Brokk stared back and forth between the scene of carnage and death, and the young skirt chaser. "Oi, 'urry up youngit - no not like that!" he screamed as Fortune made the hole in the ship. He gripped his hair with one hand and covered his mouth's scream with the other only to realize he was releasing the rope and quickly grabbed back onto it. "Damn youngits and their youngit ways... they're even worse when damn umgi, running after anything with long hair and a dress showing some leg...." he said. In fact, he said, or rather grumbled much more. He didn't like grumbling as much as a typical longbeard, but he still enjoyed it, especially when there was a good subject regarding which to be displeased. Sometimes, he and his elder comrades were actually angry when all was well, simply because there was nothing to be angry about. There was of course the lack of things to be angry about to be angry about, but they didn't want to go down that rabbit hole; even the oldest Dwarf knew that someday he just might get bored of complaining, especially when already they did so regarding nearly everything.

It was regarding the behaviour of the longbeards that he was thinking when he saw the Knightly umgi fight. Yes, the Bretonnian fought quite like one of them. They never did more or less when was needed, it was like a weedy youngster playing chess against an old wise sage. The latter had simply done it for longer and more often, and was just better at it than any urk, be it a grobi, elgi or raki. Sometimes they even moved slowly or lazily, something never expected in combat. Yet somehow the axe was always in just the right spot to split the enemy in two, the shield was always there to block a strike no matter how clever, and the boot was always there to turn a groin into mush. The Bretonnian seemed to at least have the experience of them. Brokk would never say the Knight fought as well as a Longbeard, but one could come close.

He considered throwing his cinderblast bomb or blasting charge upon the Norscan ship to just be done with it all, but then he realized that this was an umgi ship, not a sturdy Dawi ironclad. Fire was always a hazard, not an ally here. He grunted a little and noticed another Northman coming close. Hoping to cut off the lad's rope and then make the Dwarf just a little bit shorter, no doubt. Well he was having none of that, no! He whimpered and made himself shiver, feigning senile fear. He pretended to be anxious for the lad to come up (which he was, but for different reasons) so that he could protect him from the brute. However just before the critical moment he tugged at a throwing az and let it spin in the air to go into his chest. He wasn't willing to risk a hit upon the head, for the ship was in constant motion and he didn't want to lose and az when he was so far from any civilization to replace it. Just so the man would not topple over and plunge into the water and make his axe lost to the sea, he pulled at his hammer and with the sharpened pick-side of it struck the man in the right side of the stomach and then pulled hard. The weapon would rip off the skin and clothing and hook some intestines onto itself but the force would make the man fall to the floor rather than overboard. The Ranger placed his foot on the throwing axe now dislodged and on the ground so it wouldn't slide away, put his hammer away and then pulled at the rope to hopefully get the boy up, scolding him in Khazalid as he did so and clipping him on the ear for defacing the ship as he would clamber on.

Baltazar waited, as the wave of norsemen flew over the railings, gritting his teeth as the crewmen were cut down. He hadn't quite expected the deckhands to go down so easily - but then again, he had always considered himself an optimism. The marauders were tall, strong and desperate, but their battle frenzy also gave Baltazar the advantage he needed, as the brutes passed him by where he stood wreathed in shadow. He wasn't some burly marauder who could cleave a man's head from his shoulders in one swing, but even making it a third of the way through was good enough in a fight. A hamstring there, a hip sliced open there, and the norsemen barely noticed before they were trampled by their comrades. With the thunder and screaming drowning out any calls for help, and the slippery deck easily explaining their tumbles, Baltazar easily stayed hidden within his veil of magic as he tore through the rear ranks of the enemy.

But magic's power is fleeting, and the shadows soon pulled away - too soon, and the last few attackers had time to give him a surprised look before he ran his sword over their fingertips, sending them screaming into the waves. Though he was no novice to more mundane means of concealment, Baltazar none the less elected to run for his life, as more of the Norscan raiders began to realize someone was attacking them from behind. Ducking and half-swording his way around the edge of combat, he caught glimpses of where the others were at. Fortune's noble sacrifice had cost them a good warrior, and from what Baltazar could gather, half of the rest were preoccupied trying to keep the young knight alive.

For his own part, he maintained a death grip on his sword and tried to remember everything he'd been taught about fighting multiple opponents. The Norscans were an accommodating foe, their combination of axe and shield being clumsy at best for a cluttered shipboard fight. Simply step aside, wait until their shields bump into something, and strike. Even a towering Norscan couldn't parry a quick sword thrust with an axe, and whenever he found the time and space, he would stop his chase and go for another one of his attacker - by the time he had killed two, he realized he had made it all the way around the ship. Up ahead were his own "lines" such as they were, and a rapid slash against an unprotected back allowed him to rejoin his allies.

