Atana Whitewood

Atana Whitewood recoiled as the door flew open. Lying on the planked decking looking up in fear and surprise, thoughts raced through Atana’s mind. Was this man sent to kill or arrest? Atana thought that the job had gone off perfectly or so it seemed. A year-and-a-half of hard work had going into that job. The Guild Master of the Shadow Wolves had arranged an apprenticeship tough a traveling bard for a young boy born to a stakeholder from the wilds. The boy was brought to Master Cedric Fartheth to teach and train with a payment of three gold coins. Cedric was a well to do mage and a Baron by birth. The problem was, Baron Cedric had made some enemies, intentionally or otherwise, that wanted to ruin him. The first and foremost was his younger brother. Money had changed hands, bribes were made, and Atana was eventually planted in the house as a promising student, going by the name of Pug.

As time had gone by for Pug, learning how to read and write, magic theory, and other things that a boy should know. Many of the skills Pug showed no real skill in. Sword and shield and heavy armed combat were painful. When they put the chainmail on, Pug could barely raise a sword let alone swing it. When Pug’s magic started to come in, it came not in the way that Master Cedric described it, but more from anger and will. Pug could say the words, wave his hands, and impose will and the magic happened. This got Pug a reprieve from the beatings from sword and shield practice, the errands around the keep to stay out of the way and out of trouble. Now Pug worked as a scribe for Master Cedric. Pug was allowed to be present, much of the time, when Cedric was doing something important holding court, working in the lab, or making a point to be seen by the people. Atana started to like the man and started to understand some of the harshness that came from him in a different way.

When the fall festival was near, the time came to bring him to ruin. It pained Atana to betray Cedric. Being an orphan the keep had become like family. Atana was the one who opened the window to let the thieves in. Atana knew where the key was that let pass into the magical lab, loot it and plant the evidence that would bring him down. As payment, Atana was kidnapped with rough hands, given a small bag of silver coins and thrown on a ship as it was casting off.

Atana, the rouge and runaway apprentice started to slide back, hoping to get a hand on the hilt of a dagger. “What do you want?” Atana said with fear. Atana looks around to see who else in the cabin is there to help deal with the situation.

He could still hear the gentle voice of his mentor telling him it was time to go about his way. A promise that knowledge came with travel, and experience would become his teacher. Nephrus had argued that staying among the druid tribe was where he would learn what he needed. Still, the Firbolg had pressed the matter and with the realization that perhaps this may be the chance to find the person who had uprooted him Nephrus agreed. With his minimal things packed, the young druid departed the forest that had become his home, and he ventured on. Now, there was no telling where this path would lead, and by then the boy who had set the Mage's college ablaze and killed his own mother was long dead. No one sought him. No one even seemed to care. It was fine by him.

Eventually, his travels had brought him to the seaside port where he had boarded the ship with the exchange of a small handful of coin. It was hard to find someone you knew nothing about, but there were stories that lingered in quiet places. Those were the stories he hunted. It was those stories that had coaxed Oathbreaker onto the deck of the ship, a choice he would likely regret. A creature of land, it was unlikely that the Tiefling would be accustomed to the shift and sway of the sea any time soon.

With the ship listing restlessly, and a storm raging beyond his view, Nephrus sat cross legged on a small crate. While he attempted to focus on not retching up the small amount of food he had managed to get down, the weather only seemed to grow worse. The spear pointed tail flicked and twitched in his discomfort, a show that he was uncomfortable if ever there were one. Yet, the red skinned 'demon' managed to appear serene. Calm and controlled despite the turning of his stomach. In the bowels of the ship, there was no escape from the stench that assaulted his sensitive nose. Piss and the acidic stench of vomit do not aid in his own stomachs turning. Yet, the Tiefling continues to try and remain calm. Were the chances of an attack high? What would come for them here? Perhaps there was a chance he could survive the waters, but he had not yet mastered the more advanced Wild Shape. Nephrus was a bloody stick bobbing in the sea and he groaned meekly at the thought.

