[IC] Beyond the Storms

[ML]

S E T T I N G T H E S T A G E

---

Hello there, all you lovely listeners! Welcome to the Daily Drag! I'm your host, Calvin, and joining me is Polly Panama, a UINC official and a big fan of the show, if I'm not mistaken. Say hi, Polly.

Just ecstatic to be here, Cal! Thank you for having me on the show. It's a really special day today, isn't it? So much excitement in the air.

Thaaat's right, Polly. Today is the day of another launch! And more exciting still, it's the maiden voyage of the United Isles Naval Coalition's newest ship: The United Isles Ship Garrloch. I'm told this beauty is one of the first in a new line of exploration vessels which are trying to figure out just what's out there past that Ring of Thunder.

Yes, the Garrloch is our brand new flagship. The first of it's class. For those of you who are confused, Rick Garrloch was the main backer for this particular ship, so it seems only right that she be named in his honor.

Good thinking, Polly! Yes, the Garrloch would not be possible without Rick Garrloch's support. For those of you at home, Rick Garrloch is the CEO of New Life Industries, bringing you every possible household item you could ever need. Toothbrushes, pots and pans, even paper towel holders. If your life isn't quite homey enough, try buying a New Life. Now, tell me, Polly, what makes the Garrloch special beyond the rest of the UINC fleet?

Well, Cal, the Garrloch is the first exploration ship we're putting out into the world that can handle a brand new type of aircraft technology we like to call "VTOL".

Wow, that's an acronym if ever I've heard one!

Yes it is, Cal: it stands for Vertical Takeoff and Landing. We're putting a brand new prototype aircraft on the Garrloch which has the ability to take off like a helicopter, and then transform mid-flight into an airplane. It gives the airplane a lot more speed and distance, but still lets it maintain the maneuverability of a copter.

It's all flying a bit over my head, Polly, but it sounds amazing. I'm just tickled that you're here to explain this all to us, but unfortunately my producers over there are giving me some nasty looks. I think that's all the time we have for now.

Oh, no worries, Cal. Thanks again for having me.

And thank you for coming, Polly! Right, folks, tune in to our sister station "The Minutes" for a step-by-step of the Garrloch's launch. And now, I'd like to draw your attention to a particularly interesting new dog one of our listens recently brought to my attention...

---

Edward was late. He was late, late--so late, in fact, that using the word late probably wasn't even a relevant term anymore. He'd been expected at the bottom of the DOC at ten in the morning. It was ten now, and the DOC's topside had only just come into view as his old beater puttered up the road to the parking lot. "Shit, shit, come on..." There was a traffic pileup for some god-forsaken reason, and he wasn't going to be getting to where he was going any time soon.

"Mom was right," he seethed, glancing to the side of the road in a desperation. He should definitely have left his hotel room a good two hours earlier, just to be safe. He'd been distracted, though: a wonderful book about a world where there were no mysteries around the globe, and the only things left to explore were skyward. It was hard to put down those science-fiction books about space. After taking three flights and passing through Canthican border security, of course a blasted book would be the thing that screwed him over.

And now he was rightly pickled. There was only one chance he had at making it. "Not like I'll need it anyway," he told himself, before he pulled sharply to one side of the road through a flurry of honks and indignant drivers. He put the car in park, leapt out of the vehicle with his suitcase, and sprinted down the road. He had to carry his suitcase in both hands, but at least he was making progress.

He burst through the revolving door of the DOC's main lobby with a gasp, ignoring the loud cries of outrage from everyone around him. It didn't matter: he was late. "PLEASE," he huffed, dropping onto the receptionist's counter in exhaustion. "I'm...on the Garrloch. I mean...I should be. What's...the fastest...you can get me...down there?" His breathing came in labored puffs.

The receptionist barely even blinked at him. "Mr. Samick?" she asked. When he nodded, she jerked a stern finger in the direction of one of the doors. "In through there. You've been cleared for the Drop. Your luggage too. Be quick about it: Conway is not in a patient mood."

He blurted his thanks and lurched toward the door. Behind it was a long hallway. Ed groaned. Beyond that was two flights of stairs, and by the time he finally made it to the end, he was out of breath again.

"Samick?" asked a slightly smiling man. He looked like an attendant, or something. "Here, let me take that for you. This won't take long." Ed wanted to ask questions, but he somehow found himself sitting on a seat of some kind, with his luggage gone and straps covering his body. He opened his mouth to ask questions, but the attendant shook his head and interrupted.

"Arms in, head straight. Don't move, and try not to scream. Clock in once you hit the ground. Good luck."

Then the man stepped back, hit three buttons in a sequence, and before Ed could do more than process the words, the floor dropped out from under him, and he was hurtling downward at breakneck speeds. His arms were flopping everywhere, his head was tilted back, and he was screaming at the top of his lungs. The wind tore at his eyes, his hair swirled around with wild abandon, and he could practically feel the water rushing up to smash him. No one had told him about this part of the trip. He'd heard plenty about the soft and gentle lift, but not this at all.

He suddenly realized that he had stopped moving, even though his mouth was still open in a silent scream. "Wow, you really had no idea what to expect from that, did you?" came a voice to his left, and the straps were undone around him. He looked numbly over to see another similarly dressed attendant holding his suitcase out to him. "Just go out those double doors there, and head down the dock straight. You can't miss the Garrloch: it's the one with the fuming captain in front of it." Then he smiled and saluted.

Ed didn't say at all: he took his luggage and headed out the doors in a dumbstruck silence. So that was the Drop. He'd heard snippets about it during his research, but all he knew was that it was a faster way down to sea level.

Sea Level.

His eyes lit up and his head snapped up. Out beyond the dock stretched the horizon. Not the Ring of Thunder, which rumbled ever onward somewhat in the distance. But past that he saw the world. The ocean. Water and sky. "Holy hell," he whispered. It took him a long moment to tear his eyes away from the brand new sight, and begin his trudge down the dock. The attendant was right: it was impossible to miss Captain Vernon Conway storming back and forth in front of the Garrloch's gangplank.

"About bloody time," growled the captain as Ed trudged up. "I was wonderin' if you lot would even deem to show up. You're lucky you're not the last one here, or I'd have words for you, bucker. C'mon, now. Get in, and I'll talk to you later. Take a right once you reach the end of the hall and head up the stairs to the right to get on the upper deck. That's where y'rall gatherin' for now."

He resumed pacing, and Ed did as he was told. Although it was a pain to lug his stuff up all the stairs, Ed didn't want to risk the captain's ire. He lifted up and up and up, and then broke through to the light again.

Everyone was gathered at the fore of the ship. That was what it was called, right? He'd done some rudimentary studying of ship terms, but not nearly enough to be confident. "Uh...hi," he said to everyone gathered around. "I'm a Edward Samick, a reporter for the Winged Gazette in Edgenook. Um..."

Okay, so this was a bit awkward.

[Atrophy]

Although the story had yet to be picked up by the press, a historical event had already occurred earlier that morning: Constance Holloway had arrived early. Before the late reporter had been dropped to the ocean below, before the crew had taken the lift down, even before the bureaucrats had unlocked the office doors, the founder of H.H. Industries had been waiting outside of the DOC between the small mountain that was her “essential” luggage. Constance was a firm believer in the idea of being fashionably late; she had even shown up to her last birthday party three hours late (and then left thirty minutes later, much to the dismay of her guests). It was a power play, a way of showing one’s supposed importance without directly stating it.

However, excitement and giddiness had gotten the better of her on the eve of their departure, and she had left her hotel suite before the gold beams of the raising sun had broken through the dark storm clouds. She had passed the hours by smoking cigarettes, fussing with her hair, and peering through the front doors to look for a clerk to let her in. It had all been dreadfully exhaustive, but any weariness that had begun to creep up on her was struck down when she heard the click of the front door unlocking.

Constance was informed by some pencil pusher trying to make a living for himself that she would have to wait until the majority of the crew and passengers had arrived before they descended on the lift. She informed him that it was absolutely critical that she be the first one to arrive at the bottom. He told her that was impossible; the lift would not move until the others had arrived. She laughed, and said that was good, because she wanted to take the Drop anyway; much more exciting. Again, he tried to claim that it could not be done, mumbling some excuse about the Captain. She clarified her previous statement: it was absolutely critical for his career that she be the first one to arrive at the bottom. Perhaps she mentioned knowing Rick Garrloch, and how disappointed he would be to hear the rough time his friend had been given on her way to his boat.

Of course, the word “friend” was a bit of a stretch, but how could the poor man had known that? This is assuming any of this had happened, obviously. Constance would say that the nice gentleman at the door had been sweet enough to let her ride the Drop as soon as possible, and he would confirm her story if he knew what was good for him. Irregardless, minutes after the doors had opened, the self-styled world traveller found herself careening to the sea with her hair flipping wildly about and her stomach in her throat. If an excited hoorah escaped from her throat, it was stuffed back in her gaping trap as her blurred vision corrected itself. Copper eyes reflected gold over blue; the first clear sunrise of Constance’s life, accented by the steel behemoth of human ingenuity that was the UIS Garrloch. Constance wasn’t certain which of the two, the scenery or the ship, that was more beautiful. She decided to call it a draw.

A few dockhands were around, but they had been too busy with their duties to pay the woman much of a mind. The gangplank had yet to be put up, so Constance sat cross-legged on the edge of the dock and studied the horizon beyond her. It seemed absolutely endless. A cool breeze crossed over the water, hitting her with the unfamiliar smell of ocean air; it was nothing like the putrid smell of pollution and tourism that came off of Lake Marum when the breeze blew the wrong way. The urge to dive in the blue swell below her was overwhelming, and Constance wasn’t one for denying herself pleasures and she knew that nobody would dare tell her no; she had even worn her swimsuit underneath her outfit in preparation. Stripping off her outer layers and neatly folding them into a pile on the dock, the woman took the plunge.

Later, she’d receive an earful from the Captain about her carelessness, but as she lounged alone on the dock drying her body and swimsuit off while sea water pooled around her Constance found herself at peace. A small smile crossed its way across her face: who else in the world could say they had swam in the ocean, tasted the salt in their mouth and felt its sting in their eyes? A dozen, maybe less? To think, less than a century ago six daredevils jumped from an island with nothing but a parachute and a dream to take on the world; now, almost a hundred years later, one of their own was actually going to do it. She laid back on the dock, staring at the mess of land and dark clouds above her; in a way, it was all her’s. Her view shifted as she rolled onto her side, staring back across the horizon. In a way, this would all be her’s too. Manifest destiny.

“Absolutely fantastic,” she muttered, as she felt her eyelids grow heavy.

---

After being awoken from her doze by a sharp shake and a barking respite from Conway, Constance dressed and cleaned herself up from her swim. By the time the others had begun to arrive, she looked as if she had been invited out for a pleasure cruise or a game of polo instead of an expedition into the vast unknown. Somehow, the woman had managed to already acquire a highball as if she was aboard a party yacht, despite there being no apparent source and the time being well before five o’clock. She sipped slowly from the sweating glass to avoid smudging her lipstick, and a small straw hat cast a shadow over her eyes. The only hint that she had gone for a swim earlier was her hair, crisp from the salt, and the not completely unpleasant smell of ocean on her skin.

The socialite had posted herself at the absolute front of the ship, leaning lazily against the railing. Of course she would take that spot: it was visible by everyone, as if the rest of the ship acted as an arrow pointing in the direction of the esteemed Constance Holloway. She occasionally dipped from the spot, mostly to greet her fellow “conquerors”, as she was starting to call everyone, and seek out business ventures, but always managed to elbow her way back to the front. It was there that she was standing when one of the latecomers finally found his way to the Garrloch. He was smartly dressed, although she raised a questioning eyebrow at the unmanaged growth that had infested his jawline. However, a wolfish grin flashed on her face as he mentioned the Winged Gazette, and the tycoon slinked across the deck towards the man.

“What a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Samick,” said Constance as she forcefully grabbed his hand and gave it a light squeeze and a shake. “It’s so nice to see that the Gazette is finally making use of its talent. I’m Constance Holloway, although I’m sure someone like you would already know that. Your boys ran a story about me a few months back, after all. It was quite…”

She tilted her and looked up, as if she was searching for a polite word for it. The article that had been ran did not paint her in the best picture, although to react strongly against it would give it even the most meager form of validation. It wouldn’t be ruinous, but it would be inconvenient.

“...entertaining. I would be more than willing to provide a correction for you chaps, but we both know that wouldn’t sell papers,” she said, throwing her head back with a loud, piercing laugh.

“Oh!” Her eyes widened and her drink splashed against the rim of her glass as if she had been startled by an animal darting in front of her. “How thoughtless of me. Let me introduce you to the others, darling,” she said, brushing her hand against Ed’s elbow as if to lead him like a child, stopping as she came upon the nearest person that did not shy away from her glance.

“This is Eddy—may I call you Eddy?—Eddy Samick. He’s a reporter for the Winged Gazette, so be on your best behavior,” she said with a wink as she took a sip from her refreshment, as if this person had not just heard Ed introduce himself. “Eddy, it is my utmost privilege to introduce you to my very good friend…”

[MarshiestMallow]

Luna tended to be prompt. In the hotel she could barely afford, with luggage that she had had from her college days, and the rest of her money from her last few pays had already been sent to her father. She had her luggage packed, and had already eaten a light breakfast of toast, apple slices and milk, A sensible breakfast, given that I don't know if I'll get seasick she thought to herself, as she signed the receipt, paying for it with the last of her money, before thinking or a really expensive sick over the side of the boat. Rising, she headed downstairs, with her luggage, leaving the key at the desk, and looked to see if her taxi was there.

