Loose Cannon (closed)

[Green is the new black.]

All bunnies approved.

Orun was sitting lazily on a large, smooth grey boulder, gazing out at the sea. The sky was clear, but he could feel a certain energy in the air that he had come to recognize as a coming storm during his days in the Salvic mountains. The salty breeze met his face and was not entirely unpleasant. Indeed, it was completely foreign to the rugged, uncivilized lands of northern Salvar... like apples and whatever that other fruit that those pale, skinny scholars babbled about. The way the half-Orc looked at it, though, it was just another wilderness to be explored and mastered.

Besides, it wasn’t as though he had anything better to do.

He stretched out his green, muscular back and yawned as he continued to look upon the waxing and waning hills of green and blue. The great Green Gods only knew what perils hid beneath them. Or on top of them, whichever the case may be. It seemed harmless at that moment, though. Gulls flew overhead, swooping down from the untarnished sky and scrapping over the tiny fish that dared show their faces to the sun. Greedy creatures, he thought, much like humans. His partner was still inside the Corone naval post, haggling wages with one such man: their new employer

It seemed that barely after he and his half-Mer compatriot had gotten their feet on solid ground again after leaving Salvar seeking adventure, or in his case, a surcease of boredom, the fickle sea had called them back to it. Apparently, the humans here needed some hired muscle and sharpened iron to help protect some of their cargo shipments. All they had bothered explaining to him before he’d lost his patience was that there would probably be some fighting involved. In other words “Orc, smash, kill.” He let out a cynical sigh. Such explanations were all that anyone thought the green-skin to be capable of digesting. He was prepared to accept that he would probably never learn anything more about their mission. He could swallow his pride and play the role of “big dumb green thing that kills stuff” if the price was right. It was still a little... disheartening at times, though he would never admit it.

Orun’s odd reverie was interrupted by the dextrous, yet amusingly confident footsteps of his partner. The half-Orc turned to face the half-Mer, Siren. Again, he was reminded of why the sailors always seemed to pay her particular attention. Even he had to admit that she was attractive, even if she did have some human blood in her. Of course, he didn’t exactly have any grounds to speak there. He quirked an eyebrow at his cheerful companion.

“Well?” he said simply, expecting a brief statement regarding their pay.

[Siren]

"Shake a leg, mate," was Siren's response to her companion as he asked about their pay. "We've got a fleet to catch."

Letting him catch up, she started explaining. "Right, so there's a little convoy of cargo ships that's gone missing near a little archipelago. It's kinda stormy this time of year, and they say that's what pushed them off course. Now, the interesting part of this is -- oh, hang on a moment."

Flicking her dark, multi-colored locks over her shoulder, Siren traipsed up to a fruit vendor's stand, leaning over on the counter while considering which variety she wanted. After a moment, she returned with a small bag of oranges and less a gold coin, and she held an extra orange in her hand.

Grinning, she cut that orange in half with her knife and handed half to Orun. "I love these things. Wonderful, sweet, a little tangy, and if you eat 'em regularly, you don't get sick at sea. Limes work better, but those are a little too tart for my tastes."

She bit into her half of the orange and smiled. "Mmm...I haven't had one this good in a long time. Anyway, what were we talking about?"

Wiping the juice off of her mouth with her sleeve, she thought back. "Oh, right. So, the interesting part is that the cargo holds of those ships are full of cannon. Now, from my experience, you don't send inexperienced sailors out to Alerar to get a particularly valuable cargo. You send some of the saltiest sea-dogs you can find. Also, why disappear around an archipelago? Sure, if they were sailing in a typhoon, I could see anchoring at land and hoping for the best, but I haven't heard of any recent typhoons. And trust me, I hear about typhoons. They addle the fish and make for great hunting.

"So, since a typhoon isn't the reason, and I doubt that that the archipelago is exactly on course...well, from my experience, that tells me that the Corone government thinks they were herded to the archipelago. Since we're meeting a small armada of war frigates -- FRIGATES, Orun. Frigates are damn big things. And not ships you particularly want to tangle with unless you are much faster, much more nimble, and have a weapon on you that can keep the distance. That tells us that the Corone government thinks it's a hostile force."

Finishing off her half of the orange as they reached the docks, Siren tossed the peel into the water and wiped her hands on her pants.

"That's what the guy at the employment stand thought, too. They're sending the military and mercs after this missing convoy, instead of more merchant ships. Whether the persons behind the supposed attack are pirates, Aleraen, or Aleraen pirates, I can't say. We'll have to find out. Anyway...we're looking for the Acheron and it's captain, goes by Rafnar Aleemos."

The half-mer put her hands behind her head and sighed. She really couldn't wait to be back at sea. And the pay would be good -- a thousand a piece for getting back the cannons, and an extra five hundred a piece to find out whodunit and bring 'em in. That might be enough to buy them a little ship.

If I decide to continue playing straight.

[Green is the new black.]

Orun slid off the rock and landed briskly on his feet. Stretching his lean, green (and mean, too, he supposed) body again for a second, he walked off after Siren. He watched, amused, as his energetic partner bounced about. It was really the only way that he could describe it; her speach, her actions, and just about everything else about her just sort of bounced everywhere, all the time. From talking about business to food, business, to random tangents about anything, really. Strangely, he found it more entertaining than annoying. Perhaps it was because she actually talked to him as something of an equal, in a manner that suggested that she knew he could understand what she was talking about. He liked that because, well, he COULD understand what she was talking about.

The half-Orc gladly accepted the orange half. Ah yes, 'apples and oranges.'Of course, oranges were definitely not native to Salvar. He sucked on the fruit idly as she spoke, knowing that it would be well-nigh futilte to get a word in until she was done. Instead of trying, he just walked beside her quietly and listend. That may have been one of the reasons that Siren enjoyed his company; he didn’t particularly like to speak unless he had something important, or at least mean, to say. This gave the sea-loving half-Mer plenty of rambling time.

And he let her have the time. Certainly, she could have simply said “Orc, we go on boat and watch for bad guys and smash them.” The slender half-blood didn’t though, and Orun appreciated that, though he never voiced that sentiment. When she finally finished, he nodded and paused for a moment, just to make sure that she wouldn’t start up again.

“All right,” he said, simply, before eating the drained orange, peel and all. The gears in the half-Orc’s mind were already moving, working to wrap the belts and chains around the situation. Some crazy types in Alerar, whether they were under the orders of their rulers or not, were off stealing cargo for whatever reasons. The leaders in Corone probably didn’t want to acknowledge it officially for political reasons of some sort or another. As he processed all of this, nobody else would have been able to tell that he was thinking of anything other than beer and smashing things. Believing that someone with Orc blood was capable of such higher thought was dangerous for many, it seemed. He just grunted.

“Let’s go find this ship and its captain, then.” Orun turned to face his associate as they stode onto the wooden docks, passing one of the larger frigates. “The sooner we head off, the sooner we get paid. We just need to look for that Rafnar Aleemos that the man at the post mentioned.” The half-Orc stopped short upon hearing a pair of steady, calculated steps to his left.

“I thought I heard my name.” The voice came from a broad shouldered man with blonde hair and grey eyes. He was tall, just about as tall as Orun was. His garb was the standard dress of a Corone naval officer. The half-Orc turned to face him. “Are you two the hired help that I’ve been told to expect?”

[Siren]

Siren turned to look at the man who had addressed them, the Commodore of the little grouping of war frigates, Rafnar Aleemos. He was fairly tall and broad shouldered, with that distinctive air that made admirals and nobility like him and give him authority, and an bold manner that inspired loyalty in others. His sun-beaten face and calloused hands spoke to the wench of an experienced sailor, a man that had worked his way up the chain of command. Siren respected that...but hell if she'd show it.

Instead, a wry grin flitted across the beautiful half-mer's face as she regarded the not unattractive human before her, and she smacked her half-orc companion on the arm as she started walking languidly toward the Aleemos.

"Hear that, Orun? They're expecting us. Us and about ten others, I'd say? Lots of money for the government to shell out...but not really so many mercs, is it? Don't expect most of us to return alive, right?"

She circled the man closely, looking him up and down and brushing against him at times. She could see him recoiling, and searching for indignant words at her audacity, but as he opened his mouth to utter them, she put a finger on his lips with a flirtatious grin. Looking into her impossibly violet blue eyes, he hushed -- but grudgingly.

Siren stepped back a few feet, then flicked a few locks of the deepest green and blue over her shoulder before leaning on her spear. "We're hired help, and we'll help as hired, and as well as we're hired to help. Point us toward one of your floating monstrosities and find us something to do...because otherwise, he'll just sit around until there's violence to be dealt, and I'll be doing my best to get into trouble."

She could see the irritation rise in the sailor's posture, but to his credit, his voice remained level when he spoke.

"Board the Acheron, docked central. Stay out from underfoot until we're underway, and then you'll help keep things lashed down. It's stormy this time of year, and the crosswinds aren't pleasant."

With a grin, Siren started walking past the man and toward the ship. "I'm a steady hand at sea, no worries."

Her hair shone multi-colored in the sunlight, and she led herself and her partner onto the massive ship, looking it over with a critical eye before shrugging. "It'll float," she told her partner. To be honest, it was well maintained, meaning that the other ships likely were, as well.

That, while reassuring her that they weren't likely to capsize, told her that the Corone government was taking the issue of the missing ships seriously. Meaning they had some evidence, or strong rumor, that it wasn't a storm that had caused the missing ships...but threat of violence.

Siren wasn't opposed to violence, not in the least...but against Alerar, it was taking one's life into one's hands. Alerar had cannon...and Corone lacked it. Barring some freak leviathan coming to help out...this promised to be a dangerous venture.

[Green is the new black.]

Orun stood quietly as Siren talked to the Coronian officer. He shook his head slightly and gave a silent sigh. On one hand, he liked allowing his partner to do the talking because most people wouldn’t take a half-Orc seriously -- not that Orun particularly enjoyed interacting with others anyway. On the other hand, did she have to flirt with every attractive man that she laid eyes upon?

The green-skin had to admit that the Rafnar had a distinctly strong aura of command, especially for a human. He made the half-Orc think of an alpha male from one of the many wolf packs in the wilds of Salvar; he was in charge because he was better than anyone else who would want his position, and he knew it and would probably not be afraid to smack down anyone who didn’t know. The Captain carried himself in a composed demeanor in the face Siren’s not-so-subtle advances. Orun wasn’t sure if even he could have managed it, not that he had ever really needed to test that.

The one thing that irritated Orun more than his partner’s flirtatiousness was her overt lack of respect for authority. The lower members of the Salvic Orc clans always respected their chiefs unless they were prepared to challenge them for dominance. On the other hand, the officer was not their chief; he was an employer and, as such, would likely have to earn his respect. He came off as the type that could, and would, do so.

Finally, he thought as the Captain gave them instructions and pointed them in the direction of the Acheron. It was the largest and most imposing of the five military vessels in the harbor. Orun had never claimed to be particularly knowledgeable regarding boats and the sea, but even he could tell that it was deadly. Its construction was as sturdy as any fort and large ballistae were mounted on the deck. Evidence of painstaking and thorough repairs were visible, meaning that the craft, and its crew in all likelihood, had seen plenty of service in combat.

“Tell me... how often are giant crossbows used to fight off storms?” he asked his partner as they approached the looming weapon of war. He turned to face Siren, giving her a toothy smirk and a low chuckle. The pair strolled up the ramp onto the deck of the ship. Tanned, scarred sailors scurried back and forth, swabbing the wooden deck and making other last-minute preparations. “Although I’m sure we’d have the typhoon outnumbered.”

From the other side of the craft, Orun caught sight of a stern, grey-haired man standing with a younger, red-headed girl. The girl ran off as soon as she spotted them, vanishing below the deck. The older man remained, however, eyeing the two newcomers with calculated interest. Orun shot him a brief glance. He was older than the other sailors by at least ten years. His smoky grey hair was pulled back in a ponytail and his face was so heavily scarred that it looked as though it’d been chiseled out of stone. He wore an officer’s uniform that was less ornate than Rafnar’s had been, but he held himself with equal confidence. The scabbard on his waist was no less battered than the man was, though Orun had little doubt that the saber within it had been very well cared for.

[Siren]

Siren boarded the vessel jauntily, looking around to see which of the sailors might be fun. She didn't really care if they were interesting people or not at this juncture, since she wasn't planning on being aboard the Acheron for more than just a few days. But men, mugs, and music sounded like just the right sort of plan for a boisterous wench such as herself. It was just a pity they seemed like military men first and sailors second. What sort of a Navy was Corone building by putting those sorts on their ships, she didn't know. She was a sailor first and a pirate second.

Orun made some witty comment regarding the ballistae, but the buxom woman with multi-hued hair had been distracted.

"No, Orun, you don't outnumber a typhoon. You hunker down hard, kiss your ass goodbye, and pray you make it through. Now, I thought I saw a sailor with a cute --"

And then her head turned as the red-head's skirt fluttered out of sight, and she quieted down, seeing the first mate glaring at the two suspicious arrivals on his ship. Somehow, instinctively, Siren knew that this ship, the Acheron belonged to this old sailor more than it belonged to Aleemos, more than it had belonged to any of the men who had been granted the privilege of captaining her. It was to this man that they would have to prove themselves before being accepted by the ship and allowed to walk her with comfort.

"That man, Orun. Aleemos might be in charge of this vessel, but that man has probably been aboard this ship from the start...seen his comrades die on it, bled into its wood and been sheltered by its walls from all manner of ill. Men like that don't have families...they marry the sea, and in return are bound to their ships. They're rare men, Orun. Very rare men...entranced enough by the sea that they could all-but join a pod and be a Mer."

She spoke in hushed, reverent tones, looking as though she were a devotee of some religion looking at an extremely holy man. It was almost a religious experience for her. She'd come to think that such men were a myth, a legend, a tale made up by sailors that wanted to spin an intense story at the expense of something so very sacred. Such a man was even rarer than one of her kind -- one of her kind was born every decade or so, maybe, and were so little likely to be discovered that they hadn't even made it into myth.

"Let's go introduce ourselves...and get his permission to come aboard, lest the ship reject us." A bond that strong between man and ship was an eerily powerful feeling to those well enough attuned to little maritime nuances. This ship was not just the vessel on which he worked. It was his home, his friend, his sister, his lover...his world.