Baltazar found a place next to a couple of the fighting crewmen, using the respite to survey the battle. Overall, it seemed they had put quite a dent in the Norscan forces, even if some of their own fighters were getting winded. The elder Bretonnian stood surrounded by an impressive mound of corpses, all slain in open combat no less - Baltazar would have to remember to heave his own victims overboard later, before that mound of Norscans with mortal back wounds raised any eyebrows. Staring down what remained of the horde, he called out for the crew to rally and push the enemy off the ship, once and for all.

As he scrambled up the side of the ship, fighting against the waves, the wind, the biting cold that was sapping his strength and the slippery planks underfoot, Fortune feared that this might have been the end for him... and he was somewhat annoyed that the story of Fortune De Vigny would end so soon, dying to save a maiden was... acceptable.

These morbid thoughts died the moment something strong started to pull the rope up, aiding his own efforts greatly. Fortune didn't look back as he heard the sound of wood crashing against wood below as he climbed/was pulled up onto the deck... and received a clipped ear from the grumpy dwarf that had helped to save his life. While a little degrading, Brokk had pulled his ass out of the fire and there were more important things currently on Fortune's mind... such as the very large Norscan raiders that were still on the ship and freezing to death as his icy wet clothing clung to him tightly.

He also had to deal with the issue that his sword and shield were currently below deck, out of harms way... Which would require him to get passed the raiders in the way.

Not wishing to be unarmed right now, Fortune looked down at the weapon that a nearby dead Norscan had dropped... It didn't look demonic (and if it was he suspected that this raid would have gone in a completely different direction to begin with) and right now any weapon was better then none at all; At least he could die fighting. Attempting to (and failing) to fight the shivers that were running through out his body and causing his jaw to chatter, Fortune seized the axe and took a moment to try and get a feel for it's weight. For someone who was used to using a sword or a spear, a battle axe was a weird weapon to try and wield and it to both himself and anyone watching that he was somewhat clumsy with the weapon... but it was better then nothing if he was backed into a corner.

"Thank you for saving me. I'm going to go and get my sword and shield. Happy hunting to you." Was all he said to Brokk as Fortune darted away towards the door that would lead into the ship, taking care to not slip or trip on the slippery surface of the water, blood and corpse covered deck. He was tried, sore, actively fighting (and slowly losing) against the elements and he was wielding a class of weapon he wasn't familiar with without armor to help make up for gaps his mistakes would no doubt cause... At least if he could get his sword and shield he could at least give a halfway decent fight.

@Andreyich

Listec muttered something in Tar-Eltharin as he loosed off three more arrows from his bow in rapid succession, lamenting the fact that these hairy-arsed Norscans were not the Druchii he would have preferred to have been fighting. Nevertheless, a raider was a raider and he was here at this moment in time; it was with professional interest that he watched the others fight, from the cleaving but proficient swings of Jehan to the more Tilean-like movements of Baltazar, pointedly ignoring the Dwarfs simply because he had seen them fight – and fought against them – many times before.

Before long the Marienburger was shouting something at those about him, rallying them and galvanising them against the brutal fore no less! His words seeming to steel the more wavering members of the ships crew, a call to drive the Norscans from the ship entirely and drive them back into the ocean.

Having been knelt down by the railing all this time, he only just realised that a possibly greater prize lay only a few feet over the sides...the Norscan longboat. All about him the Empire ship was beginning to sink, fire shining from the mast, and people spilling their lifeblood into the wood of the decks – yet just beyond their reach was a perfectly functional vessel, seaworthy and guarded by what remained of a skeleton crew now that most of the pirates had made their ways up and over onto the sodden deck.

Either this would see him cut off their retreat and secure them an escape craft, or it would see him dead...

Taking a number of slow breaths into his lungs and exhaling again, making sure the longbow was securely placed over his torso, he slid over the railing and began to make his way down to the deck of the Norscan ship, half dropping and half falling the final couple of feet but landing on the enemy vessel with barely a sound – this was due to both his natural agility and the raucous collective of screams, shouts and thunder all around them.

One look told him that he may have gotten into more of a problem than he could handle, the skeleton crew he had expected being over a dozen men, but their attention was drawn more to the battle above them than to the one figure half-swathed in gloom that came from the rear of their boat to end them.

The first died without a sound, a younger human with fuzzy hair upon his pubescent face, two arms coming up and wrenching his head about in a whip-like fashion, the sound of snapping vertebrae caught and carried away by the wind. Listec let the body slump to the curved floor of the ship, drawing his bastard-sword from the sheath at his waist and lowering it into what the Humans called a 'plow' stance – the hilt held near the hip joint and the tip pointing at the throats or chest of the enemy.

As it was he had a selection of backs turned toward him, and they would do just as well as anything else.

Sketti would have thought the others gave a good reckoning of themselves in this fight, but unfortunately (for the enemy perhaps) the Slayer had gone to the forefront of the fighting. So close that many of the Norscans had leaped over the walls of the ship and completely passed him. Before hand, the ones that had seen him as he approached were smote by pistol shots that cracked in the air, smoke mixing with the spray of the sea and the spurts of blood.