After waiting ten minutes, leaning against a wall, it became clear to Luna that the taxi wasn't coming. That wasn't so much of a hassle, really, given that the dock was just down the way, and she was running early, but it was frustrating given she would have to walk with her suitcase. Giving a sigh, Luna ran her fingers through her short, black hair that she had cut just the other day, leaning over a bin with sissors in hand, and hacking at her hair. It nevertheless looked okay. even if it looked like a cheap job. Looks weren't something Luna cared about.

Starting down the path, Luna glanced about her. It semeed she had made a wise decision to walk, given that there appeared to be a traffic jam of sorts. Besides, walking had always suited her best. You never knew when some idiot might come and smash your car in, after all. Although she soon wished she had some form of mobile transportation, as her suitcase wheel broke off, and she spent a few horrible moments trying and failing to fix it. Dad told me to get a new one, said the money didn't matter, but Ihad to leave it for him. I couldn't justify spending the money when I had a perfectly good suitcase. Well, that's come back to bite me on the butt she thought in resignation, before huffing, and heaving her suitcase into her arms.

By the time she had traveled just a little bit, she was sweating. A little bit further she was huffing and puffing. The damn thing was heavy. And it wasn't even full! She had to stop for a moment to catch her breath, wiping her forehead with the back of a hand, and cursing the suitcase, she sat cross legged on the ground, trying to force the wheel back on. Finally, she cursed and riffled through it to take out some bandage tape, essentially wrapping the wheel to its axis and trying to make sure it wasn't going to fall off. It just had to last until she was at the ship. if it survives the drop, it will be a miricle she thought to herself, finally rising a again, she was surprised the wheel actually stayed on, and although it didn't turn, dragging it without further damaging the suitcase was better then lugging it in her arms.

When she reached the drop, finally, she found a woman arguing with the doorman for the drop, and she came to the conclusion that this woamn wasn't necessarily important for the crew. Giving a sigh, she waited for the woman to essentially push her way into getting aboard, and stood at the back, waiting her turn. Identifying herself, she said that she was here early to know what medical supplies they had. She apoligised for her broken suitcase, and turned to the drop. She swallowed, nervously, walking down the length of the hallway, the stairs. As she sat there, strapped in, she knew she needed it done quickly, or she would loose her nerve.

She said as much to the attendant, and before she knew it, she was falling. Her eyes were closed tight, her hands gripping the straps, her teeth clamped so tightly together she thought they might crack. She was more then surprised that she didn't break anything, especially at this velocity. As she stopped, and was released, she stumbled away, and fell to the ground, practically ready to kiss it. The attendants laughter cause her to look up in fury, and she stumbled up, accepting her suitcase. She left the landing zone with as much dignity as she could muster, dragging her suitcase behind her. The woman had just dove into the water. Luna rolled her eyes at her behaviour, and went as far away from her as she could manage, trying to look like she belonged. She didn't have to interact with the woman, who seemed to think she was the greatest gift to mankind, as she was soon dozing. Luna was thankful for that. She was worried that if she opened her mouth, her breakfast might just jump out. Not that that wouldn't be amusing, all over the woman.

Once she could board, Luna did so, finding where she could put her suitcase away, looking around the boat, she saw the woamn essentially posing at the front of the ship, rolling her eyes at it. She stayed clear of the woman, and just took in the fact she was on a ship. And she was looking out, over the sky, at the opputinities that were out there. She couldn't believe that she was here. She was going to be apart of something great. Did you think that this would have been where I'd be, all those years ago, when you saved me dad? You always said I'd go far, I just wish you were here to see this. Words can't describe this... She drew in a few deep breaths, letting them out slowly, and found peace. I suppose I should go introduce myself that the woman, if only not to be impolite, but she seems likle a prissy girl She said to herself, but was saved that by the arrival of another member. He seemed a little rushed, and she figured that was because he was late.

Smartly dressed, he was soon at the mercy of the woman who seemed to want to be in charge of everything. does she think she really is all that, or is it an act? Luna wondered. She intended to find out. oh, heck, she's coming this way! despite the fact Luna wanted to be as far away from her as possible, Luna nevertheless stood her ground, and stared right back at the woman. She knew what she looked like, a small woman with a rather unkempt appearnace, her roughly cut hair that was short, her slightly pointed face and clothes that were clearly more then a year old, but well cared for, against this prissy woman who took pride in her outward appearance, seemingly egotistically and way too full of herself.

"Not all of us have to worry about having a bad appearance, and some of us at least have the good grace to tell everyone your name, as not everyone cares enough to follow you in the paper, Miss" Luna said, in an easy tone, "You know what they say about assuming, after all" she flashed a smile, as if she was just being amusing, before turning to the poor reporter, "Hello, Mr Samick, I am Luna Stevenson, but please call me Luna. I am terribly sorry, but this woman has lied to you. I have just met her, I am not her good friend. I am to be a nurse, on this trip" She smiled brightly now, with a sense of giddiness. She was more then ready to begin the journey.

Hold out her hand to Edward, "A pleasure to meet you. I'm sure it will be a fantastic journey, and that you will have lots to write about" The poor reporter seemed out of his depth, and she wasn't surprised. Given that he was running late, he had pretty much be thrown right into the deep end of things. "It's not every day we get to explore beyond the known, after all. I'm going to be using my skills to make sure we all do so in the best possible health, so if you become ill, or are injuried, I will be happy to help. I know I'm small, but I pack a punch" She gave a laugh, and felt once more excited for the simple possibilities of being here.

I miss you already, dad. But I'm going to make you proud, just you wait! although she knew her father was proud of her, she wanted to do this to show him...to show him just what he had done, by saving her life, all those years ago.

[Chromane]

The UIS Garrloch sat in her berth at the DOC-Z as the sun began to rise on the day of her voyage, copper rays lancing underneath the eternal stormclouds of the Ring to paint the cold sharp lines of the vessel with a golden hue. The vast majority of the preparations were already complete, and she was just awaiting the last of her crew and passengers before beginning her journey into the great unknown. Even bobbing sedately in the morning swell, there seemed to be an aura of movement about her, tugging at her mooring lines as though she was impatient to be off.

"Or maybe I'm just projecting" Armas muttered wryly to himself. He wrapped his hands around the hot mug of tea and took a sip to ward off the morning cold. He'd had a restless night's sleep due to the excitement, but he hadn't wanted to miss the sunrise on the day of the maiden voyage. Wrapped warmly in his oilskin he'd filled his mug with tea on his way through the mess and was now leaning against the railing near the aft deck, watching the sun make it's way over the horizon. It had been well over a year since he'd joined the UNIC and taken The Drop down to sea level and still watching the sun set and rise hadn't gotten old. Usually the first and last rays of the sun were hidden behind the eternal clouds of the Geralt Storms that surrounded the Isles, but at sea level you could see clear all the way to the horizon.

He'd moved aboard a few days ago in the midst of the final preparations, shifting his battered trunk from the worker's accommodation and stowing it beneath his bunk in the spartan cabin. The Garrloch had a relatively small crew for her size, and it had been pretty hectic making sure everything was squared away and shipshape in time for the big day. He'd performed a final inspection dive just the other day, walking the full length of the mighty hull to check for any weak points or damage. The Garrloch and her sister ships were in a class all of their own, nothing like the dumpy river barges or pleasure yachts he was used to working on. Armas finished the last dregs of his tea and patted the railing fondly, "Soon" he promised. He turned around and walked back inside the ship, heading towards the mess. There was still quite a bit to do today and he'd be better off with a hot breakfast before he got started.

---

The sun was higher by the time Armas had finished his last few checks aboard the ship, and he walked down the gangplank to the dock. The last crates of supplies and parts were being delivered, and he helped the dockhands get them aboard and stowed with some good natured griping. He’d known some of them since he’d arrived at sea level, and he said a cheery goodbye to them as he went to reboard the ship. One of the passengers had apparently arrived early and was dozing at the end of the pier after taking a swim, and Armas chuckled. He couldn’t really blame her for the swim, but there were better places for a nap than a crowded jetty. He went to reboard the ship, stepping aside as the Captain came down the gangplank, face set in a hard line. Armas nodded respecftfully as he passed and continued back onboard the ship.

A little later he was was with the rest of the crew and passengers, minus a few stragglers as they gathered on the foredeck. He assumed the Captain wanted to make some kind of announcement regarding the voyage. It was good to just relax after the hectic activity of the last week. The lady who'd been napping had taken pride of place at the very of fore of the ship and was holding court, laughing and toasting with a highball glass she'd gotten somewhere. Armas was pretty sure there weren't any on the ship - glass drinking vessels were just too much hassle - she had to have brought it with her.

Armas shook his head. Taking short nap was one thing, but she was acting like this was some kind of pleasure cruise. A distant scream made him look up and he smiled at sight of The Drop plummeting before coming to a somewhat controlled stop at the bottom of The Lift. He still remembered taking it the first time he arrived - and a couple of times after that - it was a hell of way to reach the ground, expecially if you weren't expecting it. A few minutes later a brown haired man with a fuzzy beard came up onto the foredeck, gasping for breath. He introduced himself somewhat awkwardly as a reporter. He'd certainly find some ineteresting stories out beyond the Ring. He was just thinking of introducing himself when the woman swooped down on him and started talking animatedly. He'd heard rumours of some bigshot industrialist coming on the voyage, and it certainly seemed to fit her description. What was her name again - Holloway? That was it.

Holloway led the reporter around and dragged him to a short woman with messy black hair and introduced Sarnick again. Armas was too far away to make out indivudal words, but he caught the other woman's frosty tone over the murmur of the crowd. Smiling slightly he wondered when the last few stragglers would arrive so the Captain could get them underway. He pushed himself off from the railing and started to move through the crowd, looking to see if he recognized anyone.

[Skepic]

In the early hours of the morning, the sun had finally began to show itself over the cloudy horizon. As the sun peaked through the gray clouds the light revealed a strange aircraft sitting on the tarmac, ground crew buzzing around it with crates and supplies. At first glance, it just seemed to be an irregular, twin engine aircraft, however, today something seemed wrong about this plane... very very wrong. The engines and its wings were tilted upwards, as if someone had put them on the wrong way!

Since its arrival two weeks before at the airport, the aircraft had been shrouded in mystery. Nobody except a select few were even allowed into the hangar it was kept in, much less to even see it. However, today was the day it was to be officially revealed. This aircraft was dubbed the AV-44 "Endurance", a landmark and pinnacle of aviation technology of the day.

It is a tilt rotor design aircraft, a hybrid of both helicopter and plane. According the officially released statement, it was a wondrous craft that offered the range and speed of an airplane, but the versatility and maneuverability of a helicopter. However, the official release did omit a few... say, important details that its pilot had come to learn. First and foremost, while it could hover much like a helicopter, it was nowhere as nimble and swift as a helicopter when the propellers where tilted up. In this "VTOL" mode, it was sluggish on the controls, lacking any sort of fine touch. The Endurance had also killed plenty of test pilots in this mode too, and only just recently had they solved the final crippling design flaw.

For most pilots, this would be some serious red flags, leading to many not even taking the job. But not for one pilot, who had always longed for a challenge. He walked along his new aircraft, running his hand across its fuselage. His face was covered in small scars, his hair oddly grey for a man of younger age. The ground crew chief jogged up to him, holding a clipboard.

"She's ready to go, Mr. Helfer. The Garrloch is waiting for you in the harbor just as scheduled. Best not to keep that captain waiting." Krauss Helfer, a well known pilot, formerly of the Avalian Airborne Navy had been selected to fly this machine. He was utterly fearless in facing the prospect of flying such a new, virgin craft that was the Endurance. Smiling, he took the pre-flight clipboard from the crew chief and nodded.

"Thanks, I guess I'll be on my way. Wish me luck!" Krauss said, climbing into the cockpit. "Engine one, start..... Engine two, start..." The rotors began to turn, the blades slowly but surely began to pick up speed. A small crowd of onlookers and airport personnel had gathered to watch. "...Aaaaand, lift off!" The AV-44 began to slowly rise off the ground, landing gear retracting. As is rose into the air gradually, the small crowd gave a cheer. Krauss dipped the craft forward and carefully began to gain momentum before rotating the propellers forward and flying off towards the bay.

By the time the Endurance had entered the airspace of the DOC, the morning sun was now shining fully in the sky. Krauss circled the UIS Garrloch, admiring the ship from above. Upon seeing people on both the dock and the ship's deck, an idea popped into his head.

"This is AV44 to the Garrloch. Will be making a landing pass, then requesting to set down on the helipad, over."

"This is Garrloch traffic control, you said 'Landing Pass'? Please confirm, over."

"Indeed I did Garrloch, over."

"Uhm... Request granted. You are clear to land on the Garrloch landing pad, over...."

