"Elngraz deb!" Sketti muttured, if one could call it that. Every word he said was close to a shout so the men could hear his dissatisfaction. Even yelling khazalid, they could feel his pleasure or his anger at the inflection. "Put yer back into it, Robert! Krunk Umgi!" 

Out of the surf came Markus and those men that had been handpicked to push the ship out of the deep, rising like the spirit of Luthor Harkon himself. Water trickled down his matted black hair and his nose, but his eyes never wavered, ever forward as his men shoved with him. It wasn't until he felt sand without the splash of water did he glance to his left, seeing Emmaline gaping at the sight of the ship rolling over the ground. A handful of men heaved the last log, running it to the fore of the line as the others kept [i]The Hammer[/i] moving inexorably forward. Morgan oversaw the movement of supplies, patting them men on the backs and giving them encouraging words as they set the barrels and crates on the hastily made sleds.

"Mister Jones!" Markus called, and one of the younger fellows helping categorize the stores ran over to take over Markus's labors, tossing him his drucchi sword and his brace of pistols. The captain caught them with ease, strapping them to his soaked leathers and belts with a few quick tugs, before unsheathing his sword. He had begun to sport a light goatee, but even with his drenched clothing and his lack of grooming, he still looked a far sight less philistine than his men; a longsword amongst hammers.

"Steady now!" He cried, lifting his sword. The men groaned in unison as the ship made its way past the undulating sand. Even with Sketti's technical genius and Markus's leadership, it was a precarious thing. The plains were a much better prospect than dense jungle, but even with the dotted copses of trees and shrubs, they were hopelessly exposed. Above them, the sun peeked through the clouds like a jealous lover, the storm having made the sky a smattering of intermingling grey and blue. Markus bellowed: "Steady all! Push!" 

He thrust his sword high in the air, the gleaming black metal a sign of his deadly reputation. The men heaved, grunting with exertion. Markus was not sure if they could make it seven sigmar-damned miles, but he was not going to voice that concern. He moved forward, stalking past Emmaline just a few short meters away. The blonde hurried to meet him, still eyeing the ship every now and again. "You were right." She admitted. "I can't believe it's working." 

"Keep away from it in case it falls," he whispered to her. She blinked incredulously, opening her mouth to speak before realizing he had not stopped. She stumbled over a shrub and did her best to catch up. Markus began pointing to various men who were finishing their loading tasks, telling them to grab cutlasses and axes to help clear the way. Markus took his blade, and with his men began to move aside any stone or cut a swathe through whatever vegetation might pause [i]The Hammer[/i]'s slow advance.

Halfdan was at the bow of the ship; a morale booster for the men behind, huge muscles bulging as he pushed with all his might. The two elves, Idrin and Sulandar, were with Markus. Their eyes and grace helped them clear the way like a pair of flowing scythes. Sketti was too short to help push, but he pulled a heavy cart of supplies like a harnessed bulldog over the barren terrain, keeping an eye on the ship as he moved. Every now and then he would drop it and move a log to give the haulers a break. The men were taller, with longer legs, but a dwarf had thrice the stamina of most men. He moved like the organic machine he was. 

After an hour, perhaps two, Markus wiped the sweat from his brow. If he had to guess, they seemed about halfway. He noticed there was naught but the wind and grunting around them, and men began to complain loudly. He cleared his throat. "Calder!" 

An old salt from Hochland, who pulled a cart with a few other men, looked up at him. Markus jerked his head to the ship, Clader knowing the sign well. The gnarled man cleared his throat, and raised his head as he pulled. 

"[b]Now we are ready to sail for the horn! Weigh! Hey! Roll, and go! Our boots and our clothes, boys, are all in the pawn! To be rollickin' randy, dandy, oh[/b]!" He sang, his voice rising to tenor, leaving behind the gravel and piercing into the gifted voice of a man far younger.

