(Dear god I apologize. I am terrible with starters. Only a few have direct orders, the rest of y'all can attack at will basically, fire cannons, pew pew, sing a shanty, or just freak out over the battle. Player's choice. XD )
The sound of a cannon whizzing by followed by another striking one of the sails with a loud rip sound was nearly covered by the shouts of the crews of The Whimsical Lady and her current enemy The Weatherby (which was supposedly named after the merchant who paid for it's creation). They had gotten word that a merchant vessel would be transporting a relic to Theace, the only problem was the information wasn't very accurate. The Weatherby was actually a naval airship flying Flyrian colors and the moment they had spotted The Whimsical Lady they were quick to engage in a skirmish.
"This is the last time I pay Gordon for bloody information," Captain Vyxyl raged loudly while gripping tightly on the wheel at the helm. "Take out their mast, light their sails aflame, and secure yourselves or risk getting the belly flop of a life, we're going from air to sea! Rotate the sails!"
Captain Vyxyl began to push the wheel forward prompting the skyship's bow to tilt downward towards the ocean below. "Keep firing cannons at them as we go down, I want holes in their hull" she barked loudly as the wheel vibrated from the turbulence and speed of the approach to the water. She grunted with effort as she began to pull the wheel back to stop their descent before they crashed into the water, the bottom of the ship smacking into the water jostled everyone aboard and water splashed wildly around them as she turned hard in a drifting maneuver before their hull was full int contact with the water which would slow maneuvering.
"Tyr, take over," Captain Vyxel ordered of her First Mate. "Oliver the moment they get in range you burn their sails. Raelyn, pick off who is being a peep. Tara, if those idiots even touch the water pierce the hull and please don't fuckin' flood it! We all want a damn payday. The rest of you kill anyone that manages to board!"
She released the wheel and concentrated to fill the sails with wind to push them almost directly under The Weatherby making it difficult and nearly impossible for them to use their cannons against them, but the cannons top deck aboard their ship could be angled up and destroy that lovely hull which would force them to stay out of the water.
The wooden door to the lower decks SMASHED open, as a bearded two-meter-tall old man emerged with a staff. He stretched a bit, his bones reverberating through his body in a staccato, as he smacked his lips together a few times. Upon doing so, he asked evenly and tiredly, "Whetter's this terribl' ruckus y'ell'r makin'?"
A speeding ball of pitch-black flew over his head at subsonic speeds. Grimgal blinked. Grimgal scowled.
He turned to look, yelling, "Who dares?!"
Seeing the Weatherby, Grimgal's expression filled itself with rage. "Flyrian dogs!" he spat. Grimgal turned to the crew, mostly speaking to the captain, saying, "I'll be back in a moment!"
He walked down to the lower decks in a hasty but measured trod. An old man like himself couldn't afford to exert himself too much.
A minute later, Grimgal was back, holding a large rounded glass object in his hands. It was like a sphere of enamel; like a sized-up marble ball. Within it was a slowly swirling tornado of green color. Grimgal brought the ball to one of the cannons, loaded it in, then fired it.
Soon after leaving the cannon, the ball of glass broke halfway from one ship to the other and released the alchemic essence of distilled wind, forming a miniature tornado and hurtling it towards the enemy ship. The tornado wasn't too powerful, and was unlikely to knock the ship out of the air, but had the potency to alter or mess with its course, the projectiles fired on it, or even to blow crew off of it, if they didn't veer to avoid it.
"Have a taste of this old man's farts, Flyrian scum!"
The deafening roar of cannons, wild splintering of wood as they were struck, yells and barked orders, the threat of death by way big, charcoal-colored iron balls....
Such was the terror of being locked in naval combat. Never knowing that at a moment's notice, you could be splattered across the deck and onto your crewmates.
Everyone was working like a nest of bees that had been punted and rightly so. Everyone except one.
Oliver had been doing.... well.... Oliver things up until combat had commenced. Which is a nice way of saying that he was just standing about while the crew worked. Once the battle had begun, Oliver quietly shuffled out of everyone's way so they could do their work. It was not that he could not help man the stations but rather, that he had no idea which task to complete.
Normally, the captain gives him orders ahead of time if they are expecting a fight but today unexpected. So, Oliver did what he always did when he didn't know what to do. He just stood aside so he wouldnt get in anyone's way.
Even when a cannonball struck the hell and sent hundreds of pieces of shrapnel his way, he didnt move. Now the undead pyromancer had large chunks of wood sticking out of him and he still stood as if nothing was wrong.