A few turned and saw the burly, albeit short killing machine that was splitting open their comrades from behind. "Ignore me, will ye?" he growled. To the onlooker, the Slayer's tall crest would look very much like a shark fin amid churning waves of Norscan bodies as they attempted to overwhelm him. His metal appendage swung too and fro, so thick was the crowd about him that every swing broke bone and sent Norscan's crying out in annoyance and pain.

Their fury was not to be denied however, many blows landing on Sketti's tough body. It was all he could do to keep fighting, his arm serving as a shield for much of the brawl. His Axe tore through legs and cut up stomachs, and with one last desperate attempt he launched himself at the last remaining raiders, using his tough, heavy body as a projectile and bowling them over, beating two of their heads in with his metal arm. Their skulls popping open like split melons.

A huge gash could be seen on his forehead as he stood up, a large cut crossed his burly stomach, and various smaller cuts covered him. Even a bit of his Mohawk was shorn. Aside from that, his bruises and blood matched well with his Khazalid tattoos and made him seem that much more crazed and menacing to those around him. He wheezed. "Who's next, eh? You're lucky I didn't have my explosives ye blasted Chaos Spawn!" He shook his remaining fist at the rest of the Norscan's brawling.

"Just be careful, don't be a wazzock." the old Dwarf grumbled, waving a hand dismissively. "I suppose you're doing well for the 'heroing' stuff, you should be proud umgi." He said, and then cracked his back arthritically. "My turn, friends!" he exclaimed and went for the biggest Norseman there was.

He clicked his tongue at him and flipped his hammer in the air, catching it to have the pick side facing the northerner. He didn't stand around to "take the charge," instead charging the man himself. He ran and swung his weapon with both hands in left-to-right strike aiming to get the pick into the Norseman's ribs while also having it in a good position to parry the inevitably downwards strikes. He caught the axe-blade just between his right hands index and middle finger, the Dawi steel not giving way. He pushed back, the strength of a Longbeard coming in handy and then followed it with the swiftness and resilience of a ranger and any Dwarf respectively; he headbutted the man right in the groin, and then used his hammer as a hook to pull the man down by his leg. Now on his arse, the final act of turning the man's head into a red mush was quickly done, and all the ichor was wiped off upon a fur pouch on the man's thigh.

The pseudo-longbeard waddled over to another scene of fighting, tugging at two of his throwing axes and throwing them simultaneously into the back of one of the enemies, and pulled them out to deliver strikes to the guts of his two comrades who only now were turning to face Brokk. "'n' stay down!" he shouted, cheerfully nodding to the comrades before him. He went under the cover of one of the torn sails, more or less preventing water from going down the barrel of the Thrund he was reloading. Just as he was almost finished another one of the Norscans had spotted the "helpless" ranger and approached him with a grin praising the brotherhood of four for the opportunity. Brokk groaned, swallowing up his marksman's pride and stopped reloading to raise his rifle and subsequently strike the coming great-axe from the right. His weapon was lighter so he could quickly recover and smack the man upon the head and flip his gun over to stab him in the eye with the metal barrel. As he wrenched it out he gave a little sigh of annoyance as the man's eye got stuck in the muzzle. That would take a lot of cleaning to deal with. Thus he returned to the melee, hammering left and right, throwing axes, unifying the trinity of a Ranger's dexterity, a Dwarf's tenacity and a Longbeard's rowdiness.

---

When it was all over, he leaned on the mast using his grund as a sort of cane as he caught his breath. "That," he began, getting interrupted by a pant, "was nice." he said, slouching down. Tugging at his rifle he closed his eyes before firing out the eyeball, groaning as the white and red matter flew all over, a horrid smell of scorched eye spreading. He pulled out his cleaning kit and got to work, somewhat angry. "Right, tell me when we're in Lustria, don't want to miss it I don't!" he said, trying to sound cheery despite no longer being happy.

The raiders never stood a chance. The adventures cleaved through the norscans as if they were nothing more than practice dummies. They were desperate, and fought to the last, dragging not a few unfortunate sailors down with them, and those who fled found, instead of the skeleton crew they'd left, twelve dead bodies, and a blood splattered elf. They took their chances on the ship. The looks the crew give you from across the blood slicked deck range from fear to awe, clearly, the adventurers they had taken before would not have done quite so well as you on the pitching, rolling deck. From the looks they were giving you before the fight, you reckon half of them were expecting you to just start throwing up. This may have been the case with fortune, but luckily for him, he was busy being heroic.

The captain is not quite so impressed. "What are you gawking at? So they can fight, that's what they're supposed to do, and sigmar help them if they can't, because he sure as hell didn't help the rest! If you haven't noticed, were still in the middle of a storm with a hole in the hull and bodies all over the deck, MOVE IT!" The sailors soon scatter to various jobs, despite the fact that at least a quarter, perhaps as many as half of the crew, are slumped lifeless on the deck. They are chucked over the side with the raiders.

Despite worries, it is actually only an hour until the storm blows over, and the hole in the hull is hurriedly patched with loose planks of wood, enough to sustain you until you get to port. Ironically, the longship might have made it had it simply ridden out the storm, but such is the way of the sea. Its smooth sailing all the way to Lustria.



