Samara DeVries's Story

A lone figure mingled in the Bounty's infirmary, isolated from the bustle of the rest of the ship and completely consumed by a singular task. Several supplies lay about a long table, most of which had been used by this point in time. In front of all the used or partially used implements and ingredients sat ten small, squat glass jars- each of them currently empty and paired with a corresponding lid resting beside it.

Stirring the mixture once more, Samara- or Alvar as she was known now, carefully tipped the pot over each of the jars in turn, filling them up until only a half a centimeter of space lay between the smooth liquid and the rim of the jar. Stepping back to inspect her work, the doctor smiled and relaxed as she deemed the process finished and perfect. Now the only thing left was to let the beeswax and coconut oil mixture cool and set into a solid, then place the caps on the jars.

Setting the pot into a small wash basin in a corner of the room, Samara set about cleaning up after herself. A small amount of left over beeswax and two vials of oil were returned to their spots on her shelves. Gathering up the spoon and grater, she added the two tools into the basin with the pot, allowing them to soak before being scrubbed. Going back to the table, the woman dusted off the surface and gathered up a few beeswax shavings that had escaped her in the process of making the balm, sweeping them into a small pouch to be placed next to the remaining block of wax. Looking over the jars, she saw they seemed to be setting properly so far.

The balm was for the lips and hands of the crew, though she was sure at least one or two would protest the use of such a thing. Every doctor would come upon at least one person who would argue over treatments- whether it be because of stubbornness, skepticism, or a lack of understanding as to why it was needed or why it would help. In this circumstance, though a balm seemed a silly, unnecessary thing, Samara knew she was just being well prepared. The chill of winter was coming early it seemed, and the cold wind meant chapped lips and skin. Chapped lips and skin led to cracked lips and skin. Cracked lips and skin led to split skin that bled.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the muffled sound of voices and the not-so-distant sound of footsteps. Everyone seemed to be gathering for something, and she supposed she should attend as well, seeing as she worked on this ship too. Removing the cover-smock over her head, she felt the ship rock more than usual, prompting her to look frantically over at her table and the jars on top. Thankfully everything seemed to be stable for now, but the contents of the shelves rattled a bit.

Taking the jars, she moved them to a small ledge extending from the wall, the shelf a lipped one she had requested be put in. Now more confident that the cooling liquid wouldn't be disturbed drastically, she set about gathering up new supplies at the sound of cannon fire, cursing the weapon for making the ship rock. She hadn't expected the Bounty to reach it's prey so soon, otherwise she'd have everything ready! Quickly fetching bandaging supplies, Samara set aside the standard assortment of items she'd most likely need in the aftermath of a battle. Taking a roll of bandages and a tourniquet in case, she headed up to the main deck. Even as she arrived, she remained at the entrance, knowing she wasn't much use in a fight.

Smoke filled the air. It wafted slowly upwards in loose clouds of esoteric and half formed shapes, lingering against the ceiling, packing the room full with a dense miasma of strong tobacco. There was something strangely organic about its behavior. As if it were trying to contrive images or convey thoughts. The pungent aroma was overpowering, and it seeped into everything. So much so that you could easily tell what kind of leaf Asad preferred just by taking a whiff of his clothes. A pot of coffee was simmering away on the galley stove, its own redolence intermingling with the scent of burning tobacco. The galley was a smallish room, sequestered underneath the fo'c'sle deck. The stove was the dominating feature, its black wrought iron body was designed to incorporate as many necessary amenities in as compact a space as possible. The Bounty's past life as a pleasure ship for a nobleman had meant she was equipped more than adequately. Apparently he had been looking forward to some choice meals.

Things were much too quiet above, and so he had resigned to remain below until things got a bit louder. Or, as he would say, waiting for the party to begin. These chilly northern mornings were a bit dull, and not just because of their oft drab color schemes. The overbearing grey was just the tip of the iceberg- a very fitting metaphor, considering their environs- but more importantly it was warmer down in front of the stove. He was already shrouded in a coat, but all that did was take the edge off. He needed something stronger. In this case, something dosed with caffeine. Coffee was an enduring element in southern Gliesa, with its popularity spreading north later due to Baijat's expansion. Even with its adoption and fame among other peoples, he still saw himself as bringing a bit of real coffeehouse culture to these northern barbarians. Truthfully it was better as a traded commodity, but he always managed to scrape a little aside whenever they found some in a haul. He liked to argue bullshit sentimentality, and even though he got his way he was fairly certain the Captain knew full well he was lying through his teeth.