Stepping lightly, Siren made her way over to where the man stood, stopping a respectable distance away. They looked at each other for a moment, straight on, sizing each other up and recognizing who and what the other was without so much as a word.

"Permission to come aboard?"

[Green is the new black.]

Orun raised a curious eyebrow at his partner’s veneration of the old seadog. It seemed odd that she would pay the old fossil such attention, especially with the presence of a fair number of attractive male sailors for her to ogle at. Yet, here she was practically referring to him as a deity. For Siren to come even remotely close to worshiping a man was so profoundly uncommon that it was laughable.

Then Orun understood the connection. He thought of the aging members of the warrior classes from the Salvic Orc clans. Even those who were too old and frail to fight were looked upon with great respect for their wisdom was great. They had followed a life of constant war and lived to tell the tale into their elder years. Few Orcs could achieve such a feat of stubborn perseverance.

But why the bother of asking permission to board, Orun wondered? Guests in Orcish lands didn’t ask the elder veterans for permission to enter; they asked the chieftain himself. Granted, by the time that anyone got in far enough to actually seek such permission, they were already trespassing: an offense punishable by a moderate full-body flaying. Needless to say, the Orc clans didn’t get many outside visitors.

Besides, they were already on the ship. Surely asking permission to come aboard at that moment was a little pointless. Still, there was nothing to be gained by voicing these thoughts to the fiery Siren. It was probably some foolish superstition anyway. On the other hand, getting on the good side of such an experienced seaman would probably make their job much easier and less hazardous. And the bottom line was, he realized as he silently followed the half-Mer, he was too lazy to try and argue.

The old sailor quirked an eyebrow at Siren’s request. He looked both her and Orun up and down with shameless scrutiny. There was a certain look in his eyes that seemed to ignore the fact that Siren was beautiful or that Orun was green. It was a gaze that searched for something else, though the half-Orc wasn’t sure what that was. There was a flicker of something akin to approval in the sailor’s aged face, but it faded behind a mask of worldly cynicism as quickly as it had appeared.

“Doesn't it seem a moot point to ask permission to board a ship that you are already on?” asked the grey sailor before turning his head back to the sea. There was a slight hint of calculated insincerity in the man’s voice, though it was very subtle. “I have no doubt that you have already checked in with Captain Aleemos. He will give you your orders after we set out. Why do you feel the need to check in with me?”

[Siren]

"This ship is an old girl," said Siren in reply, taking a few smooth steps to run her hands over the well-polished and maintained railing of the Acheron. "Long on the line...I'd hazard a guess at anywhere between thirty-five to forty years." She looked down at the wood, as though contemplating the ship and her story.

"Aleemos is a pup, maybe thirty-five years of age, can't have been a sailor for more than twenty...and certainly not captain for more than five or six. CIN* might call the Acheron Aleemos's ship, but she'd never recognize him as such. Just as she wouldn't recognize the previous captain...and maybe she's forgotten her first. But you...you, old man, came aboard this ship when you were both whelps, didn't you? Her maiden voyage, and you maybe old enough to shave...but I doubt it. You grew up swabbing these decks and watching from the crow's nest until suddenly it became your job to defend her. You're the only one, or one of two originals left here, aren't you? You've slept in this boat, lived on her, loved her, protected her, been protected by her, had more of your blood soaked into her than you have running through your body right now."

She turned, leaning back on the railing to regard the old sea dog with serious silver eyes. "You're not a sailor aboard this ship. You're her lover, beloved, her comrade and friend. And she recognizes you as such. That's why I'm asking you for permission to come aboard. Women," she said, patting the railing, "are jealous creatures. Catty. And they don't like strange women around to muck things up. But you may as well be married to this ship, so if you grant us permission to be aboard for these few days, she'll accept it, if grudgingly."

The old sailor's eyes went misty for a few moments as he remembered events, most of them exactly like the exotic half-Mer wench had described, and he ran one gnarled, weather-beaten hand along her banister -- a loving caress. Indeed, he remembered her maiden voyage, and her maiden fight. He remembered swabbing decks and peeling potatoes as a teenager, taking patrol and adjusting the sails as a young man, and finally becoming First Mate in his middle age. He'd seen countless battles and storms, but more calm and the quiet monotony of keeping her in shape. He remembered the wenches at various ports, but none had ever captured his heart and held it like his ship had. He nodded briefly.

"I've been aboard this ship for thirty-eight years, three months, and five days. Married to her for thirty of those years." A soft smile lit his features. It was rare that someone understood the bond between a man and his ship. "She knows better than to be jealous of other wenches, though."

"Permission to come aboard, then?"

"Permission granted."

~*~

The fleet cast off within a couple of hours, and Orun and Siren were put to work, like any other sailor. Orun, due to his muscle mass and Orcish heritage, was assigned to carrying heavy crates and barrels, while Siren was assigned to not get into trouble. Above and beyond that, she lashed things down near the banister.

Towards sundown, a series of whistles and clicks came from the waters below the vessel, and Siren poked her head out to see who was talking to her. They conversed for a little while before she shoved off and headed for the galley.

"Damned information dealers," she muttered irritably. "They're the same in every species."

The way to the galley wasn't far, down a flight of rickety steps and at a juncture in the hall. Knocking on the open door frame, the curvaceous beauty let herself in.

"Oi, Cooky! You in here?"

[Green is the new black.]

With the crew of the Acheron scattering about to carry out their duties, Orun performed his assigned task with a nearly tangible lack of zeal. Moving large wooden containers from one end of the ship to the other wasn’t exactly the most rewarding job imaginable. Orun figured that it was just to keep him out of the way, and because they assumed that anything more complex would confound him. Well, perhaps they merely assigned him to carrying and moving duty because he was strong, and not just because they thought him dull-witted. The half-Orc knew better than to suspect something that reeked that much of good faith, though. Still, while he wasn’t being paid to do mindless manual labor, he wasn’t exactly being paid not to work, either.

Siren, of course, seemed as comfortable on the deck of the rocking boat as worm would take to fresh soil. Orun, on the other hand, was still fumbling around the ship, bringing the remaining cargo to the appropriate locations. He was still toiling away on the deck as the sun set. The rays of light cut through the crisp air and flooded the surface of the ocean like a golden river. The water was unusually calm, but Orun could feel a storm in the air.

Then, some odd whistling and other sounds from the water distracted Orun from being distracted from his work. It sounded like a Dolphin, if his knowledge of sea life hadn’t betrayed him. The half-Orc glanced over in time to see Siren hang her head over the railing and respond to the creature using the same kinds of noises that it had. The Dolphin clicked and whistled back. The two were carrying on a conversation of some kind, he realized. I guess she wasn’t kidding or being metaphorical that time she said that she could speak to creatures of the sea, Orun thought, the amusing realization hitting him. He’d heard of Orc shamans who could communicate with Bears and Wolves, so the whole concept wasn’t difficult to accept.

Orun continued to lean against a barrel of salted meat and watch the discussion unfold. Even he would admit that he found the whole thing a little entertaining. Not only that, but such a skill was worth ten times its weight in gold out at sea. The half-Orc quirked an eyebrow as his striking partner stormed toward the galley, grumbling about “information dealers.” He quirked and eyebrow and chuckled; he couldn’t recall the Orcish Shamans having to put up with stubborn hagglers among the animals of the mountains.

“You, Orc! Back to work!” One of the deckhands was glaring at him. Now it was Orun’s turn to grumble as he continued his job.

[Christoph]

Bunnying approved.

The galley was particularly cramped and rather hot. In short, it was a typical naval kitchen. A few dim lamps dangled from the ceiling and a couple more rested atop wooden barrels, presenting and obvious, yet often ignored, fire hazard. Other hazards included the several sharp knives scattered about the place and the traditional dumped-over box of potatoes.

“I’m in the back,” a voice called back. It was a clean, young voice with very subtle foreign accent characterized by open-sounding vowels. “Come on in.” The sound of chopping and bubbling gradually increased, as did the invited aroma of seasoned vegetables and meat. Even the most untrained nose could tell that the man behind the stove knew how to cook.

“Watch your step,” the voice warned as the half-Mer reached the spilled potatoes. Beyond the obstacle course that made up much of the kitchen, a young man, barely twenty years old, toiled at the stove. He tended the contents of a large black cauldron with the loving care that a witch might mix her precious potions. He wore a clean white chef coat and a particularly poofy white had. The chef’s side was facing the woman and his eyes were clearly still focused on his work, even as he spoke. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a fish. I've got a friend outside that's being a pain and demanding I feed him.” The fluidity of her voice, the way that it rose and sank with her words in a way that had an indescribably intoxicating musical quality, caused the chef to stop his task instantly and turn to face her. The pair of dark brown irises locked onto her, darting up and down in a fraction of a second to take in the full scope of her stunning figure. The corners of the chef’s mouth tugged upward, forming an appreciative smile that had a certain classy and polite quality to it, as opposed to the lusty grin of a lonely sailor.

“I see,” he replied, hesitating for a moment. Other than that, however, the young man didn’t miss a beat despite the uniquely intimidating presence of the voluptuous woman before him. “Is that some code for wanting me to put poison in it or something?” He chuckled softly and let his posture relax.

[Siren]

It was all Siren could do to not fall on her ass laughing at the figure at the stove. What did he think he was, in a hat like that? Some sort of buffoon? A cooking buffoon? All the cooks she'd ever visited in the galley had grease stains all over their clothes and had buckets of slop bubbling over the spitting fire. What was this? Was this, against all logic, normal on a military ship?

Siren's eyes took on an amused violet tinge, much as they had when she was irritating Aleemos by sharing his personal space. "Well, if you put poison in the food, it would be closer to normal seafare, but I don't think my informant would particularly appreciate having his fish poisoned." She grinned back at him, he was kind of a cute kid, even as funny as he looked. And acted. He was looking her in the eyes after that brief glance, unlike most men, who found their gaze drawn lower.

"I have a particularly loud-mouthed dolphin over the side of the ship looking for a free meal, so you don't even need to cut off its head."

Siren leaned back against a counter, letting her eyes travel the kitchen. Eye contact was such a rare thing for her that she found it uncomfortable, and men that were busy staring at her chest were usually distracted, meaning she got away with more. She'd been expecting Aleemos to maintain his professional disgust for a woman like her, at least up front; she'd also expected the old sea dog to be immune to her charms. He'd probably seen a real mermaid at least once, and the fact that he was still alive meant that above the siren's song and the allure of a woman's arms, he loved his ship more. But this boy -- and boy he was, not yet fully a man, with a beardless baby face and a polite naivete, had restrained his baser instincts. Where, by the Leviathan's Pit, was this from? He certainly wasn't a sailor.

"So...is it military policy to have a cook that can actually make food, and keep a kitchen in order? This is my first time on a military ship, so I wouldn't know."

Well...it's my first time having free reign on a military ship, anyway. But this kid doesn't need to know my criminal record, does he? ... Nah.

[Christoph]

“Damned if I know,” Chris replied, silently amused at just how quickly she had broken eye contact. Shrugging, he turned back to his large cooking pot. Forcing his eyes away from the strangely alluring woman had turned out to be a bit more difficult than he’d every readily admit. “This is my first time on a military ship, too. I’ve been on merchant and cargo ships before, though. I tend to be a rather popular cook for some reason.” He added some unnamed ingredients to what appeared to be a soup of some kind and poked the cooking fire with a metal rod. Finally, he turned to face his visitor again, the implications of her request finally dawning on him.

“Right, so you’re feeding a dolphin for… information?” he asked, puzzled. He thought back to his long hours of leisure reading. Yes, he had, in fact, seen some tales of beautiful maidens who could speak to the creatures of the sea and lure men with their supernatural charms. He’d never actually believed them, of course. Now, though, he had reason to believe that the latter trait was at least partially true. Still, if she said that she could speak to dolphins, he wasn’t about to argue with her. “Interesting. Let me see what’s back here and I’ll be right back.” He flashed her a grin and strolled back to the disorganized pile of crates, barrels, and other things otherwise known as the “store room.” He pried one of the barrels open and pulled out a fish about the size of his forearm. He gave it a sniff.

“Oh, well, definitely not these,” he commented, putting the preserved fish back. “Much to salty… there must be something fresh around here somewhere.” The chef rounded a corner and vanished from sight. The distinct noise of random objects falling onto the floor followed, and continued for about a minute before Chris finally returned, holding a fish that was slightly larger than the last one.

“One thing I never understood is why they always hide the fresh stuff on these cursed ships,” he commented, coming back into view. “Half the time, when you finally find it, it’s not even fresh anymore.” He sighed and handed the fish over to the woman.

“Perfect. Thanks, cooky!” she said as she turned to leave. Chris quirked an eyebrow and chuckled.

“‘Cooky’, huh?” he asked, folding his arms playfully. “Is that some sort of affectionate nickname?”

[Siren]

The beautiful mer-woman grinned as she took the fish. She'd expected him to be incredulous as to her purpose with the fish...but she doubted he'd have given her the fish if she'd lied and made up some story about some elaborate sex game with one of the sailors. Men generally really didn't want to hear stuff like that -- and besides, dead fish wasn't her style.

"Only the most affectionate nickname, Cooky. I like keeping my trim figure, but I don't like to starve."

With a wink and a wave, she breezed to the door before turning as though she'd remembered something. Her eyes shifted from violet to cobalt blue as she watched the jester-chef go back to working. Withdrawing an orange from her bag, she tossed it up and down a few times, considering her next course of action. When she decided, she snatched the spherical fruit from the air.

"Oi, cooky!" It was only a split-second before she had his attention, and she grinned with all the charm that nature bestowed upon her. It was really funny how easily she got the attention of men. "From a sailor to a landsman...to your health."

She tossed the orange, watching him catch it, and then left, feeling his eyes sweep one more time along her figure before she disappeared from sight.

Going back to the deck, she set the fish down and started adjusting a spare rope into a secure harness. Deft fingers knotted the ropes easily, and she heard the clicks and chirps from over the side, letting her know that her informant had not gotten bored and left while she was talking to the young cook.

