rubyrubyruby

Fleet Triskelion has suffered a lot of punishment during the shadow-sail, the running battle and the Node battle. There's been a horrendous loss of life, and while the battle was claimed as a victory, it was won at the cost of life and limb. Some of the enemy has been rounded up and saved from a watery grave or the edge of a cutlass, but it's a very small minority. The Consortium fleets have been decimated. The Cibolan Node waters were great for cleanup of the terminal cases. Anything in the water sank or was inexorably yoinked down unless a real effort was made to rescue.
Sailing out of the stable shadowpath, Antukt Port can be sighted on as a source of civilization amongst all that lush dangerous green jungle. The fleet has taken to clustering around Captains of reputation that started this journey so long ago. Both Arks survived, but only because they were saved from being sammiched and swarmed by the Consortium. At least one of the Arks has been given over to Lhasa's control. The many decks could serve as triage or hospital if they can be directed efficiently and organized. The sight of Lhasa is polarizing for those that are wounded or seeking cared ones. People are definitely looking for leadership in some form. The only mob mentality in effect is to get to the nearest Port.
Cibolan Galleys are waiting just near the shadowpath and there is a feeling of jubilation among them. They provide their own version of salutes and greetings to ships big and small.
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Cibolan waterfront at dusk is lovely. Nothing like a sun seeping towards the sea to really bring out those interesting hues. There's still time before things get dark and enter real snek hours. It's that sort of time of day, near the boundaries of Antukt's civilization that Ruby would drawn in people to share the view. She's wearing some runesmithed armour that's all kinds of Kraken-themed. Underkrakens in effect. A long nasty spear is used to keep herself propped up because she's not feeling perky. A wound in the center of her chest bleeds where a tattoo used to be lurk. Yarrrr, she wears a strap of leather across her face to obscure one eye. All of her tattoos look a bit wrong. Some of their depictions have run like watercolours and others are all sorts of twisted up.
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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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Once upon a time...The funhouse had nice double-doors bearing a big goofy smiley face. The elements have made it a wet watercolour streaked mask of Nope-nope. Tengu and Cash-money, two rigid statue mascots of the Park, have been half melted like candles, but their plump lower extremities remain sentinels to welcome new patrons. The double doors are open now, having been smashed open by Becky and Ron, two alpha ostriches from the Ark. They're nowhere to be seen now, and the dark funhouse and its okay and not-okay mirrors are inside. There's enough room to circle the wagon-wheels inside, and perhaps temporary shelter from the insanity outside.
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Maaaa-gic, fabulous maaaa-gic! Wynter's magic works super duper well. At least, what she's attempting gets a boost. Like adding a bit of gasoline on the BBQ. It doesn't harm, just leaps into being when called for. Goes over and above what's needed. The panorama totally shows your position from above, but a lot of land has been covered since leaving the cliff, and the jungle canopy is thicc. There's the plateau of monowheels there's the edge of the army, lots of craters, junkywards, jungle, trails blazed that thread through. Fan-tastic maaaa-gic! WoooooAAAaaaaaah.
The manifestation makes Jan and Chiara's heads whip around in shock and awe. Hiccuping gasps of surprise and their vehicle is gunned to life. Goggles hurriedly yanked down.

Jan is shaken, but has the sense of self to answer the question at least. "It rests along the coast. To the north! It is a challenging route, but these are fast. Every year a storm or great tide tries to sweep over it. It is an idiot whomever built it so close to the sea!"

The sisters still with the group angle their wheel around with some fancy footwork and barely bring their feet in before tearing the plateau a new one. "If you want speed, we'll have to run the bowl!" Chiara has her goggles yanked down and a kerchief pulled up over her mouth. Jan peers back towards the the army encampment and presumably the direction they last saw Nailah. Her eyes widen and instead of peering down-ish...turn up-ish towards the sky with a helpful lift of her chin. "We have to go fast. We have to go very fast!"
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Steel. Rock. Cavern. Steel. Rock. Squashed layer of disturbing contents. Steel. Rock. Honeycomb. Nothing but air baby. The ramp is a literal launch, and the two Wheelies driven by the sisters embrace it completely. Everyone's vehicle gets to go airborne. Those clever clogs releasing the nitro accelerant get ~much better~ air time and the G's. The landscape falling away from the Loonie leapers shows a panorama of forest and gravity is starting to reach up greedily at all that momentum. If one has their wits about them to note details, there's some interesting bits gleaned: They've come quite a distance from their starting position and the cliffside penitentiary is a speck. There are whole sections of jungle that have been previously blasted to hell. A graveyard of wrecked machine over yonder, buildings taken over by vines, craters with a faint diamond shimmer in their bowls. Hmmm...there's quite a bit of dust kicked up almost dead ahead, but some miles distant. The oppressive sun glinting off numerous things near the curve of the coast.
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Chiara and her two sisters are on the prowl. The visitors are still considered a novelty and have so far provided more gratifiable feedback than their fellow residents. So they've come looking for members of Femme Squad. Dressed in such a way that falls more in line with how some Xena'd it up when disembarking from the Beast. Hair pulled back and bound. Leathers and tight fittings. A few sheathed weapons. Backpacks and braces, baybeee. The dress code during the mess hall light and sound show was not like this: Adventure Time.
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The hosts of this maximum security cafeteria have found seats upon unpadded benches. They pull forth cutlery and wipe it down, and the people on stage pull on another layer of jumpsuits and zip them up. They're adorned with triangles. One of their number starts counting out a beat with her foot. It's soon taken up by the others once they're squared away. They walk and trudge in place to simulate a long trek. Humming is added. A dirge-like cadence falls in step with the rhythm.
Auntie walks carefully over towards the guests, her eyes smiling. Still half covering her mouth with her palm, like she's afraid of speaking in a non-covert manner. "Some of you have a staff, very good. They are so very old. From a long time ago. Perhaps you're not familiar with such things." To the side of the stage Issa is watching with a craggy pained look. He mumbles something to a young lad who sets up a ladder on the edge of the stage and ascends it. He bares his arms cups his hands together. A tattoo on the palms glows with a captured light. The day's light is enough to provide illumination into the hall, but there is enough windowless wall and ceiling to possess some shadows.
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As it sounds like the cliffs are preferable to the unpleasant whimpering and whining of some critter in the jungle, Ruby doesn't take long in starting off towards the beach again and make a b-line towards the sheer cliff. Another pocket of pitiful sounds of an animal in distress emanates from somewhere in the forest, which makes Ruby actively sneer. She nearly trips over one of the beaches embedded iron rungs and looks ready to bite it in half with her teeth, cursing herself in getting distracted. She spits dryly to the beach and cranes her neck to the climb. An apartment building might be an easier ascent. She half turns, "There's places for 'ands a feet. If we lucky, we make progress before Bog's other eye stares 'ard at our backs and makes us blister." She secures her items to herself, again, and drops the strongbox and crate to the gritty crystaline sand. Unwrapping the golden netting slung like a bandoleer across her, she fashions a means to tie off her cargo and attach it to her waist. "Need some other femme or femmes tah get tha other crate 'o provisions."
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The stone cold crabs closest to both teams have observed. There's the suggestion of exploration via giant sword damage by the 2 o'clock crew, Maggie and Merrisol. And there was the ghastly Corsair discovery by the 10 o'clock crew as well. If one was to compare the two locations, the crustaceans would be noteably similar in critter type. Big pincered boi's with blue-green shells and lighter coloured undersides. Eyestalks that could out-stare a rock full of iguanas. Both locations strange waypoints on the way towards the three isles sighted above the waterline.
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