If anything, it only ingratiated him to Xing even more.

When it was finally finished, as he transferred the concoction into a cup, he began to mutter absentmindedly to himself. "Life, represented in a cup." He brought it to his lips, taking a sip of the steaming hot drink. Following a sigh of contentment, he continued, "Dark, bitter, concealing complexity and vigor. Requiring careful heed to dig up the truth." He took another sip, savoring the conjoined flavors of smoke and coffee. "Maybe Aron should replace Daré with a bean. Talk about a much more interesting godhead. That would really be something to explore."

He was halfway through another draught when a row from above snagged his ear. Moments later a sailor stuck his head into the galley. "Colors are hoisting, we're near to boarding," he cried. With that, the crewman turned and made swiftly for the stairs.

Asad hesitated, carefully pondering his predicament. He was not yet finished with his drink, but now they were on the verge of an attack. Brilliant. He considered taking his sweet time, as his usefulness in a fight was questionable at best. Eyeing the dark liquid sloshing gently around in its vessel, his brow steadily furrowed it looked as if he were weighing matters of grandiose importance. Releasing an exasperated sigh, he downed the rest of the coffee, ignored the scorching heat, and snatched his long gun from its resting place. He marched haltingly to the stairs, climbing up to the deck where the crew was assembled, preparing for the barney to come. Propping the rifle against his shoulder, he absentmindedly stroked the bowl of his pipe with his off hand. Adalrik, the Quartermaster, was preparing to set off the powder keg.

He had to bite his tongue to keep from reflexively remarking on the ritual. He doubted Pellar weighed events based on silly little rites like this, but he would also deny the notion that he remotely understood the gods. Perhaps there was something about these little games that the lord of fate enjoyed. Regardless of whether or not those damned dice were rolling, Adalrik landed his shot. The crack of his rifle marked a clean kill, the round punching straight through some poor sailor's head.

The funereal silence abated with an eruption of violence as the chase cannons cheered. He picked out Xandra and Layen, both anticipating the oncoming brawl. As the rest of the crew prepared for the boarding run, Asad tucked his own rifle into place and shifted his pipe over to the other side of his mouth. He peered down the barrel, leveling it toward the Wind as she came even with the Bounty. There were a myriad of dark shapes scurrying about her deck, and he held his fire. Waiting for the most opportune moment. One of them paused, and he immediately trained his sights on the figure. Just as he was about to squeeze the trigger, a mighty swell slammed into the Bounty and sent him swaying. Angrily thrusting the barrel skyward, Asad leaned over the starboard gunwale, glaring at the sloshing sea below. "Your input is most appreciated, and I do thank you, now quit it!" Finished barking at the God of the Sea, he settled his rifle again and hunted for another target. They would be boarding soon, and he was much less trusting of his aim during an intense melee. As soon as he had a shot lined up, he took it. The sailor's head jerked back, and then slumped to the deck.

“Mm,” Asad shook his head, almost mournfuly. “Lovely kill.” A figure in the corner of his eye grabbed his attention, and he glanced over his shoulder. Alvar, the doctor, was stood at the head of the stairs, watching the bloodbath unfold. Putting on a grin, he plucked his pipe from his mouth, almost in the same manner someone might doff their hat. “A fantastically grey morn to you, sawbones. Looking forward to a few mercy killings, are we?” He barked out a laugh, and freed his off hand to load another bullet into the rifle.

---

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"Captain!" Meira shouted against the sudden din of battle. "Your orders sir?"

Marston stomped down the stairs from the quarterdeck, a fierce glower on his face. He was the embodiment of composure, the stern exterior layered over a fiery rage burning in his gut. “All hands to general quarters, gather your arms! Be damned the ones who let their ship fall victim to blackguard scum!” He took deep breaths to calm his rage, which had long been a bane of his. He needed to think clearly, and fought against the bile that seeped into his veins and muddled his mind. Pirates were no longer a threat in Gliesa, but he had felt his share of their bite before the Ports kicked them from his native shores. Working back and forth between the two continents meant you were right in their firing line all over again, because the sheer size of Batheon's territory provided a refuge all in itself. Little changed in their tactics, aside from employing the oft inclement weather to their advantage.