Picking up the fish once more, she looked around. She needed someone to lower her down, but she wasn't going to call over any random sailor that would probably try getting a good sight of her cleavage rather than making sure that the line stayed taut. Since that really left her one option on an unfamiliar ship, she was looking for a moving crate supported with green arms.

Finally seeing him, she called out, waving him over.

"ORUN! Stop carrying things and make sure I don't get tossed into the drink, will you?"

[Green is the new black.]

Orun’s ears perked up when the dull monotony of his job was finally interrupted by his partner’s distinct voice. Naturally, there were other words to describe it besides “distinct,” but he had made a habit of not allowing his mind to drift along that metaphorical stream, as tempting as it might be. The half-Orc set his barrel down where he was, which happened to be right in the middle of the deck where many of the sailors walked. The half-Mer had emerged from the galley, wielding a fish of healthy size. He walked over to her, looking amused.

“Right, so I see that you’re about to pay your informant,” Orun stated, indicating the fish with his green hand. He examined the harness and glanced over the railing, down the side of the ship. Sure enough, the lithe grey form of the dolphin was still swimming alongside the craft. The half-Orc took the rope in his hands, gripping it tightly. It was perfectly obvious as to why Siren would want him to aid her, as opposed to anyone else on the ship. She could actually trust him to lower her down properly without causing her to bounce off of the side. It helped that he was possibly the strongest one of the ship.

“Ready when you are,” confirmed Orun. Siren flashed him a grin and climbed over the side. The half-Orc gripped the rope tightly and let her down slowly. He probably went a little too slow for his companion’s liking, but he’d rather be careful. She wasn’t terribly heavy, of course. After a few moments, he felt the tension in the rope slacken up a little, meaning that Siren had reached the water.

“What did I tell you, Orc!” The same deckhand as before was glaring at him. “Get back to work!” Orun glared back viciously enough to make the proud sailor falter slightly.

“If you can’t tell, human, I’m supporting our little mermaid, here,” the half-Orc growled. The sailor’s face went with red with rage.

“How dare you speak to me like that, Orc?” he demanded, balling his fists. Orun, however, merely chuckled cruelly.

“Oh, get the cannonball out of your ass and go… mop something like you’re supposed to.” The man’s outraged reaction only made Orun’s toothy smile get larger. For a moment, it looked as though the sailor might abandon his common sense and actually attack the larger half-Orc. A stern voice from a dozen yards away made certain that no such thing happened.

“Jonathan!” It was the first mate. “I’m going to assume that you weren’t about to start a brawl on this ship.” The aggressive sailor’s face went from red to white in nearly an instant.

“No! Of course not, sir!”

Meanwhile, Orun was still clutching the rope.

[Siren]

Siren was in the water for some fifteen minutes, getting everything she could out of her informant before giving him the fish and letting him swim off. She'd wished she'd known that Orun was intending to lower her into the water instead of holding her just above it. If she'd known, she'd have removed her boots -- it was uncomfortable to have her feet go webbed when encased by thick leather.

When she'd finally been hoisted back to the deck, she casually brushed some of the excess water from the cotton leggings that now clung tightly to her flesh as best she could. This was always the problem from going from water to air -- it was cold. She hated that, as the deepening gray of her eyes started to show.

"Siren..." Orun's voice sounded a little impatient with the curvy half-mer, no more so than normal, but it did catch her attention.

"H'mm?" She was still caught up in knocking water from her pants, not to avoid showing off her shapely legs, but to regain some of the comfort that wet clothing stole.

"What did he say?"

Meanwhile, Captain Aleemos had gotten free of some of the navigator duties that came with being in command, and strode over to the odd-looking pair at the railing.

"What in the devil's name is going on, you two?" His tone was demanding. It was practically the eve of battle, and as far as he could tell, two of his mercenaries were goofing off. He'd prevented Jonathan from getting his face pounded in earlier, but that still didn't excuse the towering Orc and his female companion.

Siren's head snapped up at the tone, and her eyes went temporarily black as she scowled at him. As terrible as a mermaid's scowl can be, the expression that followed it was even more disturbing. A slow, seductive smile played across her abnormally perfect features, and her eyes lightened to silver with a coral tinge. It was altogether beautiful...and altogether malicious. Many men had been drowned while looking at the same expression from others of her mother's people.

"Would you believe me if I told you...Captain?"

Aleemos folded his arms across his broad chest, staring down the half-mer. Despite how unnerving she looked right now, he was going to be the last one to flinch.

"Probably not," he responded, "but feel free to humor me before I toss both of you in the brig."

The half-mer's smile widened, and her eyes turned a livid green. "I've spent time in military brigs. And if you want to know anything that I know, you will not sentence us with it...nor will you threaten it."

"Siren..."

The smile dropped from the beautiful half-blood's face as Orun's deep voice called to her again, this time aiming to keep her under control. She glared at the half-Orc a moment before tossing her hair, expression and attitude changing once again. Her eyes took on a neutral silver and she leaned back against the railing, spear held loosely in her hand. She didn't speak yet, though, still glaring at Aleemos as her jaw muscles twitched.

Suddenly, as if he'd materialized from the very timbers of the ship, the First Mate was standing behind and slightly to the side of Aleemos, only a few feet from Brogan.

"I do not believe, Captain, that we have any official punishments for sailors who decide to go over and have a swim while the boat is moving. At least, not if they aren't official members of the crew."

Aleemos turned to his right-hand. "Brogan," he started, but didn't get to finish. Siren had turned away from him, regarding the sea-dog she respected and ignoring the one she didn't.

"Here's what I was able to find out," she started, looking at Orun and old Brogan coolly from under long eyelashes. Much to Aleemos's annoyance, he was completely out of the conversation, despite the fact that he was Captain.

"A few days ago, a trio of ships came passing through this way, heading toward Corone from Alerar. That's unusual, because it's storm season. Most ships stay in deeper water, safely away from treacherous areas like this. For Orun's benefit, this water is too shallow and there are too many potential hazards, especially when the sea could turn at any moment -- as it's likely to do at this time of year. It's just not worth the risk, even though it's normally faster. So when ships come through, it's normally smugglers or someone needing to get through in a hurry.

"There's a little archipelago in...oh, roughly the center of this strait. Five islands, and the biggest is a little more than a mile long. It's a few nauts outside of Corone waters, meaning that what happened next was not an act of war...technically.

"A group of gunships swooped in on them as they reached the archipelago, and forced them aground. One of the ships took heavy damages. The enemy base isn't on the biggest island, it's on the smallest one -- wedged tight between two of the bigger islands and easily defensible. The sailors that survive are held prisoner, and as of last night the cannons are being inventoried so that they can be taken back to Alerar -- at least, so I think."

Aleemos snorted. "And you learned all of that from a fish over the side of the ship?"

Siren's eyes darkened once more as she flashed an irritated glance toward Aleemos. "No, I learned it from a dolphin, and I had to translate and infer a lot. I don't think you'd understand much about 'big air-whales sharkfight above water.'"

[Green is the new black.]

Brogan listened in thoughtful silence as Siren revealed the information that she’d received from her spy of the sea. A restrained chuckle from the first mate came out as a snort and, for an instant, his grey eyes flashed with an almost child-like humor. Orun rolled his eyes, doing a better job of hiding his own amusement. The half-Mer certainly had a sharp tongue when she wanted to, which was, of course, almost all the time.

“Well, I’m sure that it made perfect sense to the dolphin,” Brogan replied, an amused lop-sided smile forming on his face. “I do hope that you paid him for the information.” Siren nodded.

“In the only currency a dolphin ever demands,” she affirmed. The first mate’s smile widened.

“So I take it that you visited our cook,” he said. “An odd boy, that one…” He shook his head for a moment. “Anyway, I’ve never known a dolphin to lie, so this is probably our best, albeit our only, lead. I know the archipelago that our flippered friend was probably talking about. If we have the battle group shift its course slightly and pick up speed, we should reach it by tomorrow afternoon.” The old man turned to Captain Aleemos. “That is, with your orders.” The first-mate’s expression was smug; he knew all too well who was really in charge on that boat. To his merit, the captain kept any sullen feelings out of his demeanor.

“Pass the word along to the other ships to change course,” ordered the Captain. Brogan nodded.

“Yes, Sir.”


* * * * *

Another hour passed as the blanket of night swallowed the last traces of the golden daylight. Patchy clouds dominated the dark sky, often obscuring the bright silver half moon. The wind had picked up considerably as night fell, sweeping the deck with icy air and catching the sails, powering the ships toward their destination.

Of course, aside from the undetermined number gun ships that the dolphin had told Siren about, they had no real idea of what awaited them at said destination. It was at that moment that Orun realized just how difficult their mission could potentially be. If the outlaws that they were after were in the business of stealing cannons, it would be perfectly reasonable to assume that they would be using them, if they didn’t already have their own. The half-Orc’s limited experience with those fearsome weapons was enough for them to know how devastating they could be.

To make things worse, there were Coronian sailors that would need to be rescued and brought back alive. As though trying to keep themselves alive wasn’t enough. Then, if they lived through all of that, they would need to capture the criminals responsible and bring them back to face judgment. Orun liked a good fight as much as the next green-skin, but at that point, he’d have preferred it if it had actually just been an autumn storm.


Dinner was called on the flagship barely after Orun finally finished his task of carrying heavy things. Swarms of hungry sailors crowded into the mess hall to feast upon whatever slop that likely came from the galley. The half-Orc joined the disorderly line outside of the mess hall and waited patiently. The cook was surprisingly young and even more surprisingly well groomed. Orun was far from an expert, but he wagered a guess that the boy wasn’t a sailor.

The mess hall, though warm and well lit, was also filled with annoying sailors. Because of this, Orun really had little desire to eat there. Instead, he walked back into the night and glanced around for his partner, certain that she would have either found some way of getting right to the front of the line without any trouble, or that she was just waiting for the mobs of brutish soldiers to disperse first.

[Siren]

Siren was well used to being the only woman on a ship full of hungry men. As a survival mechanism, she'd learned what to do to avoid their carnal appetites. Her method was two-fold, the first being: be protected by the guy that can beat everyone else up. Normally, this meant sleeping with him. This time, though, she had Orun.

All the smash power and no nightly demands from a guy that doesn't even know what he's doing. Best of both worlds.

The second part was even simpler: Let them eat first. More often than not, the cook set aside something a little bit better for a few minutes of flirting and the occasional kiss. Then again, she hadn't kissed this cook...yet. It wasn't that long a trip, so she might or might not. No sense scaring the boy away from women forever.

As the sailors crowded around in the mess, Siren found a good place along the mast to sit down and just look at the sky. The stars still shone brightly, glowing white against the navy, indigo, and pink of the sky as the sun inched its way toward night, and the ocean still rocked the ship ever so gently. It was so calm out right now she'd almost call it a doldrums -- but all it really was was the calm before the storm.

I hate storms. Especially bad ones, like this is supposed to be. At least it shouldn't be a typhoon. If it was a typhoon...damn.

With a sort of shrug, the mermaid grabbed an orange from her bag, peeling it and then biting into a tangily sweet section. No sense in worrying about the storm before it hit. The sea was a living force with an adamantine will, and if a storm was going to hit, it was going to hit.

I wonder where all this old girl's been, for the mate to not be surprised at me speaking dolphin...and to be familiar with bartering with dolphins. Definitely an old sea dog. But then again...those are the best kind.

At about that point, Orun came up from the mess hall with some food and plunked himself down under the mast on which she sat. It was kind of funny, she thought. He was much more suited to roughing up the rowdy sailors than she was, and yet he came out where it was quiet.

"So, break any skulls down there?" She dropped down half of her orange while waiting for his answer.

[Green is the new black.]

Orun leaned back against the damp wooden mast and breathed in the cold salty air that came with the evening. It was so peaceful and serene that is reminded him of the quiet nights in the mountains of Salvar. The sounds of pine needles rusting in the wind had been replaced by the steady lapping of waves against the frigate’s hull as it cut through the dark water. Still, he could get used to it, and probably even learn to like it. It was only after several long moments that the half-Orc replied to his partner.

“No, but I did ‘accidentally’ step on someone’s foot,” he replied, amusement finding its way into his distant, crimson eyes. “He tried cutting the line.” Orun chuckled for a moment before his face took on an expression of cheerful earnestness as he continued to soak in the evening’s atmosphere, like a music connoisseur moved by a powerful ballad. He let out a short, single-syllable laugh, as though to verbally deny that he was feeling at all sentimental.

“It’s nice out here,” he commented with as much of a lack of interest as he could fake. “I can see why you like it.” Siren nodded.

“It’s what I grew up with,,” she replied, gazing out at the patchy sky for a moment. Then, her face took on a playful expression. “Of course, I’m mainly up here to avoid the mobs below us.” Orun raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“I like men, don't get me wrong...and I like sailors,” she explained, her voice becoming more mischievous. “But sailors that think they're starving... it's like sharks in a feeding frenzy. Let 'em eat, and they quiet down. Let 'em drink, and I can do what I like with 'em, most times.” Orun rolled his eyes.

“That’s an amusing reversal of roles from what’s normal in human society.” He shook his head and glanced around. He could see the four other ships in the group through the darkness. They were holding a perimeter of sorts around their flagship. He could pick out the silhouettes of the sentries on the other boats. Unfortunately, even his keen Orcish eyes couldn’t see much further. It put him on edge. As dark as it was, the group was vulnerable to ambush. Granted, given their formation, the ships on the outside would go down before the Acheron. Besides, he was confident enough in the ability of the hulking, heavily armed frigates to defend themselves better than cargo ships.

What didn’t make sense to him was the bigger picture of the situation. It seemed odd that the government in Corone would go to such trouble to cover the situation up. If factions of the government of the other nation… Alerar, were involved, then why not express their outrage publicly. There were clearly quite a few aspects of the political situation that Orun wasn’t aware of. Of course, being that he’d never been outside of Salvar before this, and didn’t care about the government there, either, this was understandable. In all honesty, he couldn’t even figure out why he cared in this case. His only interest in it should consist of getting paid, but his natural curiosity proved relentless. Fortunately, his wandering mind was interrupted by the soft footsteps of the cook’s black leather shoes on the deck.

