rubyrubyruby

Gaval has no memmory of running that last bit. All he remembers is the sky becoming his earth and the earth the sky. His ears still ring no matter how hard he shakes his head. In a daze he looks about which crouching in any cover he can find. His eyes, seen through the mask, are offically staring out a thousand yards. He still holds his sword in a death grip and it's somewhat ammazing he hasn't impaled himself apon it or cut someone else durring their mad dash to 'safety'.

Liya coughs again, as she starts to come to. With the mask off, and clean air coming into her lungs, she slowly recovers. She sits up, blinking, eyes watering from the gas that was impacting them all. A deep rasping breath, or maybe ten. "Masks, take them off," she manages, as she reaches to pull Sprite onto her lap. It takes some doing, but she cautiously starts looking after the wyvern, ignoring her own injuries in favour of first helping out the beast that trusts her to do just that.

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The hook and rope that Merri and Maggie pull back on is lodged pretty darn good. With their combined efforts directed in sync and in purpose, and the way their tug yanks with such a quick snap of focus and strength, it is the damaged hull that gives. It doesn't peel off like a rind of an orange but snap-cracks the entire board, and takes two subsequent planks of hull to either side of it. The sound of it breaking off is like lightning striking a weather vane. The stranded sailor throws up their arm to protect their face from the sound and splinters.

Liya is just getting onto the rope when there is a loud crack of boards snapping and the boat shudders even more. She looks that way, and spies the poor Soggy fellow, hand over his face from the splinters and sound. "Hey!" she calls, using her bardic training to hopefully have her voice loud enough to be heard. "Hey, Kid. If you want off this ship, reach up, grab that rope, and we'll help you!" Or at least, that is the plan. What rope? The one Matt had thrown down to Liya of course! "We have to go /NOW/!"

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The ship with the ragged sails and few souls left alive, which the skiff has manuevered so close to on its passing orbit, lurched and dips into a swell. A vertigo-inducing lift as the bow juts upwards and the stern appears to sink, obscuring the name of the vessel. That cascade of loose objects careens along its deck in another direction. A flash of metal amongst them. Rigging flaps wildly from it. And those two half-mad sailors clutch at the railing as they watch the skiff close in. There's a shout from one of them and he flings a bottle towards them, ineffectually. An odd choice of act at the first sign of potential rescue or comrades in peril.

RPG: Merrisol challenges a difficulty of 12. Merrisol chooses Resolve and the gifts PAS-DE, PHY-ST, and STY-PI. Merrisol succeeds.
Finding his way through the chaos by the transient glow of lightning flashes, Merri makes swipes at what he needs from the piles of stuff at the bottom of the boat. When he straightens up again, he's dragging not one but three coils of rope and their weighty boarding hooks. That's two more than Ruby called for, but maybe he's trying to up their odds of actually hitting the one big target as it hurtles around again. Or, given said hurtle and their own skiff's precarious location, more ropes mean more rescues. Glimpsing those survivors near the rail, he yells to them: "GET BACK!" His voice goes thin, swallowed up by the tumult, proving his blood to be common Minosian only, if any at all. Still, he goes ahead with the directive with an able seaman's poise, a wide stance held and aided by Maggie's guiding their course through a (relative) sweet spot between the swells. He starts the build-up with small controlled circles of his wrist, the iron hooks spinning just overhead, then plays out the ropes with his other hand until the heavy boarding implements are swinging in inexorable radial arcs of around five feet. His elbow joint works now, every muscle from his forearm to his obliques pulling and bunching hard with the effort. His eyes search the airspace with grim focus, as though looking hopelessly for a sweet spot through the winds like what Maggie found through the waves. When the rowing heaves the skiff up to catch the next upwards swell of the Sea, Merri's even huffs of breath bell into a snarl and he leans into his throw, loosing the gaffs and the cords that uncoil like striking adders to follow. Punching through the batter of wind and rain, the hooks rise and fly outwards, and with any luck, there is enough yardage to span the gap even as it narrows or widens between their boat and the ship. "Grab a line!" he invites any of the others, though to what even, he can't say. But he does know if it's just him, the ship's momentum will surely drag him right out of the skiff.

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It's taken a few days to get to this location within the realm of Minos.

The trip from Amber was done aboard a vessel that appeared seaworthy. It had a wide hull. If it were a femme, it would have 'all that'. Grand in width, matronly in age, but still knows how to move through the seas. Ruby had stocked the ship with basic provisions that looked better suited for fasting than opulence. Hard tack. Water. Rum. And a motley collection of sailors that look like they'd appreciate a full meal rather than the minimum. The most vocal complaint has been a lack of creature comforts. They've all got a 'look' and aren't chatty about where the ship is headed. This isn't their first voyage. But a judgemental soul would peg them as being not exactly first-draft choices. The type of sailors, both women and men, that have been kicked off of previous ships. And all as hard as the sea can make a person.
Ruby has stayed on deck as much as possible. Through sheer intimidation and size, she's captaining the crew while at the helm. No one has addressed her with a Minosian 'title'. There's the required 'Captain' but nothing so fabulous as a legitimate Captaincy. The seas have become steadily worse. A storm is on the horizon as they head deeper into Minosian waters. The deck heaves. Squawls and spray keeps everything constantly damp and horrid cold.

The name of the deep-keeled fluyt has been scraped and repainted so many times that it resembles a pock-marked dart board more than a moniker. Most of the crew refer to it as the 'Beast'. Which suited Ruby just fine. The swells of the ocean that the vessel rides and batters itself along have not been much of a challenge thus far, but with the storm, conditions are rapidly changing. All three masts of the ship and their seemingly innumerable lines creak when the environment becomes more forceful.

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