Red Panty Night [OPEN Althanasday Thread!]

The waves rolled and roiled like a woman’s curves as the wind carried the Deadman’s Trove across the open salt water separating Scara Brae from Corone.

Marigold the Freebooter leaned on the prow guardrail of his sturdy three-masted corvette, enjoying the harsh spray on his bearded face. The sun warmed his sifan-clad back as his sharp eyes roved the horizon, searching for the first sign of land. Bulky cloud formations had begun to form in the distance, signifying the nearness of firm ground.

“Longeyes!” the Freebooter barked the nickname he’d given to his best lookout. “Get ye’ up the mainmast and sit awhile in the nest. Give us a loud shout when ye’ lay eyes on the shoals of Serenti.”

“Aye, cap’n!” The lanky pirate called cheerily, and then bounded up the thickly bound mast like a squirrel taking to a tree. With his massive hands and slender frame, the young man’s build was perfectly suited to the task.

Marigold bit back a sigh as he watched his underling climb. Before he’d wrested control from the Trove’s former captain, sitting in the little bucket atop the mainmast had been his duty. He had an eye for horizons, and part of him missed the meditative aspects of simply sitting and scanning for hours at a time.

He blinked and shook his head, salt-encrusted dreadhawk rasping against the back of his red sifan shirt. Those days were long gone, and he had many captainish duties to fulfill before they reached their destination.

“Peaches!” he barked, straightening up and turning on his heel. The short, barrel-chested pirate who always had a cudgel on his belt stepped forward from the shade of a sailcloth shadow. Peaches had a strong chin bearing a long scar and a deadly expression in his eyes. Marigold had given him his nickname because it could not possibly have been less descriptive.

“Aye cap’n?” the solid mate grunted.

“Do a full sweep of the second deck,” Marigold said, stroking his beaded beard. “Check all the guns and make sure they’re primed and dry. I’d prefer less misfires than we had on the last raid.”

“Aye, cap’n.” Peaches put a palm on his cudgel and strode amidships toward the nearest ladder hatch.

“Chester! Arrrrnold!” Marigold called as he swaggered in the mate’s wake, “with me, lads. ‘Tis time to rouse the crew.”

“Ye’ reckon we’re nearly there cap’n?” Arnold asked.

The call came from above.

“Laaand hoooo!”

~*~

“Congratulations on your victory at the invitational, Lord Cunningham.”

“Why thank you, Frederick. My final opponent put up quite a fight… but I’ve still energy left in me.” The young lordling said as he gazed out at the ocean from the boathouse balcony of his estate. Although he’d been standing there conversing with his wizened advisor for some time, Torvald Cunningham could not stop thinking about his beautiful wife.

He had bedded her only twice in the year of their marriage; on the night of consummation, and on their first anniversary when he’d purchased those strange foreign spice cakes from a peddler-fae he’d met. The combination of two cakes and a cup of wine had sent his beautiful bride into a colorful mood. She’d donned her brightest red bloomers and straddled his lap in a fashion he’d never experienced before or since.

But surely his victory at the invitational would inspire such an attitude. If he had his way, it would be a red panty night.

“What occupies your mind, my lord?” Frederick asked.

“What? Nothing, just… surveying the grounds,” Torvald said, hastily sweeping his eyes across his property. It was a large estate laid along the beachfront and surrounded by high stone walls which extended out into a semi-protected harbor. Two skiffs and a sloop bobbed at anchor there, all gifts of different occasion from relatives. Within the walls on land there was the guardhouse by the main gate, the smokehouse by the side gate, and of course the main keep and attached stables. It took a staff of thirty to keep the grounds and buildings, and Torvald had another thirty fighters on his payroll as guards. They were mostly a mismatch of local mercenaries, but some had experience in the Armed Forces. All in all, he felt quite safe and satisfied with his--

“I say, is that a frigate that just sailed into sight?” Frederick interrupted his employer’s thoughts.

Torvald squinted, following the older man’s finger. “Hard to say at this distance, but it looks more the size of a corvette to me. Probably just the navy doing a coastal sweep.”