Somewhere over head, his keen pointed ears caught the sound of screams and the lang grip of his sickle bumped against a wall to keep him from sliding from his perch when the whole ship canted to one side. Others tumbled into the floor out of cots. Something had changed. Nephrus could feel it in the depth of his chest and fingers curled a little tighter around his weapon. Mismatched, liquid metal eyes turned towards the decking over head and he tracks the sound of rushing water before it spills into the room. Nephrus gathers his coat to him to make sure it did not get wet with unmentionable fluids and sea water. Heavy boots alert the druid and slowly, he rises to his feet, an attempt to prepare. For what? The Tiefling did not know, but to remain a sitting duck was a dangerous ploy. When light flashes beyond the opening, he's afforded a look at the owner of said boots.

An imposing figure cut in the blinding light though he does not engulf the opening into the room with his size. The armor is well made and the light glints off silver and blue studs. With strange eyes and silver pupils, the man seems almost ethereal. A ghost at best. But in the low light, he can see better than most, and the Druid knows better than to assume. It is the red head's quick gaze that makes him draw his graceful weapon across himself, holding it with both hands.
"Speak Carefully," He warned, accented voice fairly soft, "we know not who we speak with..." With that pointed tail switching anxiously, he continued to observe their newest guest.

Card wasn't particularly used to the waves of the sea. Hell, this was his first time not on dry land. What seemed like a good idea, namely moving away from the last town he had set up his cons, was beginning to turn into a living nightmare. He was able to manage the more gentle waves before the storm, but the insane churning of the sea had forced Card's head into a bucket. He hadn't been this sick since he had tried what turned out to be rancid salmon some ten years prior.

Card lifted his head back to get some air, doing his best to try not to breath in the putrid fumes as his eyes watered. Card's gaze temporarily wandered over his strange company. He could almost hear his old mentor's advice in his ear, and found himself muttering it under his breath. _{"Never try a con if there's no exit."} Though, at this point, perhaps a dive into the raging seas and letting the waves take him to his watery grave.

The slamming open of the door caught the wizard by surprise. Standing in that doorframe was something he was certain wasn't real. He didn't recognize the man as part of the crew, and his armor appeared rather ornate for someone to travel among this crowd. And then, with a flash of lightning, the face changed... certainly a trick of the light. Or an illusion of some sort. It wasn't natural, it couldn't be.

Of course, it couldn't be a complete illusion. His fellow passengers seemed disturbed by the figure. Card's eyes darted between the boy and the tiefling again, before he too spoke in a weak and shaky voice. "He's right... always tales of strange spirits... on these sea-" He wasn't even able to finish his stunted speech before he had to thrust his head back in the bucket, heaving out little more than his own stomach acid.

The thunderous crashing of the waves against the ship hurl it with a wrenching tilt to one side almost as if to bring the great vessel to topple. Yet, as it tilts, another massive wave surges from the other direction and slams into the hull hurling it back into balance. Surges of water rush down the stairs once more coupled with the persistent torrential rain managing to pierce through the opening from the deck of the ship into the bowls of its lower levels. The water rushes between the boots of this man, this figurine in the dark, whose white flesh stands out as the very light of the thunder itself. His dark eyes glance around the room with his left leather gloved hand nestled in an idle position upon the hilt of his sword.

In the moments of observation by those within the room, he turns his head back toward the stair with the rising of screams and hollers. Men of the crew previously slumbering below per orders from their Captain are seen rushing past behind him and up the slick, water drenched stairs heading up to help with the challenges of the storm. The hull itself wretches as if coming apart against the crashing waters. The thick wood groans as if in pain; as if desiring an end to its own miserable torment. The man turns his head back upon hearing the words of those within the room. His lips remain stern and solid; narrowed with no emotional state to express.

"You may wish to obtain your valuables and quickly. More resides within the depths of this storm than mere wind and rain." He comments as if somehow aware of an unknowable threat to the vessel. Suddenly, another boom reaches through the air, but no flash is coupled with this resounding echo. A great crack is heard from above as if a tree has been harshly shattered. More screams and yells rise into the air as the crew calls out in fear and panic. 'Pirates off the aft! Man the guns!' A figure of authority cries out before a sudden explosion of wood rips through the hull of the very room in which the group is residing.