“Keep eyes peeled on the surf, watch for any signs of fishwives in the waves!” He bellowed, sending his gaze about like a lighthouse's beam scouring the darkness. Only he was hunting for cowardice, not wayward vessels. “Spear 'em afore they come aboard!” He did not so much as flinch when the pirates' chase cannons took to barking, and it only served to make him angrier. “Cut their lines when come across, knock them into the drink! Every one that comes aboard is an insult to the Kingom! We are defending sovereign land, repel them from His Majesty's property!” He caught sight of an arrow impaling one of his men, the poor soul clutching uselessly at the shaft as he dropped to the deck.

When the two ships came even, grapples sailed over from the Bounty, finding purchase in the Wind's gunwale. The pirates surged over in force, and Marston was ready to meet them. His cutlass sung a grim note as it left its scabbard, and he rallied his crew with a vicious cry. One of the first seamen who came across met his end upon Jakobin's blade, and fell to the weather deck in a pool of his own dark ichor. For an aging man, he put up a fight with every drop of strength he had left, and was a terrible opponent. He would either see these dogs in pieces, or fall in battle. He would allow nothing in between.

Another pirate came a-swingin' at him, forcing him to take a large stride back. He waited for an opening, and promptly planted the bottom of his boot in the man's gut. With his opponent knocked off balance, Marston gave a mighty swing of his cutlass. Half his blade sunk into the pirate's neck before it came to a halt, and the attacker gave a single gurgling shout. Blood gushed out across the silvery steel, and he viciously ripped the sword back out with both hands wrapped 'round the hilt. Knowing he could not so much as pause, he immediately stepped forward into another lunge. Pirates were merciless cutthroats at best, and gods damn him if he did not meet them in kind.

Alvar lingered at the head of the stairs leading to the main deck, making sure she wasn't entirely blocking the path by keeping to one side as much as possible. Hazel eyes watched the mayhem that was part of all battles, paying special heed to her fellow crew members for anything requiring her to brave the melee in order to retrieve anyone requiring immediate attention. Thusfar, the battle seemed to be going in the Bounty's favor, and no one's current injuries were in dire need of prompt treatment.

Alvar's thoughts and careful observations were interrupted by a familiar laugh, the woman turning to see Asad with what seemed to her like an almost ever-present grin. With a sort of sophistication seen in upper class gentlemen greeting a lady, the exotic and colorful man greeted her while plucking his pipe from his lips. Alvar refrained from the conditioned response to curtsy, the effort required to hold back thankfully minimal by now. Tilting her head at the nickname, she vaguely wondered if Asad was engaging in friendly banter or trying to goad her. If she were perfectly honest, she was never entirely sure what Asad was thinking or meaning, but she didn't think he was trying to be malicious. Nodding in response, she returned her eyes to the fight as she answered in a well-practiced male tenor.

"And morning to you as well Asad. I think the mercy killing business should be left to you. I am simply clean up."

Alvar noticed Asad reloading his weapon from out of the corner of her eye, still keeping the better part of her attention on the fight going on between the members of the two ships. She fidgeted slightly where she stood, her inability to see everything- namely how the crew mates who boarded the Tarn ship were faring. There was only so far she could clearly see and determine what was going on, and every time someone was obscured by a mast, ledge, or even other fighters, she tensed slightly, waiting for the crew of the Bounty to reappear within her line of sight.

Two simultaneous shots rang out from the deck of the enemy ship, and Alvar strained to try and see who was involved. A moment passed before she heard the tell-tale signal of Adalrik's whistle, the sound of victory. Either the enemy captain had surrendered or been incapacitated.

Letting out a sigh, Samara left her position at the top of the steps and swiftly began to move about the deck. "Alright, alright, fight's over. Anyone with injuries come see me before celebrating." she said, slipping naturally into her new voice...the voice of Alvar.