[Christoph]

Chris had worked as a cook on several ships before, but nothing could have fully prepared him for a military vessel. The voracious sailors swarmed into the mess hall like a pack of hyenas going after a fresh carcass. Of course, to be fair, the hyenas were quieter and more polite.

It took over a half an hour to serve everyone. The sailors made short work of the food, as he’d expected. They seemed happy enough with the cooking, though, Chris noted smugly. Even the small Orc that had come through looked eager to dig in. Afterwards, the Captain, the First Mate, and a few lower officers came through for their food. A younger, redheaded girl, maybe sixteen, accompanied the captain. Chris seemed to recall her being his daughter. She had his same brown eyes, but the similarities ended there. He complexion was fairer and her face was covered in freckles. He had no idea as to what a girl her age was doing on a naval vessel, but he thought better than to ask. That left but one face that he didn’t see come through; a very pretty face, at that.

When the line finally ended and he was allowed some free time, the cook got some food for himself, as well as some of the leftover fresh fish and soft bread that he’d cooked for the officers, and made his way up to the deck. The sudden rush of fresh, salty air was akin to a lover’s touch compared to the hot, unpleasant (albeit familiar) environment of the galley.

The atmosphere was different on a military ship. Naturally, merchant ships had schedules to keep, but there was something about a naval vessel that was stricter and firmer. Everything from the regular rounds of the sentries to the knots on the ropes tying the sails had a refined, uniform feel. The crates and barrels, he noted however, seemed to have been stacked with a haphazard lack of enthusiasm.

The overall mood was far more somber and serious, as well. That made sense, of course, seeing as how these were soldiers. They were prepared for battle, and may well be expecting it. Hopefully, said battle wouldn’t involve him. He was there to cook and earn a little extra money before returning home; he wasn’t a soldier. Finally, at the base of the first mast, the traveling chef found the closest thing to good humor on the ship. The woman that had come for fish earlier was there, chatting with the Orc that he’d seen in the mess hall. An odd pair, he thought.

“I didn’t see you come through the mess hall,” said Chris amiably, approaching the two. He took a seat on a canvas sack sitting his bowl of stew on the deck and handing the plate out to the woman. “I know that you said that you like to keep your figure, but I didn’t see any sense in letting you starve.” He winked at her. His voice was as flirtatious as usual, despite the fact that this particular woman was most definitely well out of his league. Still, there was no reason that he couldn’t have some fun.

[Siren]

Siren dropped down from her perch as the cook joined her and Orun at the front mast. Her merry grin and sparkling sunset eyes held a healthy dose of mischief.

"Cooky is out of the galley! And has lost his jester's hat! I guess this means the mob has dispersed, eh?"

It was at that point that a plate of Officer's Fare was placed into her hands, accompanied by a flirtatious grin and a wink. As Siren returned the grin, she noted that the kid had grown a bit of stubble, masking the baby face and making him look a bit more like a man.

"How sweet! Normally I at least have to kiss the cook before I get special privileges. And look at this! It...it...it's not hard tack!" She poked at the bread some, marveling at the fact that it was soft, warm, and weevil-less. "I want a military ship, if you can make real bread on 'em. Oh, never mind. I don't know how to make bread in the first place."

Chris chuckled at the beautiful woman's brief rant before speaking up. "Well, I typically prefer to earn being kissed first."

Siren smiled and settled herself next to him. "Well, Cooky, I think you earned it."

That said, she leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on his lips, holding it for just a moment before letting him go and actually starting to eat. She noted the sort of dazed gaze the boy cast upon her as she plunked herself more evenly between the two men, but didn't pay it much mind. Kids his age and vocation didn't get kissed every day. What she did notice was Orun's expression as the ship's cook slid his hands down to grip the canvas sack beneath him for a few minutes.

"Orun," she started around a mouthful of fresh fish and bread, "when we get a ship of our own, we definitely need shomeone who can make real bread. 'S easier to get hard tack, but," and then there was a pause as she closed her mouth to actually swallow before she finished her thought. "But bugs like it. It's nice to have bread and no bugs."

[Green is the new black.]

Orun didn’t even shake his head in disapproval at his partner’s display of… of affection? He supposed that it was something close to that, anyway. Either way, he’d spent enough time with Siren to have gotten more than used to her unique behavior. Because of this familiarity, this, like many of the things that used to annoy him, served more to amuse him at that point.

The half-Orc couldn’t help but chuckle. At least she hadn’t tried tearing the poor boy’s chef coat off. This was good, because just the little kiss seemed to stun him enough. To his credit, though, the chef kept his poise better than most Siren kiss recipients normally did. He somehow managed to keep his face from flushing and he didn’t turn into a blubbering idiot. All and all, it wasn’t a bad performance for human of his age.

As usual, Siren was gave a higher level of significance to the food than she did about kissing a perfect stranger. Orun made short work of his own food as well, albeit in a quieter, more conservative manner.

“No bugs is always good,” he said quietly. He felt a tiny bit uncomfortable now that chef was with them, but he tried not to let it bother him. The half-Orc had grown used to having his moments of quiet solitude interrupted. As tempted as he was to be irritated with the boy, Orun knew that he was just being friendly. He turned to the chef. “How did you end up on a naval vessel, anyway?”

No sooner did he asked that than did another familiar form appear from the shadows. Orun recognized the tattered uniform, long grey hair, and distant eyes immediately. It was Brogan, the true master of the ship. His aging face formed a smile.

“Mind if an old fish like me joins you?” he asked, strolling up. Orun shrugged. Siren was too busy chewing to voice any objections, not that he suspected that she would. The old man was one of the few men that she showed something akin to respect toward. The first mate settled himself stiffly onto the deck in between chef and Orun. “I like new company from time to time.”

[Christoph]

In the dying light, Chris had caught a white flash of perfect pearl teeth from Siren, and saw her curvaceous figure settle down next to him. He had been expecting a kiss on the cheek or maybe, if he was lucky, an ineffectual peck on the lips. What came next made even his higher hopes pale in comparison.

Before he could even register what was happening, he became suddenly aware of her silky soft lips on his. Immediately, there was a tingling sensation throughout his body, as though he'd been struck by lightning. He’d never felt anything quite like it. The moment was like an eternity that no heterosexual man would ever want to end. All it was, though, was merely a moment, a brief kiss before she pulled back and started in on the food, as though it had just been an ordinary part of her day.

It had definitely not been an ordinary part of Chris’s day, though. As hard as he’d fought to keep his composure, the unexpected, unexplainable power and energy in the woman’s kiss left him dazed, forced to grip the canvas sack beneath him to keep from falling over. It certainly hadn’t been his first kiss, but it might as well have been, especially since he hadn’t been ready for it. He made a mental note to prepare himself the next time he fed her.

Finally, the Orc’s voice shook the chef from his daze. The story of why he was on a military was an interesting one. Before he had a chance to answer, though, First Mate Brogan appeared. That was actually a little on the odd side. Chris hadn’t seen Brogan come onto the deck and mingle during the meal times before. Of course, the chef had only been on the ship for a week, so he could scarcely be sure.

“Good evening, sir,” said the chef, giving the first mate a respectful nod. The older man nodded back as he sat down. Chris then turned his attention back to the Orc’s question. “Well, usually people ask for my name, first, which is Christopher Knighton.” He sat up straight and stretched out.

“I signed on about a week ago. This isn’t the first ship that I’ve worked on, though it is the first military vessel that I’ve served. This isn’t something that I’d typically do, but I did need the money, and these poor sailors needed a good fill-in cook until they got their old one back.” He turned to Brogan. “What did happen to the old cook, anyway?”

“Rumor has it that he started a big brawl in a marketplace in Radisanth,” answered the first mate, an amused grin on his face. “Of course, other rumors have it that the sailors set him up somehow. Old Bernard never was very popular. It’s a shame that you won’t stay with us.”

“I’m flattered,” Chris replied, mostly sincere. “But I’ve risked my life enough times since I left home. I just want to go back to my cozy little tavern and work in peace for a while.” The first mate nodded, knowingly. Before either of them could say anything else, a thud and a high-pitched squeal came from behind him.

“Ow!” Chris turned around in time to see the redheaded girl stumble over a rope, landing hard on her knees. Brogan shot her a stern look.

“I thought your father said to stay under.”

“But… but…”

[Siren]

Siren shot Brogan a wry look before leaning over, grabbing the red-head and pulling her over. She held the younger, less buxom woman under her arm, finishing up her meal.

"Red just wants to have some real company, instead of a bunch of lecherous men that should know better than to chase the skirts of a kid. How old are you, Red?"

The girl looked around the circle, and shifted a little uneasily under Siren's arm and Brogan's stern gaze. If her father found out she'd been above, he'd be angry with her, but the other woman wasn't letting go, so she answered the question meekly.

"It's...Julia. And I'm sixteen."

"Sixteen?" Siren laughed. "By the time I was your age, Red, I'd had ten different men. I don't see why you shouldn't have, there are a bunch of good looking guys on this boat. Unless, of course, you're the Captain's daughter, and then you're sacred. But if you're the Captain's daughter, he ought to be keel-hauled for letting you come."

Julia's face flushed deeper and deeper with each word Siren said, and Brogan quirked an eyebrow at Siren's open honesty about how the Captain took care of his daughter.

"I am," she whispered. "I am the Captain's daughter. But we don't have anyone on shore for me to stay with...and my mother died a couple of years ago, so there's not anywhere else for me to be, really."

"Well, he should have found something," the half-mer said firmly, setting her empty plate on the deck. "These waters at this time of year are no place for a nice girl like you, even if we weren't expecting battle, and we are. You ought to be off in a boarding school somewhere, giggling with other school girls and growing up to be an officer's wife, instead of running around this old girl on the eve of battle. Keep yourself safe, Red."

Julia muttered something incomprehensible at the deck, and Siren looked back toward Chris, still holding the younger woman close.

"So, Cooky, you come from a little tavern? How'd you wind up out this way? Tavern boys tend to stay in taverns, not go to sea. And if they do, they're normally a couple years younger."

[Christoph]

Chris had been looking on, amused, as their unexpected guest was greeted very warmly by the beautiful mercenary. He noted to himself, with a hint of smugness, that he had been right. Julia was the Captain’s daughter. Her hair and eyes were different, but she had Aleemos’s nose. He’d spotted that when he’d first arrived on the ship. The chef turned back to address the mercenary woman.

“Well, I’ve worked in my mother’s tavern since I was old enough to walk,” he began, allowing himself to happily reminisce. “It’s been very successful for a long time, out there on the Salvic frontier. With more towns popping up around there, we decided to try and open up a new establishment, since I was old enough to run one on my own.

“The only problem with running a business out there on the frontier like that is that supplies can be ridiculously expensive, especially grain grown locally. It’s cold up there, after all. So we hatched a plan. We knew that grain and other agricultural products were less expensive in Scara Brae and Corone because the climate was much more conducive to it. And since both nations were prosperous because of their sea trade, we knew that arranging efficient ways to ship our cheap cargo back would be easy, if you knew who to strike up good deals with. Luckily, my mother was well acquainted with several of the seafaring merchants who made regular stops in Knife’s Edge.”

Chris couldn’t help but roll his eyes and chuckle. He had his suspicions regarding the nature of these “accountantships,” but he usually avoided dwelling on them. True, his father had run off years ago. Whatever is mother did was her own business, but it was still his mother and therefore awkward to think about.

“I went out to arrange all these contracts in person,” he continued. “Scara Brae was very productive. Corone, however, has proven far, far more trouble than it was worth. Given all the…” He shot a glance at Brogan, but felt confident that he had little to fear from the aging First Mate if he continued. “Given all the internal strife and rebellions here, the prices were shooting up. And, of course, I kept getting caught in the middle of it.” He sighed and took a swig from a flask at his side.

“I could talk for an hour and I would have barely put a dent on all the things that I went through on this forsaken island kingdom.” Brogan nodded understandingly.

“That’s what I prefer the sea,” said the First Mate.

“But the end is in sight, at least,” said Chris. “I’ll be home soon enough, and I’ll be running a tavern myself.”

[Green is the new black.]

As the conversation continued, Orun’s interest was anything but constant. He found his attention wandering elsewhere. His gaze drifted over the darkened sea, his nose took in the cold, salty air, and his ears drifted further out into the sea, listening for the storm that he knew they were going to clip. His attention shifted back to the conversation when he heard the cook mention the Salvic frontier, the half-Orc’s old homeland. He wondered if he’d ever visited the boy’s town, or the one that he was supposedly planning to open another tavern in.

“I’ve had some interesting experiences with taverns,” said Orun, after having been silent for so long. He was beginning to notice that playing a small part in the conversation was less awkward and uncomfortable than simply sitting there and not saying a word. “Just don’t run your tavern like this place in Tirel… it’s a trading town out in the wilderness in Salvar. The ‘Big Stick Inn.’ It was practically a whore house, only without the class.”

He thought back to the night he was there, and the intoxicated redheaded barmaid, stumbling around mostly naked, spilling ale all over her bare chest. It made him think uncomfortably of their young female visitor. For an instant, he found himself wondering how Julia could become that barmaid if something we to happen to her father, leaving her penniless and alone. Then, of course, he realized that it was hardly his problem.

Orun had certainly not found what he’d sought on the deck. He left the crowded mess hall for solitude. Well, maybe not complete solitude, but he’d always felt comfortable around Siren, despite the fact that most men were uncomfortably intimidated by her. She seemed at ease around him, too, whereas most people, especially humans, regarded him with contempt. Of course, Orun had yet to see anyone or anything that could really make Siren uncomfortable, except for eye contact. That seemed to bother her for some reason.

Unfortunately, getting up and leaving would probably be considered rather rude. Most Orcs wouldn’t care about that, but Orun wasn’t typical by any stretch. He steeled himself to put up with the gradually growing group. Besides, he would need to improve his social skills somehow.

[Siren]

Siren grinned at the mention of a whorehouse, and Orun's seeming contempt for them. Well, she'd have to see how he reacted to a particular little anecdote of hers.

"I spent three months working in a whore house. It was great! Okay, really, it was fun for the first couple of weeks. Paid to have sex? Hells yes. But after that, I realized that the men that came were only there because they were paying for what they hadn't the skill to get for free, and the women were bitches."