A dim flicker of light emanated from the ship, like a glimpse of distant chain lightning.

“I say, what was--”

“Get down!” Frederick bellowed, tackling his lord around the knees and knocking him to the floor.

The boathouse masonry erupted as the first salvo of cannonballs slammed home.

[This is an open free-for-all thread! You can choose to be a member of a the pirate crew, a part of Lord Cunningham's staff, or an independent party who gets involved for their own reasons. Feel free to contact me if you have any questions; if necessary I'll create an OOC thread and link it here.]

Pirating came quite naturally to Storm Veritas, however fitting into the background was an undertaking all of its own.

Iron cannonballs... shit, it's like they cooked up this little charade just to watch me do my thing.

With a devilish grin, the long and lean traveler feigned a hint of fear as a captain walked by. He was reloading the cannon, pouring a healthy charge of black powder from a thick burlap satchel down the eye-slot, while his newfound "partner", a half-wit named Judd, or something equally stupid, waited patiently to roll the heavy ball down the business end of the cannon. This simpleton across the steel cannon from him was a bit bossy, but the older wizard let him have his moment. Storm refrained from explaining how easily with a flick of a wrist he could fire the cannonball through the mast of that other little ship on his own, with Judd's fat ass still gripping the ball like a pregnant woman massaging her baby.

"Almost done, just lemme get an even pack; we don't want the big boy to go flying off crooked!" The simple words were painful coming out of Storm's mouth, far beneath him in the grand scheme. He was, at his core, a politician, a silver-tongued con who much more often legislated his way to wealth, and used his abilities to cut corners.

Not today.

Today, he was one of them. He was dressed in tight-wrapped cloth himself - mostly browns and blacks, pulled taut as to not catch on any running hooks or swinging masts. The nasty clothes concealed his daggers by his hips, and allowed him to tuck a small pouch of assorted goodies under his left armpit. The clothes also stunk to high hell - a sort of blend of raw ocean funk and the sickening sweet smell of stale sweat. This helped him fit in; his normal clean shave replaced with a third-day brown and gray stubble. He didn't cut his hair, and refused to ruin his spectacular smile. Certain assets weren't worth risking in the grand scheme of things.

Today, he knew the little ship they raided held some particularly valuable artifacts. As a pirate he was only entitled to a hand's share - roughly one percent of the ship's total take - but as Storm Goddamned Veritas he would take what he wanted and kill anyone who tried to stop him. In all likelihood, he'd slip out with the grand prize - a pillowcase full of diamonds - and be a tuft of smoke before the rest of this crew of fools knew half the difference.

"Oh fu...."

And all she had wanted was a holiday.

She stood at the veranda of a private beach house, the sun baring down upon her fair skin. Lord Cunningham was the name of the master of the vast estate she had rented the lodge from, who had land aplenty and small holdings like this one. It was a perfect place for one such as herself to escape to; to forget the worries of life and work.

That being, it would have been very good, and worthwhile, for the week she had planned of just her and her fox-form familiar, were it not for the sails appearing on the horizon.

And then the sound of guns. Aiming right at the mansion nestled on the shore.

"Damn."

Philomel ducked down, her eyes going dark as she lowered herself below the railings of the veranda, which was barely a cover at all. The ship itself looked like one of an older design than her own, with all white sails and dark wood, though from this distance she could not be sure. Pirates were likely, and these days it was possible because her connections to the pirating community, despite the fact she technically still rented a ship from the Pirate King Malachi, were frail. Instead she was a matriarch and a warrior queen, and that suited her.

But it was not good that there was an attack. Now. Whilst she was on holiday. How very rude.

Another boom and she saw an explosion rattling the side of the mansion. Two figures were hiding, likely Lord Cunningham himself and a friend, hunkering down at the balcony of the huge house a mile from hers. They seemed male, which made sense, and were perhaps fearful. What was good was that the ship seemed to be aiming at them, not her - and that was good.

For now.

But now she had to make a decision. To stay where she was or run and aid those in peril.

What was certain was that her holiday - it was ruined.

[Sorry this took so long, if y'all are still down let's have some fun!]

