rubyrubyruby

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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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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Ruby murmers to their Host as he savours the soup, "Ingredients come with tha efforts 'o Cap'n Flame an Cap'n Merrisol an Admiral in Amber navy, tah name a few. There was some funny busy-ness with some big floatin zoo's. Above water an undah tha water. There was this Shark taggin along tha be loike...shark-plus. Bloody special an smart. 'Ad tah put't down. Was a real tyrant...should 'ave 'ad two legs an be able tah walk tha Pattern, Truth." Ruby's hands fidget together with no bowl to occupy them.
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Oh that Ruby. She came practically begging and pleading for the help of a good Ranger. In her mushmouth way, stressing about things worse than Elkasaurus' and people with grey harpoons. Something that she promises is a threat just waiting to happen. It's not in Arden or Amber yet, but left unchecked, it could cause a future headache. Truth!
Ruby purports to be less than awesome at things involving tracking or hunting. Anything involving the outdoors and animals, if they've a molecule of instinct, her aura winds up spooking them or driving them off. The equivalent of a bright pink van with radar dishes on top parked next to a stake out. What she /could/ do though, through dubious information, was know when something was going to be spiraling closer to the prime realms. Orbiting and rampaging through shadow in an ever tightening circle. And so to shadow she goes, dragging Moxon along with promises of 'owing' and free passage on her ship if he ever needs to Range across the ocean.
This place could be Ghenesh or Arden, with some Mrs. Dash Oregano Cibola. It's a little alien in how the air smells, but the oxygen is invigorating. Rich. A dusty plain with tall grass thick enough to lose a badger in, and copse's of trees where smart folk might avoid the orange sun that beats down relentless. "I be sure...I be sure they'll come through 'ere. 'Orrible things. 'Orrible. An oasis of sorts is nearby. This really is close to a savannah if the heat is any indication. But the vegetation isn't suffering. One might have a sense of rich loam or earth below the surface. Moist.

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