The figure of a man, previously seen as stern and formidable in the doorway, is thrown to the side from the explosion as the air is ridden with splinters and shrapnel from the blast. The assault had streaked straight through the hull of the ship through the room and beyond leaving a gaping hole in both walls. The torrential rain spears through the opening immediately after penetration by the assaulting cannon ball. The man in his fine armor and intimidating garb rests against the far wall, half delved in water with blood upon one side of his face. Despite this, he clambers quickly from his position in a tilting manner, grasping at a chain dangling from the ceiling with the remnants of a lamp now dimmed to darkness by the swift air of the attack and the water of the rain.

"Quickly!" He shouts toward the others in whatever state they may now reside after the attack. "We must get topside!"

As the waves crashed into the ports side and the ship listed, Anata felt the rocks shift as much as heard them trying to counter balance the ship. Tables and chairs slipped, tipped, and fell. Atana now knew why the bunks were pegged in place. Atana tumbled, not gracefully, but like the tables and chairs. Only to be bounced back and the ship was righted. The smell of vomit mixed with the sea foam and the excrement of people filled her nose and lungs and she gave into vomiting. The mouth panting had kept it at bay, but now with the additional smells and fear was more than she could take. Antana managed to stand and reclaim gear. She tossed her boots around her neck.

At the shout of pirates, “Daemon spit,” slipped from her lips a little louder than a whisper.
She had learned that from a Tiefling thief that she had worked with. She would not say they were friends, but she did not die on his knife like his former partner. And yes, her mother would have been so proud to hear her speak like that that lye soap would have been used. But it seemed like the appropriate swear for the moment.

She gave the Tiefling space, she had learned that Tieflings don't trust people for no reason and they tended to have tempers.
She went and offered to the Drow and asked, “Let me help you get your things and get topside.”
She offered what aid she could then went topside with the others.

It was by balance alone that the tiefling managed to stay upright even as the ship jolted. His grip tightened on the length of his weapon and he braced for yet another violent canting of the floor under his soft leather boots. Neph tried not to think about the unspeakable things currently washing around his feet as sea water began to soak into the leather. Even his tail curled a little higher to avoid it. Keen eyes catch glimpses of men rushing for the upper deck, some sliding or slipping on the wet steps as they mad a dash to obey orders. Something had indeed gone south now, and being caught in the bowls of the ship hardly seemed a good place to be. He would not drown here in this room.

As the entire ship seemed to groan around them, Nephrus grew uneasy. The air around him felt suddenly too thick and he stared hard at the man still stood there, unmoving. The first words that reached them from this stranger brought with it an unnerving chill down his spine. The Druid furrowed his brows. With all of his items still on his person, the Tiefling did not need to be told twice. It is however the deafening boom and a sudden crack that jerks the others head upward. Droplets shake loose from the planks over head and his mismatched eyes widen.
"Was that the mast?"
Over the sound of shouting a warning, he can hear something he cant quite pinpoint. It's all too late as wood explodes into the space. The sound it makes is not unlike thunder, and the very bones of the ship tremble under him.

There is no time to react, the spattering of wood shards bite into him and he's knocked clean off his feet, fumbling into a swaying hammock in the back of the space. He swings for a moment as he tries to shake clear the ringing in sensitive ears.
Nephrus is dazed, but he does manage to get himself up. He has to lean against his sickle like a walking stick as he gathers himself up again.
"You may wish to prepare for combat..." He stated to the others, clearly preparing for what he might face on the decks as he made towards the door. Though he doesn't say anything on it, the avoidance of the red head is a reminder of the way most view him. It is a lasting impression that lingers with him even as he moves towards the man in the door. The tinge of blood in the air is coming from more than just him, but for now there is no time to offer a healing hand. Out of the room, and up into the torrent of wind and water.

