Morus
03-09-12, 09:18 PM
Closed to Kerrigan_Muldoon. Directly after Auspices of Perdition
Orange tendrils crept across the sky where Jove and Neptune met, eternally embraced in brotherly affection. The tiny galley was surrounded on all sides by the ocean; a still and merciless blue canvas disturbed only by the deft and steady strokes of twenty oars in total. Not a hint of wind had touched the small, ragged silk sail nor cooled the sweating brows of the rowers for three days. The rats aboard the ship had flourished for a time after the captain's cat had died and three men had taken ill, racked by joint pain and violent bowels; skilled merchants, but their absence went unnoticed beneath deck, where sailors powered the sluggish trip. And mid-ship, in either cargohold or sleeping quarter, the rank and sickly sweet smell of decay wafted through the creaking, splintered boards, and rose in the humid air. Yet despite all its faults, Morus could think of no place he would rather be. The Helion, bathed in the dimming light, had felt like home to him.
**
The boy had been a heaving wreak the morning he stumbled upon a lone rowboat tied to a crooked tree near the river. His face, arms, and legs were covered in long scratches from his dash through the brush, and he could scarcely move another step. For hours he followed the twists and coutures of the bank, concealing himself as best he could amidst the creeping wood. But voices continued to harrow him; the whining shrieks of a beggar militia and the low, thundering howl of half-starved hounds. The urchin had found himself on the run from a crazed town that had collectively declared him persona non grata, after a drunken and shamefully violent confrontation with a thief; and if the crowds were any tell, a resident saint. Morus dove in underneath the black cloth coverings of the boat, clutching the cargo of dried venison sealed tightly in a barrel, and ruffling amongst a makeshift bed of furs and pelts. The slow drum of time beat with his heart as he calmed himself, listening intently for the barks and commands he knew inevitable to come. If he was to die, he'd die comfortably and light-headed on hashish.
But as the orphan reached a weary hand into his satchel, attempting to find the pilfered pipe and hashish, he heard the hurried whispers of men. The boat rocked suddenly, churning the boy's stomach as it was cast off from its moorings and let loose down the roaring river, with at least two heavy men entering once it was afloat. Morus was stiff as a board, staying silent and still until they arrived at the Helion. As they pulled up the rigging and locked the landing craft firmly in place, no sailor went for the provisions taken at shore. All the murmurs he could make out were of the sizable and dirty host that prowled the woods that morning, and the narrow escape from whatever they intended. When all non-essential hands had gone to bed, the boy made his move.
The ship had been dead, with one man paroling from bow to stern. The boy's bare feet made nary sound as he scampered from the raft in search of some sustenance, but the shrill call of a whistle brought his nocturnal escapade to a halt. Surrounded be a dozen half-slumpering sailors, it took hours of negotiation to persuade them against throwing the stowaway overboard. Thirty gold it cost, his measly collection tragically beautiful, rutilant in gleam as he emptied his pockets by moonlight. And still not enough to pay his passage without signing a contract to indenture him to the ship until it reached port. Yet he soon proved invaluable.
Missing a cat, Gatter, the vessel's captain, put the boy to work in the small cargo holds, quarters, and galley, hunting the elusively destructive rats. He took to the work quickly, baiting homemade traps and ambush points with scraps from the dinner table, a grimly playful smile on his lips whenever he'd use his stolen dagger to slit the vermin's throats cleanly; years on the estate had taught him the value of swift pest control. The crew kept track of his kills, and soon took to calling him “Ratcatcher,” out of affection; the ship's cook even offered to roast his trophies on a spit, but Morus thankfully declined. In truth, he had never eaten meat in his life, delighting Gatter even further. The urchin only ate the ship's provisions of dried fruit and stale cake, picking at them sparingly whenever the galley was empty.
When a rough patch at sea had kicked the winds into a frenzy, sends swells and towering waves to batter the boat but three days into the trip, Morus had climbed the lone and fragile mast first to cut a snagged line, allowing the other men to reel in the reeling mess of silk in time to save it, and moments latter took an oar to help steady the ship. Though terrified during the former, and exhausted by the latter, the crew had to drag him to his hammock by the time the storm had died down, too stubborn for his own health. In sleep, or when sharing his pipe with the heavy-eyed sailors who grew into friends, glimpses of the dreaming called out to him, allowing him a devious string of luck when playing dice with the men, or a single poignant, if awkwardly phrased, thought that cheered the spirit of a man whose wife died in labor before the crew had set out for Scara Brae.