You are still recovering on deck when Alison timidly steps into the light, shading her eyes from the initial glare of the sun. She's looking a little worse for wear, her red dress is still creased and crusted with salt, and her face is haggard, she's probably been throwing up the entire storm. Somehow, her hair is still immaculate. This contradicts all laws of reality. She locks eyes with you and her lips crease into a smile. Then Darren scoops her up in a huge bear hug, lifting her of the ground and swinging her round and round. She looks as surprised as you. "Alison! Thank Sigmar, I thought you were dead, when you went over the edge, and I couldn't do anything, and then this man....ah." It is at this point he realises what he may have interrupted. "Right. Come on Alison, you've got studying to do. Remember those books I set you to read?"
"But you didn't set me any..."
"Yes, I did. Now come."
He half led, half dragged her by the hand back into the ship. You get the impression that she's probably not supposed to be involved in any....relationships.
Whether that stops you or not is for you to decide.

As the journey drags on and on, the crew begin to become worried. The loss of almost half the crew appears to have affected the ship dramatically, and no longer are you cutting across the waves like you own the ocean, but jerking and shifting due to a combination of the lost navigator and a cabin boy helping to operate the sails. The rations on board, which supposedly contained a months extra, will only remain for a few days. All morning, evening and night there are at least 5 crew members in the bilge, pumping out the water seeping through the crack, simply to keep the ship afloat. One or two crew members begin to eye the horses hungrily. The only blessing is that, with a reduced crew, food might just stretch that much longer.

Finally, when even the Captain looked mildly perturbed, land is sighted. Should you rush to the prow, you're first view of Lustria would be of a veritable paradise. Long beaches of pearly white sand stretch as far as you can see, backed by a verdant green jungle. Had you not known the dangers it contained, you might have called it beautiful. "Right." Says the captain, "Off." Unusually, he is very blunt about this. "It's another week to Skeggi. Can't have you wasting my food. Take the row boat, and get off my ship before I throw you off." He gives you some time to collect what few things you have, before presenting you with two rowing boats. "I'll leave the horses at skeggi. Best be quick if you want to see 'em again, as they're like to sell 'em or eat 'em afore long. Now piss off."

When you finally arrive on the continent, it is with nothing but what you're body, you're mind, and the few things you've brought with you. "Right." Says Darren, unfurling a map, "This way."

@Andreyich@POOHEAD189@Jbcool@Bright_Ops@Maxwell @DrunkasaurusRex

Deleted

A conversation on the ship (before being asked to leave...)

(a Bright_Ops, @Andreyich and@POOHEAD189 collab)

Fortune sneezed as he continued to walk against the rocking of the ship. While he didn't regret his decision to leap into the ocean after Alison, there was a price to be paid for jumping into a freezing cold sea and that was the cold that had struck him less then a day after the storm had finally broken. It wasn't bad enough to actually strike him down and make him bedridden, but it didn't exactly do him any favors (worse still, it made the sea sickness all the more draining).

All it had done through was cause an idea to start forming in his mind; At first it sounded strange and possibly impossible, but the more he thought about it the more he started to think of possible ways to make it work...

However, he needed advice and considering the nature of what he had planned, there were only really two people on the ship who he knew of that understood the importance of what he was going to ask them to actually take him seriously.

All he had to do was find the dwarves first.

Brokk was on the mast, sleeping quite happily in the rain. The days as a ranger made him quite accustomed and even satisfied by the patter of water, and the sound of working men grunting. As the storm died down, the Dwarf contentedly lit up his pipe, using his favoured tobacco and mushroom powder. His gun was finally clean and loaded, and his hammer polished. They were to be in Lustria soon, and as far as he was concerned, the day was going well. Sure, a few comrades died but it was at the cost of several norscan lives. He could do naught but relax.

Sketti had himself begun to tinker with one of his inventions. An ingenious black powder bomb that exploded with a certain concussive force after a 4 second timer. Better than those 5 second timers his cousin had insisted were the latest invention. This one saved on the enemy trying to scramble away, and also had the added benefit of probably keeping them alive to question or kill in close combat later.

Still, there was no way to test it and he grumbled at that, before he got the bright idea of maybe throwing it overboard. See what it does to fish? He was soon on the deck, walking with a purpose before he found himself standing near to Brokk. "Tromm," he said in passing.

The Longbeard nodded, puffing a ring of smoke. "Drengi." he replied, staring at whatever was in his hand. Beardlings were always designing something new, he couldn't bother to check what it was until he decided it was presentable.

Fortune managed to locate both dwarves on the deck!... through exactly what Sketti was up to he had absolutely no idea. Didn't really matter at any rate... "Excuse me." He called out to both of them, taking a quick breath in order to prep himself for what he was going to talk with them about. "But can I talk to you both for a second? I need to work out the finer details of something and you both are the only two on this ship that I trust to take it completely seriously."

