Snippet #2630671

"Well that's my cue, isn't it?" Adalrik asked to no one in particular and handed Xing his book. Patting the Captain on the shoulder as he descended the stairs to the main deck, their quarry zeroed in Baltasar's vision. Without even looking - his eyes never leaving the closing ship - he picked up his marksman's rifle off its perch against the railing as he walked by. Almost as if choreographed. Clearly this was a scene that had been repeated often. A ballet of ships, a scene of drama for the pleasure of whatever god cared to witness.

The crew was silent as he passed, all eyes were on him. The anticipation in the air was palpable. This was a ritual for the crew of the Winter's Bounty, and the attention of every member aboard was squarely upon him, rapt. His coming actions would dictate if Pellar was destined to bless or curse them on this mist strewn morning. Some considered it the fancy of superstitious sailors, but in a world where the divine were very much a reality it was not wise to tempt fate. Regardless of the reasons why, these "talks" as their esteemed captain - ha! - put it would not commence until Adalrik completed his task.

Walking up to the port side gunwale, Baltasar tucked the butt of his rifle into his shoulder and caressed it like a man caresses his lover. His daft hands nimbly coaxing this exquisite instrument of death to life with practiced ease. From his perch Adalrik gazed upon his prey, already picking the tell tale signs betraying a vessel of Tarnish origins despite the fog. A moment later, a moment closer, and he could make out figures on the deck scurrying about, going about their assigned tasks. One unlucky individual was soon to die, but fate rarely took just one in these displays, so if there was any small comfort for the person who was about to part from this world, it was the fact they would be joined by many of their fellows soon enough.

Baltasar tended to assign each kill as a mark. Each kill was another mark, a white line he scribbled on a mental chalkboard. Every engagement the list was renewed, and as they drew to a close the chalkboard was wiped bare again. No mere notch on the belt, this was how Adalrik mentally traversed the field of battle. Counting the seconds until the next mark. "Are you ready, boys?" he absentmindedly asked the crew of the Chase Cannons that knelt ready around him, not for a moment peeling his gaze away from the distant ship. With grunt of acknowledgment by the crew chief, Ad raised his rifle and took aim. Then began counting.

Two likely targets immediately took shape, and Adalrik casually shifted his aim between them, deciding who would be the first to die. Would it be the one huddled closest to port, likely fixing something or another? No. The gunwale meant he didn't have a clear shot. Could he make it? Probably, but why take chances? That left the one leaning against the railing peering out into the fog. Eyes focusing, Baltasar watched the world fade way until the man under his sights was the only thing he saw. Details sprang to life out of the nether and Adalrik began to study the man with expert precision. He appeared in this thirties, and clear stress lines marked his features. On closer inspection Baltasar realized it was an elf. Elf on a Tarnish ship. No wonder he was stressed. In a way, killing him would be a mercy.

Adalrik briefly wondered if some part of him felt sorry for the man, and after a few brief moments of reflection decided that was irrelevant, and promptly allowed the question to slip from his thoughts. Aiming for the elf's head, Adalrik took a deep breath, exhaled, then fired.

Mark.

After the last echoes of his rifle's bark faded into silence, Baltasar casually lifted his arm into the air with his hand in a fist.

Then the Guns opened up.