Thunderous explosions rip through the air in a sequence as the great galleon continues to take on more assaults from the assailants thus far identified as mere 'pirates,' according to the observations of the panic-stricken crew. Moments after the individuals within the room reclaim their senses and begin to apply effort in escaping the already decimated protection of their cabin, great whines of wood and the harsh snaps of rope follow. Indeed, the main mast had immediately been snapped. What maddened crew would dare consider such a violent assault amidst a storm so vile and chaotic a ship can barely maintain its own stability without additional efforts? The mast comes down harshly to crash upon the upper deck. Screams and cries of pain follow along with fear. The thinned sound of splashes wafts from the sea as some of the crew were tossed into the raging waves surrounding them.

The man in the doorway immediately reclaimed what was left of his shock to the assault which threw him so harshly into the wall of the cabin. For any who would take even the slightest moment to observe, pieces of wood stick out from various points of his armor. Which had pierced and inflicted greater injury, such observations would require the grace of time which none of them currently possess. He turns sharply, heading toward the stair leading to the upper deck with all haste. For one so injured, he seemed to move quite well.

"Quickly!" He shouts to the group once more; obviously bearing no desire to find an end within the bowls of a ship. For one so prepared to face their situation, he remains oddly calm and keeps his blade within its sheath. Perhaps drawing before a target presents itself is his preference? In either case, he leads the group topside.

To the eyes of the gathering, a nightmarish scene one would think reserved only for the horrors of the deepest pits of hell befalls them. Members of the crew, limp and bloodied, sail across the surface of the deck with the crashing waves which wash over the edges of the ship. Smoke riddles the deck for moments after each explosion of a cannon as the crew attempts to return fire in what is hardly an ideal environment for any reliable method of targetting. The captain stands at the helm, holding fast to the great wheel of the ship in an effort to maintain control of the great vessel.

"Hold until you have a clear view, lads! Anticipate the waves!" The captain desperately cries out his commands in an effort to improve their likelihood of survival against the onslaught. The center mast lay across the ship with the bodies of nearly a half-dozen crew trapped beneath, most of whom are dead and squished into a horrendous sight. Holes already riddle the sides of the ship, and more cannon fire comes inward from the opposition far off in the distance, now off the starboard of the ship. The captain had obviously made due efforts to turn them in an optimal angle for returning fire. The port side barely had any guns left, thus to face starboard was the most tactical decision.

"Hold your fire lads! Wait for it!" The captain cries out once more with a massive wave coming up toward them. The figure of a man in dark leather grips hold to a rope lashed to the forward center mast still standing, seeking a source for stability. He stares upon the great wave of the sea with gruesome disgust. As explosions are seen from the opposing ship, the wave rises upward and would seem to block most of the next assault. Such luck! Only a couple of balls stream across the deck of the ship, with only one landing a blow to the lower side.

"Fire! Fire! All hands fire!" The captain cries for his crew to ignite their cannons just as the great wave starts to decline. The crew cries out in turn, spreading the message swiftly as loud as their voices can carry through the storm. They all hunch down and ignite the cannons which moments later explode one after the other. A dozen and a half rippling torrents of smoke and fire fly from the ship as their violently intended shots sail over the crashing wave and seem to land truly against the opposition. Even from this distance, two of their masts are seen to crash across their deck just moments after.

Atana grabbed to closest line to try hoping it was attached to the ship and not the mast. As the waves rocked the ship, the mast slid. Atana heard no groans from those who were trapped beneath it as it moved a bit. The smell of gun powder filled the air, and Atana wondered how they could keep the flames lit in this much water.

This was race to the bottom Atana started to think. Both ships were now wounded in ways that did not seem sustainable. She looked at the man who came down to notify them and asked, "What do we do now?" This was the first exposure Atana had to naval warfare or sailing.

Atana pulled the cloak around tighter to try to stay covered and dry and continued to hold on. Watching the scene in shock.

The Tiefling is no stranger to war or combat, he'd seen plenty by now in his travels. That of course did not mean he was prepared for this. It was supposed to be an easy trip, and yet now he found himself battling his own instincts. Still using his sickle to keep from stumbling off balance, the Druid glanced down where crimson swirled through the sea foam that washed across the deck. People were hurt, or dead, and the ship was riddled now surely. Bracing against the tilt of the vessel against the rising wave that guarded it, Nephrus steeled himself.