The blood soaked through the heavy fabric of his jacket, but Torvald wrapped the garment tighter around his servant’s head.

“Frederick! Speak to me!” The young lord had dragged his advisor inside what remained of the boathouse, but the damage was done. A chunk of masonry had struck Frederick in the side of the fate, and even his padded wig had not protected him from its weight and momentum. His eyes were barely responsive to Torvald’s desperate gaze, but his hand clenched the younger man’s wrist powerfully and his lips moved, forming pained words.

“You must… to the keep,” the dying man gasped. “Your wife… bears a secret… I meant to tell you myself, but now there is no time. Fall back behind your fighters, my lord. Live, and avenge me another day…”

“Frederick, don’t say such things!” Hot tears shone in Torvald’s eyes as the building shook beneath a second salvo from the sea. He covered his head as more masonry crumbled inward. “You will tell me this secret yourself, after we’ve returned to the keep together!” He commanded his servant, but the older man had slumped limply to the floor, eyes gazing sightlessly at the ceiling.

Torvald shook his head, refusing to believe his mentor could be dead. He was not a man of medicine; the only way he knew to check for life signs was by holding a polished blade above the man’s lips to see whether a sheen formed. But he could not take the time. More cannonballs would be striking home before long. He grabbed the padded shoulders of Frederick’s jacket and dragged his servant beneath a stout table, where he would have at some modest protection in case the ceiling crumbled. Then Torvald climbed to his feet, legs badly shaken, and sprinted down the stairs and into the courtyard.

~*~

“Hahaharrr! Good shooting laddos, I didn’t like the looks of that building much. It seems a much holier place now, and you know my fondness for the Thayne!”

The comment earned Marigold a wave of laughter from the landing crew, which surrounded him on the main deck’s starboard side.

“See if ye’ can sink those ugly little boats in the harbor!” Marigold bellowed as the Trove came about for another broadside, “we wouldn’t want any of the little Coronian lassies and lads slipping away by sea!”

He threw back his head and roared with laughter, the sound drowned out by the canonical music of his longuns. “To the boats, boyos!” the Freebooter cackled, leaping toward the first longboat. He perched in the prow as his crew lowered it to the strangely serene waters. Ladders and ropes descended down the ship’s side, and the pirates all but slid down to join their captain. They filled the four longboats out nicely, and set about rowing landward with pistols pointed forward and cruel intentions painted across their faces.

Lead the way, morons.

Storm had found himself moving quickly and with effective silence, as the mayhem accompanying the siege of the small town led to no need for any sort of skillful espionage. He ran forward, moving down hand over hand from the large, rickety wooden ladder to the longboat below. He was forced to leap into the thing from a good eight feet, his eyes remaining cognizant of the wooden benches crosses the boat. Breaking an ankle would do him no good.

"Land loud enough? Fill from the front; edges shoot and middles row!" The brown toothed man-goblin ordering him barked, his mouth a wash of foulness and irrefutable stink. He was a nothing; the wizard moved forward in his silly pirate-like clothing.

Middle. Of course. Son of a whore.

The oars were nearly as rough as the seas, and despite his gloves the electromancer feared for splinters. They were a long way from lethal, but certainly no fun in any regard. Seated between two larger men, he pulled on the long wooden lever with reasonable force, watching hairy, dough stuffed arms race about him.

"Pick it up, small fry! If your skinny ass can't row, we don't need the weight!" The twenty-something scoundrel to his right snapped at him, obscenely large pit stains darkening the edges of his gray shirt in disgusting ovals.

"Don't worry about me; just keep your fat ass from having a heart attack on us." Veritas had calculated that a show of strength would be more in order to gain support than supplication; if push had come to shove the lithe wizard was a terrible person to meet on open water.

For his troubles, the larger man on the opposite oar said nothing, instead jostling Storm with passive aggressive rows as they pulled the thin vessel through the chop. On his left, it appeared the former Serenti Champion in hiding had found a friend; this particular scoundrel was impressed with the display of boldness.

