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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The usual lush unbroken coastline of Cibola has been interrupted by the aftermath of the recent battle of its shadow path. Derelict ships that could not reach the Port of Antukt City are at anchor or have run aground. Over a month ago, one such vessel had beached itself spectacularly in sight of the Port but far enough away to be within the domain of the jungle rather than civilization. The ship is fully out of the water after making a significant furrow and jammed up into the treeline. Its hull, rigging and sails create a backdrop, like some sort of theatre stage backing, against the dark forbidding Cibolan jungle. Perhaps a ghoulish nautical sight for shipwrights. A number of more recent longboats and skiffs are pulled up onto the beach after having disgorged some Pathfinders that required ferrying to this location. Torches have been lit and thrust into the moist sands, lanterns hung from the ship. And snakes. The rigging is snek town, tongue-flick county. Ssssso many sssnek. The side of the hull has a piece of canvas hung from it. Something is cooking on a spit nearby that has many vertebrae. And there's a barrel of spirits nearby to disinfect the palette. There's a faint breeze to carry the scent of the food and the heat of the day along the coast. The sounds from deeper within the jungle promise interesting times for the unwary.
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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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Merrisol's wedge is up against superior numbers in terms of ships and crew, but he still manages to pull off an upset tactical move on the line of Consortium ships. The excellent Captaining and determined way the squadron slices between the enemy formation is super effective. Enemy archers and crossbow are perforated before they have a chance to return effective fire. Men fall over the side as well as very critical deckhands in the rigging. The next enemy to receive a volley on both flanks don't fare any better while they try and track on Merri's squadron. Those not killed outright are forced to keep their heads down. The loss of life is very bad for them, and the passage of the wedge breaks up the enemy formation as they veer off to avoid further assaults. Whatever their plan was, it's been thrown a big wrench.
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Lhasa, in her role as Captain Howler for the day, sees the shift happen. Not in a magical sense, as she doesn't have a sense of these things, but literally as ship by ship disappears into rainbows. She knows how to read a Compass, however, and she holds the precious mechanism in her hand, head bowed and Charter partway unfurled, as the bosun calls out orders and they make speed. Martin's trail is like a lay line, setting a course that she can read on the Compass with astounding clarity. It's a wondrous thing, really, and she keeps peering up wide-eyed from her work as if to see if the line can be perceived on the water like a laser. "Blimey," she whispers. White ship between them incapacitated and crumbling like a wet cookie, the Spicy Melissa and Big Sauce separate with a bone-grinding creak, and the thing just... drops, unceremoniously, with the exception of its' crew anguished shrieks. The black ship is gone as well.
Lhasa repeats her command with a throaty yell, "Full speed, all!" She scrambles up to the stern, tucking the Compass and Charter in her pocket, and relieves Magda. With a heave, she adjusts their course. "Thirty degrees! Follow!" The Big Sauce, with the Vanila Bean, and sundry adorably named ships adroitly following, makes its way to Cibola not far behind of the Oberkin.
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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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The enemy fleet is in sight. It fills a good slice of the horizon with sails and smokestacks. Behind it is the smudge of jungle and rocky cliffs, along with a hint of the cove that provided a means for loading ground forces. Anyone with keen eyes or a handy spyglass can tell they're in motion and in their own formation.
A vanguard of picket ships screens the main fleet. These faster nimble ships that must have mechanical bees in their backside with the frothy wake they produce for propulsion. They look better suited for coastal concerns rather than the monstrous waves that could be found on rough seas.
Behind the main fleet are more matronly vessels that look better for hauling armies around than fighting battles at sea. Not as big as the two remaining Arks.
In the skies above are the wheeling forms of blue scaled creatures. Evolution has threaded their forearms more into their considerable wingspan. Their necks are long and snake-like, with powerful hind legs. They sound like someone torturing a harpsichord.
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A pitstop with cliffside and Park 'n Ark still in sight. The sun is lowering in the sky, passing strange lenses of distortion as it is dragged towards the horizon so it can tag in the wounded moon. The worrisome info sharing of a large fleet mustering. A drake fought off. Cross-country road trips with the younger headstrong generation. Ruby marshals all the bad news and bizarre news and is congealing some sort of decision. "I think if we deal with this othah fleet on our terms, we can dictate 'ow things goo. I mean, it'll goo badly if there as many ships as you 'ave all said, but...this'll be tha biggest slugfest I ever committed to. I gots a plan, but want tah know 'ow you all feel about bein put in 'arms ways again."
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Wynter sees nothing of what is ahead. Sees nothing of what is behind either as she braces against the seat riding backwards for the impact of the snail wheel hitting the ground after a launch. She didn't even see her arrow hit the drake, too busy getting back aboard the vechile to brace.
When they land she lets out a yelp as joints pop and muscles stress with the hit. Nothing dammaging but she's sure to be sore tomorrow. She calls to Lhasa. "I'm good!"
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A peninsula is the vista ahead. You can get a lot of air with the right application of boost. Spread out before peepers, beyond a few more miles of jungle, a parcel of land hugging an inlet. Some manner of deep water cove. It's absolutely packed with ships bearing stark heraldry that lacks pomp. The dry land that's been ground clean of trees by some old environmental scarring is occupied by troops. Temporary shelters and clumps of people share elbow room with elephantine beasts and artillery. A number of specks are circling slowly above this carnival of armed conflict. There's still a good chunk of real estate between here and there, and the monowheels might be merely specks themselves to anyone over there. A massive round disk leans at an angle against a coastal cliff. It is a biggie. It resembles the thing in Zambie deepfreeze and the Zone of Port Anchorage.
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