The Ranger was quite surprised to be approached the lad, and wondered why him in particular. Perhaps because he had decided to help the boy? But then why the Slayer, he wondered. Still, it was very satisfying to know that the "wisdom of the ancients" was heeded. As such, the Dwarf stood, brushing dust off of his stumpy knees. Then he looked about, in case it was a secretive matter that was best left undisclosed rather than just unridiculed. "Aye, lad?" he asked, waddling over.

Sketti grunted, turning only slightly to the diminutive manling lad that had strode up on deck. "Hmmm?" He would look half crazed, even though he was merely curious and a bit irked that someone was interrupting his experiment.

While Fortune didn't exactly know what the dwarf with the orange hair was up to or the device he held... part of him couldn't help but be somewhat concerned about being close to him whenever he did... whatever he was going to do with it. Still, he had come this far. Taking a deep breath in order to work out exactly what to say now that he had made it to this point, he decided to explain a little.

"You see, I was considering making an... Oath of sorts to myself. An oath of Vengence against a force that has laid my family low... however, due to the nature of the force in question, I'm not quite sure how to word said Oath... or what would be the correct manner of going about settling it..."

Now came the hard part... the target of said Oath of Vengence. "I wish vengence on the Gods of pestilence and plague."

The Ranger perked up a little, curious. It was an interesting predicament; most humans just swore to defeat the worshippers of the dark gods rather than the dark gods themselves. Still, he had witnessed the lad chase after a girl rather than fight to save the ship, so perhaps he wasn't an ordinary one. He knew the bigger of the Bretonnians were much more than human, but he wasn't aware of the specifics and how the boy figured into them.

Eventually he slapped his hands together and rubbed them. "Well lad, there's a lot to such a matter." he started, wondering where even to begin with the noble art of grudging. He reckoned it would not be wise to talk him into something akin to the slayer oath, and as far as he was aware he was not in need of one. "Ya see, while you should never forgive nor forget, you have to be realistic. Take babby steps. You chop the wazzocks of the north one at a time, or the beast-kin who also worship the rot-god. It's settled whenever you think it is." Waving a hand in the direction of the old world, he continued. "In the Dammaz Kron, it is recorded all that is done against us Dawi. There, we remember all of it. Each grudge gets settled in it's own way. Some are centuries old, against enemies even older. Yet every day we get closer to getting it settled." With a rustle of the mustache he stared up into Fortune's eyes. "What's the reason you have it in for the rot-god, if you don't mind me asking. It narrows down the way in which you finish this, is all.

Sketti's reaction was a tad different than Brokk's for when he heard the word oath from this young manling, he barked a harsh laugh. After a moment, it seemed the laughter was met with seriousness, and he realized the Brettonian was not joking.

"The Longbeard is right. Baby steps are needed, but there are no baby steps with Oaths, lad. If ye can't handle the oath, don't take it. You'll dishonor your father, your family and your name."

The maimed Slayer put his bomb back into his pack, and fully turned to the manling. "And Aye, I too wonder what ye have them in for. Not that they don't deserve a good slaying."

Fortune sighed a little. "See I was thinking that since striking at a god directly is just generally not possible, it would instead act as something of a casus belli against all mortal followers of the rot gods. After all, they claim to be the representatives of their god of this world so it's only fair that they accept the greviences that their god's actions cause... But I can see how wording would be rather important for that."

Glancing away for a moment as they both asked why he wished to do this, he paused for a moment before sighing. "...A plague swept their my families lands, killing my parents, most of our loyal staff and a man that I personally have come to consider a brother for his actions during those dark days. Tried to take me too but the Lady decided to spare me from it..."

"They deserved better then to die in such a dishonorable manner." Fortune said with a conviction that was rare in humans. It was the kind of conviction that made one tempted to take on gods...

Sketti gave a snort and a nod. Brokk was not surprised by the train of thought the lad took, especially seeing his family die without anyone material to blame. Of coures, one had to be careful to make sure they didn't just chop up a lad for sneezing or catching some flu, but that could be worked upon. The Dwarf scratched at his mustached, his thumb going along his sideburns. "It's a noble cause you have, seeing what done happened. In your case, I reckon you're best off going around the Loren woods when we get back, you'll find lots of beast-kin to sate your bloodlust on. If you don't find it enough, you can go far North, live with the Kislevites and burn the camps of the Norscans - the same umgi that gave us trouble on that longboat. Some day the dark gods'll be amassing once more, and you'll be around to help if you're certain about it. 'Course, it wasn't your fault so you should not let it become you like a Slayer. Don't want you running off when we get to Lustria, that's for sure!" he chuckled despite the grim business. He seemed determined, and he did not see a reason to dissuade the boy from it. As such, he could only help Fortune in his objective.

The Slayer had a more pessemstic view of his goal. "In this world, lad. Chaos will find you." he told him. "So will Grobi, and Beastman. Focus on the mission ahead. There'll be plenty of killing to be done before ye know it."