With that, Krauss put the airplane into a hard right bank. While it was fairly sluggish in VTOL mode, this aircraft was surprisingly very nimble in flight mode. Turning sharply, the Endurance suddenly got very low to the water, flying only 30 so feet above sea level, straight towards the ship and dock. The aircraft's engines roared as Kruass zoomed right over the heads of those on the ship and the dock, tipping his wings in salute as he passed.

Finally, he turned the aircraft around again, killing much of his speed and rotated the his engines to VTOL mode. Gracefully, the Endurance touched down on the landing pad of the ship, propeller blades gradually slowing to a halt. Krauss hopped out of his airplane, giving a nod to the ship personnel who began to move the aircraft inside the hangar, before making his way through the ship to find the captain to report in.

[Azkott]

The opportunity to board the Garrloch several days prior to its maiden voyage was a blessing. Dieter had never been one for social gatherings; the booming fanfare and raucous crowd far, far above were much too unlike the peaceful, rustling woods of his native Ghersland. "Not that a bobbing tin can's any better." he cynically thought to himself, looking about the sterile walls of the crew's shared quarters with a thoughtful gaze and a quiet, mirthless chuckle. "A job's a job," the grizzled mercenary silently recalled, casting his cloudy, silver eyes down to the long, canvas-wrapped weapon laid across his lap. The thick, acrid smell of oil and gunpowder hung heavily in the air as he carefully unveiled his prized instrument of war, hefting the sleek rifle with the gentle nature of a loving father. The delighted Gherslander bunched up the weapon's disposable wrappings in one hand, slowly running them over the steely length of the old rifle with painstaking care, mopping up the excess gun oil before tossing them aside in trained satisfaction.

After a brief moment of admiration for the relic of a weapon, Dieter nudged himself further into the creaking bottom bunk, gripping an old, military-issued satchel from besides his pillow and unlacing the stitch-strewn cover. He fumbles about the depths of the worn carry on, digging one of his hands in and between the countless items he deemed necessary to bear on his persona. Each held some kind of deeper meaning to him, despite many of them appearing to be nothing more than mementos and knick-knacks; needless wastes of space for a soldier. Finally, his probing fingertips find solace against a series of cold, cylindrical tubes; metallic objects he’s grown unhealthily fond of. Quickly seizing them, the mercenary draws out one of his spare clips, the neatly filed brass bullets glimmering in the dim, occasionally flickering light. He sets it just besides himself, taking his much beloved weapon by the stock and slowly drawing back its left-dominant bolt. The feeling seems almost… mechanical, by now.

Once more taking up his clip-bound rounds, he begins to hum a tune commonly heard amongst Ghersland’s notorious sharpshooter corps, pressing the neatly-filed bullets into the well-kept firearm’s receiver with a satisfying click. Five death-delivering cartridges sink into its depths in quick succession, returning only the empty, metallic clip, the like of which Dieter places between his gritted teeth as he slowly draws the bolt handle back into place. As he does, he can’t keep himself from looking over the mysterious, unintelligible inscription etched into the scratched receiver, as he always has. His scum of a father never spoke of it, though he’d never thought to ask; a pang of guilt courses through his body at the thought of the man. The retired soldier brushes his calloused thumb over the illusive etching before repressing the emotion once more, solemnly reminding himself that there’s a job to be done.

Rising, he carefully sets the loaded firearm on the relatively minimal cot, taking up his coat and assorted bandoleers from a makeshift peg he’s rather carelessly made with his curved dagger. As Dieter affixes his cuffs, he tears this dangerous-looking knife out of the wall, sliding it into its appropriate sheathe; cringing ever so subtly at the rather noticeable imprint it’s made on the once immaculate expanse. The mercenary shrugs after a moment of deliberation, scratching his roughly-hewn beard as he reaches past his weapon for the satchel, slipping it over and across one shoulder, before adding his ammo-packed bandoleers across the other. Finally, he reaches for the item which made him who he is today; his tried-and-true rifle.

Carefully slinging it over his left shoulder, the now fully-attired mercenary begins to walk out of the constricting crew’s quarters, fumbling about in his pockets for his only hope of relief against the onslaught of people he’s been entrusted with guarding; his pipe. Dieter manages to find it as he nears one of the vessel’s starboard bulkhead doors, already packed tight with last night’s leftover tobacco. Standing on the edge of the opened doorway, he squints at the morning rays of sun, setting the old pipe between his lips before setting its contents ablaze with a flickering lighter, housed in the body of a used bullet cartridge. With his right hand stuffed in his pocket and his left firmly on his rifle’s leather-strap, the Garrloch’s glorified guard makes his way over to the railing just near the gangway, observing the vessel’s proceedings in his usual fashion; calculatingly, and at a distance.

[Lexicon]

Helgus

The Crow's Nest

Sigrun watched the bizarre-looking plane touch down on the UIS Garrloch's landing pad, her mouth hanging open. The vessel looked like something out of a madman's fever dream, but it cut through the air with undeniable fluidity and grace. Grinning eagerly, Sigrun picked up her burlap sack, which held her canvas doctor's bag and other personal effects, and began climbing down from the Garrloch's crow's nest. She'd spent most of her time aboard the UINC's newest exploratory vessel relaxing, easing herself into a meditative state her people referred to as the golvar or "calm mind." The morning had been hectic to say the least, and Sigrun didn't want to miss essential information or details about her fellow crew members. The golvar, an ancient Ysmirod technique used to still the mind, also focused the senses outward, encouraging careful observation and awareness of one's surroundings. Many valarjar entered the golvar before battle so they'd be less likely to overlook important details.

Clutching her bag tightly as she reached the ship's cold metal deck, Sigi stepped aside to avoid a mob of deckhands rushing towards the newly arrived plane and started heading in the direction of the upper deck. She'd actually been the third person to arrive that morning, but, instead of heeding Captain Conway's orders to join the others, Sigrun had done a little exploring. Perhaps the UIS Garrloch held something the Moot would be interested in? Something she'd be able to claim as her avallach? The inquisitive Ysmirod had stumbled into what looked like an engine room, a mess hall, and a chamber that was completely empty for no apparent reason before finding the ladder leading to the crow's nest. The Garrloch wasn't as big as she'd originally thought, but it was still an unfamiliar place. Sigrun intended to learn every square inch of the ship as soon as possible. One could never be too prepared before sailing off into the unknown. As she shoved her way through what felt like an endless sea of sweaty UINC attendants, mariners, and DOC employees, Sigrun's smile grew wider, stretching from one side of her angular face to the other.

And to think she'd spent the previous night sleeping on the ground.

*

Once she'd found the Doherty Outreach Center, or DOC, Sigrun had spent some of Svanrige's money on a few inexpensive items. A new long-sleeved gray shirt, a pair of black linen slacks, and a used bronze chronometer only cost her thirty-seven Canthican royals. It was still the most money the Ysmirod outcast had ever spent on herself. With her shopping done, she'd prowled the area surrounding the DOC, hoping to find a reasonably priced room for the night. Unfortunately, her forty remaining Canthican royals were barely enough to afford a well-cooked steak let alone a place to stay. Everything was so much more expensive in Canth then in Ghersland.

Sigrun had started considering the benefits of sleeping in an alley when she found a beautiful, if somewhat small, park with ornate metal gates and a sign out front. The sign had the following message written on it in cheery red font: 'Welcome to Azure Blossom Park, citizen! This is a place of relaxation and recuperation for the hardworking men and women of the Doherty Outreach Center! The general public is not permitted to enter! Have a spectacular day!"

The folly of the helgus never ceased to amaze Sigrun. Did they actually believe a sign would be enough to keep people out of this place? There hadn't been any guards nearby so she'd strolled into the park and spent the rest of the day organizing her medical supplies while looking for a safe spot to lay her head.

Her chronometer's alarm woke her at nine-thirty the next morning, the morning of the UIS Garrloch's departure, and Sigrun had jolted into awareness, a hazy, unnerving dream fading into the back of her mind. She'd grown used to the nightmares. At least, that's what she told herself. Besides, who could worry about some half-remembered dream on a day like today? She'd been decidedly less thrilled to see a yellow, three-legged dog sniffing at her pants with the obvious intent of peeing all over her. Swatting at the mutt's nose with one hand, Sigrun said, "Away, fool hind! Go find a tree to piss on. There's at least a dozen within spitting distance. Go on!"

The dog had whimpered, obviously concerned by Sigrun's lack of interest in being covered in pee, while the Ysmirod picked up her burlap sack and stretched. She'd been surprised that local law enforcement hadn't found her sleeping between the overgrown rose bushes at the rear of the park, but she wasn't about to question her good fortune. With the three-legged dog trotting happily behind her, Sigrun had brushed herself off and jogged towards the park's black metal gates, her mind whirling as she imagined all the unusual places and people she'd see as a member of the Garrloch's crew.

That's when a man and a woman, each one wearing a disheveled navy blue DOC uniform, had stumbled out of a nearby gardenia bush.

Completely ignoring Sigrun, probably because she was still wearing her ragged traveling clothes, the man, whose preposterous blonde mustache and crooked nose suggested a habit of making terrible life decisions, said, "Five times, Lollys, my duck! Can you believe that?! And I was drunk as a skunk, too. God and ground, I'm amazing, I tell you! More impressive than any ship."

The woman, a red-haired girl that was at least two feet taller than her rotund companion, had responded with an insincere smile and said, "Oh yes, Eustace, you're a real credit to the Garrloch name. Your father must be so proud. But it's already nine-thirty, and we won't make it to our posts at the DOC's front doors in time if we don't move it. I bet that asshole, Walter, is already letting someone into the outreach center that has no business being there. I know he's trying to make a living for himself, but...ugh, never mind. Fucking pencil pusher. Let's just go."

The two DOC attendants had staggered along the park's white cobblestone path, their eyes glazed and faces dripping with sweat, unaware that Sigrun was following them at a distance. These two drunkards obviously worked at the DOC so they should be able to tell her where to go once they arrived. Sigrun had no intention of getting lost and missing the Garrloch's departure. They'd formed a bizarre procession of sorts, two hungover Canthicans with a stormborn trailing behind them. And a three-legged dog, who just seemed excited to be alive, bringing up the rear. After a great deal of moaning and the occasional pause to vomit, the foursome reached the Doherty Outreach Center a little after nine-forty five.

"Hurry up, Eustace!" the woman, Lollys, had snapped once the two attendants reached the DOC's glass doors. "I'll clock us in, but you need to stand watch." This announcement had earned her a hearty smack on the rump, and, after rolling her eyes and sighing, Lollys started to open the door. Sigrun had moved to follow her, only to feel a meaty hand drop onto her shoulder. The combined odors of sweat, booze, and vomit had washed over her like some unspeakably foul tide.

"Hold on there, my filthy friend," Eustace said as he'd shoved Sigrun back a few steps. "Where do you think you're going, hm? This is the Doherty Outreach Center, not the...uhhh...wait, I had something for this. Uhh..."

Ignoring the red-faced fool's rambling, Sigrun had stood up to her full height and said, "My name is Sigrun Alfhild, and I'm the UIS Garrloch's field medic. Let me pass."

Lollys, who'd paused in the middle of opening the door to watch the confrontation, blinked and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from one of her jacket pockets. Her gaze had darted from the paper to Sigrun then back to the paper, her eyes narrowing in confusion.

Eustace, on the other hand, had burst into loud, braying laughter and said, "Oh? Well, I'm the king of fucking Maru. Kiss my foot, peasant, and then piss off! We're far too busy improving life as you know it to deal with idiot beggars."

Sigrun's dark blue eyes had flashed with irritation, but she'd inclined her head and said, her voice dripping with sincerity, "Your Majesty, it's an honor to meet you and may I say you are quite brave. Inspiring, really."

Eustace had blinked rapidly and said, "Wait, uhhh...how am I brave, exactly?"

"If my face was even half as repulsive as yours I wouldn't have the courage to show it in public. King or otherwise."

Nobody had said anything for several minutes. Then Lollys started giggling and said, her voice breathy as she fought to regain her composure, "Ohhh, she got you good, Eustace! Anyway, she's on the personnel form we got from Conway the other day. She's all clear to come inside." She'd gestured for Sigrun to follow her and said, "Come along, Miss Alfhild, the Drop is the quickest way down to the Garrloch. It's on the way to the time clock so I'll take you with me."

Eustace and the three-legged dog had just watched in utter shock as the two women entered the DOC building. The massive concrete and metal structure was already teeming with people running around on various errands, but Lollys had navigated the chaos with ease. Sigrun had stayed close to her until Lollys pointed to a door off to the left and waved goodbye before scuttling down another corridor. The Ysmirod had opened the door and was greeted by a mousy attendant with a perpetual smirk on his tanned face. "Welcome to the Drop, miss," he said as he'd pointed towards the room's only chair, which had several black straps attached to it. "Go ahead and take a seat so I can strap you in."

Sigrun had obeyed and, once she was secured in her seat with her baggage on her lap, the man saluted halfheartedly and pressed three buttons. Taking a breath and failing to look even slightly interested in what he was doing, he'd said, "Arms in, head straight. Don't move, and try not to scream. Clock in once you hit the ground. Good luck or whatever."