The cook chuckled at Siren's story. "They were jealous, no doubt," he said, to which Siren nodded, looking over at the blushing Julia and patting the red-head on the shoulder.

"Don't ever work in a whore house, Red. The pimps try to drug you and rob you of money you earn, the guys care only about their own pleasure -- which sometimes includes beating you up -- and if you're good at your job, the others will grumble that they're lucky to get in a week what you do in a night, and generally start being hateful. And they're landlocked, which just didn't work...and very hard to get out of."

Julia flushed even redder, stammering slightly, before she looked back at the deck.

"I've never even been kissed," she said meekly.

Siren's eyebrows raised. "A cute girl like you at sixteen? Never been kissed? That's a sin and a shame. Listen, Red, there's nothing to it."

She tilted up the girl's chin so that she could see the older woman clearly. "It's just...like...this."

She leaned in, at first gently brushing the red-head's soft pink lips with her own, but gradually pulling her in for a better kiss, even as she blushed and stiffened, unprepared to have been kissed -- and by a woman, no less!

It was only a minute before Siren let Julia go, and the girl blushed furiously, stammering something about needlework to finish before rushing off, and Siren laughed.

"Such a cute kid...and not a bad kisser. She'll make some man very happy some day."

"Man?" said Chris, covering a sullen note with amusement at what had just transpired. "She'll never be interested in men after that."

Siren blinked her silver eyes at him, then grinned. "Nah. I'll go sleep with her right now, if you like, and promise her it's more fun with men."

Silence.

Dead silence.

Siren had to laugh at the expressions plastered on the three mens' faces -- horror, amusement, and shock all at once, and she shook her head. They'd thought she was serious!

Brogan felt it his job to make sure she wasn't, though. "You aren't..."

"Oh, of course not. I don't do virgins."

The old sailor sighed and shook his head. "I'm not telling the Captain about this..."

The comment was met by a fresh grin by the half-mer. "What could he do? It's already done."

[Christoph]

“I suppose,” replied the First Mate. He chuckled. “It’s not as though he could keep her off the ship, not matter how hard he tried. Julia’s too much like her mother was. She’d always find a way to get aboard. She looks sweet and innocent enough, and you is, really, but she can be pretty stubborn and crafy when she wants to be.”

Several more long moments of stunned silence followed. Brogan had spoken out of duty alone, no doubt, and had therefore been the first to break the spell. The rest, however, were still processing what they’d just seen and heard. Despite his greatest efforts, Chris could not remove the wide-eyed stare from his face until he finally willed his mouth to speak.

“Wow,” he said at last, forcing a laugh. “I’ve gotten around my share of times, but I have to admit that it’s not every day that I see a woman kiss a perfect stranger with quite that much… focus. Especially a stranger who happened to also have been a woman.” He smiled playfully and chuckled again. “Is this what I’ve been missing all those years that I’ve spent on land, or did I just happen to get lucky?” Due to his recent personal experience, he couldn’t help but muse silently to himself that it had been Julia who had been lucky, whether she was interested in other women or not, which did seem unlikely.

“Well, It’s been a pleasure to mingle with everyone,” he said, the quick glance he made serving as a good indicator as to who his words were meant for most. The chef stood up, collected the few dishes that he’d brought out with him. “Sadly, I have a kitchen and a pile of dishes the size of the citadel to clean before I get to sleep.” With that, Chris smiled and gave everyone present a nod, even the Orc, and walked back to the galley.

The ship’s kitchen was dark, as was to be expected. After lighting the various candles and lamps, Chris realized that he liked the darkness better. This, of course, was for the sole reason that he wouldn’t be able to see the huge mess that he had to clean. Towers of plates and empty mugs piled nearly up the ceiling and dirty pots littered the floor. Chris groaned; he always hated this part. Steeling himself against the hours of unpleasantness ahead of him, the chef got back to work.

[Green is the new black.]

Orun would have been lying if he’d claimed to be sad at the cook’s departure. He didn’t have anything against the boy, of course. Not really, anyway, unless you counted the fact that he was noisy and a bit smug in the half-Orc’s opinion. Of course, there was the strong possibility that the green-skin was just jealous of and intimidated by the boy’s confidence and outgoing nature. Orun wasn’t quite ready to admit to that, at any rate.

The information that the cook had was enough to get the half-Orc thinking, though. He hadn't realized that there was a civil war going on in Corone. Perhaps that was why the government was going through all the trouble of settling the affair with these pointy-eared radicals from Alerar quietly; the last thing they would need was a war against a foreign power in addition to internal strife. He yawned as the first raindrop of the night hit his nose. The world was certainly a complex place.

“Well,” said Brogan, standing up with surprising fluidity for a man of his age. “I’m afraid that I should be returning to meet with the officers. Enjoy the night. Your company has been… interesting.” The half-Orc watched silently as the first mate slipped away into the darkness. Orun was a little sadder to see him leave than he was when the cook departed. He and Siren were alone again. He couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about before everyone showed up, though.

Orun inhaled slowly, gazing out over the dark sea again. He kept Siren in his peripherals, though, almost reflexively. She looked more at home on that boat than Orun had anywhere in his entire life. The silence stretched on as the scattered raindrops became slightly more frequent. The rain was different than what he was used to; it was warm and misty, as opposed to the icy sting of Salvic rains. Distant thunder growled like a beast in the sky, warning away trespassers. Hopefully the grouping would miss the worst of the storm.

“An interesting lot,” said the half-Orc at last, using his words as a pretext in which to look at his partner directly. Siren’s eyes were the deep violet that he’d become very familiar with. Apparently, she was still basking in the hilarity of the situation. Orun, though he had never seen her lock lips with another woman before, would have been lying if he claimed to be surprised by any of it. “You should watch out, though. That girl might come back for a second.” He chuckled and turned to face the endless, shadowy sea again.

[Siren]

"Nah. Did you see the look on her face? Poor thing was so embarrassed. She'd have probably preferred her first kiss to be something romantic...alone with some tall, dark, handsome man under a star-lit sky, after a whispered exchange of 'I love you.' It was supposed to be the moment of forever. Instead, she got a kiss from another woman that has no interest in pursuing a relationship with her at any point in her life, in front of two strangers and her father's direct subordinate. Oh well."

Siren laughed, tilting her face into the sweet rain that started to pour from the heavens. Right now it was just a little rain shower, a refreshing caress on her upturned face. She could enjoy it while it was like this, instead of feeling anxious during the full-blown storm it would become. She didn't know which was worse, a storm or a doldrums, but at this time of year, she'd say it was definitely a storm.

"If the winds don't shift, we shouldn't get too much worse than this. If they DO shift...what's that?"

Gripping her spear, the half-mer stood up, making her way forward as the winds picked up and the rains started lashing, finding her footing on the rocking boat without so much as thinking about it. She had seen a couple of lights in the far distance, or so she thought.

She climbed past the wheel and to the bow, gripping the rigging as she climbed up onto the bowsprit. For a few moments, there was only still and quiet, but then loud, thunderesque BOOMs lashed out at the Styx, in front of them and to the right.

There was a delay as the other vessels noticed and men swarmed around all the ships as the unprepared Styx started propelling her weapons at the Alerean gunboats with little effect. The Charon, sister ship to the Styx, was the first to react, starting to lumber over in the darkness of the storm-enshrouded night.

Behind her, Siren could hear Aleemos and Brogan shouting orders, and the Acheron jarred as the anchor was hauled up.

"Looks like rumors were correct," she murmured, jumping down and making her way to help man the rigging. If it was a fight the Elves wanted, it was a fight they were going to get.

[Green is the new black.]

The deep thunder of firing cannons shook the still night even more than the coming storm. Deafening volleys smashed against the small group of Frigates, sending splinters from the wooden hulls scattering into the sea. Sailors scrambled across the decks of five ships, aiming their massive ballistae to return fire.

What it was that they were shooting back at, however, took Orun a few moments to spot through the cloud of intensifying rain. Two sleek black ships, barely half the size of the Coronian Frigates, were making a pass, blasting away with their mighty cannons. The Styx was taking the brunt of the punishment, but its sturdy hull remained intact.

The Charon and the Cerberus broke from the formation, intent on cutting off the smaller ships. The weapons aboard the two Coronian Frigates opened fire, punching man-sized holes into the decks and walls of the Drow vessels. The heavy booming of enemy cannons and the steady staccato of raindrops mingled with shouts of fear, anger, and command to create a brutal harmony. The two swift gunboats shifted sharply to evade the larger, slower vessels. To their misfortune, however, the sheer volume of firepower coming from the frigates was rapidly turning the ambushers into firewood.

Orun stood at Siren’s side on the deck of the Acheron. The flagship hadn’t seen any of the fighting yet, choosing to allow the ships under her command to deal with such a minor incursion. On one hand, it struck the half-Orc as cowardly. On the other, it did make some sense; it would have been foolish to risk the security of the group’s most important vessel so early in the mission. Speaking of foolish, what did the enemy hope to accomplish to their attack? Even with their superior speed and the terrifying might of their cannons, they should have realized that it was futile at best and suicidal at worst.

“It must have been a patrol,” said Brogan, answering Orun’s unasked question. The first-mate had materialized behind the mismatched pair. “Few travel these waters this time of year, let alone a battle group from the Imperial Navy. They probably realized that we were heading for their hideout the moment they saw us.” The half-Orc glanced back at the old man, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Then why did they attack instead of sailing off ahead of us to warn their friends?” he asked, his question accented by another booming cannon and the rumble of real thunder in the distance.

“I can’t be entirely sure,” Brogan replied “But if I had to guess, I would say that they’re either probing us to see what we’re capable of, or they’re hoping to damage one of our vessels enough to slow down our advance.” Orun glanced back to the battle. The Styx had taken a pounding and was allowing the others to pull ahead.

“It looks like they may have succeeded,” the green-skin pointed out. The veteran sailor shook his head.

“I can tell that you’re not an experienced sailor,” chuckled the first-mate casually. “The masts are still standing, the keel is straight, and the rudder hasn’t fallen off. It’s still ready for action. At any rate…” Brogan trailed off as he his trained eyes locked on the first enemy gunship, damaged beyond repair and sinking to the bottom of the sea like a chunk of porous volcanic rock. The second was still floating, but its mast had toppled over during the fight.

“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” The first-mate’s voice resonated across the entire group and was echoed by the officers on the other ships. He grinned with an almost barbaric mirth that inspired respect, even from Orun. “Perhaps we can get some prisoners.”

[Siren]

Men on every ship rushed to the longboats to board the downed Aleran gunboats, and Siren shook her head, looking at the Styx critically through the pounding rain. While she was still sea worthy by a small margin, she was injured, and she would slow the group down. Patrols were a pain, as she knew from run-ins with navies during some fairly illicit operations.

And traveling in a big group like this means that we can't find a nice little cove or something and hunker down for the night. AND we have to have the lights on, making us a great big fucking target for the nice people that want to blow us into smithereens. Lovely. This is why I prefer pirate vessels. We don't advertise 'shoot us, we're masochistic!' Fucking navy sailors.

She sighed, feeling her temper beating inside her with the force of monsoon winds, but she clamped her lips together and let the storm ride. It wasn't like she could take command, lose the armada, and then go bombard the enemy's fortress. She wished Brogan would, but he was content to be First Mate.

She wished she was on one of those boats, she'd really enjoy shoving her harpoon down someone's throat, but no. She was stuck on the ship, and it was all she could do to not thrust her spear into the deck. The need to do violence was only getting stronger, and she had nothing to hit.

Oh yeah. Definitely a Storm Temper.

"Triton-dammit," she cursed vehemently, lashing out her fist toward Orun's beefy bicep.

~*~

Corone was not the only nation that evening to send boats out into the storm, destined for an enemy vessel. In the darkness and rain, their approach was completely covered, and the twenty men had but one order: Kill the officers.

There were a few sentries on duty on the Acheron, but they were turned toward the defeated gunboats and not paying attention to the danger sneaking upon them from behind. The archer at the point of the first boat loaded his crossbow and aimed for the nearest sentry to him.

The bolt left his weapon with a satisfying whistle, and before the boy even knew he'd been hit, he fell to the deck, dead. Grappling hooks went up and the dark-skinned warriors began scrambling up to the deck while they still had the element of surprise.

Chaos broke out on the deck of the Acheron as crossbow bolts began flying and steel swords glinted, reflecting the lightning. As she noticed their approach, a lone merchild grinned maliciously, her eyes black with fury.

The battle had been joined.

[Green is the new black.]

For a fleeting instant, the noise of cannon fire and death screams vanished, leaving the furious din of the storm to fill the void. After a moment, battle orders resumed. The officers quickly resumed their shouting as a few rowboats made their way to the disabled Drow gunship. This maneuver made perfect sense to Orun; not only would a few captives confirm Siren’s dolphin-gained information, it could also provide them a better idea of what they were up against.

This would be true provided that they were properly “persuaded,” anyway. He chuckled and thought of the Orcish word “nunshog.” He’d heard it once while traveling with a small Orcish band in Salvar. Though its loose translation was “to interrogate,” its more accurate meaning was “to beat someone up until they do what you want.” Ironically, this applied definition was actually very similar to the human version.

The first sounds of hand-to-hand combat reached Orun’s ears. He was quite disappointed that he couldn’t join the fight. He was enthralled in it so much that he didn’t even notice Siren’s frustrated fists lashing against his arm. The lure of battle always called to him; it was in his blood. As if on cue, there was a twang followed by the distinctive sound of a wooden shaft penetrating flesh.

Twang!

“What the…” Before he could react, several crossbows had been fired, taking out the ship’s sentries. Cries of pain and dying gurgles filled the air and confusion and chaos threatened to take hold. Orun clutched his ax. He realized what was going a moment before Captain Aleemos’s voice carried across the ship.

“AMBUSH!”

Dozens of metal grappling hooks latched onto the railing and, before the half-Orc knew what was happening, slender warriors were crawling over the edge and onto the deck with astounding speed. They were all dressed in black cloaks that obscured any armor that they may have been wearing. Some wielded crossbows and others were already slashing away with viciously curved scimitars.