Then again, the Slayer also felt like Fortune's goal was a good one for any to have. "The Longbeard is right, then again. If you're a bit too impatient for danger to find you, there's plenty of places to go and get yourself killed in. Make no illusions though lad. If you go in looking for the followers of the Dark powers, your life will be even shorter than most manlings. All you can hope for is shortening some Chaos spawn's life as well beforehand."

Fortune bowed his head in understanding; There was no harm in accepting the wisdom of those who had been around for who knows how long and understood the importance of giving ones word. "Thank you for the advice. While I am still confident in the Oath and the intentions behind it... I might put off making a formal challenge to all the rotting bastards that worship such dark gods until I've settled a few things. Our travels together being first on the list."

Offering both Dwarves a small smile... he blinked a little in curiousity as he found himself asking "Forgive me, but I've never heard the term 'Grobi' before. What is that?"

Sketti raised an eyebrow, looking at the young lad with a baleful over his shoulder as he had since turned away again. "No, I suppose ye wouldn't. It means Greenskin. Orcs, Goblins and such. The filth of the Badlands. Good in a fight though...or determined, if anything."

Though the Norscans had been fought off, any praise Baltazar and his companions received was short-lived, and once the food started running out, so it seemed did any remaining gratitude from the crew. Going hungry was a minor inconvenience at worst - he was used to it, from long years starving in the streets of Marienburg, and many more eating half rations at sea - although he resented the captain for such obvious poor planning. Worse yet, for lying about their food reserves. Getting thrown off the ship outright was the final insult, although Baltazar held his tongue as he went below deck to gather his belongings. It never paid to be rash - although by all rights, they should have thrown the captain overboard and sailed to Skeggi themselves, the lord of luck condemned unnecessary violence. Instead, he gathered his belongings, happy that he traveled light, and pulled a shiny, slender lockpick out of a pocket in his spare cloak. With any luck, their mysterious employer would have paid the captain in advance.

As a consummate professional, he left no trace of his misdeeds, aside from - obviously - the missing coin. Even magic can only do so much, though, and there was no time to leave any false trails. It would hardly take a genius to imagine where the money had gone, once the captain had cause to open his strongbox. Baltazar had left just enough to pay the crew; the captain would make it to Skeggi without mutiny, at least. He might even decide to sell the horses to recoup some of his losses, and the knights' reaction to that would naturally be priceless. The god of thieves would no doubt approve.

Cheerfully waving goodbye to the rowers as they took their boats back to the ship, Baltazar followed a handful of steps behind Darren as the wizard led the way into the jungle. The warmth was a pleasant change from the dank chill of Marienburg, although he had a sense that it would get hotter soon, and a lot less pleasant. Already he was swatting unknown insects off his face and shoulders.

"I dearly hope some of you are skilled at living off the land. I've got, maybe three crumbs and a mouthful of rum to my name," he said, patting his pocket flask. "There's got to be something edible in terrain like this, right? And plenty of poisonous somethings too, I bet."

It was a long journey on the boat (at least comparatively) for the Ranger, as he had a lot to think about. What was their true purpose in the new world? Why had they planned so poorly? Had he given young Fortune poor advice that would leave the lad as a puddle of red? He didn't mind the lack of food, even declining the rations when he could catch the few rats that made it on board. Fortitude was one of the many traits common to the Dawi, although by the very end he did feel just a little too sober for preference.

When they disembarked, he made sure he had all his gear with him, particularly the explosives. He didn't want to leave it for some umgi to fiddle with and leave the ship with another hole... and several fewer crew members. Brokk giggled as the funny looking (admittedly a commonly used description in reference to them) human brought up their supplies. "Oh I'm not worrying about that. I just got to make sure I got more endurance in me than the rest, then I can live off of you!" He said it jokingly, but he did occasionally wonder what elf and human tasted like. Their burnt flesh didn't smell too bad, although that might just have been thanks to his adoration of the alchemical. "Oh but I wouldn't worry. Lizardman wasn't too poor of an eating if you stick it on... well a stick. The bigger ones that are mounts for the other ones get real fatty, melts in the fingers and mouth." Sighing, he slowly climbed up one of the palm trees and then whacked off as many coconuts as he could with his hammer. Descending, he grabbed as many as he could an rushed back along to the group, handing one to the seemingly famished Baltazar and then the others. "If these are anything like the things growing in the southlands, you can slice or just break off the top, then drink and nibble on what's inside."

The Longbeard then rushed off to Darren, scratching at his own coconut with the pickside of his hammer. "Oi, I get that you're the big'un of us, and that you have the map but consider letting others ahead in case of traps. Don't want you getting caught by one of them ditches full of spikes or something of the sort. I reckon it's best if you let the one with the crossbow or the other Dwarf get ahead." He then raised his coconut up to the man to view, showing the crudely carved letters forming "an the elf" upon it, knowing that the gits ear wasn't in such a shape without reason. "No grudge against them mind you, I just reckon the umgi's not got much in him anyway while the drengi wants to die, and of course some just can't do as much as others." he said. He didn't want to offer up Jehan or Fortune to be at the front, knowing the former was needed for whatever they were doing while taking a liking to the latter. Himself? No, he was "too old for this shit."