And then Sigrun had plummeted downwards, her blonde hair whipping around her face as the turquoise sky overhead seemed to merge with the the heaving blue ocean below. Holding her bag in a death grip, the stormborn exile had thrown back her head and screamed, "Chaaaggaaa!" It was her people's word for "shit," though she'd said it with a smile. Nothing she'd dreamed of on the road from Ghersland to Canth could've prepared her for this. It was beyond words. All too soon the journey had ended, leaving her at sea level with shining eyes and trembling legs. When another navy-clad attendant moved to assist her, she'd asked, "Could I go again? Chagga, that was...that was..."

The DOC employee shook his head and said, while he deftly unstrapped her, "Lollys radioed ahead to tell us you were coming, Miss Alfhild. The Garrloch is the third boat on your right. Just listen for the shouting. That'll be Captain Conway. Have fun with that one." Sigrun had waited until her legs stopped shaking before clambering out of her seat and walking down the dock, her boots clomping loudly against the weathered wooden boards. She hadn't gone far when she heard what sounded like two cave bears in heat. Or two very angry men shouting at each other.

"Valdez, we already have plenty o' alcohol rations fer the crew onboard!" a dark-haired sailor roared at a slender, cringing man wearing rumpled coveralls and a greasy shirt. A wooden barrel with the words 'Old Faithful' painted on it in sloppy green letters rested on the dock between them. "We don't need that Maruvian swill ye love so much on the UINC's new toy. I'm still dealin' with the authorities on account o' that little fire ye started the last time ye had too much to drink. And who are ye supposed to be?" This last question had been directed at Sigrun, and she'd bowed her head in an authentic show of respect. This was obviously Captain Conway, the helgus who'd be leading the UIS Garrloch's crew.

Holding up her burlap sack, she'd said, "I'm your medic, Captain Conway. Sigrun Alfhild."

The captain had simply grunted and said, "Go ter the upper deck. That's where ye lot are gathering and...and I see ye trying to sneak that barrel onboard, Valdez, ye fuckin' prick! Either ye get rid o' that shit and get yer pimply arse to the engine room or I'll crush that rotten coconut ye call a skull with me bare hands!" Sigrun had to admit she was impressed by Conway's authoritative demeanor and powerful voice, but he was still a helgus. A stern and unyielding one, though. She'd squeezed past a nervous-looking Valdez, trotted up the gangplank, and boarded the Garrloch proper. At some point over the next half hour of sticking her nose into places it didn't belong, she'd found time to change into her new garments. While she didn't necessarily care what these outsiders thought of her, a good first impression never hurt anybody.

*

The Upper Deck

Finally, Sigrun emerged onto the upper deck, a warm breeze ruffling her short blonde hair and exposing the spiral branded onto her forehead. She looked skeptically at the assembled crew. Would any of these people be useful to her? Would they be able to hold their own in battle or help her find a worthwhile avallach? Only time would tell, and if Sigrun had learned anything over the years it was that life was full of surprises. And most were unpleasant. She sidled around the two arguing women, one of whom was apparently named Luna, and the reporter before making her way to the ship's railing. Leaning against the railing and taking a deep breath, savoring the heady aromas of the sea, the Ysmirod looked out towards the horizon. She was ready to get underway. She was ready to go home.

[ML]

S E T T I N G S A I L

So much was happening all at once, holy hell! Ed was taken aback when the suave women stepped up and started asking him questions. No, that was his job, thank you very much. But before he could say anything to her in return, she was introducing him to someone else, and then that someone else was telling the first woman--Constance--to relax, and then they were all cut off by the roaring of an airplane screaming by.

Ed had heard about the new airplane prototype they were going to be taking along on this trip: after all, he worked at one of the best newspapers in the U.I, and they had little ears and eyes everywhere. But to see it! It was incredible: landing almost like a hummingbird from the air. He knew that later in the day, that image would still be burned into his mind with incredible clarity.

All words and discussion were cut short by the arrival of their bird. Edward couldn't help but grin fiercely: already the excitement was set to drive him dizzy with glee.

"Oi!" Captain Conway stepped up onto the dock with a roar. It was barely audible over the sound of the aircraft, and the captain took three steps toward the craft, moving one hand in a "shut it down" sort of motion. "Right then!" With the sound of the rotors slowly fading, the captain no longer had to shout to make himself heard. "We're finally ready to git out on the water." The man had a curious accent: it seemed like a blend of multiple accents. Ed heard traces of Ilyistavi, Gherish, and Ventuian in there, all muddled together by years of shouting and fighting.

"In case ye all are still wondering, I'm the cap'n here. Name of Vernon Conway: you listen to me or you go over the side. This may seem like the best time of yer lives, but mark my words, chummies: this is a dangerous expedition we're 'bout to embark upon. If'n ye decide to ignore me, odds are ya'll not live to see the end of it. Aric!" The captain waved over one of his underlings. "Tie down the Dragon, with as much cording as you can manage. We'll need it."

Edward opened his mouth. "Sir, why tie down the airplane? Isn't it supposed to fly?"

Conway snorted. "Generally, ye'd be right. But we have to make it through the Ring of Thunder before we can spread open th'wings."

Then he turned away from the reporter and started shouting orders. "Let's get ready to head out, boys! We've been here long enough!" Before Ed could catch him, the man had disappeared into the belly of the ship. For a moment, Edward debated following him, but he decided he would only get lost.

Then the bells began to ring. A horn blew. It appeared that the good captain had been more than ready to move out as soon as he deemed they were all aboard. Edward thought that normally it would have taken longer for them to get out of the dock, but as the deck lurched below him, he realized that he'd been wrong.

But wait! He stumbled toward the hatch, opening it with clumsy fingers and dropping into a lower deck with a huff and a puff. A kind sailor pointed him in the direction of the bridge. "Captain Conway!" Ed said as he pushed into the spacious area. "Why..." he groaned, his stomach still swirling from the Drop. "I thought we came down to sea level to avoid the storms."

Conway looked at him with a curious expression. "Yer a persistent one, aren't you. Aye, we're below the worst of the storms, but didja think that we could escape 'em altogether? No, sir--we're headed right into the belly of the beast, we are. Today seems like a particularly grumpy day up above, so I'd do myself a favor and go somewhere I can strap in. Ye won't like what's coming, I'm afraid." The captain pulled down a microphone from up above him.

"Attention, everyone. This is cap'n Conway. In case ya weren't aware, we are about to head directly into the Ring of Thunder. This won't be a pleasant cruise, so I suggest everyone tuck in befar we get too far in." As if to emphasize the captain's words, a light rain had begun to fall outside the bridge, growing stronger with every passing moment. "I'd advise each o'ye to get belowdecks and lock yerselves in for a time. There may be somethin' to eat in the mess hall, if ye think you can keep down the meal." The captain winked at Edward then, who got the message with a jolt and retreated.

He wandered the ship's lower decks for a time, not wanting to hide away. Somehow he ended up in the mess hall, which was already milling about with people. Everyone was looking for food, but it seemed the food had yet to be prepared. Ed was about to ask someone where he could find the cook when a resounding crash swept through the whole ship, rocking them all to one side harshly. "God and Ground!" he shouted as he fell into one of the mess hall tables.

"What in the fuck was that?"

[MarshiestMallow]

Luna looked up at the sound of the airplane, watching it land on the ship with curiosity. They would need it, it seemed, but why? In case something happened to the ship? She didn't fancy flying in that through a storm. The motion of the ship was enough to set her stomach ill at ease. Edward seemed to throw out the questions, but to Luna they weren't the right ones. She would have asked why do we need the plane? but she decided to stay quite just for now, especially as the Captain was telling them to get below decks. She darted below decks, and she rifled through a small bag she had, knowing she had something for motion sickness in there, which she could put into a tea.

She managed to get some hot water and a mug, and dumped the herbs in, stirring until the water was a pale yellow colour, sipping at it slowly, looking around the mess hall. She hadn't imagined just how many people would be needed to crew the ship, as well as those needed for the exploration. It was overwhelming to see that, just like a hospital, there was someone for everything. She watched Edward stumble into the mess hall, and at the sound of the crash, Luna crouched, covering a hand over the top of her tea, and rocked with the movement of the ship. She didn't particularly care if she looked foolish, at least she didn't end up falling onto her butt.

Rising when it seemed the roughness had abated for the moment, she glanced about, seeing if anyone had been hurt in turbulance, before walking towards Edward, sipping at her tea once more. "That, i do believe, was a wave. What made the noise, I couldn't say. Maybe something wasn't tied down effectively. Here" she said, her own stomach settled for the time being, "Drink the rest of this. It will help with any quesiness." Luna's voice was calm, and she didn't seem phased in the least by what had happened. She supposed that working in a hectic environment you adapted to whatever happened. She smiled at Edward, "Don't worry so much. Whatever happens, happens. We can't turn back now, so why worry about what could be waiting for us? For now, this ship is it for us. May as well get use to it"

She looked out over the mess of people in the hall once more, knowing she should find the medical bay and see if she was working with anyone else. Chances were it would be a doctor or medic, and she'd have to answer to them. Well, until they realised she was just as capable as them. She might not have the title, but Luna knew she could be a doctor. Perhaps when they got back, she might finish off her education and become a doctor in truth. Better she met her comrades sooner, rather then later. And besides, she wanted to find out what supplies they would be working with. And she knew she'd feel more at home in the medical bay then anywhere else.

I hate to think about what might happen if we run out of supplies. We'll be down to improvising, i suppose. I didn't consider how dangerous this could be, until seeing those storms up close. Until knowing we'd be in them. And yet, I'm not scared. This is something...something important. It's not something you needed money for, or connections. I got here because of my skill. And that simple fact meant the world, and more to Luna. Coming from living on the streets, working their way into a house, a steady life style...Luna had worn the name the Tramps child with pride, because she knew her father had worked hard to give her a home. And now she was doing something that might improve their lives even more.

She looked to Edward and smiled again "I don't suppose you know where the medical bay is? I should go see what I'm working with" Luna didn't know why she was even attempting to...what, develop a friendship with this guy, but...it seemed a good idea to at least have a friendly face about, on the ship. Besides, she had practically had Edward shoved in her face anyway, she might as well be friendly to him. Aside from anything else, she didn't actually relish the idea of wondering around the ship for who knew how long, alone. And she could also give Edward something to do. He seemed to prone to not panic persay, but something close to it.

"After all, it doesn't look like the food will be ready anytime soon"

[Atrophy]

Constance looked down on Luna with a soft, thin smile as the woman corrected her statement. The woman’s tone was not outright unkind, but it had a whisper of condescendance that Constance was all too familiar with, and even guilty of using. Briefly, Constance thought that Luna came from money with the way she held herself, but a quick assessment of her clothing, which were more practical than anything, and her short hair, which was out of fashion these days, told her otherwise. Her chin rose ever so slightly and she could feel her tongue coil in her mouth like a cobra ready to strike, only it would spitting sugar instead of venom. Her lips parted just as a loud buzz filled the air around them.

No words came out. She stared at the sky, mouth agape with wonder as she looked with wide eyes as a plane crested over the ocean and then whipped overhead. She let out a hoot of excitement as the wind whipped her hair and she reflexively slapped her hand on her hat to keep it from flying away after the plane. The little stunt had gotten her blood pumping, and she followed after the plane with her head, her face growing even more exaggerated as the plane transformed and landed vertically on the deck of their ship. Her hand dropped from her hat and clasped over her mouth; she gave Luna and Ed a look that said, ‘Did you see that, did you see that?’ She had heard rumors of a VTOL being developed, but did not realize that the actual thing had ever been released.

Two thoughts entered her head at once and began pulling at Constance’s focus as she already began to drift away from the reporter and the nurse. The first thought was fairly harmless. She had just simply decided that she must meet the daredevil who knew how to fly that contraption. Her second thought was that she needed to be given a chance to fly that thing. Heavens forbid anyone actually let her sit in the pilot seat; it was a surefire way to lose both an expensive piece of equipment and an extravagant industrialist. Constance had taken a few flight lessons, true, but she had never been involved in a landing that didn’t require a parachute, a costly repair bill, and a good amount of dumb luck.

Of course, it wasn’t as if that would ever actually dissuade her from flying the VTOL if she was just given the chance.

The shouting of the Captain drew her away from her flight of fancy about fancy new methods of flight as he barked orders and toted his authority. His mannerisms remained Constance of an abrupt factory foreman that she used to work under as a child, whose voice could be heard screaming over the clanging of metal on metal and the roar of smoking furnaces. She remembered being absolutely terrified of the man, jumping like a scared dog at the sound of his voice as he yelled at her and the others to do this, don’t do that, stop being such an idiot, and so on. She was convinced that the man hated children until the day he died in a factory fire. He had over exerted himself and collapsed after dragging a dozen or so kids out of the flames, barking at them for being stupid idiots who didn’t know how to run until his lungs had been overcome with smoke.

The feeling of moisture on her cheeks shocked her out of the past; she quickly chided herself, realizing that it had only been the rain. She could hear Conway’s voice crackle over a loudspeaker, informing them of his plan as it was happening. Normally, she would have ignored such suggestions, preferring to learn from her own mistakes than the wisdom of others, but with the memory of that foreman so fresh in her mind she decided that perhaps Conway knew best and maybe it would be wise to kowtow to the Captain for the time being. Besides, she had already gotten wet enough for one day, and to catch a cold at the start of her adventure would be absolutely terrible.