"Don't worry about him. In a couple of hours, we'll be nuts deep in the brothel with heavier pockets. He's just nervous and scared." The whisper was clear beneath the ambient noise of cannon fire, as well as the loud splashes about him as the dock returned fire.

About them, the battle was beginning to rage. One ship had been struck with a shot to the bow, sending men either flying off the edges as smart cowards or sinking into crimson-trailed heaps as brave corpses. It was a terrible thing; perhaps worse yet was the sharks that would come soon to chase the scent of blood in the water.

We'll be long dry before the white-tips arrive.

Storm's eyes were fixed on the cannons; the perceived threat from the shore that were just rolled into place. They were mostly awful shots, but enough of even the most erratic throws was statistically bound to hit them. No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than did a single shot make its bearing straight for their little high speed rowboat. Calmly, with one hand still upon the oar, Storm gestured at the incoming projectile with a subtle flick of his wrist, seen by none who were all transfixed on death soaring for them. His electromagnetic pulse was enough to redirect the cannonball slightly higher, driving it off pace and sailing into the ocean behind him.

Three or four men had already decided their fates, jumping ship into the water. These pirates were instantly discarded as "cowards", as though the men rowing from the middle would be any more brave if positioned outside the vessel. In a savage display of uniform contempt, the remainder of men on the boat re-spaced themselves, filling in for the new found room as they rowed forward, out of distance from the men in the water, who gulped sea water as their clothes began to tug them down.

And if you can't swim... don't sign up to be a pirate.

The shore was creeping close with pace; the rowers whom had graduated as replacement shooters continued to scramble to provide cover as hell continued to rain down.

"Oh well this is awful," Philomel sighed as she watched through the gaps in the fence the pirates beginning to come onto shore.

She threw a glance to Veridian, who blinked his great golden eyes back at her and very plainly said, Do not ask me.

"Is Lord Cunningham owing money to pirates or something?" she asked, with growing concern. "Because honestly that was not in the description of the house when we rented it. Or when we met him." He had been a little proud, and smarmy for her liking, a kind of nobility she usually avoided, or used for money. Overall he had not been a pleasant fellow and it was possible that he owed money to Malachi or had some sort of tiff with another pirate.

That, or there was another lord staying who had irritated the pants off these land-haters, or the pirates were just doing what they did best - looting. Coming in, guns blazing, crying out that they owned this and that.

A misfire, or a deliberate fire, caught a ping of her verandah, sending splinters showering over her form. Cursing, she reached towards the fox-form of her soul's-twin and familiar, Veridian the earth-spirit, and bundled him unhappily under her arm.

"And guns," she cursed, "I hate guns."

Overall, she was just moody that her holiday was ruined. For after the pirates had taken their fill of treasure and death it was likely there would be an inquiry. And Philomel hated them. Absolute mood killers they were. So, she had a choice. She could go and defend Cunningham, or whoever was at the main lodge, or she could turn tail and run.

Ping. Another shot.

What was clear, though, was that she was not going to last long here, in the open. And doing nothing but quaking in fear ... well that had never been her way.

And so she growled, tucking Veridian under one arm and scrambled back inside as she saw the house beginning to swarm with pirates. She had to do something, at least, because either way this vacation was over. Grabbing her small satchel and array of weaponry she ignored Veridian's cries of protest and pulled in her breath. She summoned up her will, pulling in the magic from the very earth and natural fibres around them and made for the house.

To appear suddenly, standing in the way of the pirates and very loudly complain.

"Hey. I am on holiday here. Now kindly depart and give me peace."

The bottoms of the pirate longboats crunched up the pebbled beach like giant jaws chewing glass. The experienced buccaneers had easily slipped over the harbor’s poor excuse for a boom chain, which still hung semi-slack beneath the surface.

Marigold’s booted feet struck the ground running, his blade bared before any of the crew could drop an oar or lift a weapon. Spurred on by their captain’s bravado, the pirates gave voice to bloodcurdling war cries and pursued their leader up the shallow embankment.

“Whoever kills the most guards gets first share of the spoils!” Peaches bellowed, his booming baritone crashing up the beach.