He could help, or turn tail. With tail swaying to help him keep his balance, the Tiefling shifted towards the railing slightly, having to almost bounce over the rigging of the downed mast as it threatened to sweep his feet.
Liquid metal eyes turned up at the sky and as the next volley of canon fire lit up the night around them, light crackled across the sky over head, a cylinder of clouds building with haste in the distance.

Nephrus knew that it was dangerous and he positioned himself carefully to avoid simply being thrown overboard in his concentration. Energy crackled across the plane of his eyes and The same purple flashes danced along the controlled clouds, growing in power as thunder bubbled along the sea around them. A few of those bolts licked at the railing of the ship attacking them. He did not know why they were being attacked, but Neph made it a point to return fire when fire was dealt.

Getting a back full of wooden shrapnel is never a fun experience.

The wizard's mind was caught in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that clouded his emotions. He couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't. The figure seemed... compassionate? Or simply of aid? And then suddenly, it came. A cannonball, most likely. But regardless of what it was, it's path sent a hail of splinters into his back, piercing his cloak with ease. The force shoved Card against the ground, and the pain surged through his spine.

After that, Card's movements were sluggish to say the least. While his pride would refuse his acceptance of help from one of his cabin-mates, he wished he had accepted it about halfway through his attempt at practically crawling up the steps on to the deck. With every crashing wave or rocking lull, the acid in his stomach getting upset enough to nearly spill from his lips. But he just forced it back down his throat every time.

By the time the wizard emerged on to the deck, the scene was utter chaos. The Tiefling seemed to be inclined in some sort of magic. This ship was clearly engaged in combat, which was something Card was not particularly suited for. He did have some tricks up his sleeve still.

Card raised his staff, one of the few possessions the wizard still had, and slammed it once against the ground. He pointed the tip of the staff from one railing of the ship to the other, muttering under his breath in an ancient language even he barely understood on a bad day. From out the tip of the staff, a line of arcane energy began drawing an glowing, interconnected web along the ship. It formed around those on the ship's deck, seeming drawn to secure them to some extent as waves seemed to crash against the ship's hull.

As the thunderous storm rages overhead and the surges of the waves continue to rise and crash against the ship, repeated cannon fire rips across the deck tearing through the hull and blowing chunks of the upper deck wall to splinters, though they are quite difficult to differentiate from the torrential rain. The man in dark leathers holds tight to the rope in his hands as he stares far across the waves to the opposition. Indeed, both ships have taken severe damage by this point and a victor is not likely to see the storms end. He turns his head to the others; the red-headed woman expressing concerns and curiosity as to what fate has in store. The wizard's spell seems to secure his form in place upon the deck, yet he does not release his grip of the rope for even a moment.

"The ship has taken damage to the lower hull! We are taking on water from below, and we need to bring that to a halt." He looks first to the wizard as his dark eyes narrow in slight. "Use your spells to mend the patches as best you can!" A wave crashes hard against the side of the ship. The whining of wood rips through the air once more as the foremost mast snaps. It rips to shreds at the breakpoint and comes crashing down, slamming over the edge of the ship and flying off into the sloshing sea waves.

"Captain! Only ten cannons left, and the powder is nearly spent!" One of the crew cries out to the captain. The report ripples through the air with desperation. What few cannons remain intact continue firing at will, though more canons are ripping toward the great galleon than are being fired in return.

"Hold the canons, lads! Make them think we've gone dry and hold the last of the shots for close quarters! Prepare to board!" The captain cries out with a warlike cry, drawing his own sword above his head as he turns the wheel sharply to arch the ship more directly toward the opposition. The ship lurches in its won right with the sudden change, of course, smashing through oncoming waves. Four masts remain intact with their sails billowing fully in the storms bolstering winds.

"You heard him! Prepare for combat. You..." He points toward the red-headed woman. "See if you can get any of the canons back into position for additional shots as we draw close. They don't have to be fancy, just get them pointed outward with their fuses accessible. Have crew reload them!" He then looks to the tiefling. "You! Make sure every crew member is armed and help them prepare for boarding!" He shouts as if the captain himself.