With one final glance up at the encroaching Ring of Thunder, Constance turned and made her way below deck. She retreated to her suite—which, in reality, was no different than that standard two-bunk room of the rest of the crew quarter; clearly, the lack of luxury suites was a design flaw in the Garrloch—to freshen her drink and tuck away her hat. She didn’t plan on staying long in her room; it was almost claustrophobically small and way too drab for her taste. Another design flaw, she decided, happy to find yet another flaw with the Garrloch’s layout. A few curtains, some throw pillows, and nice carpeting would really have brighten the ship up and make it look less like a tin sarcophagus. At the very least the room had a small porthole, although the view now was obscured by the whipping rain that rang out in a cacophony of pitter-patters as it hit the ship’s hull.

She had not been alone in her room for more than a few minutes when cabin fever had already begun to set it. The fear of boredom quickly drove her out of her cabin, her free hand loosening the collar on her blouse and untucking her kerchief that had been turned into a mock ascot as she began making her way to the mess hall. She got lost once or twice, or ‘made a few detours’ as she would say, during her exploration of the Garrloch. Occasionally she would pause, holding herself up against the wall as the ship rocked beneath her feet. She had not expected the ocean to be so unstable, and this was coming from somebody who had years of experience stumbling around drunkenly on yachts.

Clearly, she should’ve made a stiffer drink to better steady her feet.

She was in the hall outside of the mess when she heard two crashes. The first was the one heard by everyone as the ship lurched to one side, sending Constance slamming hard into the wall next to her. The second crash was muted by the shouts coming from the mess, a private tragedy for Constance alone as she stared down with a look that could only be described as abject horror at the pool of liquor and broken glass forming around her boots. A sigh of monstrous proportions escaped from her lips as she bent down and pulled a handkerchief out of her jacket’s pocket to use as a rag. She soaked up the alcohol and picked up the shattered glass before disposing of the evidence in a nearby trash bin, her brow furrowed with concentration as she decided to continue onwards instead of retreating to fix another drink with another, less breakable, glass. Surely, they must have something hiding away in a cask down here, lest the crew threaten to mutiny a week into their voyage.

“What a waste,” she muttered, dusting off her knees and stepping into the mess.

Mess was a fitting name for the room, as everything and everyone seemed to have been strewn about the place by the surge. The sight of the crowd of people cursing and pulling themselves together finally made her stop stressing about the loss of her most trusted companion and start considering the impact of the first crash. The defeat that hung over her from her dropped drink disappeared almost instantly as the thought that they might be in danger entered her mind. What if they were sinking? She wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case, considering the boat’s investor. A small smile appeared on her face. How far out from the dock were they? Would they be lost completely? Sure, it would be disappointing to have their adventure cut short so soon, but to have it be because their ship had capsized in a horrific storm? Now that would be an exciting tale to spread around once she made it back home.

Of course, it could have also just been a large wave; the crash could have been from one of the kitchen crew forgetting to batten down the hatches, not that Constance knew whatever the hell ‘the hatches’ was referencing. There could be no danger, and all could be fine. Boring, but fine.

There’s only one way to find out, she thought with a smirk and a nod. She set her targets for Captain Conway and scanned the mess hall for her man. Of course, he would not be down in the hall grabbing a sandwich; the man would likely be wheelhouse, seeing them safely through the storm or dragging them quickly into the depths. Regardless, she was determined to find her man.

“Excuse me, lads,” she said in a loud, clear voice as she planted her hands on a table and leaned forward towards a group of men, but talking loud enough to practically be addressing any and all in the area. “Would any of you gentlemen mind escorting me to the wheelhouse? I need to have a word or two with the Skipper about his choice in helmsmen, and I rather get there before the current one flips us completely over.”

[Lexicon]

Storms

The Upper Deck to the Med Bay

“In case ye all are still wondering, I'm the cap'n here. Name of Vernon Conway: you listen to me or you go over the side. This may seem like the best time of yer lives, but mark my words, chummies: this is a dangerous expedition we're 'bout to embark upon. If'n ye decide to ignore me, odds are ya'll not live to see the end of it,” Captain Conway roared at the crew members gathered around him. Apparently satisfied with the stricken looks on most of the sailors' faces, he turned to shout instructions to one of the mariners near the outlandish craft on the Garrloch's landing pad. Even in the depths of the golvar, Sigrun could hardly hear what Conway was saying over the sounds of crewmen rushing to complete their final assignments before the ship departed. She doubted the captain was saying anything she didn't already know.

Unlike the woman with the straw hat and drink lounging nearby, the stormborn knew this wasn't going to be a pleasant trip. The Garrloch was bound for uncharted waters, which were probably teeming with dangers beyond the experience of anyone onboard. And Sigrun intended to survive these threats no matter what. She turned around so her back was against the ship's railing and smiled at the helgus running around like chickens with their heads cut off, relaying messages to one another and tying down anything that might come loose. The whole panorama was hilariously reminiscent of the controlled chaos in the DOC, though there was an air of excitement here that the hustle and bustle of the outreach center had lacked. These men wanted to set sail. At least, most of them did.

Taking a few deep breaths and falling deeper into the golvar, Sigrun noticed one sailor, a red-haired brute with a cruel face not even a mother could love, whispering to a knot of his fellows on the opposite side of the deck. Sigrun casually moved in his direction, though she stopped and pretended to fiddle with her chronometer when the man's green eyes passed over her. Thanks to the "calm mind," however, she could hear what he was saying as clearly as if she was standing beside him.

"Listen to me, Rast," the sailor snarled, a hint of irritation coloring his voice, "I know you're scared of Conway. Fuck, the man makes me want to shit my pants too. That doesn't mean I'm willing to let him throw our lives away on this insane voyage. All I'm saying is let's make sure he takes all the necessary precautions so we make it back to Dover in one piece. That's it. Nobody is talking about the 'm' word, alright? Not yet. Just stick with your ol' chum Danzig, and we'll be back in Tapper's drinking and celebrating in no time. Understand?"

The skinny man Danzig was talking to nodded once and then darted into the mass of people preparing the UIS Garrloch for its maiden voyage. Danzig watched him go for a few moments, an unreadable expression on his scarred face, before gesturing for the sailors gathered around him to return to their duties.

Interesting.

Evidently, all was not well aboard the ship. Hopefully, this fear of what lay beyond the Ring of Thunder wouldn't bite the captain in the ass. Although she didn't know Conway that well, Sigrun could tell he was a man worthy of respect. Nothing seemed to shake his calm, not even the weight of all the hopes and expectations riding on this venture. A good leader needed to keep a level head no matter how badly a situation deteriorated. And no matter what surprises emerged to make things more difficult. Like a potential mutiny.

Suddenly, the sound of a horn blowing and bells ringing erupted from every direction, and the UIS Garrloch surged into motion like a hungover DOC attendant trying to stagger home after a long night. Grinning from ear to ear, the excited Ysmirod woman wondered if now was a good time to look for the medical bay, making a mental note to talk to Captain Conway about Danzig later. Before she could take one step, however, the captain's already familiar voice boomed over the ship's microphone. “Attention, everyone. This is Cap'n Conway. In case ya weren't aware, we are about to head directly into the Ring of Thunder. This won't be a pleasant cruise, so I suggest everyone tuck in befar we get too far in. I'd advise each o'ye to get belowdecks and lock yerselves in for a time. There may be somethin' to eat in the mess hall, if ye think you can keep down the meal."

Sigrun blinked. How long had she been eavesdropping on Danzig and his fellow mutineers? Surely the Garrloch wouldn't reach the Ring of Thunder so soon after their departure. As if responding to her thoughts, a light rain began to fall, though she could already feel it growing heavier. The sky rapidly turned the same color as the Garrloch's hull, and the damp smell of an oncoming storm filled the air. Standing on the upper deck in her new clothes, Sigrun tilted her head back and closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of the warm rain on her face. It reminded her of all the times her father had taken her to the summit of Mount Ebonhorn during a rainstorm. While it was much smaller than Ulfrang Peak, Mount Ebonhorn was one of the most beautiful places on Ysmir, providing helgus and stormborn alike with a breathtaking view of the Ring of Thunder's underbelly. Veins of black quartz, considered too fragile to be worth excavating, ran through the mountain, and they glowed with a faint purplish light whenever the storms grew particularly violent.

Shuddering at the intensity of the memory, Sigrun opened her eyes just as the ship gave an almighty lurch. For a dozen heartbeats, she was airborne, but she quickly found strong, hairy arms holding her and her burlap sack. Sigrun took a moment to calm herself before glancing at her rescuer, immediately recognizing the slender build and pungent stink of grease on his tan coveralls.

"Thank you for catching me, Valdez," Sigrun said as the sailor lowered her to the rain-slicked deck. A blinding bolt of lightning streaked down from the sky accompanied by a boom of thunder and Sigrun said, her voice barely audible over the storm, "Perhaps you could do me one more favor? Take me to the med bay. I'm sure someone will need my attention before we pass through the Ring of Thunder."

Valdez smiled, baring a mouthful of green-stained teeth, and said, his voice raspy and carrying an unfamiliar accent, "Of course, Doctor Alfhild. Let's get below decks, yes? I believe the rest of the crew is gathering in the mess hall. But you are right. You should be in the med bay, preparing yourself for whatever might come. Follow me, doctor."

Deciding not to tell Valdez she didn't have a doctorate of any kind, Sigrun followed the tall, gaunt mariner into the belly of the ship, accompanied by a few sailors that hadn't been quick enough to get inside before the rain started. The stormborn found herself ignoring these stragglers and focusing entirely on Valdez. The golvar was picking up on some interesting traits her guide possessed. The tip of Valdez's nose was a bright shade of red, almost like he had a cold, though he wasn't sneezing or dripping mucous everywhere. His large, spidery hands were in constant motion, though the twitching occasionally subsided for a few seconds before starting again. Most tellingly, his teeth were an interesting dark green color. All these symptoms indicated that Valdez was addicted to witchroot, a tropical plant with narcotic and hallucinogenic properties. While Sigrun mulled this over, the twosome took a right down an empty hallway before stopping in front of a white door with the words 'Medical Bay' etched into it.

"Here we are, doctor," Valdez said, and Sigrun cursed herself for not paying more attention to the route they'd taken to get here. That was one of the problems with the golvar. Once it fixated on something or someone in particular it was difficult to focus on anything else. Sighing and inclining her head to Valdez in gratitude, Sigi started to open the door, but Valdez coughed and said, "Erhem...aren't you going to say anything about my teeth, doctor? It's the lothrax that did it, I'm afraid."

"Lothrax? What is that?" Sigrun asked as she turned to gaze up at the engineer's watery brown eyes.

"It's a...well, it looks like a little piece of black root with blue thorns growing out of it. The thorns are the best part, yes? They have a silver juice inside that you drink before you cut up the root. It...how you say, enhances the experience, yes? Your whole body feels like one big-"

"Ahhh, we call it witchroot where I'm from," Sigrun interrupted, not wanting to hear anymore. The Ysmirod tended to look down on addicts, viewing them as weaklings without discipline or self-control. Honestly, she just didn't care about Valdez's issues. She had work to do. "It's not my place or my intent to judge you, Valdez. I'm here to mend injuries and help fight if the need arises. That's it. What you do with your free time is your own business."

The wrinkled sailor tilted his head to one side, as if confused by this answer, and then smiled before bowing at the waist and walking back towards the mess hall. Strange. Was that some kind of helgus custom Sigrun hadn't learned in Highwall? Shrugging and pushing open the white med bay door, Sigrun looked around...and dropped her burlap sack in dismay. The chamber she stood in was roughly the same size as Svanrige's clinic back in Beggar's Row! At least the walls here were covered in gleaming white tile and detailed clinical charts. Svanrige's operating room had decaying wooden walls and a few scraps of paper with handwritten notes on them dangling from iron pegs. Picking up her sack and walking around, Sigrun felt her disappointment lessen when she saw three clean cots and a stainless steel injector table. Her mentor's injector table had been covered with rust and old bloodstains, but this one was immaculate. It was essentially a medical examination table, but there was a band of raised metal running around the edges with slots at different points where syringes could be inserted. It allowed for precise injections into affected areas. There were also three small cabinets on the far side of the room, each one containing glass vials of healing tinctures, jars of herbs and useful chemicals, and other necessities. One even had a polished human skull resting on its top shelf.

"Fantastic. There are no actual examination tables, but at least I have a skull to play with," Sigrun mumbled to herself as she set her burlap sack on a cramped black granite counter beside the cabinets and started unloading her supplies. She'd just finished laying out her pouches of plant cuttings when she noticed a folded scrap of paper on the other end of the counter. Frowning, Sigi reached out and picked it up. She unfolded it...and felt a shudder course down her spine that had nothing to do with her wet clothes. A single word was written on the paper. In blood.

Vrykul.

[Skepic]

The aircraft's engines began to spin down at the Captain's gesture, but they did, Krauss couldn't help but chuckle. As if he was just gonna take off again, right? That aside, he climbed out the cockpit and began working with the deck hands to move the AV-44 into the hangar bay. He began first, with the help of a crew member, unlocking the folding joints of the aircraft manually, before climbing into the cockpit again to turn on the motors to rotate the wings flush with the fuselage. Then he and the rest of the deck crew, rolled the aircraft into the hangar. It was a small space, so it was a snug fit, but they got the airplane in non the less. Thanking the crew, Krauss began to make his way to the bridge.