“Aye, and first share of the Coronian maidens!” Longeyes shouted in his tight tenor.

Marigold’s own bloodlust tempered itself suddenly. He considered and turning around to run the lookout through, but decided to be more forgiving than that. After all, Longeyes hadn’t done anything unacceptable. A man could yell whatever he pleased if it roused him for battle.

The cool air whistled through the pirate captain’s shaggy hair and braided beard as he led the charge through the little villa toward the main building. That was where they’d find the best booty, and likely the strongest resistance. By the light of the moon he saw the shadow of a man slipping towards the mansion’s double doors.

For a moment, Marigold figured his eyes were showing him only what he wanted to see. What were the odds of a lone target being caught out and about after all that cannon fire? But then the shadow shifted, and something glinted in the moonlight.

The corsair captain drew a long double-barreled wheellock pistol and fired without hesitation. The shot tore a chunk from the door as it opened to admit the fleeing man, who ducked and covered his head as the door slammed behind him.

~*~

“By Trisgen’s wrath!” Torvald panted from where he’d fallen in his haste to get inside the house. “That pirate nearly got me!”

“My Lord!” Elona Mink, the matron of the household and Torvald’s wife’s personal attendant, rushed forward to help him to his feet. The stout woman had a strong energy about her wizened frame, but her ordinarily steady hand shook with fear. “I sent the girls to hide with Lady Helen, and told the guards to arm themselves and look to the windows with longbows.” She wrung her shriveled hands, short grey hair seeming to stand on end as she paced back and forth. “But what good will bows do us, if the pirates have firearms?”

“Plenty, as long as they’re outside,” Torvald said as he found his balance and placed a comforting hand on the small of her back. “A bow is more accurate than the type of guns those cutthroats are likely to carry, Elona. We won’t see the true power of their weapons unless they get inside.”

More shots rang out, windows shattered, and screams rent the night as warriors fell on both sides.

“We must muster some of the men into patrols, in case they do break in,” Torvald mused, stroking his shaven chin, “quickly now; you take the rooms in the east wing, and I’ll take the west. Send one in every three men back here to meet me. Those who have the least skill with a bow, mind; leave the strong archers at their stations.”

Elona’s frame expanded as she gulped a deep breath, but then she nodded and turned to leave.

“Wait!” Torvald said suddenly, and she looked over her shoulder quizzically. “Frederick said… he said that Helen is withholding a secret. Something I must know--”

Elona’s eyes widened and she swept away, shaking her head. “Tis not for me to speak about, my lord. Besides, we must hurry… I’ll do as you say and fetch the men to this side. One in every third shall join you shortly.” She vanished around the corner at a full run, moving faster than Torvald had ever seen her move in their many years together.

Is she running from the pirates? the lordling wondered, or from sharing Helen’s secret?

Storm stopped to look at his hands as his boat hit shore, exasperated by the ease of the whole thing. The two battalions used such simple, stupid weapons; cannonballs or blunderbuss or arrows. There wasn’t a scent of other magicians in the air; if there were others like him in this environment none had tipped their hands just yet. Hearing the commander call for blood, he couldn’t help but laugh at the whole thing.

You don’t know war; you don’t know REAL hell. These little paltry skirmishes are child’s play in the grand scheme; this is a dress rehearsal.

Of course, the pirates and guards dying this battle felt pretty fucking real, but to the wizard, amateur hour. He contemplated raising one of the metal-suited guards from afar, suspending the man amongst his brethren, and crushing his chest from afar. Perhaps the display would scare off enough guards to let the pirates ferry through and take what they needed most simply.

Or perhaps these morons around you mark you for a witch and turn their sole attention on you. The heat hasn’t exactly abated from Radasanth; just get the money.

He was charging forward smoothly, a dance upon the hard-packed sands as guards came up towards and about him. The electromancer was fluid like water; darting, dashing and spinning to a silent rhythm that beat the drum within his head. There was no need for him to slow the progress by killing these guards; they were no more serious a threat to him than a gnat buzzing about your face on a warm summer’s night. Besides, Veritas felt no particular allegiance to the pirate commander or any of these sniveling wretches; they were but a means to an end.