The Coronian sailors were scrambling across the deck in a desperate defense to the unexpected attack. They threw spears and returned fire with crossbows of their own. Orun hesitated for a mere moment, soaking in the anticipating of battle. He shot Siren a feral grin before raising his ax, bellowing a deafening battle cry, and charging into the fray.

His ax found a victim within moments, splitting the hooded head of one of their Drow assailants. He didn’t stop muscling forward though, and this probably saved his life. No sooner did he fell his first opponent than did he feel the razor edge of a scimitar slice across the back of his neck, biting a centimeter into the skin. Orun snarled and spun, swinging his shield around at the Dark Elf’s face. The swifter opponent ducked with feline grace and was about to counter-attack when a human sailor skewered the swordsman with a spear. This fight wasn’t going to be easy.

[Siren]

The Alerian warriors swarmed over the deck of the Acheron like a pack of hungry tiger sharks amidst a helpless school of mackerel, but after the initial shock of the attack had passed, the Coronian navymen began to hold their own. Orun had been like a Great White bull shark from the very beginning, going after his foes - his prey - with a predatorial glee.

Siren stood back at first, black eyes reflecting no light to give her face an inhuman cast. She was neither frenzied shark nor hapless mackerel. She was a porpoise, and when porpoises fought sharks, all shed blood tended to be porpoise blood. Even their resilient rubbery skin wasn't capable of resisting the myriad razor-sharp teeth. The sharks didn't tend to lose much blood, but they tended to be the ones to die. A porpoise's hard, blunt snout rammed against the soft spot behind their natural enemy's gills was more effective than a blow to the groin was for a human male.

Although the latter attack happened to be Siren's favorite in down and dirty fighting, she was currently out of range to do so and Orun was attracting Dark Elves like rock algae attracted suckerfish. So she resorted to her peoples age-old tactic - with a tooth attached.

Taking a hard step forward as the rain pelted her mercilessly, she ripped a harpoon from its harness at her back and sent it whistling toward its mark - an enemy warrior intent on carving Orun into strips. The whale-tooth head impaled through the target's neck and nearly went into Orun's arm, so hard had she thrown her weapon.

For a moment the winds died down and the waves quieted as the half-mer strode to retrieve her harpoon. As she yanked the harpoon out of the corpse with a grisly glorsh, the winds whipped with renewed ferocity, and a flash of lightning illuminated a harpy's deadly grin.

"Welcome to Hell, boys," she taunted, positioning herself at Orun's back. "Do you want it mean, green, and nasty, or swift and sexy?"

[Christoph]

Thud-thump, thud-thump, thud-thump!

“And stay out!” The chef’s voice rang loud and clear across the deck of the Acheron. A black-clad Drow woman darted up the stairs from the galley, followed immediately by Chris. The young chef was still wearing his white chef coat. Now, however, it was smeared with fresh blood and gore. He held his dueling sword in his right hand and a chef knife in the other. “You bastards ruined my stew!” His eyes gleamed with insane, bemused rage. He was clearly having too much fun.

Chris charged into the open, his eyes tracking the last survivor of the trio of Drow who’d had the gall to trespass in his kitchen. She darted back into the fray before the humorously blood-hungry chef could finish her off. Normally, he would have had a moral quandary about attacking a woman, but she’d knocked over his cooking pot! That was punishable by death on a naval vessel. To the chef’s satisfaction, no sooner did the Drow warrior enter the fray than did her skull get split open by an axe, splattering her brains across the deck in a spray of slime and gore.

The thick green hand of the Orc Orun was gripping the death-dealing axe. The brute definitely seemed at home in the violence. The figure against the green-skin’s back, however, attracted Christopher’s attention instantly. The lithe, voluptuous figure of Siren circled back-to-back, jabbing with her spear like an angel of death – an angel of beautiful death. He let his gaze linger on her for several moments before he switched his focus onto the destruction that the pair was causing. He scolded himself for being so easily distracted; he wasn’t normally like that.

Siren and Orun weren’t quite a whirlwind of devastation, but they were formidable none-the-less. Several dead bodies were strewn around their feet. A fact that didn’t surprise Chris at all was that all of the dead around them appeared to be male. All it would have taken was for an enemy to be distracted by Siren for but an instant and his life would end. The thought was enough to convince the chef to make a mental note to never anger her.

At that point, Chris decided that it was time for him to join in. The few Coronian sailors that hadn’t joined the boarding party were still trying to rally against the surprise attack. More importantly, Siren and Orun were hogging all the fun. With a grin, the chef darted toward the two half bloods, stopping once long enough to thrust his chef knife into the rib cage of a passing Drow. He was forced to abandon his knife as he spun to the left, narrowly parrying a scimitar slashing at his throat. With a swift side step and a thrust, Chris stabbed the brown-skinned Dark Elf through the chest.

He grinned, his pride savoring the look of shock upon his foe’s face. Chris felt his confidence swell. When he’d left home, he was a novice swordsman at best. Somewhere during the trials of the year that followed, he’d become a veteran without even realizing it. Within moments, he reached the mismatched pair in the middle of the fight.

“Fighting back to back?” Chris asked, amused. “Because, you know, nobody’s ever seen that before.” His eyes glinted as he summoned a head-sized sapphire ball of flame into his empty hand and flung it at an approaching warrior, lighting much of her torso on fire. She screamed and ran for the edge. His magic had also grown more powerful. A few months before, he would have never been able to wield his fire so effectively in the rain.

“Wow… throwing fire balls,” Siren replied, mimicking Christopher’s mannerisms as she fought. “Because, you know, nobody’s ever seen that before.” The chef rolled his eyes and flashed a smile at the same time, forming an expression that could confuse a veteran bartender.

“Funny girl.” Any retort that he might have had was interrupted as another cloaked Drow leaped down from a stack of crates, short blades whirling. Chris reacted instantly, his fencer’s reflexes kicking in. He stepped back and raised his sword, bracing himself. The impact came fast and hard. The chef felt his attacker’s two blades slice across his shoulders as his dueling blade impaled the Drow’s diaphragm. With a shout, the fighting chef sent a surge of blue fire through the Dark Elf’s slender body, burning the wounded warrior to a crisp in moments.

“How was that, then?” he asked, kicking the smoldering Drow off of his sword.

[Siren]

"Hot and fast, just how I normally like...but Cooky..." Siren's eyes lifted from a tense cobalt to a playful aquamarine for just a moment, the change illuminated by a bright flash of lightning. With an easy movement, she jabbed at another attacker's face, forcing his sword up a mere moment before her foot crashed into his groin, forcing the warrior to the side, where a swipe of Orun's axe rid him of half of his neck and face. Freed from that immediate threat, Siren unhooked her second harpoon and sent it whistling past Chris's ear and into the eye of an Aleran soldier a few feet behind him.

"Hot and fast just isn't sexy when it gets you dead. I like having a mass of muscle at my back." Siren flashed a vicious grin at the cook before whirling her spear and thrusting it deep into one of the few remaining attackers.

"Take the rest alive!"

Brogan's weathered voice cut through the din of battle and the roar of the storm with the clarity of a bugle, and quickly the sailors rushed to respond, subduing rather than killing their opponents. All told, a dozen prisoners were taken of the several dozen that had swarmed the Acheron, and they were taken into the hold to be interrogated by the officers.

The bodies of Elven and Coronian sailors alike were dumped into the sea as Siren wrenched her harpoons out of their respective corpses. That was the hardest part of battle - actually having to listen to the gut-wrenching krish-shtock of the barbs tearing flesh until they popped out of it. And in so violent a storm, it would have been so easy to kill and kill and kill.


~*~ ~*~ ~*~

By dawn, the storm had passed, and soggy sailors struggled to get underway after the length and intensity of the night before. Across the fleet, ships were making repairs, hoping to have even the most damaged vessel, the Charon, moving before the sun was high. It would only be a matter of hours before the vessels were within sight of the archipelago which sheltered the cannon thieves that Orun and Siren had come so far to find.

Siren had spent the night in Julia's room, drying off. She was quite certain that she had embarrassed the more conservative girl with her blatant lack of concern for being naked and her openness about her sexual experience, but she had come to risk her life for a nice chunk of gold. If she was going to die for that nice chunk of gold, she wanted to at least redden the ears of a cute virgin.

Now she stepped out onto the deck, turning up her face to greet the sun. Her dark, damp locks shone the very deepest shades of red, blue, green, and purple in the slowly growing light, and her face had lost the tempestuousness of the night before. Now she seemed much more serene, and strode lightly across the gently bobbing deck to start re-stringing some broken ropes.

She hadn't been on the task for more than five minutes before a flab-coated arm slid around her slender waist, the meaty hand planting itself on the firm curve of her ass. She knew what he wanted. She didn't even have to look at his face to know that he was one of the other hired mercenaries, thinking to spend some of what were possibly his last hours romping below decks in some spare canvas.

He was probably a resident of Corone who had thought that becoming a mercenary for a week was a way to fast riches - and since a thousand gold was more than most Althaneans would ever see, Siren could hardly blame him. That didn't mean that she was going to give into him. She liked to have energy for impending battles, and even if she had plenty of time...there were plenty of males on this boat, most of them more to her physical preferences than the flab-monster that had his hand on her.

"Get off." The words came with a slight barb, and unheeded. In fact, his second hand slid around to her flat stomach.

"I saw you looking over every man on the boat yesterday. You know you want it."

The exquisite half-Mer rolled her eyes with a sigh, wrenching herself out of the sailor's grip and going to look for Orun. She had no doubts that he could take care of this problem for her.

[Green is the new black.]

The sun rose above the island-speckled horizon, its light glistening from the damp wood of the Acheron. The air was quickly growing hot and thick as the remnants of the previous night’s storm evaporated away. Orun, however, was feeling pretty good as he strolled shirtless across the deck, the lean muscles in his torso pulsing slightly as me moved. His body and hair were clean of all the gore and blood from the night before.

Good hygiene was one of the few good traits that he inherited from his mother’s race. He’d risen earlier than the other sailors and spent almost thirty minutes scrubbing off the evidence of the battle. Well shaven and clean, the half-Orc wasn’t the repulsive beast that most thought of him as. His face, though not particularly handsome, took more from his human side than his Orcish side. His jaw was larger than an average man’s and he had small tusk-like canines protruding from his lower lip, but his face was otherwise normal. His body was toned and muscular; it was the type of body that human women would swoon over were it not green.

Everything seemed to be in order on the ships. Brogan and Aleemos (Orun guessed mostly Brogan) had done a fine job of getting the naval group functioning efficiently again after the ambush. Most of the sailors were in relatively high spirits, despite the damp discomfort. They were soldiers; the end of their mission nearing and they could sense another battle in the air. Orun had to respect their battle focus; some of them would have even made somewhat decent Orcs.

The archipelago was within sight at last. It was surprising that they’d covered so much ground despite the fact that the naval group was limping along with a lame leg in the form of the Styx. It was very fortunate at any rate; the prospect of yet another battle in the middle of the night against the devious Drow made even Orun uneasy.

Another thing that made the green-skin uneasy was that chef, though he would never admit it. The cause of his disquiet was partially the obvious; the boy could burn men to cinders with a thought, so it seemed. The second half was because Orun had misjudged Chris considerably. He was far more than some young chef; he would have to be taken seriously. It always made the half-Orc nervous and uncomfortable when his judgments were discredited so thoroughly.

And speaking of uncomfortable, what – or who, for that matter – was Siren doing?

[Siren]

Finally, Siren spotted her half-Orc partner several paces away, and had to pause for a moment to admire him. That was as good a body as she'd ever seen, and if she thought he had any sincere interest... too bad she wasn't the type to seduce the rare man that didn't want her, however wrong it seemed that Orun should turn his head every time she sent a flirtatious grin, or one of the looks she'd seen melt so many mens' wills.

Mmm...too bad indeed...he's like a work of art...been a long time since I've seen a man with that sort of body...and he was interested.

The tread fast behind her reminded the sultry half-Mer that she hadn't been looking for Orun just to admire his perfectly defined muscular torso, and she approached him from behind, sliding her arms around him and running her hands slowly over his chest and abdomen. She felt him stiffen slightly at the unexpected contact, the muscles hardening under the warm green skin.

Such a pity...

"Siren..."

She could hear a note of unease in Orun's voice, and it made her grin. "Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

She leaned her head against his back, continuing to trail her fingers along his chest. "Mmm? ... Mmm..." She sighed, watching her moment of contentment pass by like a piece of driftwood, then gently bit the little muscle on his left shoulder blade as she pulled back, letting her fingernails drag along his arms.

"Orun...I feel really bad that I need a reason to get this close to you." Her voice turned soft and sexy, falling into his ears like a call of desire, but there was no outward sign that he was softening. She'd have to make the rest of this fast, she could feel the muscles in his arms twitching slightly, and she knew that he was starting to get uncomfortable.

Sliding around him, she pressed her back into his chest, sliding her arms around his neck and twirling his soft red and white hair between her fingers.

"See the kind of flabby farm-hand looking at us? Can you throw him a glare? I'll leave you alone if you do...or..." her lips pulled into a sultry grin as she glanced up at him, eyes going from silver to a deep kelp green in a well-practiced seductive glance. A slight shimmy of her shoulders and hips moved the cotton material of her shirt just enough to be suggestive. She didn't need to say anything to promise everything.

"If you prefer..."

[Green is the new black.]

Orun’s entire body tensed instantly, a sail hit by a sudden and relentless wind of pure desire. His breath caught in his throat, making it an effort to verbally reprimand her, let alone struggle from her sensuous grasp. It took tremendous amounts of will just to keep his outward demeanor calm. His eyes followed her directions, seeking out the fat nuisance that couldn’t take “no” for an answer. It wasn’t hard to find him; the mercenary was as round as he was filthy, sticking out like a giant wart on the deck. The green-skin was filled with immediate revulsion when his gaze settled on this poor excuse for a man. Or, perhaps it was simply Siren’s emotions projecting onto him. He wasn’t pondering the possibility at that point, though.

Still following the commands that rode on the moist heat of the half-Mer’s divine breath, Orun glared at the repulsive sell-sword and twisted his lips into a viciously jealous snarl that was easily greener than his skin. The Coronian mercenary who had been waddling on toward Siren stopped dead in his tracks. The sudden pause of motion stole what little traction he had on the wet deck. He slipped and fell with an amusing spin, falling harshly on his ass with a muffled thud. Orun couldn’t help but feel a sense of cruel satisfaction as the slug crawled away.