"[i]Heave a' ho! Heave a'way! Weigh! Hey! Roll and Go![/i]" The men answered in unison, their voices rising. Markus nodded, satisfied in the complaints being drowned out. It was a hard day, but at the pace they were going, it was very possible they were going to make it. At his side, Emmaline had kept pace with him, though 'keeping pace' was tantamount to her walking leisurely and pointing out small saplings and stones for Markus to remove, shielding her eyes from the sun with her fair hand when it decided to show itself. It was only when Markus smacked her backside with the flat of his blade that she started to help, albeit reluctantly. 

It was just a half a mile forward, as they passed a large boulder embedded in the soft earth, when Emmaline sighed with exaggerated frustration. As she batted her fringe out of her eyes, she caught a glimpse of movement to the south. She blinked, the figure disappearing behind a small collection of trees, if something had been there at all. Pursing her lips, she went back to cutting up dried shrubs with a keen knife, before she felt a strange tingle in her sense. The faint, residual feeling of a distant wind of magic. It was devoid of life, smelling almost like ash, though it was not her nose that felt the sensation. She peered up again, and that time she knew she saw something slink away into the gently rolling landscape. 

"Markus?" She said, and he turned from his work to look to her. She pointed southward, and when he gave her a confused look, she pointed more emphatically. Concern spread in her face, and the captain rose up with pantherish grace. He strode over to her, eyes on the southern undergrowth, not blinking. For a moment, he saw nothing. But then he felt what she felt, his arcane skill lesser than hers but still present, and then moments later, he saw it. His eyes widened. 

"Steady men!" He yelled, hefting his sword and taking a pistol out of his baldric, cocking the blackpowder weapon. He barked at the men with him. "Indrin, Sulandar, Hoch, Fernando! All o' you!" Eight heads lifted up. "Look alive!" 

"Ghouls!" Frankfurt wailed from the ship-line, his usually gruff demeanor giving way to superstitious horror as the enemy that stalked them finally chose to show themselves. Out of the trees and shrubbery, mottled and grey things loped into view on long limbs, making terrible gains of distance in the span of a few short seconds. Their faces shorn of skin, with gaping mouths of sharp, broken teeth, two dozen of the abominations sprinted at them on all fours like skinned wolves. Bones protruding from their backs, they were a grisly sight, even for the rough men of [i]The Hammer[/i]. Markus had read of them in Dolmann's [i]Studies of the Occult[/i]. Though tainted by dark magic and cursed by cannibalism, they were technically alive, still. They were men, twisted into corrupt forms after eating their own until it formed them into loathesome things valued by necromancers as attack dogs. What they were doing here was a question he would ask himself once he had given them a permanent death. 

Markus glanced at the men rolling the ship, seeing them with wide eyes and fear on their faces. If the ghouls reached them, the ship would not only halt, but fall onto the plains and moor it permanently. Morgan and Sketti came to that conclusion just as Markus did, Morgan crying for them men to keep going as Sketti dropped his reigns and hooked a spear-hook onto his brass arm, before lifting a scattergun in his true hand. 

It would have been smarter to remain where they were, set themselves up and fire in a roughly constructed line of pistoliers, riflemen, and crossbowmen. But that would give an easy opening for those ghouls that did survive to reach the ship and the exposed crew. So Markus decided a different plan, one Emmaline saw without him having to explain. He brandished his blade and screamed, drawing the attention of the charging crypt ghouls. "Come on, you bastards!" Before glancing at his men. "For Gold and golden women!" 

"Gold and golden women!" His men cried as Markus charged forward, and at the sight, they followed their captain quickly. The elves did not give a battle cry, instead gliding forward silently with their keen blades as the pack of ghouls wheeled like a flock of birds towards Markus, garnering their ravenous attention. There was a horrible screech and a warble of inhuman sounds before the squad of pirates opened fire, and blackpowder smoke plumed just before the two groups collided in a maelstrom of steel and claws on the plains of the isthmus.