The first large building that they were told to take lay before him, merely fifty feet or so and looking ravaged. The windows were already blown out; the once-wood frames shattered splinters and fresh new windows blown through by incoming cannon fire. Storm knew that entry was easy; he could take a few more steps and pop himself up to the third floor with a single burst of electromagnetic energy beneath his soles, but he still desired to maintain anonymity.

Make it look hard, but keep yourself safe.

Sliding between an oncoming guard’s legs, the magician slashed at the calves to stop one pursuant attacker. This damned fool had bee-lined to him; it was unlikely he was going to give up without some fear. Rather than easily sever the inner thigh and let him bleed out, the experienced adventurer simply maimed him. In the slide, he felt a little burn as his knees were skinned upon the hard sand. He smiled as he popped up, running forward as the guard fell hapless and enjoying the little burn.

One guard had appeared directly before the building, leaving the traveler a decision. He could mercifully hop over the man outright, landing in the open second floor, or he could slash him, bleed him, and crawl up looking very normal in the grand scheme.

Screw it. Once your inside, the pirates can’t catch you.

Pushing his hands to the earth, Storm Veritas was catapulted upward over a flabbergasted guard, tumbling with absurd ease as he somersaulted into the open second story window. His raider reds were dropped immediately – a bandana and shirt discarded leaving him almost entirely anonymous in the large, dusty, conveniently abandoned room.

It turned out that she was fooled. Those she had teleported to be in front were not the main group of pirates and in fact the invasion was taking place over there.

Philomel curled her lip with an edge of distaste. She was so used to being noticed, and though yes she liked privacy sometimes (this holiday was a prime example of such a thing) she was not used to being ignored. For heaven's sake, she had ample bosom that many seemed intent on staring at, she had riches in personality and could hold a man's lustful attention with just her words for hours before he was allowed to touch her. Now, it seemed, all that had been lost, reduced to a few glances as the pirates rushed to join their main party.

"Well that is certainly not polite," she said, as she became a mere distraction and annoyance in this coup. Letting out a sigh she stepped to the side, watching the main wooden platforms become swarmed and swamped with striped shirts, cutlasses and snarls. A large clash of guards and buccaneers seemed to be taking place upon the beach front, ruining her view from her own small cabin. A wider perspective told of the assault on the building itself - a proper assail with guns and cannons, which the faun hated so much.

Stepping back, figuring she was going to be ignored, Philomel let a pirate with dreadlocks and a fetching eye-patch pass before her as he came up to the wrong area like her. He paused, eyeing her drawn sword and the fox at her feet. Throwing up her hands she gestured over to where the battle was taking place.

"Over there, my friend," she said, just sighing now. She had been angry. Now she was dismayed.

The pirate gave her a quizzical look. "Thar other nobles be up in th'buildin' ... behin' skirts of their guards ..."

"Well some of them were on the verandah, might still be on the balcony," she said with a shrug. "I was on holiday. Tried to tell people that they were rude to disturb it but I missed my mark by some metres."

There was a whoosh as sand was thrown up suddenly. Some wizard or other was making his entrance, and the faun curled her lip, thankful suddenly that she was that far away. That she had made her stupid mistake. Veridian was dancing by her feet. Perhaps, Philomel thought, she should try to find the 'other' lords and ladies, and offer to get them away from here instead of complaining about the ruin of her holiday.

"Ah - ahrigh'," Mr Dreadlocks said. "Ah I go figh' noo."

"You go do that," she nodded, and looked down at her foxy companion. "Well that was interesting," she remarked.

The pirate rushed off. She found herself actually smiling.

"I think we should ... go elsewhere," she concluded.

And she bent down to pick up Veridian. He complained. Philomel ignored him. Sucking in her breath she focused on the world around them and the inherent nature within the place, and summoned Drys' will. As with before the world opened up beneath them, a portal coming into existence at her hooves. It pulled them both down and away, and this time took her to where she wanted to be.

Before Torvald and his party. Within the house.

"Greetings," she said, quite politely and with a small curtsy.