Despite it being a miserable few days on the boat, with little rations and even less drinking water, Sketti kept himself busy by tinkering and making his own personal arsenal for the day they made it to Lustria, which just so happened to be quite soon. By Valya, that was good luck! He was hoping he didn't need to shoot a horse, or a manling to survive. He had considered cutting his hand, letting the blood flow into the water, and allowing the sharks to get a whiff so he could, in turn, shoot one of them. But oh well. Not needed anymore, now was it?

He was on the first boat to the main land, looking very much like a jungle commando with his bare chest only clad with strapped weapons of explosive power. He almost felt like a manling, having slapped together something that just might misfire on him for the sake of being too impatient. It made him chuckle, which, on a boat with him full of explosives...looked very menacing to the other passengers with him as they rowed to shore.

Once they got there, he unstrapped his first weapon and hefted it. He would not say what it was, but his constant grin which widened his bristled beard and showed his yellowed teeth showed it must have been something good. "Let's get a move on!" he called. "Don't matter who goes first. We'll all be getting into some fun soon enough."

The rest of the travel on the ship was a...mixed affair for Fortune. When he wasn't hampered by illness (the cold thankfully was short lived), he tended to split his time between two major objectives; Doing what he could around the ship in order to help (It was good, honest, hard work that would help keep him in shape while giving the vastly understaffed and overworked crew the chance to rest and recover a bit) and sneaking small messages to Alison whenever the opportunity presented itself and Darren's watchful gaze was elsewhere.

Most of the time they were only small things, asking her how she was going and the like... but he also took a stab at poetry on occasion. Granted it wasn't good poetry; It was clear from anyone attempting to read it that the writer seemed to have only the most basic idea of what poetry was meant to look like without actually knowing the rules or tricks behind actually writing it himself. Still, the attempt was made anyway so hopefully that would count...

Alas, all 'good' things had to come to an end... through Fortune hadn't expected the ending to come so quickly. Nor was he at all happy with the idea of being booted off into the middle of nowhere without his horse, however, he could understand the argument for leaving Twilight on the ship rather then take her off into the jungle; Through leaving her with the people who had been eying her with hunger in their eyes wasn't exactly an appealing idea either.

Still, there was nothing for it. Donning his armor in order to carry it with him into what was no doubt going to be a dangerous jungle alongside his sword and shield with the rest of his equipment, Fortune took his place on the row boat... through he kept his helm off for the time being. The trip in the rowboat was no better then the journey on the ship had been... in fact it had been worse in how much more rough the trip had been, through blissfully it had been relatively short.

Stepping out of the boat on wobbly legs as he tried to get used to being on solid ground again after so long, Fortune attempted to keep it together long enough so that he could offer Alice a hand out of the boat like a proper knight.

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'Good riddance' was the only thing that Listec could think of as he leapt from the side of the ship and landed with a soft thud, quickly rethinking his inner slight toward the Men and their Captain as he cast an eye over both of the short-arsed hairballs strutting about as if they owned Lustria itself – the so-called Ranger had an especial air of arrogance and 'I know everything' about him that made the Elf warm to him and become severely repulsed by him in equal measure; indeed, he was quite impressed by the diminutive half-mans ability to even scramble up a tree, let alone return with a source of food.

Taking the coconut without comment and expertly cutting the top off, using the same knife he used to flay any wayward Druchii that landed on the shores of Ulthuan, he lowered his neckerchief and gulped down the milk inside; it was assuredly a blessing from Estreuth, Lord of Hunger, and he gave silent prayer...along with a verse from the Catechism of Hatred and Vengeance.

"One false move, wizard." She said quietly. "Just one, and I will gut you like a fish."

Listec, as the Dwarf had rightly surmised, heard almost everything that went on about him - including clandestine Bretonnian threats – but, being above such petty things as disputes between Humans, he tossed the remainder of his coconut into the undergrowth with one hand and held his finely wrought longbow in the other as he walked.

“I agree,” he agreed, his tongue slipping like water over the rough Reikland vowels, “lead on.”

The wizard wondered, seemingly oblivious, into the dense green jungle. His eyes were fixed on his map, and every so often he conjured some kind of magical needle that you guess acts as a compass. From the amount of cursing he does trying to get it to work, you suspect that a real compass might have been easier. Eyes down and focused, his apprentice has to nudge him slightly this way and that in order to avoid the many trees that appear in his way. As you journey ever inward it starts to become distinctly hotter and more humid, and sweat soon drenches everyone's cloths, creating a most delicious meal for all the flies and mosquitos that seem to follow you incessantly. Luckily, you have not yet come across any of an extraordinarily abnormal size, but when they bite it's like they have tine openers on there feet. Darren appears to have prepared a spell in advance, as any bugs that come near him vanish in a puff of flame. Apparently it's 'not safe' to enact the spell over more than one person, so you'll just have to put up with it.