**
But the sea had calmed to a doldrum, leaving Morus and the rest of the crew to crawl around Corone's coast, inching forward towards Akishima's Yanbo harbor. As the boy sat sternly at stern, keeping the rudder steady, a man with spun gold for hair approached him. Yovi, the ship's navigator, who had lost nearly a month's wage on a few unfortunate dice rolls against him, greeted him warmly with a pat on the shoulder, before leaning on the splinted side-railing that encompassed the ship.
“It's smart they avoid the waters outside Radasanth and avoid the Bradburry's basin. Wars make men desperate. And desperate men at sea are dangerous.” The sailor always had a foolish smile on his face, and small smug eyes that looked down on you wherever you stood. But his conversation seemed pleasant enough. “Ever been to Corone?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“It's a pity,” he said, almost sneering, as he pointed to a distant twinkling light on dawn's horizon. Though no match for the sun at the moment, the boy could tell come nightfall it would shine like a fallen star.
“I understood Yanbo to be small harbor.” Morus seemed intrigued at the prospect of Akishima and her foreign sights and sounds.
“Don't be daft,” laughed the sailor, punching the lad playfully on the shoulder, feigning a smile back. “Akishima's still hours away, it'd take us till morning to arrive.”
“Than what is it?”
The sailor came to within an inch of Morus' face, the smell of gin ripe on his breath, grinning between blushed cheeks. His bright green eyes seemed wild against his fair complexion. “It's the Seaking's Court, Ratcatcher. A grand carnival that travels the sea, stopping only to delight noble and commoner alike, so long as they have means to sail to it, of course.” He turned wickedly in it's direction before continuing. “They say a man can find anything there, from work to a working woman, if you catch my drift.” Morus didn't. “It's a massive patchwork of lines between pleasure barges, cargo transports, slave galleys, military transports, and platforms constructed by Lezder, the Seaking himself. I hope you can handle a climb on rope ladders, or holding steady to the sway of a thin woven bridge.”
The boy had no answer for him, only a fascinated stare off into the distance; gazing as the twilight sprang forth from a dying sun, at the lone piece of heaven crashed into the waves.
“Come find me before we disembark,” said Yovi, in between soft chuckles.
Orange tendrils crept across the sky where Jove and Neptune met, eternally embraced in brotherly affection. The tiny galley was surrounded on all sides by the ocean; a still and merciless blue canvas disturbed only by the deft and steady strokes of twenty oars in total. Not a hint of wind had touched the small, ragged silk sail nor cooled the sweating brows of the rowers for three days. The rats aboard the ship had flourished for a time after the captain's cat had died and three men had taken ill, racked by joint pain and violent bowels; skilled merchants, but their absence went unnoticed beneath deck, where sailors powered the sluggish trip. And mid-ship, in either cargohold or sleeping quarter, the rank and sickly sweet smell of decay wafted through the creaking, splintered boards, and rose in the humid air. Yet despite all its faults, Morus could think of no place he would rather be. The Helion, bathed in the dimming light, had felt like home to him.
**
The boy had been a heaving wreak the morning he stumbled upon a lone rowboat tied to a crooked tree near the river. His face, arms, and legs were covered in long scratches from his dash through the brush, and he could scarcely move another step. For hours he followed the twists and coutures of the bank, concealing himself as best he could amidst the creeping wood. But voices continued to harrow him; the whining shrieks of a beggar militia and the low, thundering howl of half-starved hounds. The urchin had found himself on the run from a crazed town that had collectively declared him persona non grata, after a drunken and shamefully violent confrontation with a thief; and if the crowds were any tell, a resident saint. Morus dove in underneath the black cloth coverings of the boat, clutching the cargo of dried venison sealed tightly in a barrel, and ruffling amongst a makeshift bed of furs and pelts. The slow drum of time beat with his heart as he calmed himself, listening intently for the barks and commands he knew inevitable to come. If he was to die, he'd die comfortably and light-headed on hashish.
But as the orphan reached a weary hand into his satchel, attempting to find the pilfered pipe and hashish, he heard the hurried whispers of men. The boat rocked suddenly, churning the boy's stomach as it was cast off from its moorings and let loose down the roaring river, with at least two heavy men entering once it was afloat. Morus was stiff as a board, staying silent and still until they arrived at the Helion. As they pulled up the rigging and locked the landing craft firmly in place, no sailor went for the provisions taken at shore. All the murmurs he could make out were of the sizable and dirty host that prowled the woods that morning, and the narrow escape from whatever they intended. When all non-essential hands had gone to bed, the boy made his move.