Orun’s attention was immediately brought back to the warm, soft, pulsing body pressed against his front. His heart beat faster and harder and he knew that Siren could hear it. She gave a low, seductive laugh that made the green-skin’s muscular chest want to explode. Her touch felt both like a burning fire of lust and soft icy silk against his skin. She curled a leg around his and sank her teeth into his bicep. The contact sent an electric surge through his entire body. He couldn’t help but feel that he was in the presence of a sensuous goddess – the true avatar of the base instincts, sexual desire, and absolute satisfaction – and if he just gave in—

“No.” The green-skin’s voice was firm and strong, returning reality to the sea of lust. He took a step back, pulling free from her grip. How was he so weak? How could he have been so weak to have almost given in to the allure of a woman who was just toying with him? He was better than that; he would not fall victim to her. “No, I think that at least one of us should have a shirt on.”

“Fine!” she called after him, flipping her hair and turning away. “Life’s too short to waste on the unwilling!” With that, Orun walked through the small audience that had assembled and across the deck to… anywhere where Siren wasn’t. Orun was not ignorant to his Orcish blood and he knew better than to actually believe that the half-Mer actually wanted him. Unfortunately, it didn’t change the fact that his entire body felt on fire. He didn’t understand why she felt the need to toy with him, though.

He needed to hit… something.

* * * * *

Gentle morning waves danced in Brogan’s eyes as they lapped against the side of the Acheron and the nearby Styx. The battered craft rocked and creaked in a manner that was far from comforting. At least it was still floating for the time being. The old sailor sighed. It would be a true shame for such a young vessel to meet her end before any sailor grew to love her as he loved his Acheron. But alas, such were the ways of the fickle mistress of the sea.

The first mate was standing in a circle of officers, including Aleemos and the subordinate captains from the other ships. Brogan had his hands on the wheel post, trying to hide just how much he was leaning against it. The five captains were locked in a heated discussion about how best to get them all killed while Brogan quietly soaked up the salty morning breeze.

The Styx, deemed the most expendable because of its damaged state, had been placed at point, in front of the other vessels. That logic was stupid, of course. No ship was expendable, and placing the weakest one in the way of the most harm would only serve to cripple the fleet’s firepower even faster once a fight broke out.

The captains weren’t worrying about that. Maybe they just didn’t realize it. They were too busy talking about stealth, quick strikes, and maneuvering through the archipelago in such a way that they wouldn’t get cornered and slaughtered. Those were important things, of course; Brogan didn’t doubt their abilities as strategists. They just didn’t have any common sense sometimes. He sighed. That’s the young for you. That was why they had him around, though. He cleared his throat, still gazing out at the sea.

“We will be entering the island chain in a few short hours,” Brogan began, his smoky, scratchy voice holding an air of command and competence that the other officers could only dream of. “I’d like to recommend that before we get there, we move the Styx into the middle and lead with a different ship.” The other officers glanced at him with uncertainty and a certain lack of respect. They didn’t know any better. It was Aleemos, to the surprise of all but Brogan, who spoke up first. Gods save him from his pride.

“Brogan, we went over this already,” replied Aleemos, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. The captain lowered his voice, looking around for nearby sailors who might overhear. “If we’re going to lose a ship, it might as well be that one.”

“What about the lives of the sailors?” Brogan asked, still looking out to the horizon. Aleemos narrowed his eyes, but the first mate ignored the gesture. “They have families to return to.”

“It’s war, Brogan,” the captain replied in a low growl. A few drops of sweat formed on his forehead as the other captains watched the exchange. “People die in war. There’s nothing we can do about that.” The first mate finally shifted his gaze to the captain, his eyes soft. He always saved the best for last.

“I’m just saying that we need to be wary of needless sacrifices,” said the first mate. “Besides, old friend, from a purely tactical standpoint, we need to preserve as much firepower as we can. Keeping this near-crippled ship in the front will just get it sunk in moments, and a fifth of our firepower will be gone, as well as the lives of many good men.”

“He’s right,” said one of the other officers. He was young, not even 25 years old. The senior captain looked over at him, clenching a first at his side. “These five ships are all we have for this mission, sir. We need to keep as many afloat as possible.” The officer got a few nods from the other men. A smart boy. Aleemos’s eyes were still defiant, but Brogan knew that he would win. He always did.

[Siren]

It was an incredibly rare thing for Siren to be so abruptly rejected by someone who obviously wanted her badly, but it wasn't like it hadn't happened before. And if he was so set on not wanting her, she wouldn't tempt him again. Her mother's people only lived for twenty-five years; her mother was already long dead, and her youngest half-sister was getting old. She alone of her mother's children retained her youth and life - but she'd never heard of one of her kind living beyond forty, although she wouldn't show signs of age until her mid thirties.

Life was just too short. Too short to waste on the unwilling. Especially when there were plenty that were willing.

Running her fingers through her hair, she started pulling it into a tight braid. The air was incredibly still while the current carried them along steadily, and it made her uneasy. There was going to be a storm soon, probably as they entered into combat once more.

A dolphin pod was discussing something in the distance, and the half-Mer closed her eyes, trying to listen to what they were saying. The convoy of ships was exciting a great deal of curiosity. They wondered if there would be a battle of territory between the "pod" of "air-whales" from the South and the already-established "pod" from the North. Storm season was getting bad, but that always meant plenty to eat...

It was a fairly typical day in the life of the pod.

There was a light swishing of skirts behind her and a soft tread on the Acheron's old planks as Julia cautiously approached the older woman, but Siren's interests didn't include young women at the moment. Something wasn't quite right....something...

"I saw what just happened," ventured Julia's soft voice from behind her. "Were you really going to...?"

"Probably not before tomorrow night, Red. Sex a few hours before a battle is not the wisest course of action, I can assure you." Tying off the braid, Siren folded her arms over her belly, keeping her gaze on the sea.

"But, you would have?" the captain's daughter sounded incredulous. "But...his face..."

"Is not as ugly as some humans I've slept with. Faces mean little at sea, Red. What you want is a fit body and lively energy. And he has a body...but, he doesn't want it. Never press a man that doesn't want you, Red. There are too many men in the world."

[Green is the new black.]

Captain Aleemos stood at the bow of the Acheron, his watchful eyes monitoring the sea, as any astronomer would examine the heavens on the eve of a meteor storm. Hours dragged on as an air of nervous boredom swept over the crew of all five ships. The archipelago had come into view by mid-afternoon, appearing on the shimmering blue water like a black pox foretelling death.

The chain of islands was even larger than the reports had suggested. Over a dozen large islands rose from the sea like mountains, towering over scores and scores of smaller ones. The enemy base could have been anywhere, and they were surely already expecting the arrival of the Coronian ships. Aleemos sighed wearily. He knew that if they sailed right in without knowing where the base was, they would head right into an ambush. Of course, that was obvious. In fact, they would probably get ambushed even if they did know where the enemy’s base was. It was a frustrating situation. What was worse was that his daughter had stolen away on his ship again at the worst possible time.

The captain had ordered the small fleet to circle the archipelago until the last of daylight faded. From their position, the humans would be able to spot and intercept any enemy ships as they left the chain. The main reason for this maneuver was just to bide time, as the only thing more foolish than attacking the Drow at night was to attack them in broad daylight.

Aleemos had sent a number of scouting parties to sneak onto several of the outlying islands to monitor the area for potential enemy movements and to locate their hideout. After hearing what they had to say upon their return, the captain called for all of the sailors and mercenaries to gather.

* * * * *

Orun had been busy lurking under the deck, swiping ale, and avoiding Siren when the order to assemble was given. After a long day of essentially doing nothing, the half-Orc was actually glad to have an order to follow, especially one that foretold of action and violence in the near future.

The crew of the Acheron assembled on the deck under the pale starlight. It was a diverse mix. There were sailors barely older than boys with shadows covering their frightened faces. There were the experienced seamen with alert, confident eyes, steeling themselves for the battle sure to come. There were the seasoned veterans with grizzled faces, salt water in their veins, and eyes like hearts of hurricanes. And then there was Siren, moonlight washing her beautiful face like an angelic glow and her subtly multicolored hair flowing in the shifting wind. Her expression was as serious and focused as Orun had ever seen it. The half-Orc realized that his eyes were lingering on the half-mer and he quickly looked away.

The tiny fleet was hugging one of the larger islands at the perimeter of the archipelago, hidden from view to anyone within the chain. It wasn’t that the Drow wouldn’t know that they were there, of course, but it was definitely prudent not to sit out in the open with big targets painted all over them. Orun took a seat on a crate and waited for the captain to begin. The captains from the other ships were present as well. To the high captain’s credit, he didn’t waste any time in doing so.

“All right, here’s the situation, because it’s important that you all know what’s going on,” Aleemos began, pacing in front of the wheel. “I’ve been sending scouts out since this afternoon. They haven’t reported any enemy movement, but they’ve located the enemy headquarters on one of the central islands. It’s an old stone tower with more recently constructed docks in a small natural harbor. There are three Drow destroyers armed to the teeth with cannons, as well as several cannon emplacements on the land and in the tower. Even with our five large ships, a direct assault on the tower will be suicide. Trying to send our long boats in to extract any potential prisoners their holding would be foolish as well. The Drow are a sharp bunch. We’d get spotted before we got within a hundred meters of the island.” He paused and took a deep breath.

“So we’re going to need to do something different,” he continued. “We can’t turn back until the mission is complete." He paused once again. "So this is where I ask for ideas.” A murmur passed through the mob as the captain’s unprecedented statement sank in. Orun slapped his forehead. They were screwed.

[Siren]

"Sneak ashore on dolphin back."

Siren's tone cut through the crew's dejected silence like a newly-sharpened blade. Honestly, the damn pod had been hanging around the fleet and chattering all day, eating what leftovers had been thrown overboard. Couldn't these humans think at all?

Aleemos turned toward her, looking at her like she'd grown a second head. Apparently the thought that they had a convenient pod hadn't occurred to him other than a desire to shoot one to stop the incessant chatter. Nor had it occurred to him, despite having seen her use one as an information source earlier that day, that she could actually talk to them.

She glanced around the circle, and the only face that didn't seem incredulous belonged to the old seadog, Brogan. Apparently he was the only one that realized that a little mermaid could arrange a water entrance.

Before Aleemos could sputter nonsense at her, she stepped forward, directly into a moonbeam so that everyone could see her clearly. It was something of an effort for her not to start snapping at Aleemos for some bout of idiocy or other, but she checked herself. The clouds starting to gather on the horizon explained at least half of her irritation.

"We take five or six dolphins and hitch a ride with them to shore. I can swim it myself. From there, we take out the guards at the on-shore cannons and see if we can't turn one to the tower itself. The prisoners are probably kept in a lower level, so if we blow off the top, we'll at least cause some chaos. If we can't, then we can fire at the afts of their ships so that they're caught in a crossfire. More dangerous for them than for us, even though the best we can do are damn big crossbow bolts."

Aleemos sighed, looking around for any other options, but none were forthcoming. He waved a hand at her, telling her to go on. "If you can arrange it and we can't think of any better, we'll go with your plan."

A smirk turned the half-mer's lips up, and she undid the harness for her harpoons, handing it to the ship's cook. "Try not to burn them, cooky. I need those later."

Then she slipped out of her shoes and took off her shirt as though the action was completely natural, ignoring the dropped jaws of the men as her perfect breasts and flat stomach were revealed. She then tossed the shirt to Orun, since he'd be the most likely to keep it intact. Already, she could feel the cold air making her skin prickle, and knew that the first minute in the water was going to be unpleasant.

She still heard some chirps nearby, though, so she strode over to the banister, let out a tentative call, and leapt over, into the icy seas.

[Christoph]

Chris had strolled leisurely up to the deck after hearing the call to assemble. He would have shown a little more urgency except he was just the cook on that ship and not one of the men under arms. In fact, if he hadn’t been so keen to find out what was going on, he’d have never left the galley. As it was, he’d arrived late and was caught off guard as the beautiful half-mer strolled by him to thrust her harpoon casually in his direction. Something about that seemed to reverse the laws of nature, but the cook couldn’t put his finger on it.

A moment later, he went from mildly startled to completely dumbfounded as Siren’s shirt came off and found its way into the Orc’s hands. It wasn’t until several moments after she dived into the frigid water that Chris’s jaw returned from its position on the deck of the ship. He blinked several times.

“Whoa,” he uttered, barely regaining his ability to speak. The rest of the crew seemed to be under the same spell. Chris slapped his face a few times to regain composure before turning to Orun. “How come you get the shirt?”

The green-skin rolled his eyes. “Probably because she’s not so confident that you wouldn’t burn this.”

“Funny man…” It was then that they heard the captain’s voice once again.

“All right, men, if this plan goes through, we’re going to need some volunteers to ride to shore, capture the emplaced cannons, and set fire to the docked ships.” A brief silence followed, after which several of the sailors looked at Orun. The Orc shrugged, muttering something akin to “fine.”

“I can set fire to the ships easily, without even having to worry about getting incendiaries to survive the dolphin ride over.” Chris’s voice inspired a curiously quirked eyebrow from the captain and his first mate. The chef grinned, conjuring a swirling ball of blue fire with the flick of his palm. “See?”

Brogan chuckled. “So is that why you’re such a good cook?”

“Maybe,” replied the chef with a shrug. “However, if you want me to act as a mercenary instead of a cook, I will expect a mercenary’s pay.” Both officers nodded.

“So be it,” Aleemos replied.

[Siren]

The few minutes of back and forth on the ship had given Siren plenty of time to discuss matters with the pod and she had actually gotten six volunteers to go - fine young bull dolphins with enough bravery to match their lack of common sense. She couldn't blame them, though. They were barely two and three - quite old enough to feel that they were entitled to some excitement, but too young to know how to best keep themselves alive while doing it.

She'd told them that they'd better talk to their mamas about going on a dangerous mission, but all six of them had laughed at her. She'd just have to look out for them as best she could. If she'd ever had children, she would have wanted them to keep safe.