Krauss had met Captain Conway before, as to arrange plans and discuss the aircraft that would be aboard his new vessel. While gruff and stubborn, the man had garnished Krauss's respect through their dealings. He admired his no nonsense attitude and focus on practicality. Krauss had also become somewhat acquainted with the crew, particularly the deck hands and maintenance staff who would be working on his special baby. However, Krauss hadn't had the chance to meet some of the passengers of the ship.

He had read some of the files of the people he would be fairing, thanks to a friend in UINC, and they seem to have a pretty varied crew on board. However, one thing made him... uneasy. While they could encounter dangers out exploring, most would be of the natural kind, according to Krauss, so why bother with having specially trained mercs with this voyage? What were they really expecting to face out there.

Krauss shook his head, trying to rid them of these thoughts. He needed to keep an open mind about these people and the true intentions of this voyage.

Krauss, was making his way down the hallway when the boat had suddenly lurched. Grabbing the handrail on onside of the corridor, he quickly caught himself and road the surge. "Damn, I guess we've hit the Ring of Thunder now. Probably going to feel a few more of those before the day ends." he mumbled to himself as he now, with a more cautious approach, made his way to the bridge.

Upon entering the bridge, he spotted Captain Conway among his crew. They seem to be focusing intensly on getting their craft through the rough waters in one piece, so Krauss decided to make his visit a short as possible. "Mr. Conway, I hate to bother you at a time like this, but I'm just dropping off the post-flight checklist for you. I know you do not expressly need it, but I figured you would want to know whether this new fangled flying machine will or won't blow up your vessel here." Krauss handed over the folder to the Captain. "Oh, and I can say with 90% certainty it wont. Everything went according to plan, and it seems it will stay that way for the time being." he said with a grin.

[Chromane]

The plane roared past, fast and low, propellers chewing the air as it buzzed the crowd of people gathered on the foredeck of the Garrloch. Armas looked up, his oilskin whipping wildly in the wind, grinning as the pilot gave the plane a jaunty shimmy as they brought it around to the landing pad. He'd known the Garrloch was going to be carrying some kind of aircraft - that much was obvious from the scuttlebutt and the design of the aft-deck - but he thought it was a helicopter, not anything like that!

He was just moving closer to get a better look when he heard a shouted "Oi!" from behind him. Turning, he saw Captain Conway coming up the gangplank. Apparently the last of the passengers and crew had finally arrived. Armas had talked to the Captain a couple of times since he'd first arrived at sea level; when he'd first arrived, and before and after a couple of his inspection dives for the man's new ship. Conway launched into a typically blunt speech about the dangers of their upcoming voyage. As the Captain started barking orders, it was apparent he didn't intend to waste any more time. Looks like they were finally ready to get going.

Armas followed Aric towards the aft deck of the ship at a slow jog. Horns and bells sounded, and the deck started vibrating, as deep below the giant engine that was the heart of the ship ticked over and started rumbling with a deep purr. All along the ship dock-hands were untying the mooring lines and throwing them aboard. As he got to the aft-deck the pilot and Aric were folding the planes wings back along the fuselage, and he gave a low appreciative whistle before helping them push the craft into the tiny aircraft hangar. The pilot thanked them and left the hangar, going deeper into the ship. Armas grabbed a couple of bundles of rope from a locker and threw one to Aric, taking the other and starting to tie the plane down with quick, practiced motions. It didn't take the two of them long to secure the plane, but by the time he exited onto the aft deck it was already raining as they approached The Ring.

Moving towards the fore of the ship, he could see flashes of lightning in the storm clouds ahead, and the sea around them was getting rougher by the second. "Looks like we're in for a spot of weather!" he said to a nearby crewman, who chuckled grimly. "Let's get below! Armas called, raising his voice slightly over the sounds of the wind and rain, "This is gonna get worse before it gets better". The crewman, Bronson, by his name patch, nodded in agreement and the two men headed for a hatch below decks. It was a relief to get out of the rain as they secured the hatch behind them.

Suddenly there was a mighty crash, and the world tilted to one side as the boat lurched suddenly. Armas fell heavily against the side of passageway, gripping onto the hatch for support. Bronson wasn't so lucky. Caught off-guard he went stumbling, arms windmilling as he tried to regain control. With a sudden cry cut short he tripped over a raised lip and went tumbling down a short ladder, landing with a heavy thump and an audible crack.

Armas cursed violently, moving towards the top of the stairs. Bronson was still moving, stirring at the bottoms of the ladder, clutching his arm in pain. "Don't move! Coming down!" Armas barked, carefully gripping the ladder as he descended, wary of any repeat waves. The fall hadn't been very far, but the other man had landed awkwardly, taking his weight on one arm. Armas carefully rolled him onto one side, checking for any other injuries.

"All in all, I'd say you got lucky" he said, somewhat grimly "Just the arm, by the looks - come on, lets get you to sickbay". Bronson nodded, extending his good arm as Armas helped him to his feet. Putting his arm around the injured crewmen to help him they started making their way through the rocking ship. Armas already knew the location of the sickbay from a previous visit - a nasty scald from a hot engine, so it didn't take too long to get through the maze of the ship's corridors. Helping Bronson through the sickbay hatch he looked around for anyone medical-looking "Gotcha first patient!"

[Azkott]

Dieter watched the monotonous processions wearily, anxiously pacing about the imposing vessel’s starboard side. He loathed guard duty; it was the worst kind of job you could offer a mercenary, no matter how high the pay. This hatred was only doubled by the fact that he had been constrained to a sea-borne ship; surrounded by what’s thought to be an endless ocean, what’s there to guard? Leaning against the Garrloch’s brand-new railing, he stopped to ponder this rather jarring conundrum. Looking out over the immense sprawl that was the dock, the grizzled mercenary couldn’t help but wonder why they’d hired him to look after a brand new research craft. After a moment of becoming entirely lost in thought, the would-be soldier shakes his head, returning to the task he had been so expensively hired for. As he turns to face the far-off stern of this gently-bobbing ship, he squints at the impending horizon, and the glistening waves that caress it. “The final frontier…” he silently murmurs to no one in particular, recalling an old line from a dusty novel he’d bothered to read in his far-gone childhood. A loud, echoing screech from directly behind him forces the pondering mercenary to turn on his heel, his right hand grasping the rifle on his left shoulder’s wooden grip in a tensed, reflexive manner before relaxing; they’re raising the gangplank. That was his last chance to get off, he quietly realizes. However, the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach quickly evaporates at the thought of the amount of money he’d be netting from this contract; enough to allow the aging veteran to retire a rather happy, wealthy individual. The warrior-for-hire takes one last, longing look at the shadowed expanse of land that hung above his disheveled head, conformed to his months-long fate.

The truth was, not many knew why he was aboard the Garrloch to begin with. Those who’ve had the opportunity to read his official UINC file would find very scant details about the man himself; his story seems to begin upon joining up with Ghersland’s Armed Forces, where a brief, partially censored timeline tells of a man who seems to know nothing but conflict; a soldier of no particularly outstanding virtue, yet one who was eventually transferred into the Marksman Corps. This rather undescriptive and blunt account of the soldier’s career seems to end during the Siege of Highwall, a skirmish which saw a rag-tag group of supposedly Canth-originated dissidents, sick of the ever growing poverty margin, attempting to seize the old town. The battle that was to ensue became a controversial event in the years afterward; whilst marking one of the rare occasions in which Canth and Ghersland cooperated with one another, it also saw the first and only use of weaponized gas. With neither country desiring to destroy this historic landmark in inevitably brutal, house-to-house combat, the locally-based Greencloak Company pushed for this vile means to an end, arguing that most, if not all of the civilians present in the area had been successfully evacuated. After about a week of deliberation, the yellow-hued mist was flooded into the defiled old town, followed by hundreds of heavily protected soldiers. With no knowledge of what was about to occur, nor the proper protection to ward against this unforeseen enemy, these ‘rebels’ were nearly wiped out in their entirety; those whom remained were swiftly taken by the combined forces of Canth, Ghersland and the Greencloaks, and promptly executed on the spot. While having been denied by all levels of governmental seniority, there have been rumors circulating that many of the captured dissidents were forcibly exposed to the thick, death-inducing fog in order to test its effects; in any case, the weaponized gas was outright banned by the UINC in the years afterward, despite its recognized effectiveness against a well dug-in foe. Following this event, most of his recorded mercenary jobs have either been censored or completely omitted, for reasons entirely unknown.

Several hours have elapsed now, and the islands he’d come to know and love so well were but a spec in the distance. Dieter had paced the perimeter of the Garrloch for what must’ve been the third time, only having stopped to top off his singed, worn-down pipe. With every lap, he found himself staring at different faces; not one had given him a look that echoed a sentiment of friendliness. Why would it? Even since before the ship’s maiden voyage departed, he had been briefed on how to handle a variety of potentially dangerous ship-wide scenarios, including mutiny. To many aboard, he was the one thing keeping them from wresting power away from the sea-worn captain; a thought which can’t sit well with those stubborn few. Well into his fourth lap about the ship, the mercenary decides to deviate from his established patrol route to inspect a stairway leading up and onto the Garrloch’s singular flight deck; the man’s first-day shift was about to expire, in any case. Though he was accustomed to nearly all forms of Helicopter, having briefly been a door gunner for a medical transport, the sight of the VTOL craft took him aback. It was unlike anything he’d previously seen before; a marvel of engineering he’d only read about in science fiction novels. For a while he stands about it, scrutinizing its every detail whilst engineers of all nations fuss about it. They seem to be strapping it down; lashing it in every way imaginable, as if to keep this massive, metallic bird from escaping. It seems comical to the cynical man, a gesture he considers futile, before turning towards the bow of the Garrloch at the loud crack of thunder. Dark, roiling storm clouds gathered just off in the distance, accompanied by a strong, salty wind he had never bothered to notice; Though he’d experienced storms before, there was something about sailing into one, as opposed to sailing away from one, that made him feel… naked.

It hit harder than expected. Much unlike the solid ground he was far more accustomed to, being bound to a ship in a massive storm is basically the same as, well, being stuck in a bottle and shaken ceaselessly. Having had to assist some of the panicking engineers with the lashings, Dieter was one of the few who had been unlucky enough to be caught outside when the Garrloch unflinchingly rammed the storm head on; a fact which put him where he was now, holding onto the dripping railings for dear life. The mercenary had donned the gas mask he wore on his belt, as a makeshift pair of goggles against the howling, stinging wind; it gave the already ominous looking figure an added, fear-inducing effect. After all, the use of gas was supposedly outlawed; why would the vessel’s singular mercenary carry one around on his belt? Even so, anyone who had likely bothered to care about his frightening appearance was likely inside by now, battening down the thick, metallic doors and water-sealed hatches. Having been assigned to search the deck for any stragglers, the sopping wet mercenary found himself grasping at locked entrances, inaudibly cursing beneath his muffled breath. After hopelessly wandering about the sea-sprayed deck, he found his salvation; a maintenance hatch near the bow, just partially opened. Likely a mistake, yet one which would probably save his life. The thankful soldier of fortune forces it wide open, carefully clasping the metallic rungs of a ladder that lead down far below; tightly shutting the hatch which had just barely saved his life, before disappearing below.

Just as he had thought his lucky streak knew no bounds, a massive, vengeful rogue wave struck the side of the untested Garrloch, sending the once ladder-bound mercenary careening into a neatly-piled series of crates far down below. He shoulders into them with a thunderous crash, lying amongst the varied contents of aforementioned crates with a resounding, muffled groan, deciding against moving for now. Lifting his battered head, he spies a small, red cross from within his soaked, dripping mask, the like of which is accompanied by an adjoining sign; the Med Bay. Not without massive effort, he forces himself to stand, realizing to his relief that nothing seems to have snapped within his likely bruised self; however, he still decides to proceed towards this cross-shaped promise of welcome, looking about the relatively empty forward cargo bay for anyone that may have seen, or heard, that rather embarrassing incident; content to find no one, the limping warrior for hire proceeds down the horrifically lurching adjoining hallway, soon after taking a seat on one of several unsurprisingly plain waiting chairs, just besides the entrance of the relatively small medical center. With a blisteringly brutal migraine, as well as a sharp case of nauseating seasickness, Dieter removes his gas-preventing, annoyingly stifling mask, giving an exasperated sigh upon finding blood against the respirator; he must’ve split his chin open. Clipping the mask back onto his belt, he taps this afflicted area with a gloved hand, confirming the damage dealt with conflicted annoyance; what a silly way to get injured. Having noticed a sailor barging into the med bay with an injured friend in tow prior, he resorts to patiently waiting, wiping away at the accumulating blood with an old, previously bloodstained handkerchief he carries about in his pocket, attempting to momentarily staunch the wound.

[ML]

F U L L S P E E D A H E A D

The Bridge
Captain Conway cursed as a streak of lightning seared down in the distance. "Tha's too close for comfort," he muttered. "Helmsman, go ta starboard standard rudder. I want to try and cut outta this mess earlier than later."