After hours and hours of hacking through ridiculously dense jungle that seems determined to trap you forever, you come to a large swamp. Darren looks somewhat bewildered when his foot sinks up to his ankle in thick mud, glancing curiously around him. "This wasn't here before." He pondered, "I must have taken a wrong turn. Ahh yes, we're here, not here, as I thought, we must have been cut off and circled round here..." He continued to narrate your mis-adventure, interspersing it with sharp jabs at the map. Alison looked round apologetically. Darren, however, lost none of his enthusiasm. "Well, come on then, let's get to it!" Just before anyone might try and kill him, another voice rings out over the swamp. "Lost, are you?" An elf, of all things, seems to glide through the trees towards you. Far from being hampered by the dense undergrowth, it appears as though he is accustomed to it. "Can be deadly, out here." While possessing his natural, arrogant countenance, he is otherwise dressed far more appropriately for the environment, wearing a thin cotton shirt, tall boots and thick trousers. "I am Thirodaen, of Ulthuan, though I have spent a number of years mapping this gods forsaken jungle. I can most likely take you where you wish, the company would be appreciated. Regardless of whether you let me guide you though, I suggest you camp here. Night will soon fall, and this is not the kind of place you would wish to be caught out."

I don't know about you, but this seems far too convenient. Darren really doesn't care. "A cartographer? Perfect, simply wonderful! I've not been this way very often, as you can tell, but this is quite fortunate is it not? Well, let's camp then, come on, get to it!" Darren lights a fire with magic, since the wood is so damp that no normal method is going to light it, while Alison cooks something in a large metal pot that appeared out of nowhere. Magic does have some perks. While you're eating, Darren wanders out a bit into the jungle, talking to the elf, (Did I ever tell you about the time....), leaving you to your own conversation.

As Fortune sat down he did so with an ragged, breathless moan and a loud clanking of armor. From the state of his armor, he looked like he had been dragged through some muddy form of hell. He weighed more then the others, often sinking on ground that the others could walk across with relative ease, the humidity was slowly boiling him alive inside of his armor and his limited vision due to his helm had resulted in him tripping over a number of roots underfoot. The only benefit was that the vast majority of the bugs weren't able to get at him; Most of them didn't seem interested in him when there were plenty of easier targets to go around and the few that did manage to find their way under his armor were relatively tolerable.

And then the bloody elf had shown up. While it had been hidden by his helm, Fortune had shown unease the moment that 'Thirodaen' had appeared; Only one kind of elf liked living in highly dangerous forests that sane people wanted to avoid and he wanted nothing to do with them. Of course, the wizard whom was the only person who knew where they were going wordlessly trusted the strange elf and had gone off for a walk in the death jungle with him alone.

Taking a moment to remove his helm so that he could get the chance to breath properly while gulping down some mildly refreshing water to replace everything that he had lost so far, he decided to ask a very important question. "So... is anyone else concerned that we are being lead by a man who see's no problem taking advice from a random elf that lives in this jungle willing?" Remembering the company he was keeping, he actually turned to look at their one elven companion as he quickly added "I mean no disrespect, but the only elves that I know that live in a forest are freaking insane monsters who like to ride out every spring and randomly murder people."

Watching the entire exchange with narrowed eyes, his neckerchief used to dab away what little sweat had gathered on his brow from wading through this gods-forsaken jungle, Listec removed his helmet and, neatly sweeping his cloak out behind him and taking a seat on a half-submerged stump, placed it in his lap.

"So... is anyone else concerned that we are being lead by a man who see's no problem taking advice from a random elf that lives in this jungle willing?" Remembering the company he was keeping, Fortune actually turned to look at their one elven companion as he quickly added "I mean no disrespect, but the only elves that I know that live in a forest are freaking insane monsters who like to ride out every spring and randomly murder people."

The Shadow Warrior almost let out a short laugh, almost, rather letting a sneer appear on his beautiful but somehow dark features as he replied in barely accented Bretonnian, “I have to agree with you, there is something off about this 'Thirodaen', and I say that as a son of a land swept below the waves and distrusted by all others of my island.” One slender hand went up to wipe the kerchief across his forehead again, his hair tied behind his head in a topknot probably in a terrible state at the moment.

Bothering not a jot with his food – whatever it was that was bubbling away in the magical cauldron – he slipped an arrow from his quiver and knocked it to his bowstring in a well-practised motion.

“If anyone wishes to accompany me,” he half-whispered to the rest of the group, “then be swift and be silent...otherwise remain here.” His words finished with more of a hiss, the Asur turning and moving off into the undergrowth with the lightness of a phantasm, tracing the steps of Darren and this so-called Cartographer.

Trust was something that irked him at the best of times, but the fact that an Elf in the middle of Lustrian jungle had simply ignored one of his own, not even interested in the larger group as a whole, riled him beyond his normal limits; if this newcomer truly was a child of Ulthuan, well then, there were questions that Listec would need to ask him – if he proved false...who knew what might happen?

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