The opposing ship turns its direction and its course bears toward the great galleon directly. Canon fire continues to stream forth from forward guns as they approach nearer and nearer. Distant cries for blood rage through the shrill winds.

Atana grabbed a blade from one of the dead sailors and started to run down the deck of the multi-mast ship moving cannons. She started to help move cannons. We need to take out their boarding party so load the breach with things that will create shrapnel. She grabbed the small cannon balls and stuffed them in her bag. She started up the riggings of the formast. This is the dumbest thing I've ever done, she taught to herself. Let the sailors fight fair with each other, she was going to fight dirty.

She settled herself and started watching for any magic users and watching to determine where the power was. Her plan was simple, take out the leaders and by settled, if someone cut the rigging she would probably fall to her death. Her plan was simple, kill the leaders and sink their ship if possible. Let the sailors fight fair. She was going to fight dirty.

The end of his weapon twitched, a sharp little motion that brought a bolt of lightning down from the swirling cloud into the deck of the enemy ship. It lit the entire deck up in white blue light, and wood splintered in all directions as thunder clashed with the waves roaring around them. He was gearing up to repeat the action a second time.

It was a near whiplash effect, to be focused on the spell bubbling in the back of his mind and then have someone speak to him. Well. It was much less spoken to him and more AT him. Nephrus frowned a little bit. It wasn't like he was the best person to deal with people. Most feared him quite readily, not that he blamed them honestly. The Tiefling ignored the way the lightning no longer curved towards the ship. Without focus he couldn't continue the assault, so instead he gave a crisp nod.

The druid moved, seeking out the nearest cache of weapons. "To arms! Gather yourself, and prepare for combat!" He called out, usually quiet voice raised to be heard over the din of chaos.
Nephrus shoved cutlass into floundering hands and clapped frightened men upon the shoulders.
One young man in particular trembled violently as he stared wide eyed past his shoulder.
"Look at me..." Nephrus mused and the young man darted stormy eyes up at him, "Fight. To your last breath. Do not cave to the will of the enemy. Fight. Or die fighting. Do not go gently into the arms of fate." He gave the young man a squeeze, turned and spun his scythe like weapon in one palm over his head before snapping it back against the deck. Droplets of water broke free of the honed blade. He would not hesitate to strike down any who drew blade upon him.

Atana watched the the battle from the mast and rigging. She determined that this must be a male thing. The sheer violence of it and the possibility that both ships and crews could be lost. For what? She stayed small and silent watching the man in leather on her ship and the other on their ship. The pilot was to far away, but he was a good target, unless the hulls crashed in the waves and sunk them all.

With a small word and a gesture, she threw a knife that seemed to hover in the air. Atana decided to attack there maneuverability. Without their main sails to drive them, it would be harder to turn and run. It would also give her ship a tactical advantage. They would be watching for flaming arrows, not a single floating knife.

Atana had learned a little about sails from being in port. Sails loose strength as they age, wind rain, sun and cold all cause them to break down. She did her best to puncture the main sails where they billowed then forced of the wind. Like a woman cutting fabric, once the cut was made the fabric once to strong to rip would would rip down the weave with ease. What she was doing would not be noticed, with luck, till after the deck battle had started to rage.

The heavy waves the dark storm crash ever-persistent against the side of the great galleon while the opposing ship draws closer and closer. The winds whip as though at the hands of some unseen master, slashing against both vessels and the storming sea. Canon fire continues to rip across the waves as each ship maintains its turns to mow the other down. That there shall reside a victor remains ever a dwindling possibility. As the others attend to the tasks set upon them by the dark leathered man, the crew of the vessel prepares themselves for the coming combat. They ready themselves with the weapons they are provided. The extra canons salvaged in such a dire storm as this are manned and ready. The opposing vessel continues to fire at will.

The wizard, Card, sought to complete the task set to him as he dives below deck while the others complete their own tasks. Holes riddled with splinters and charred edges pour water through the hull with every slosh in the sea. Some crew below deck use buckets attempting to toss the water out as quickly as possible, but on almost every deck the water level meets their knees. Card applies his methods of the arcane on the smallest of the wounds in the hull first. Using his simple cantrips to mend the wood and slow the wafting waters. With the crew attending to the larger holes, this appears the most effective tactic for the time being.