It was only when the captain barked her orders that the lifeless corpse... well... came to life. His head snapped upwards to his target and he walked out to the center of the deck.
Or as well as one could when you looked like a human porcupine.
The old man and head healer of the ship came out yelling some odd things that Oliver had trouble understanding, disappeared for a moment, then reemerged with a miniature tornado in hand, and launched it at the enemy.
It wasn't big nor powerful enough to engulf the ship.... but it was enough.
The heartless zombie lazily lifted a hand towards the tornado and bottom of the ship and wordlessly sent forth a gout of searing flame into it.
The tornado did not change at first but as Oliver kept feeding it fire, the tornado eventually became a spinning maelstrom of hot air, flame, and death. The flames licked up the side of the enemy hull and if you listened carefully, the barks of orders atop their deck were quickly replaced by yells of alarm and screams of pain and panic as some people were set ablaze.
Good. They were starting to panic.
Oliver ceased his fire stream and then lifted both arms out to the side, facing port and starboard respectively.
One could see magic gathering in each hand. Smoldering, wild, and desperate to break free of its chains, as was the nature of flame. Still, Oliver continued charging, making the spell progressively harder and harder to control... and it showed. Liquid fire had begun to spill out of his hands and onto the deck, starting a small fire at his feet but he paid it no mind.
The zombie took a deep breath... and released the spell.
Two boulder sized fireballs launched out of Oliver's grip, each arcing out and upwards towards the enemy ship.
They flew in a crescent shape on each side, flying around the hull and above the enemy deck. The two titans clashed in a massive pyroclastic blast, setting the sails ablaze and simultaneously raining arcane flames down upon the enemy deck.
The zombie idly thought when they were going to invent some type of wax to make sails fire resistant or something because setting sails ablaze was becoming too easy.
He wondered how would people come about making that invention as the screams of the panic-stricken filled the air above them.
He awaited his next orders quietly as he picked several stake-sized chunks of wood out of his chest.
Harper was a wreck, and much like the rest of the ship, panicking, but unlike the others, not being particularly productive.
He'd been in the middle of sifting through noted of food supplies records and ensuring that they were up-to-date while everyone else was tending to the ship, when the sound of people yelling and a mixture of gun and cannon-fire met his ears.
"BWAAK, DON'T LIKE THIS, NOPE NOT AT ALL!" he yelled, falling over a chair in the officers' cabin as he scurried for the door, fumbled with its handle and kicked it open as he rushed outside, not wanting to leave the safety of the room, but finding the idea of being drowned in it significantly less appealing that being shot to death, choosing the more swift death if it had to come.
Slipping through the short corridor and climbing up the stairs out of the lower deck, his talons failing to grip onto the wooden floors as he practically pushed himself off the ground every two seconds, he arrived on the deck, arrived to chaos.
The enemy ship was particularly worrying in that it was large, and the swaying of their ship seemed to indicate rocky waves, which was never a good sign for battle but at least he wasn't the captain that had to somehow steer the thing with everything else going on.
Harper was not a fighter, he was too weak to carry cannonballs, he couldn't even hold, never mind aim, a gun, and was almost useless in any form of battle due to the physiology of his kind. What he was good at, was seeing things and staying away from danger, which didn't appear to be neither helpful or possible in this situation, which left him flopping about like a fish out of water as he struggled to find something to do.
His mind drifted to fleeing, but of course he would be a flying duck in the air, not to mention he didn't have the energy to fly all the way back to some sort of land, so that became a non-option.
It was around this time that he began regretting his decision to become a pirate. The idea had been to sail the seas, enjoy what was essentially a vacation for the rest of his life with some nice job involving books, which was what he had as the quarter-master, but it was things like this that made him wish he could reverse time and maybe even go back to that silly nation-wide cult that he had abandoned following some prophet around.
Jules fixated his eyes on a cannon, and while he couldn't lift or move the thing, he knew how to clean and prepare one for fire, and set to doing that, shoving the large brush down it and placing the gunpowder inside, moving from unprepared cannon to unprepared cannon and repeating the process, trying not to get shot by either his ship-mates or the enemies and ensuring the creepy pirate surgeon didn't try to nick any of his feathers while he wasn't looking make some creepy voodoo doll of him. @Birdsie@Fyuri
Sherlyn watched from the rigging as the boat that was supposed to be a merchant ship but was instead a naval vessel began firing on them. Either they'd been hoodwinked or their informant was genuinely stupid. Not that it mattered now. There was no peaceful way out of this.