She hung under the surface for a few moments extra. The water had been freezing when she first hit it, but she'd adapted quickly. Now she was dreading going back into the air. Air was less merciful than water, and the three minutes it would take her to climb up the hull would leech any heat from her body. But she hadn't much choice.

She climbed up as fast as she could, which was slower and slower as she reached the top. When she finally stuck a hand over the banister, a sailor grabbed it and pulled her the rest of the way up before pulling a splinter from the side of one of her bare breasts just before her shirt hit her in the face.

"Thanks, Orun," she said, wringing out her hair. It was all she could do to keep her teeth from chattering, and she was shivering so hard that there was a little concern that she'd fall back into the water. She didn't, though, and ignored the mild disappointment as her shirt came back on.

Chris approached her to give her back her weapons, and she took them, adjusting them over her back.

"Thanks, Cooky." She patted him on the cheek and his face was like a welcome hot water bottle after spending too much time out in the snow. Unable to help herself, she huddled in before there was time to protest.

"Gods, you're warm."

Aleemos's sharp cough brought her back to focus. "We have six...so pick out who you want to go."

[Green is the new black.]

Of course, it hardly seemed to Orun like the human chef had any intention to protesting Siren’s abrupt contact. In fact, it seemed that the boy was the envy of the entire crew. Just about every sailor on the deck was gaping at the two. Chris appeared to have lost any form of coherent thought. Typical human males, the half-Orc though. Five seconds of contact with a female turns their spines into slime. He glared at the cook in disgust and turned away.

“I’ll join the shore mission as well,” said Orun, his voice booming across the ship. It took several moments for everyone to realize who had spoken – few, no doubt, expected the green-skin capable of forming a sentence without the use of grunting noises or blows to the head. Predictably, it was Captain Aleemos who responded. Even more predictably, he didn’t seem to like the idea.

“And why would you wish to take part in this?” asked the captain snidely. Orun merely grinned.

“Isn’t that what ‘stupid violent Orcs’ are good for?” he asked, laughing bitterly. Several of the sailors began to murmur nervously amongst themselves. This just caused Orun to speak even louder. “Besides, no one else besides your cook on this boat seems to be as much of a man as the mermaid.”

The crew went silent and the half-blood basked in their reaction, grinning challengingly at the lot of them. After a few moments, a dark-skinned mountain of a man stepped forward from the mob of seamen. He had a perpetually stupid expression on his face and a mindlessly violent glint in his eye. The large human would have probably fit the stereotype of a green-skin better than most Orcs that Orun knew.

“If cookie an’ that green monkey can do it, so can I!” he bellowed, pushing out his chest. The half-blooded mercenary rolled his eyes. At least the buffoon would make a good meat shield – no doubt that they need someone to throw into the enemy’s path.

The next two volunteers showed considerably more promise. They were a pair of red-haired young men, most likely brothers, with alert blue eyes and well used sabers tied to their waists. Their expressions were genuinely eager and focused, as opposed to the wounded pride of the dumb giant. Orun couldn’t decide whether they volunteered of their own volition or because the Captain had discreetly told them to go and keep an eye on things. Either way, the young veterans would probably prove useful.

[Siren]

They were still much too far away for the dolphin-back team to be able to reach the shores without freezing half to death in the chill water, so the fleet got underway. The winds were picking up again as the sun set, spurring the Corone Imperial Ships on to battle.

Siren stayed pressed close to the cook, gleaning what warmth she could before she had to plunge back into the depths alongside the Archipelago Pod's young bulls, as well as the young bulls that had volunteered or been assigned to attack the Alerarian defenses. Battle brewed heavily on the air as the winds blew the weathered warships plowed through the waves.

It was a night of death.

By the time the ships were close enough to send the little group of invaders into the water, the enemy vessels had already begun lumbering toward the Coronian flotilla. The battle would be raging not long after the small group made landfall, but hopefully things would soon shift in the favor of Corone. If they did their job right.

A roguish-looking young blond had stepped in to fill the remaining spot, and Siren took a last look at her motley crew before walking to the banister. "Well, boys, let's go."

The drop from the ship felt a lot farther than the last time, probably because there was now a risk of being seen and fired upon by the enemy, but she hit the water with her hands pressed together in an arrow, making only the slightest of splashes. Instantly, there were clicks and whistles around her, young dolphins ready to go into danger, but knowing instinctively that pods are safest in close proximity. One by one, the rest of the team dropped into the water, maybe a little less gracefully and much more loudly, but they were grabbed by their riding buddies and the group started propelling their way to the island.

Siren could feel the cold of the water creeping into her bones as her hands and feet webbed and she started adapting to the ambient temperature. She could only feel sorry for the pure-blooded humans and her half-orc companion, who didn't have that ability.

[Green is the new black.]

Orun hit the water with a frigid splash. He’d jumped over the edge casually, certain that his lifetime in the frozen wilds of Salvar had prepared him for anything that the water could dish out. He was more wrong than he’d have cared to admit. At least snow had the decency to insulate warmth. The cold water leeched every ounce of heat from his body in seconds.

Even as his muscles burned and his joints stiffened, the half-Orc refused to show weakness. The humans, however, had so such reservations. They shouted and cursed like adolescent boys, each of them colorfully expressing just how much they regretted volunteering for the job. They’d get over it. Orun was more worried about his axe rusting.

Moments later, one of the dolphins appeared right under him, lifting his muscular form slightly. He grabbed on and in an instant, they were moving like a pod of mutant whales. Siren swam at the front of the group, leading their aquatic mounts. Orun looked over his shoulder one last time as they circled around the first island and spotted the two Drow destroyers closing in. He hoped that the Coronian fleet would still be floating by the time their mission was complete.

The trip seemed to take unreasonably long. The green-skin’s entire body was numb by the time they were halfway to the fortified island. The rippling current covered their approach as they came within sight of the tower. It was a modest structure, only fifty feet tall and built from grey stone bricks. Orun could spot cannon holes dotting the outside of it, but couldn’t tell how many of them had guns sticking out. The ground gun emplacements were visible as well, each foolishly illuminated by a lantern. Then, in a small inlet adjacent to the tower and fortifications, the two mighty Drow warships were anchored down.

The tower soon passed out of view as the half-mer led the team around the island until they were out of sight. She took them to a rocky beach separated from the Drow headquarters by a hill covered with tropical trees. Siren was the first to arrive, but also the last to crawl up on the shore. The sailors climbed onto the rocks and immediately started complaining about the cold once again. Orun wondered if it just wasn’t how human sailors bonded. If that was the case, it still seemed rather silly.

“All right, we don’t have much time,” said the half-Orc. The others actually listened, possibly because the water had frozen their ability to be bigots. “There’s a lot to do. If we’re quick and quiet, we should be able to hit the three cannon emplacements right away without being noticed. That doesn’t take care of those two docked ships, though.”

“We’ll need a way to set them aflame,” said the older of the red-haired brothers. “And we’ll still have to find the prisoners and stolen cannons, assuming that they’re still alive.”

Orun scratched his chin. “The prisoners are almost surely inside the tower. If we’re lucky, we might be able to turn the cannons on the beach around and fire on the tower before getting spotted and killed.”

“That should get us inside well enough,” replied the redhead. “But that still leaves the enemy boats.” Everyone in the group shot a glance at the Chris. The chef cringed, clearly regretting having displayed his fire-wielding magic.

“Why don’t we just turn the cannons on the ships after taking out the tower?” Chris asked over his chattering teeth.

“Because the cannons would take too long to reload.” Siren’s eerily sensual voice cut through the middle of the men’s discussion. Most of them, save Orun, had completely forgotten that she was there; women were not typical parts of military missions. She grinned at the cook. “Besides, your not afraid of a little solo mission, are you?”

“No, I just don’t want to go back into the water.” He sighed. “Besides, I can hardly burn both of the ships on my own. There will be guards and sentries. One man isn’t enough to eliminate them all.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ll go with you,” said the blonde man that had been the last to volunteer. The half-Orc found himself wondering whether the scrappy sailor was offering to go with the chef because he wanted action or because he wanted to impress Siren. Either way, he looked competent enough to be counted on.

“I guess it’s decided, then,” said the chef, swallowing slightly. Orun grinned. Better the chef than him.

[Siren]

When the decision was made about who was going to go and destroy the ships, Siren turned back to the sea, letting out a rapid series of clicks and whistles, and getting a pair of chirps in return. The cold hadn't done anyone any good, but though they were stiff and complaining, all the men were still moving.

The half-mer grimaced as the webbing between her fingers and toes receded, letting the sharp air bite the last part of her that it hadn't felt. The cook and blond were both looking at the water as though it might reach out and stab them, but she knew they'd both go. The blond went at a smile and a peck on the lips from her, but the chef wasn't paying attention, so she walked up to him and gave him a solid smack on the ass.

"Take care of him, Cooky. He's kind of cute."

She felt him stiffen in shock, before he grinned and winked at her, heading back into the water with some incoherent grumbling as she turned back to her little rag-tag land group.

"Okay, we have three cannons with probably five guys each on 'em...and five of us. We should go for the the near and center ones first, then just hit the third one with fire from one of the cannons. Orun and I can take out the five at the first cannon and give you three time to get to the second."

She got a grudging confirmation from the big man, and probably only because he was paying more attention to how the salt water was making her shirt cling to her boobs. The red-headed twins nodded, grabbing Siren by the arms and gave her a simultaneous peck on the cheek. "For luck," they explained with a grin. But they didn't head off straight away, looking at the bigger, more muscular half-Orc.

Siren's eyes slipped from amethyst to deep blue as they slipped from the twins to Orun. "What about you, big guy? You in?"

[Green is the new black.]

“Of course I’m in,” Orun grunted. A that point, his voice became uncharacteristically businesslike. “But we’re probably going to have some problems with this plan. I have no doubt that we can capture the cannons if we move quickly, but that won’t get us into the tower. If we shoot at the third cannon, we’ll lose our element of surprise”

"We have three on five and two on five,” replied the half-Mer. “At the best, we're going to probably make enough noise to lose the element of surprise before going for the third cannon, anyway. True, cannon crews aren't trained to fight well at close quarters, but numbers will initially give them the advantage.”

“The surprise will give us the advantage greater than their numbers, Siren,” he explained. It was an odd feeling to be arguing with her; this was the first time that he hadn’t gone along with her ideas. Perhaps he’d never cared enough to disagree in the past. “That tower is far enough away that anyone in or on it won’t be able to hear a tiny skirmish all the way down here. That is, unless we fire a cannon. If we were to shoot any of them off, it should be at the tower. I don’t know much about artillery, but that’d probably take at least two shots to blow the top off of that thing.”

Gray flickered from Siren's eyes; Orun recognized it as a sure sign of annoyance. He was the only one on the island who knew her well enough to distinguish it from the placid silver. “The tower is only a hundred or so yards further from the cannons than the cannons are from each other,” she said, her voice lowering into a tone of well-concealed irritation. “Drow sentries do not take their duty lightly; we risk being seen by both the tower and the ships already. How do you propose, then, that we even get to the third before we stir up this hornet's nest?”

The half-Orc formed an infuriatingly confident grin; that, too, was very unlike him. “Simply. First, we wait here for a couple more minutes. Then, we kill the first two cannon crews as quickly and quietly as possible and turn them to face the tower. From what I saw coming toward the island, we should be able to see at least part of the anchored enemy ships. We wait until the cook sets the first one on fire, and then we fire the cannons at the tower and run for the third gun. Between the chaos of the cannons firing and the ships burning, we should have no trouble all ganging up on the third cannon and circling around the tower to grab the prisoners. If we time it right, we might even be able to meet up with the other two once they take care of the ships.”

“Fine, Orun, we’ll do it your way,” she grumbled with a scowl, her eyes going darker under the trace of moonlight that filtered through the clouds. “But if we get killed, it’s your fault.”

He shrugged before nodding to the other three. The brothers gave Siren another round of luck kisses and vanished into the rocks and trees with the giant oaf following. The green-skin doubted that they’d all die. A couple of them might, but he wagered that the casualties would be far lighter this way than shooting off a cannon at the beach and then trying to rush a fully intact fortified tower.

Siren and Orun departed moments later, rounding the beach to sneak up on the first of the cannon crews and wait for the right time to strike. The half-Orc shot his partner a couple of glances, only to have her glare back. She was still irritated with him. At that point, though, survival and their mission were bigger concerns than Siren's ire.

It would be a long night.

[Breaker]

Loose Cannon
Quest Judgement

This is scoring reasonably high despite being an incomplete quest. You two worked well together, and you're both great writers. Not necessarily your best writing, but I know you've both improved since this was written, and it was almost always an enjoyable read except for a few dragging points. Since I help both of you with editing every once in awhile, I feel like additional commentary would be somewhat redundant, besides which, Siren requested low commentary. Here are the numbers, and you both have my AIM if you want to talk about anything.

STORY

Continuity ~ 5/10.
Setting ~ 7/10.
Pacing ~ 5/10.

CHARACTER

Dialogue ~ 6/10.
Action ~ 7/10.
Persona ~ 8/10.

WRITING STYLE

Technique ~ 7/10.
Mechanics ~ 7/10.
Clarity ~ 6/10.

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card ~ 5/10. Finish your threads! But I added a point for the girl on girl action.

TOTAL ~ 63/100.

EXP and GP Rewards

Green_is_the_new_black receives 900 EXP and 500 GP
Siren receives 950 EXP and 500 GP
Christoph receives 2346 EXP and 200 GP

Other Rewards

Orun receives a brass medallion that says "Once you go green, you turn red" in finely engraved letters, hung from a red silk ribbon. He also receives a paperback book on Coronian culture. These were left in his bunk anonymously, but it was the Captain's daughter who put them there.

Siren receives a sail-canvas waterbra, with extremely erotic poetry written on each breast. Same anonymous benefactor as Orun's gift.

Christopher receives a sealed glass jar full of rancid potatoskins and fisheads. If broken open, a smell so awful it would make most people gag will temporarily fill the area. It was left anonymously in his bunk by Orun.

[Zook Murnig]

EXP/GP ADDED!!!

GREEN IS THE NEW BLACK LEVELS UP!

CHRISTOPH LEVELS UP!