"We are nearly there, lads! Hold the canons!" The Captain cries out. Now is the time for a final tactic. Up close and personal, the Captain would set the opposing ship to a blaze with as much canon fire as possible with no lack for aim. The crew readies themselves, holding steady as the enemy ship draws nearer. Each wave seems to spend the pause in eternity, but the great sails and the dark wood of the opposition draw ever nearer.

"Steady yourselves!" The Captain cries out once more. The man in dark leathers looks to those he had commanded to lend aid, seeking to know their final location before the storm of battle is unleashed fully. There the red-headed girl sits with optimal striking for one of her caliber. The Tiefling man is set with the crew, ready to rend flesh with metal. The wizard, now finished with what mending he could accomplish with his spells, finds his way back to the surface ready to engage with the others.

"Hold!" The Captain cries out as the enemy vessel nears more and more. They turn, moving to come alongside in preparation to exchange crews for combat. "HOLD!" He carries out again, with one hand tight upon the wheel and the other firmly wrapped around the hilt of his sword. The ship crosses the threshold of the bow with a slosh in a large wave. As it comes crashing down, storming the galleon with a handful of canon fire blowing out parts of the deck and sending some crew to their immediate end, it slams down into the water to land just alongside with the galleon.

Moments pass in this single introduction. Mere moments one could attest to an endless sense of fear. The wind whipping and the water of the sea and rain slapping against the skin of every man and woman aboard. Such a moment at the peak where battle comes to join are few and savored by fewer, save for this crew of the black ship. Lightning streaks across the sky offering light upon both ships. In such a moment, the opposing force is revealed with dreaded garb and blades raised high. Through the tattered garb and the shredded cloth rest only bone and sinew with eyes hollow and void. White teeth part exposing gullets of darkness accompanied by the shrilled cries of the damned. Who could be more possessed to slaughter ships in a tomentous storm such as this than those who have no need to fear death?

"Fire!!!" The Captain cries out as loud as a warcry one could hope to must in such terror as this. Hesitation means death and damnation, and the Captain shall have neither. The crew, stricken and shaken, are brought from their moments of terror back into a state where survival is all that matters. They ignite and fire off every canon they have to muster, sending a rain of metal and fire into the enemy vessel. Explosions cry out from the enemy with members of the damned crew flying through the air. Within moments of the ignition of the canon, the sounds of clashing metal clamber through the air as some of the wretches had already begun to swing across to the galleon.

"Send these wretches to the abyss!" The man in dark leathers cries out, lunging himself forward toward a deranged creature as it swings straight toward him upon a rope. He slashes the strand overhead of the creature, dodging its own blade swing, sending it crashing to the deck.

The wind and the rain coated Antana, her trying to hide as a man was not working as she wanted. Wet cloth has a tendency to show what is beneath it in ways that the eye can not miss. She cursed the wind and rain in her mind and pulled the cloak tighter. Atana prayed not to be noticed and not to have the mast shot out from under her. She did not know much about naval warfare, but she was learning a lot watching it from above.

She kept trying to cause the other ship's sails to rip and flap, loosing their wind. As the other ship had been the aggressor, it had positioned itself to have the clean air and reduce the wind hitting the sheets of their sails. When Atana had punched holes in the sheets, she called the knife back. Then waited for the right moment to send two three pound cannon balls floating through the air. She really had to concentrate as she floated them it into the proper position high enough not to draw attention to them, but close enough to clap them together on the pilot's head. That would buy them a few moments of chaos.

The Tiefling watched as the ships drew closer and closer. Sure he had been raised among combat casters but he'd left that behind. At least that was what he said to himself. Sure there was no escaping magic you'd already learned, and honestly his gifts lingered always at the back of his mind sometimes pressing too closely to his Druidcraft.
As the ship drew closer and suddenly he was close enough to make out the enemy, realization settled into him. This wasn't going to be a normal fight.