Sherlyn adjusted her glasses and put a spyglass to her eye, looking over the Weatherby. There were quite a few enemies on that ship. A full crew. It looked like some of them were ready to jump onto the Whimsical Lady. Well that couldn't be allowed to happen.
Sherlyn put the spyglass away and drew her bow. Knocking an arrow she took aim. Just as one guy jumped she released the arrow, piercing his heart. She did this thrice more as three more guys attempted to jump onto the ship. Serves them right.
"Damme Cap'n," Tyr yelled as he grabbed at the wheel. "Jo need ta be givin' a mon a moments notice eh?!"
Vyx didn't reply, but then again, Tyr really hadn't expected her to. She was busy trying to conjure up enough wind so that they had enough maneuverability to stay out from under the damned warship but close enough to stay out of the play of her guns. That first broadside in mid-air had been quite enough, and they damned sure didn't want to be caught by another. Tyr cursed loudly as the never to be sufficiently damned pyro followed Vyx's orders without a care as to where their ship was. Between the conjured tornado and the flames, under the warship was suddenly not a good place to be. Tyr fought the wheel, trying to move the Lady out a bit farther from under the burning ship. The last thing they needed was for their own rigging to catch fire from falling debris.
"Got's ta steer wider Cap'n!" Tyr yelled as he wrestled the Lady into a slightly wider circle under the flaming warship. "Don give a damn that we got's a pyro. That crap fall on us, we be da one's talkin to da fishes."
Marceline was in full alert. Since the start of combat, she had finished stowing away all the provisions, locking all the kitchen tools in place, and even found a place to set down her cat with a nice fishy meal in an empty pot. Now she was running up the decks towards the sounds of yelling. Catching the tail end of the Captain's orders, Marceline peered out onto deck and let her eyes wander across the chaos before landing on the Oliver, or perhaps more accurately, the fire at Oliver's feet. She ran back inside, grabbed a bucket and scooped some water from the ballast before running out to the upper deck.
"Oliver! Move over a bit!" Marceline yelled as she turned over the bucket of water, dousing the small fire on the deck before stomping on the remaining embers. She then pushed the undead towards some relative safety away where he could continue to attend to his wounds.
She then turned her attention back to the deck. Marceline went around the deck, casting light wind on the falling embers, and tossing out whatever flaming debris that lands on the ship.
Grulashk Magrbak While fighting was raging out some of the crew still turned around to see when a large, green goliath emerged out of the lower decks with blood shot eyes holding a cannonball in one hand and a ruined cake in the other. One of the reasons this was weird was because Grulashk usually didn't leave the kitchen without reason and secondly he was never this angry, so what could have happened to annoy the gentle giant?
Well a few months prior he found out that the birthday of one of the more older gentlemen on the deck was approaching and he gathered the ingredients to make a birthday cake. In his expansive wisdom he decided he would make the cake while fighting so the birthday boy wouldn't find out, but he couldn't foresee the chance that a scattershot meant for the deck missed and shot straight through the hull where he was, somewhat penetrating his skin and the more dire offense of ruining the birthday cake.
The orc looked around until he found the enemy ship, proceeding to walk all the to the end of the deck and putting his foot on the railings and verbally abusing the enemy crew;
"wAs iT WuN Uv yA MiLk dRiNkAz 'Oo dEcIdEd tA SeNd oVa wUn uV YeR DiNgY LiL' sHeLlS? wHeN I GeT OvA 'dEr i aM GuNnA ShOvE DiS BaLl sO FaR Up yA ArSeS 'dAt pEoPlE WiLl fInK Ya aRe wIt' BaBy!" he said while looking around to the crew to notice Tyr steering the ship.
Location: Deck of The Whimsical Lady Interaction: N/A Mood: Chaotic & Irritated
The transition from air to sea was a rough one. Upon touching the waters, Raelyn was jostled and manhandled by gravity and physics. The former officer recovered quickly, however, a growl rumbling under his breath as he looked to the Captain, who was now barking orders at him and a few others before moving to put wind in their sails. There was a lot happening around him, cannons still firing, the Lady moving underneath of the Weatherby, and his crewmates launching to participate in the ensuing chaos.
He slung the long rifle from his back and made sure it was loaded before casting a glance up at the Weatherby. He caught a bit of a shock at seeing corpses already falling from the skies into the waters below. More of a shock came when both a tornado and flame struck the Weatherby. These were an unpredictable bunch, though he already knew that. Still, it seemed off to him to act without orders. He shook the thought and shouldered his rifle, eye looking through the scope to zero in on some of the Weatherby’s crew, who were peeking over the rails with flintlocks and rifles of their own in hand.
