Meanwhile, on The Courtesan...
The Courtesan sailed nearly straight into screeching winds. The distant fire was to the east, and in that same direction, a hailstorm was beginning to assert itself. In the ten to fifteen minutes that
The Courtesan took to close in, the hailstorm picked up intensity to the point where visibility dropped to mere meters. However, the flame not only lasted, but boosted in its presence with a nearby torch-holding figure. That was, until the rescue ship came closer. Where they could finally shout to the shore, the campfire went out.
“This is beyond ridiculous. You better turn this damn ship around, captain.” Dumhuvud went to where Atgeir stood and jabbed a finger into his chest. “Now!”
“Your lack of faith is seriously disturbing.” Orakh raced up from behind and dragged Dumhuvud away. “Are you going to let that person die?” The Orc referred to the torch, who stood firm despite harsh winds.
“Hello? Who's out there?” Without pausing, Orakh leaned over to shout at the shore. “We're here to help; can you guide us in?” His words apparently found results, though what came from land was immediately muffled by a powerful gust.
Briefly consulting with ship officers (and ignoring the Cat-Kicker), Orakh decided to inch forward and land using ramps from as far away as possible. The task was difficult without a doubt, but the experienced crew succeeded in avoiding hazards and navigating through hostile climate. Orakh attempted communicating again. This time, the torch went out as well. As the ramps were finally ready to extend, the only thing to do was go down it.
Orakh went first, stretching his arms out for balance as he hobbled across wooden boards. He had traded his breastplate for a thick shirt and vest. His prized Orcish axe hung from his hips, because Malacath knew what danger waited beyond the storm. Dumhuvud followed after, who also had the common sense of removing metal helmet and chest piece. Trius, however, was in no shape for action following a severe fish allergy attack.
“You need a fire; get off the beach!” One man's voice came from inland. The figure hesitantly drew forward, revealing priest robes and dark, elven outlines. Combined with the his accent, this person was a Dunmer.
“What? Why?” Orakh puzzled, his pondering lasted a grand total of one second.
“Orc, behind you!”
A slithering stream of ice darted out of nowhere, ramming straight into Orakh's backside and knocking him flat. Wind howl masked the sound to others, but Orakh could hear a rib or two cracking. If he had the cuirass, the impact wouldn't have done much. But with just shirt and vest, there was no telling how much internal damage was done. Still, an old Orc was still an Orc. His berserker fury ignited with the impact, dulling the pain in his midsection and granting him unseen speed to roll away from ice fangs. Orakh leaped to his feet, gloved hands reached for his axe. Too late, the ice wraith charged again.
It stopped. Dumhuvud had rushed in as fast as he could. Without time even for his own weapon, the Cat-Kicker simply resorted to a vice-grip on the creature's tail. This gave Orakh time to strike at the ice wraith's neck. His axehead smashed aside pieces of ice, yet the strike was hasty and improperly aligned; the wraith head did not fall off. The impact did, however, jolt open Dumhuvud's grip. Now free, the ice-serpent bit into Orakh. Who narrowly intercepted with his gauntlet-protected arm. Orakh's right arm wedged itself inside the jaw, wrist frozen against the palate. His axe was inside as well, buried blade-up. His left arm joined in, pressing the wraith's lower jaw downward in order to prevent an arm-breaking crunch. He held for a few seconds, and as he was losing the struggle, Dumhuvud took out his own axe and split their enemy in two.
“Malacath-” Orakh's attempt at swearing was cut short by the Dunmer priest.
“Watch out, from both sides!” Was the warning. “Quickly, fire, they fear it!”
Three ice wraiths crept in from one side, while another pair entered form the opposite. It was the same time when several others had disembarked or in the process to. Hail now roared at a furious intensity. Vision was limited to an arm's reach and little more. From what Orakh and Dumhuvud could see, the monsters did not attack right away, as if they were coordinating and taunting the same time.
“Form up a perimeter!” Dumhuvud ordered the mercenaries. He stood back to back with Orakh, both with an axe in hand. Well, Orakh actually held with his weak hand, as hardly any motion came from a strong hand frozen stiff. “And one of you wankers better bring me a torch!”
“Here we go.” Orakh warned. As the mercenaries took up position, the ice wraiths initiated their attack. Five wraiths, five people, no one would get hurt if everyone did their share.
“Lucky Ashav values your life so much.” Dumhuvud remarked. “I would've fed you to these things.”
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