"Aye, sir," said the helmsman, as the captain turned to the Garrloch's ace pilot. "Thanks fer this, Krauss, but now's the least useful time ta be givin' this to me. Give it to the quartermast--"

He broke off as a deafening, shrieking crack erupted from behind them. Another bolt of lightning: this one far closer than the last. "Blast it all," hissed Conway, and he pushed a button on the intercom. "Throttle station," said the captain. "How's our speed lookin'?" After a moment of silence, he snapped, "I don' care if we're worried about fuel! If we don't make it through this 'ere storm, we won't be needin' any fuel, yeah? Get me more speed."

Slowly, the speed of the Garrloch increased. "Helmsman, shift your rudder! I want us goin' out of the Ring, not drivin' along within it." The captain glanced to one side. "The big waves are comin' in now. So far it's manageable: we're not gonna like it, but neither are we sunk." He had just placed his hand on his console when another thunderous boom echoed across the sea.

This time, a very noticeable lurch accompanied it, along with a sound of rending metal. Another squawk came from the console, and now Conway cursed intensely. "Fuck the widow's grave of this hellspawn!" He pulled down his PA microphone, flipping a switch.

"Attention, all ye aboard. Now's the time to earn yer keep! Anyone who's not injured or tendin' a station, I want ye all up above decks. We've been hit by lightning, and there's a fire going on the lower deck. Get up there and put it out." He released the microphone and grabbed Krauss by the shoulder. "Come wit' me, ace. There's real work ta be done."

---

Mess Hall
Ed smiled at the woman who had spoken. She'd said her name was Luna, right? "I don't really know where anything is, to be honest. I'm as new to this as you are. Probably newer, in fact." He smiled again, trying to break the ice that he felt between everyone on board. "I'm sure you could ask one of the people around here, though, they--"

He was cut off by another thunderous rumble. That one had been too close for his comfort. "What the hell is..." he mumbled, feeling suddenly very sick to his stomach. "Do you think this ship is...safe?" Wasn't it supposed to be the finest ship in the UINC fleet? The UINC hasn't been making ships that long, though. The logical voice in his head only terrified him.

For a moment, the ship rolled, and Ed felt his bod sliding to one side as they turned. Was the captain trying to dodge lightning? There was no way: Conway hadn't struck him as a fool. They were probably veering off course in the waves. A tiny bit of relief fluttered through him at that thought, and he watched Constance try to regain the control that they all felt they had lost.

Then another crash echoed through the ship, and everything lurched to one side with a tilt that left Ed queasy. Before he had even a moment to wonder about what had happened, Conway came on over the speakers. By the time the announcement ended, the professional sailors on board were moving about with practiced planning. They'd been hit by lightning? Fire?

He was still processing these things when one of the sailors pointed at him. "You, Samick!" he pointed to Constance as well, and Luna. "You're all part of this crew, so follow me to the deck. We'll need you, if the fire is bad." He whirled forward toward Ed, and with a flurry of activity, the reporter found himself being whisked off by the sailor to the deck above.

---

Lower Deck 1
Ed arrived just as Captain Conway stormed in from another entrance. The flames were licking at a huge hunk of metal of some kind, and they were many and hot. Above the flames, a wide hole exposed their heads to the raging storm outside. Edward shivered as he realized what must have happened: the lightning must have burned a hole through the main deck entirely, melting through to the lower deck.

Was that even possible? Ed made a mental not to ask someone, before Conway roared at him to take a hose that was being offered to him. "Take it, ya doe-eyed fuck! We'll need at least three o' these bastards ta put out this conflagration!" He barked orders to his other sailors, pointing down the hall to where Ed presumed a water valve was located, or something.

The rain poured in from above, soaking them all, but doing little to put out the fire itself. Conway grunted as he hefted another hose and tossed it at Constance. "If we don't contain this fire, we'll not be gettin' out beyond tha Ring at all!"

[MarshiestMallow]

Location: Mess hall, then lower deck one
Once more things seemed to become chaos, and Luna crouched, keeping her balance as the ship was struck, more rocking happening, her eyes roaming over the rest of the people in the mess hall, seeking any that may fall, that may injure themselves. What was going on? She looked up at Edward, he's panicking. A lotof them are, I suppose. Panic isn't good She rose back to standing, and she gripped Edward by the shoulder. "Don't panic. Panic isn't good. I want you to take three deep breaths, okay" But then the announcement came over, and she found she was being ordered to go up by a sailor. "Hold on, let me go get my medical things, in case there are seriously injuried up there"

She darted off, without another word, not waiting to see if there was any objection to this. She had a small case of medical supplies with her, but she knew they wouldn't last long if there were seriously injuried. She had to find that damn medical bay. Yet it was quicker to grab the gear she had nearby then it was to wonder about. She was only moments behind Edward, with her case of bandages, wound healing kits and other such assortments of things. She didn't wait to e told what to do, instead she grabbed a hose. this can't be any different then the fire drills we had at the hospital...hopefully the hose works the same way... She darted to the valve, doing what she hoped was right to make it work, before she took aim at the fire.

She hadn't looked around truly, but if there were injuried, they would have to wait for now. She couldn't do anything, if there was a danger of being burned alive, or maybe drowned if the ship sunk. She couldn't truly say this was what she had expected, going on this ship, she knew there would be danger, hell there had to be when they were essentially sailing beyond the known, and into the ring of storms. She hadn't expected they would get hit by lightening. What were the chances, even in the storms? I should have packed a whole other suitcase just filled with medical supplies she thought to herself as she planted her feet, and got her hose going.

She was nearly swept back by the force and she let out an "ack" Sound as she dug her feet into the deck, rolling her shoulders and getting a better grip on the hose. too damn small, aren't I? Don't have the weight or the height for this. too late now. Just do your best She thought to herself. She glanced about her, to see what Edward was doing, to see if she was actually doing the right thing, to see if she had overstepped her bounds. maybe I should have waited to be told what to do, but what can I do, when the fire is the thing that needs everyone's attention? You always get rid of danger, first. She was just simply use to see something that had to be done, and doing it. You didn't wait to be told in the hospital.

She turned her attention back to her hose, and the fire. She angled it towards the heart of it, trying to do the best she could. She wasn't afraid, she knew death came to everyone. If this was the day she died, so be it. But she certainly wasn't going down without a fight. Oh no, if this fire wanted to engulf her, or send her down to the bottom of the sea, she would go down kicking and screaming. And trying to save as many people as she possibly could.

"bloody hell" She muttered to herself, as she shifted, planting her feet more firmly on the deck. "die, you stupid fire. We aren't going to end our journey this short a time into it!"

[Skepic]

The ship lurched and and the very terrifying sound of bending metal echoed through the bridge. Krauss couldn't help but be struck by both awe and nostalgia by the power of the ring terror. Truly the Ring of Thunder defied all knowledge of how lightning and electricity worked. It was, as many have said before, like the storm itself was alive, and not pleased at the Garrloch's attempt to leave its influence. With the storm roaring above them, Krauss watched as the captain began to bark orders both at bridge crew and through the intercom.

This was most definitely not the time to give the report.

"Come wit' me, ace. There's real work ta be done." Captain Conway said, brushing past Krauss without even checking to see if Krauss followed. The pilot took one last look at the chaotic bridge, the helmsman fighting the waves as the ship bobbed over them. Sighing, Krauss followed the captain below decks.

"Aye sir, let's keep your baby afloat." Krauss said when he caught up to the captain. They made their way to the scene of the damage, a nasty fire was burning its way through the hall, but had thankfully not started in a particularly dangerous place. Krauss silently thanked whatever god, spirit, or his healthy sense of luck that the fire hadn't started near the fuel storage. The Garrloch was unique thanks to its on board aircraft, so it had to carry the airplane's fuel, of course. Had the fire started there, and well... Krauss would be dead in the water in more ways than one. He saw Captain Conway bark something at man who most definitely did not look like a sailor, then shove a fire hose into his hands. Quickly, Krauss ran up behind the man and grabbed a part of the hose. Smiling he yelled over teh chaos to the civilian with a grin.

"It's real simple to use, just point the nozzle and pull that lever! The water pressure is gonna give you a kick, so I'll brace ya from behind and help you get it under control!" Krauss braced against the back of the man while getting a good grip on the hose. "Whenever you're ready sir."

[Atrophy]

Lower Deck 1

The helmsman must have overheard Constance’s belittling of the man, because the instant she finished speak the ship once again tried to flip itself over as Conway’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers about a fire. She caught herself on the arm of one of the men she had been trying to rally to save herself from yet again slamming into a wall, grimacing with minor embarrassment and annoyance that others even saw her stumble. If she had been knocked down, then the only word or two that she would have with Conway would be four-lettered, colorful, and improper to share in any sort of company, good or otherwise.She patted the man that she had used as a safety net on the shoulder twice, the gesture serving as some kind of half-hearted ‘thank you’, and then smoothed out her clothing and brushed a swathe of hair behind her ear.

It was bizarre, she knew it, but she wanted to still look impeccable, even if the entire ship was about to go belly up as it burned down. Constance believed in the importance of appearance. If she looked proper, if she looked confident, if she looked happy, then others would have to believe that was the case. It didn’t matter if her heart was racing a mile a minute, or if she was beginning to compile a list in her mind of all of the things she wouldn’t be able to do. Nobody could see those things, nobody could know of her fears. Even Constance tried to force herself to not recognize a fear—she lied and told herself that she had none, or that they excited her, that it was fun, that she loved the thrill of it all. It worked, mostly, or at least it was this time, her spirit beating back her animal mind that was firing off flares signalling imminent danger and barking at her to turn back.

Thus, when the sailor drafted Constance to join the nurse and the reporter in their newly formed amateur fire brigade, she jumped at the call with a look that could only be described as inappropriately gleeful. She had, after all, done her own share of firefighting at her own parties when a drunken guest got too close to a candle or tried to show off the latest party trick that they had learned, the help too far away to respond in time. Those fires, however, had mostly been small and inconsequential, easily bested by a quick douse of water or a smothering via jacket. She had never seen a fire started by a lightning strike. Constance was certain that this fire would be the same as the others; in an hour they would all be laughing about it over cocktails and hor d'oeuvres.

Doubt began to cloud over her like the black, acrid smoke that was billowing overhead; she could hear the crackle of the flames from beyond the corner. She blinked her stinging eyes and her smirk wavered as the flames came into view, the blaze raging fiercely as it warped the metal around it into twisted appendages. Having been so excited to be the first to the fire, she had pushed ahead of the others earlier. Now, as she felt the heat on her face and the sweat form on her brow, she had wished she had been in the back. There, she could have easily slipped away, claiming later that she had been lost in the smoke or the confusion. If she turned now, the others would know that she had run. They would label her a coward or view her as deadweight. Her lips drew into a thin line as she lifted her hand to cover a cough that was trying to escape from her mouth. It didn’t matter what other people said, really. After all, the only thing that trumped appearances was survival—live long enough to change the tale.

But she couldn’t turn and flee, because there were simply too many people crowded behind her. Well, that and Conway had just chucked a hose at her. She didn’t catch it at first as the hose slammed against her chest, awkwardly managing to catch it with her knee and her forearm. She shot Conway a narrowed look as she struggled to wrangle the hose as if it were some slimy sea serpent trying to squirm out of her grasp. There were many things she wanted to discuss with the man, largely because, one, his helmsman couldn’t steer the ship that, two, he had lead into a brutal storm followed by, three, his crew forcing her to fight their fires caused by lightning when, four, if the ship had been properly designed with a lightning rod would have never been a problem in the first place. All of this she wanted to say, but when she opened her mouth to speak so much smoke came in that it was impossible for the words to come out. Choking on smoke, the hose clattered against the ground; she followed after it, dropping to her knees as she continued to cough.

She knew instantly that she had screwed up and gotten too close to the fire. Cursing herself for being stupid, the woman looked behind her with watering eyes—why did she even still care if anybody was looking at her now? She watched as Luna fought the inferno, jealous at how unfazed the other woman seemed to be, unaware that the nurse was probably as terrified as she was. She watched as a man fell in behind Ed, instructing him on how to use the hose with a smile on his face amongst all of the chaos, unaware that it was as probably as forced as her own always were. Grimacing, she grabbed the hose from her kneeling position and turned it on, using a knee and her arms to keep it steadied at the fire. She wasn’t going to be the only one who didn’t do anything. She refused to be the one looked down upon; she had spent her entire life struggling to get to a point where that was simply impossible.

And besides, they couldn’t let the boat sink—she still had to give Conway a piece of her mind.

[Lexicon]

Trouble

The Med Bay

"Gotcha first patient!" a man's voice called out from behind Sigrun, and the startled Ysmirod dropped the scrap of paper she'd been gaping at. Patient? The shock of seeing the word 'vrykul' written in human blood evaporated as memories of the last few hours flooded Sigi's mind. The UIS Garrloch had entered the Ring of Thunder, bucked like an angry stallion, and now one of the crew was injured. It all sounded logical enough, but one insidious thought made Sigi freeze. Were there more stormborn aboard this ship? Who else would know what it meant to be vrykul? Shaking her head like a dog after a bath, Sigrun forced herself to concentrate on the two men filling the med bay's doorway. The taller of the two men had messy blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and reassuringly solid facial features. A flabby, balding man wearing the dark blue uniform of a DOC affiliated sailor was leaning against him. The pudgy mariner's right arm was visibly bent, jutting out at an alarming angle, and blood was dribbling down the front of his damp clothes. A fractured, or possibly broken, bone then. The coppery stink of spilled blood was already filling the med bay, and Sigrun knew she needed to move fast.

