, albeit at a measured pace, allowing the rest of the fleet to settle into liquid and see how they fair. Sails are raised and hulls thaw. The wind is sought and formation of the ships is now in the hands of Captains and crew throughout the flotilla, now that those helpful trenches are gone. Calls are sent to strike the chains and to draw in the lengths.
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The different gambits, tactics and ordinance of the fleet battle have all been used and the results stretch for a mile at least. The ships that are lit up like bonfires provide a hellish illumination as the smoke has blotted out the sun.
When the battle started to favour the friendlies, a good number of Zealot ships closed and attempted boarding manuevers. First the ranged sorties, then the narrowing of distance to vicious rolling broadsides, and finally the brutal boarding actions. That didn't turn out so wonderful, but the butcher's bill that will be tallied will state that the Zealot fleet was the loser. It's difficult to get hard numbers, but it seems 1/4 of the enemy has turned tail and is speeding or limping away as best they can. There are rumours of ships being taken as prizes on both sides, and it's next to impossible to get an accurate sail-count. Not all the enemy is willing to fight to the last soul.
Sinking ships, broken wreckage and bodies are in wide abundance, providing a maze for ships to navigate through. The only thing that is constant is the looming shapes of the three Arks through the smoke and haze. There are people thrashing about in the water and clinging to detritus, impotent pot-shots send after retreating enemy ships, and significantly less thunderous eardrum-bleeding sources of noise. This is the time to catch one's breath.
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It's a pretty cruddy day out if one isn't fond of getting wet, or doesn't benefit from the positive quirks of having the blood of storms coursing through your veins. Rain just doesn't want to let up. Cold and blustery, hatches are battened down and some are wearing slickers. A rope bridge has been slung between the Beast and Ark #1. Some quite excellent exercise opportunities to hand-over-hand it across the turbulent sea...and people gambling money on who might fall into water.

Ruby just so happens to want to get over to that Ark, for reasons. She eyes the rope bridge, and then eyes the water. Her lips purse. She rasps out a command to grab the 'bloody flying rug' in case anyone is not at all keen on making the crossing through sweat and effort. A large alhambran carpet is fetched and kicked until it is rolled out flat upon the deck. It is rapidly soaked with the driving wind and rain. Maybe it's not the safest means of conveyance either. "Should be three ways, but...faaah. Choosers can be beggahs."
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"Aye!" Sidonie calls out to Ruby in agreement. It's time to scoot. She backpedals toward where the gangplank is supposed to be, and stumbles yet again when both ships collide once more. With a grunt of surprise, she reaches to grip the railing.

Wynter whispers to herself and lifts from the deck of the saintly ship as things start to get hectic. She climbs upwards a good ten feet and turns to make sure the others are on their way across the gangplank. She starts drifting backwards at leasurely pace and to Theol and Grace she says. "Your war between yourselves has nothing to do with us. Excuse us if you please."
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Nadia looks around and notices some of the ships were having a problem staying with the group. She considers going to get them, but realizes she has no clue where their final destination is. In fact, she doesn't want to lose the group either so she flies back towards the main ship, and gets in closer to ensure she goes along with them.
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A predatory smile crosses Chase's face, "I'd fake trouble on the Beast, let the rest of the fleet sail on...when the interceptor gets close..." he draws a finger across his throat. "We make an example for the next that tries to give us a problem."

Nadia looks off in in the distance, to where the sound is coming from. "So is this one of the common problems that you keep running into?" She tilts her head slightly and looks over towards Chase. "Do you know who it is?"
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Bog's barnacles...Look at all those ships. Enough to make the natives of this place all kinds of nervous. The Beast is in the lead at present, and a diamond formation of close to a hundred vessels are carving their way across the top of the ocean and heading for a node to take them out of this Golden Circle, and into another. It wouldn't be a stretch to say this could easily be mistaken as an invasion fleet rather than a well-protected convoy
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Ruby has dragged everyone she can to take a peek at the Bog-awful huge fleet she's amassing for the trip into the shadow. Whether by marking on Charts where to meet her with their own ship (such as the Fireheart), or calling forth via Trump teleportation.
It isn't a uniform fleet, though masses of ship types try to glom to a particular type. The tonnage may vary, but the most frequent same-same vessel belongs to trade Fleet Triskelion. A diamond formation of close to 50 ships, with more arriving in groups of three. Of particular interest are three biblically immense Arks in the middle of the ships. Ruby has been pulling out her hair to keep everyone from colliding and maintaining a course, with the slowest of the vessels being the baseline for travel. Right now, they're practically at anchor and sedate.
On the main deck of the Beast, she tries to assemble folks for a shot of rum and a chin-wag.
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