The ship had been dead, with one man paroling from bow to stern. The boy's bare feet made nary sound as he scampered from the raft in search of some sustenance, but the shrill call of a whistle brought his nocturnal escapade to a halt. Surrounded be a dozen half-slumpering sailors, it took hours of negotiation to persuade them against throwing the stowaway overboard. Thirty gold it cost, his measly collection tragically beautiful, rutilant in gleam as he emptied his pockets by moonlight. And still not enough to pay his passage without signing a contract to indenture him to the ship until it reached port. Yet he soon proved invaluable.
Missing a cat, Gatter, the vessel's captain, put the boy to work in the small cargo holds, quarters, and galley, hunting the elusively destructive rats. He took to the work quickly, baiting homemade traps and ambush points with scraps from the dinner table, a grimly playful smile on his lips whenever he'd use his stolen dagger to slit the vermin's throats cleanly; years on the estate had taught him the value of swift pest control. The crew kept track of his kills, and soon took to calling him “Ratcatcher,” out of affection; the ship's cook even offered to roast his trophies on a spit, but Morus thankfully declined. In truth, he had never eaten meat in his life, delighting Gatter even further. The urchin only ate the ship's provisions of dried fruit and stale cake, picking at them sparingly whenever the galley was empty.
When a rough patch at sea had kicked the winds into a frenzy, sends swells and towering waves to batter the boat but three days into the trip, Morus had climbed the lone and fragile mast first to cut a snagged line, allowing the other men to reel in the reeling mess of silk in time to save it, and moments latter took an oar to help steady the ship. Though terrified during the former, and exhausted by the latter, the crew had to drag him to his hammock by the time the storm had died down, too stubborn for his own health. In sleep, or when sharing his pipe with the heavy-eyed sailors who grew into friends, glimpses of the dreaming called out to him, allowing him a devious string of luck when playing dice with the men, or a single poignant, if awkwardly phrased, thought that cheered the spirit of a man whose wife died in labor before the crew had set out for Scara Brae.
**
But the sea had calmed to a doldrum, leaving Morus and the rest of the crew to crawl around Corone's coast, inching forward towards Akishima's Yanbo harbor. As the boy sat sternly at stern, keeping the rudder steady, a man with spun gold for hair approached him. Yovi, the ship's navigator, who had lost nearly a month's wage on a few unfortunate dice rolls against him, greeted him warmly with a pat on the shoulder, before leaning on the splinted side-railing that encompassed the ship.
“It's smart they avoid the waters outside Radasanth and avoid the Bradburry's basin. Wars make men desperate. And desperate men at sea are dangerous.” The sailor always had a foolish smile on his face, and small smug eyes that looked down on you wherever you stood. But his conversation seemed pleasant enough. “Ever been to Corone?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“It's a pity,” he said, almost sneering, as he pointed to a distant twinkling light on dawn's horizon. Though no match for the sun at the moment, the boy could tell come nightfall it would shine like a fallen star.
“I understood Yanbo to be small harbor.” Morus seemed intrigued at the prospect of Akishima and her foreign sights and sounds.
“Don't be daft,” laughed the sailor, punching the lad playfully on the shoulder, feigning a smile back. “Akishima's still hours away, it'd take us till morning to arrive.”
“Than what is it?”
The sailor came to within an inch of Morus' face, the smell of gin ripe on his breath, grinning between blushed cheeks. His bright green eyes seemed wild against his fair complexion. “It's the Seaking's Court, Ratcatcher. A grand carnival that travels the sea, stopping only to delight noble and commoner alike, so long as they have means to sail to it, of course.” He turned wickedly in it's direction before continuing. “They say a man can find anything there, from work to a working woman, if you catch my drift.” Morus didn't. “It's a massive patchwork of lines between pleasure barges, cargo transports, slave galleys, military transports, and platforms constructed by Lezder, the Seaking himself. I hope you can handle a climb on rope ladders, or holding steady to the sway of a thin woven bridge.”
The boy had no answer for him, only a fascinated stare off into the distance; gazing as the twilight sprang forth from a dying sun, at the lone piece of heaven crashed into the waves.
“Come find me before we disembark,” said Yovi, in between soft chuckles.