Stalking over and offering her shoulder to the injured man, Sigi's eyes darted to his companion as she said, "Well done, helgus. Now leave us. I will tend to your friend, but I want you out of my way."

The wounded sailor, whose blood-spattered name patch revealed his name was Bronson, looked anxiously at his comrade, clearly wondering if it was wise to let this young woman treat him. Gritting her teeth, Sigrun ducked beneath the man's shoulder and applied just enough pressure to make him let go of the other crewman. She turned away from the blonde-haired sailor as if he no longer existed and guided her charge to one of the med bay's three cots. Sigi nearly fell when Bronson put his full weight on her, but she bent her legs and kept moving, reaching the cot and easing the mariner onto it. Her new long-sleeved shirt, which was already soaked from the Garrloch's entry into the Ring of Thunder, was streaked with Bronson' blood. Stopping the bleeding would be her first task. She could deal with the bone afterwards.

"Mother's love, lass!" Bronson said as Sigrun hurried over to the nearby cabinets and began pawing through their contents. "You aren't actually a doctor are you?! You're just the doctor's assistant or...or...fuck me, my bloody arm is broken! Do something! Please!" Ignoring the sailor's howls of pain, Sigi grabbed several clean cloths with the DOC's logo on them, a small pewter wash basin, and a jar of pinkish gray paste. She also took her canvas doctor's bag out of her sack and produced an oilcloth water skin from its cluttered interior. Balancing all these items in her arms, the stormborn felt a surge of pride as she returned to Bronson's side, because, unlike many people in the United Isles, she knew exactly what to do in this situation. After setting her various tools beside the cot, Sigrun uncorked the waterskin and poured half of its lukewarm contents into the wash basin.

Pursing her lips and dipping one of the cloths into the water, the stormborn said, "I need you to stay quiet and keep still, Bronson. I'm going to clean your wound as best I can, but I must stop the bleeding. Luckily for you, I have something for that, and I also have something for the pain. There's also a chance I might have to set your broken bone, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. " The sailor's doughy face had turned white as a sheet, but he nodded wordlessly to show he would do whatever Sigrun told him to. The Ysmirod woman knew how unnerving it could be to see so much of your blood outside of your body. It certainly made patients more compliant and less argumentative.

Using slow, delicate movements, Sigrun started washing away some of the viscera on Bronson's right arm, her eyes narrowed in concentration. If the sailor lost too much blood then things would become much more complicated. Two blood-soaked washcloths later, the Ysmirod set her rags aside and picked up the jar of paste labeled "Dr. Morrison's Clotting Paste: Stops All the Bleeding All the Time! Now, with a delicious fruity aroma!" Svanrige had used a similar mixture, though he'd called it azeyma and made it in an old bathtub, on countless patients back in Beggar's Row. The old vrykul claimed it was one of the few concoctions in the United Isles capable of stopping excessive blood loss. Opening the jar, and wincing as a blast of citrus-scented air hit her full in the face, Sigi poured a sizable dollop of clotting paste onto Bronson's wound.

The sludge bubbled angrily for a few seconds as it soaked up the residual blood on the sailor's skin before turning into a powdery, chalk-like substance. Looking into Bronson's wide gray eyes, Sigrun said, her voice calm, "And now something for the pain. Prepare yourself."

"Prepare myself for what?" Bronson squeaked, though his doctor was already darting back to the cabinets, cursing herself for not getting everything she needed on the first trip. That damned slip of paper was still distracting her. Inhaling and exhaling slowly, though she'd fallen out of the golvar after seeing that note, Sigrun grabbed one of the two dozen linen pouches lining the counter. She also flung open the second cabinet and pulled out a length of stretchy black cloth as well as a glass beaker with the words 'corn whiskey' scrawled on it in marker. Rolling her eyes at the helgus and their bizarre ways, Sigi rejoined Bronson and placed her new supplies beside her growing pile. She pushed the resealed jar of clotting paste, wash basin, waterskin and remaining washcloths aside before opening the linen pouch. The fruity scent in the air was immediately overpowered by the repulsive stench of fresh dung and vomit.

Bronson gagged and recoiled, wincing as the sudden movement sent a jolt of pain through his injured arm. "What the fuck is that?! God and Ground, woman, it smells like a Gherish sewer!" the sailor said, and he jerked back as Sigrun thrust the pouch in his face.

"Don't be such a child," Sigrun snapped. "These are fadeleaf seeds from my...from my homeland. I know they smell awful, but three of them will numb your entire body for the next hour or two. I suggest you take them. Otherwise, I'll be setting your arm without painkillers. Do you want that, Bronson?"

Cowed by the thought of facing that kind of pain without any assistance, the heavyset sailor took three round, yellow seeds from the pouch and gulped them down, his face screwing up in disgust as the cloying taste filled his mouth. "Good," Sigi said as she ensured the elastic black cloth was ready to be used as a makeshift splint. It wouldn't be pretty, but it would work.

Five minutes of uncomfortable silence passed before Sigrun abruptly punched Bronson in his injured arm. The man opened his mouth to scream in agony...only to realize he hadn't felt anything. In fact, he couldn't feel much of anything at all. Blinking stupidly at Sigrun, Bronson watched as she carefully guided his right arm into its proper position and placed it in the splint, tying it off with an ease born of experience. Covered in a stranger's blood and feeling immensely satisfied, the stormborn said, "I'd suggest lying back now, Bronson. You've lost a great deal of blood. Rest and I'll check on you in a few minutes."

Bronson saluted weakly with his good arm and said, "Whatever you say, doctor." He let out a low sigh and lay back on his cot, an expression of faint bewilderment on his face. Fadeleaf seeds tended to muddle a patient's thoughts a little, but it would pass.

Sigrun turned around to clean up her mess and saw the man with the split chin sitting in one of the med bay's only chairs. The moron was getting blood all over it.

Frowning, Sigrun gathered her belongings from their place beside Bronson's cot and approached the older man. He was as different from Bronson as night was from day. It was mostly in the way he sat. This crewmen had the upright, yet somehow relaxed, posture of a warrior. A warrior that had seen more than his fair share of bloodshed. Sigi blinked as she realized her mother sat in a similar manner. Setting her supplies on the floor and gritting her teeth, the Ysmirod said, "I suppose you're next, hm?" before withdrawing to the cabinets.

The top shelf of the largest cabinet sagged slightly beneath several heavy glass jars of sterilized needles and a dozen rolls of catgut. Grabbing one of each, Sigrun walked over to stand before the bleeding soldier and briefly examined the wound. It wasn't too bad, though she'd never enjoyed stitching injuries shut. Something about sewing skin together made her feel uncomfortable. Not queasy, of course. She was stormborn and no self-respecting stormborn ever got queasy. Placing the jar of needles and catgut by the man's weather-worn boots, Sigi hurried over to Bronson's cot to retrieve a clean washcloth, the pewter wash basin, and her waterskin. Without meeting the man's eyes, she washed the blood from her hands and dumped the water down a chrome drain set into the floor a few feet away.

As she emptied another third of her waterskin into the basin and wet another cloth, she said, "The Ring of Thunder is a nasty beast, isn't she? Let’s have a look at that chin."

Sigrun walked over to the seated fighter and used her cloth to wipe most of the blood off his chin. She'd just set down her cloth and picked up her stitching equipment when a loud, almost metallic, shrieking sound split the air. Bronson wailed in terror and Sigrun hissed at him to shut up. "Attention, all ye aboard!" Captain Conway's voice roared over the intercom, "Now's the time to earn yer keep! Anyone who's not injured or tendin' a station, I want ye all up above decks. We've been hit by lighting, and there's a fire going on the lower deck. Get up there and put it out!"

Sigrun's pale face turned a few shades paler. That sounded bad. Should she try to find a lifeboat and...? No, no, this ship was her best chance to find a worthwhile avallach. She wasn't going to let a little fire keep her from returning to Ysmir. Taking a breath and parting the man's beard so she could start stitching, she said, "So, since you won't be rushing off to stop any fires, mind if I ask you where you fought, soldier? The way you carry yourself, it's obvious you haven't led a peaceful life." And then she saw the bloody gas mask hanging from the man's belt. "And that gas mask isn't something you see every day, either," she said, a faint note of concern in her voice. Who was this strange man and what was he doing aboard the UINC's new boat?

[Chromane]

Medbay

The pale blonde woman was facing the wall as they entered the medbay, and she jumped like she'd been given an electric shock when he'd announced their presence. Armas smile ruefully in apology as she just stared at them for a split second before hurrying over to take Bronson from him. Obviously she was just a bit unnerved by the rough weather and hadn't heard them come in over the noise of the ship- probably her first time at sea as well. Armas was opening his mouth to say something when she moved to take her place at Bronson's other side and looked at him, "Well done, helgus. Now leave us. I will tend to your friend, but I want you out of my way."

He nodded, a little confused as she moved to take the weight of the injured crewman. Bronson looked at him, clearly a little nervous at being treated by the strange woman, but he shrugged minutely. The UINC attracted all sorts of people to its ranks, and if she was here someone obviously thought she was qualified to be so. "Aye ma'am" he said, taking a step back as Bronson put his considerable weight on the relatively slight woman. Armas darted forward as she seemed to buckle under the load, stopping short as she recovered and began easing her patient onto the cot. He gave Bronson an ecnouraging grin, he knew when he wasn't needed or wanted, so it was time for him to go. "Thanks" He said, turning to go, but the woman was already rummaging in the cabinets for supplies and didn't seem to hear him. A grim looking man with a rifle next to him had come in behind them and taken up one of the chairs. He was currently attempting to stop the flow of blood from his chin with an old hankerchief. Armas gave him the same rueful grin and a nod as he continued past, neatly hopping over the lip of the medbay door as he continued into the hallway.

An open hatch a short way down the passage caught his eye and he went towards it, following the set of wet footprints that seemed to belong to the grizzled soldier in the medbay. Armas stuck his head into the forward cargo hold and swore lightly at the chaos. It didn't take a genius to figure out what happened - smashed crates at the base of the ladder, wet footprints leading to the injured soldier. Armas moved into the cargo hold to inspect the damage, swaying with the motion of the ship as it bucked. The top layer of crates was smashed, and he didn't have time to fix it. Luckily there didn't seem to be anything sensitive in them, so he just tightened the securing straps to hold it all in place as best he could. That should hold it all down and they could clean up the mess when they were out of the damned storm.

Suddenly the ship shook and lurched to one side with a terrific bang and the screeching of torn metal. Armas was thrown into the stack of crates and ended up sprawled on the deck, his ears ringing from the noise. He pulled himself up just in time to hear the Captain's announcement. "Attention, all ye aboard. Now's the time to earn yer keep! Anyone who's not injured or tendin' a station, I want ye all up above decks. We've been hit by lightning, and there's a fire going on the lower deck. Get up there and put it out.".

"Fucking Plummet!" Armas swore, putting infinitely more feeling into it than before. He finished pulling himself to his feet, shaking his head to clear the residual ringing, and ran out of the cargo hold, tearing past the medbay.

---

Deck One

The sound had seemed to come from somewhere amidships, closer to the port side. Armas moved through the cramped passageways fast, hands out to brace himself against the walls as the ship continued to rock in the rough sea. He hoped it was only his imagination, but there certainly seemed to be more of a wallow to her movements than there had been before. It didn't take long to find the fire. Thick, acrid smoke snaked through the corridors, stinging his nose and throat. He could hear the roar of the flames now, over the sound of the rain and engine.

He arrived at the scene at a run, skidding to a halt on the rain slicked deckplate. He stared at the devastion for a brief second, the sight of the storm-wracked sky through the jagged whole in the ceiling both awe inspiring and terrifying. "Sweet mothers on high..." he whispered, before snapping himself back into action. He wasn't sure what had been in that room before it had been turned into a bonfire - air pumps or storage maybe? - but it was certainly burning away merrily now.

Then Conway was there, bellowing orders and coordinating the chaos into something approximating order through sheer volume, profanity and force of will. Armas grabbed a hose from the storage locker and passed it to the Captain, ducking back down the corridor to help a crewman wrestle the other end into place. Around him others were doing similar things, finding the other hose attachments and water pumps scattered around the ship. Then the pumps activated, and the hoses bucked like living things as gallons of water went roaring down the corridor. "Get the bloody bilge pumps up now!" Armas yelled over the din "We take on much more water we'll be wallowing like a three legged cow!". Two crewmen ran off to deal with that and Armas turned back towards the fire.

One of the hoses was in the hands of a young woman with short black hair, who seemed to be making a truly game effort to keep it under control, despite the difficulty. From a couple of drills, and the one unfortunate fire at the shipyards Armas knew how much of a kick the hoses packed. "Good job! Hang on!" he called out as he moved up behind her, getting a hold of the hose and settling in to lend her his height and weight as she wrestled the hose back under control. He felt himself start to grin as they wrestled with the fire, the heat and smoked pushing against him like a living thing. "Keep pouring it on!".