Belowdecks, the two arbiters prepare to attack the infiltration team before Lasrach's geurgic assault catches them off guard. The floor, walls and ceiling squeal as nails are ripped from sturdy oaken boards, shooting towards the arbiters like a flechette cannon's payload. The first arbiter is struck about the face from half a dozen angles - his scream of surprise, pain and anger is as bestial as any Deor's as he drops his sword and falls to his knees, clutching his bleeding face between the protruding nails. The second arbiter, able to throw his arm over his face in time, is protected from the attack by his alumail sleeve. Without a look for his wounded fellow judge the arbiter launches into attack at the nearest foe, the hulking Equine warrior. Two-handed longhammer thrust against the ground like a wizard's staff, Lasrach may not find himself in position to attack as the arbiter closes in, using his short sword to great effect with quick cuts and thrusts meant to keep him within the deor's guard, and shielded from the other assailant's ranged weapons. Even with five men against him the arbiter is neither looking to flee nor surrender, but will take as many down with him as possible. The first arbiter, a rictus of pain on his ruined, blood-drenched face, is still able to see through one good eye as he stands and joins the fray.
If bested, the two arbiters will have been the final obstacle in the infiltration team's path. The strongbox door looks to be of solid oak reinforced with metal bands, and features two keyholes aligned vertically a foot apart, requiring a key from the Bdelygmia's captain and first mate to be turned concurrently in order to open, or locks picked in tandem.
Inside the room, a simple cubic vault perhaps 6' to a dimension, are several plain chests bolted shut with common padlocks, as well as a small, ornately-carved lacquered box of rosewood, its lid closed with a simple button latch. A small brass key with a red ribbon is inserted into the side of the box. At the beginning of the mission, Grady had relayed to the crew the client's specifications: the box was to be retrieved and returned to the client unopened, and the reward was the remaining contents of the strongbox. In the chests are:
ʒ1,000
( ♃ ) +10
( ☉ ) +10
( ⊕ ) +10
( ♂ ) +10
[Extinguisher] schematics
[Alumen Well] schematics
5 x [Aidkit]
2 x [Ferrum Core]
3 x [Grenade]
1 x [Lighter]
On the main deck, the captain and first mate work to subdue their manic master wright before her incipient caith madness completely overtakes her, while the rest of the Aleph Null's boarding party regroups and rallies together; the heavy freighter's remaining fighters losing morale after the unexpected death of their pyurgist. Soon the ship yields, sailors throwing down weapons and begging mercy. Of the twenty-odd men who boarded the freighter's main deck eight have died, five of them due to the pyurgist's terrible flames. Others are wounded but will soon be seen to by the ship's doctor.------------------------------
"Woof!" Grady exhaled, standing to his feet and brushing himself off. He looked down at his master wright, marveling at how such a tiny slip of a girl could turn into such a whirlwind of rage and destruction so readily. He knew little about urgists and
caith madness but he'd never known any urgist to be as sensitive to its effects as his little redhead. He'd never seen Elara suffer from the violent shakes that aerugists endure, or Lasrach's body tense up as though turning to stone itself. But give Shinrei a whiff of ferrum and she lost all composure. He wondered if it was biological or mental in nature - could she be trained to control herself better, or was
caith tolerance as much a part of her as her height or eye color?
"Keep watch over her till she gets back on her feet. See to the rest of it, and I want all officers in the wardroom as soon as possible." he said to Van Williams, walking away. After a mission he always assessed successes and failures in the wardroom, using his officers' for feedback as needed. Van Williams, Rennway, Kisaki, Goldenwood and Octavius were a part of every such meeting, but he'd also expect Lasrach and Latvanen to join. Reaching into his trenchers coat Grady removed his last two ferrum cores, loading them into his pepperbox pistols - the familiar movement helped clear his head, which allowed him to remember his injury as the pain slowly reached the front of his senses. He frowned, looking down at his right arm, at the slash in his coat, at the rivulet of dried blood running down the side of his hand and little finger. Not wanting to waste an aidkit or bother Octavius for something minor, Grady began to head back to the
Aleph Null, where he could dress his wounds in his cabin. Across the boarding ramps he met up with Errol, one of Balder's men and acting in charge of the sailors left behind in reserve.
"Get your boys over there, meet up with Van Williams," he said in passing. He knew his first mate would coordinate the rest of the mission - teaming up with the infiltration team if needed, securing worthwhile cargo, getting the injured back on board and seeing to the dead, etc. Next mission Grady would stay behind and have Van Williams run it front-to-back. Errol nodded and began issuing orders with that harsh rasp of his, the result of a punched throat from before the doctor'd come on board.
"Good job with the sails, Ms. Rennway," Grady said as he found his sailing master on the deck of the ship still. He leaned his weight against the foremast with his good arm, looking up at the once-shimmery white ventus sails, seeing where they were burnt black and smoldering. "Get them taken down and stored in the hold. When we get back to Havenstad get them repaired. Give Big Chowder the estimate and he'll see you paid." The Quartermaster, Francis Chaudhry or simply "Big Chowder," was in charge of all of the ship's supplies and coin. Luckily for Grady the man was as smart as he was fat, and honest to boot.
In his cabin Grady gingerly stripped of his trenchers coat, wincing at the motion required of his arm. He shrugged the braces off his wide shoulders, leaving them dangling at his legs as he pulled his shirt over his head with a groan. His right arm was slashed laterally at the bicep, long but not especially deep. The wound was bleeding again, and he cleaned it in his sink basin, awkwardly wielding a jug of water in one hand as he poured it down his arm. After drying and wrapping a bandage around his arm, he dressed again.
Later in the wardroom Grady was seated at the table, puffing away at the same dried cigar as before, enjoying it none the better, waiting for his officers to arrive.