He moved deftly forward, meeting the first wave with force. The scythe like weapon in hand cut through the rotted flesh and bone with relative ease. It was enough to set the crew into motion. Making his way towards the railing of the ship he sought anything that would be flammable. A stray bottle of liquor caught his eye as it slid when the ship listed restlessly and he snatched it up, dodging and weaving around the attacks as he stuffed the top with a piece of clothe. If he could set some part of that ship on fire maybe it would spread quick and sink, but the fire would have to catch and burn fast.

Nephrus lit the cloth with his Thaumatergy cantrip, a gift by blood, and he let it burn a little bit. "Have a taste of hell fire you bastarts..." He growled out and threw the bottle as hard as he could towards the mast of the enemy ship, hoping it would break and ignite.

The battering winds continue slamming into both ships which come together upon the crashing waves, slamming sideways against each other. Ropes fly through the air, wrapping around the masts and sides wherever they can attach. The crew of the damned swarm over onto the galleon, crashing against the crew of the living with unrelenting carnage. The eerie lack of warcries from the dead adds to the reality of the monsters streaming aboard. Lightning crackles overhead, crackling across the dark and stormy skies offering limited moments of light. The ships themselves creak and groan as if in pain from the battle.

The creature grasping the helm of the opposing ship stands silent and unmoving, saving for commanding the motions of the vessel. Guards of skeletal construct stand around the helm in case anyone happens to make it there, but their mindless perceptions are blinded to the efforts of a simple yet clever girl using magic upon iron cannonballs. The objects near their target and successfully smash against the pilots head which is immediately crushed into shards of bone. The creature falls to the ground, no longer awakened. The guards, having no one to protect now, abandon their positions and charge across the edges of the ships to join the slaughter of the living.

As the bottle sails from the hand of the tiefling toward the mast of the enemy vessel, a large iron shield sweeps across and blocks the bottle. It shatters across the surface of the shield, drenching it in fire adding immediate illumination to all around its presence. From behind the shield, a large skeletal creature rises with a greatsword already coated thickly in blood. Its massive skull, irregular and elongated, turns immediately to the tiefling. Its hollowed eye sockets arise with blue and violet energies as its large bone jaw opens emitting an echoing scream cowering many of the living crew around its presence. It raises its massive blade with one arm, unhindered by the limitations of living muscle, and charges toward the tiefling intent on slamming him with its shield and following with a quick slash of its massive blade.

The wizard, Card, raises his hands high above himself channeling arcane energies as some crew work to defend him in hopes that his spells will turn the tide. The energies form together between his hands quickly before turning into a large flaming ball. He hurls the ball of fire forward into a group of the undead, shattering their ranks and igniting their forms. The crew around him cheer and take to decimating the flailing remnants of the fired damned. Arrows dart through the air toward Card, one smacking him in the shoulder immediately after the spell is cast.

The man in dark leathers swings his blade through the enemy around himself as if bearing the dexterity of an elf. His motions are fluid and clean, slicing through the damned as though knowing where to strike to bring them to a quick and untimely final demise. His eyes catch the wizard under fire from arrows and the large skeletal creature charging toward the tiefling. He pauses for a moment in thought, then turns and runs across the deck toward the wizard. Grabbing a bow from the ground and a quill, he knocks the first arrow and fires striking one of the undead archers. The creature falls over the side and into the raging black sea.

Atana realized two flaws in her thinking. The first occurred, as she just about jumped out of her skin, as the lightning cracked striking one of the ship masts and made an exploding sound as the rain water that ran down it turned almost instantly to steam. Being in the rigging of a sailing ship in a thunderstorm was dangerous. If who ever controlled the undead was smart, they wouldn't climb the rigging. They just needed to wait for the storm to either shake her free or electrocute her. She was fairly sure that the captain and every other sailor would let her know how stupid she was for going up in the rigging. The second flaw was when she realized that no one had her back.

An archer noticed her and loosed an arrow cut a grove across her arm. She turned her her cannon balls on the weakest bones she knew of in the human body, the collarbone. Her master had told her it was painful when it broke and easy to strike. If skeletons were like people they would have a hard time raising and drawing their bows. If they were purely magical constructs, she would know when it let loose the next arrow at her. She sent the cannon balls in high and arching down, she tried to get as small as she could.