Fortunately for him, he was a far better and quicker shot than any of them. Shots rang out, one bullet splintered the wood of the deck three feet from his left foot, another flew wide and landed in the water. His shots, however, were far better. One shot caught a peeker who was now aiming a long rifle at Sherlyn, who while he was sure could handle herself, probably would appreciate not getting shot at. He took a breath and moved his sights to the next peeker, one of the bad shots, and fired, cracking him in the left side of his face.
The shouting of their cook drew his focus away from his task and he snapped his head to see the orc shouting at Tyr to whip the ship closer. A shot put a hole in a plank right in front of his foot and he cursed, quickly aiming his rifle at the skies once more to see two more of the Weatherby’s crew taking aim at him. He took them down quickly and kept his aims set on the railing of the Weatherby, jaw hardset as he tried to keep his focus while chaos rained around him. He had to trust that his crewmates would be able to make sure he wouldn’t be decapitated by debris.
"Goddamned fucking Flyrians!" Fen screamed as she sprinted across the deck of the Whimsical Lady, a cloud of parchment fluttering down behind her. All around her, chaos reigned, the shouts of her fellow crew ringing out around her. Taking haven behind one of the masts, she drew a bottle from her bag. Purple liquid swirled within, the depths turning a suspicious indigo as it caught the light. She brought it up to her eyes, carefully inspecting it before bringing it down harshly against the wood.
A spray of glass flew out and the purple liquid scattered in droplets onto the deck of the ship . The bottle was split in half, sharp edges of glass jutting out from the half that she held. Fen strode out into view of the enemy ship, the broken bottle slung over her shoulder. "Hey, you bastard, get your head outta' your ass and look over here!" She yelled before cocking back and hurling the bottle at one of the enemy's heads. It hit hard, the impact bringing several trickles of blood down his face.
She ducked away with a satisfied smile, jogging in place as her mind tried to find something she could do. "Hey Captain, mind giving me a lil' something to do?"
Emerging from the ship's bowels, roused from her sleep by the all too familiar sound of a naval battle ensuing and their captain's hollering commands at the crew, the merfolk would step unto the main deck with the vividly colored spines on her head fluttering in anticipation.
In the bright ocean sun, Tarakona's colors seemed to be of an even fierier hue as the tidestalker made her way towards the railing, the four remaining fingers of her left hand drumming unto the wood as she'd take in the sight of the Flyrian airship being hellbent on sending them to a watery grave.
"Oh my, what a day this'll be." The merfolk would purr to herself, her lips parting to reveal teeth you'd usually find inside a shark's maw and not on a trusted member of a seafaring vessel, her clear blue eyes glaring up to see their captain Vyxyl prepare to fill their sails with enough wind to keep the Flyrian dogs from using their cannons on them.
"Aye aye Cap'n! I'll keep 'em out of the water, no problem!" Tarakona would muse with an overzealous salute as she'd spin her Trident happily in her grasp, knowing very well that while she wouldn't really be all that inconvenienced if their ship were to sink, that the rest of the crew wouldn't be all too fond of the thought of being shipwrecked.
Turning around to once again draw in the sight of everyone shuffling around the ship, trying their bloody hardest to make themselves useful, the merfolk would sit on the railing, tilting her head from one side to the other as she'd exhale deeply.
Ferrying air through the gills lining her sides and neck, her marine breathing organs would stir, twitching happily in preparation of feeling saltwater flow through them once more.
And with a shrug of her shoulders, the Tarakona would nonchalantly let herself fall backwards over the railing as she'd breach the ocean's surface.
Water was everywhere, all encompassing, and as her scales rejoiced at the sensation of her element enveloping her, Tarakona would sense cannonballs breach the surface, sinking down into the depths never to be seen again.
For the other members of Captain Vyxyl's crew, the ocean might carry the fear of a watery grave, but for the Merfolk it meant home...
And the rather nifty benefit of hyrokinesis that had proven to be quite useful for a pirate's life.
Her frilly spines would come to spread her wins as the weightlessness of the waters would cause her braided hair to float behind her like a kraken's many deadly arms as Tarakona would grasp her Trident tighter, knowing that there would be plenty of time frolicking in the waters AFTER they had overcome their Frylian friend in the skies.
Surging towards the surface like a great white emerging from the depths to reap a seal, the merfolk would gather the water's current to propel herself upwards.
And unloaded the gathered forces of the ocean in a great watery javelin that she hurled towards the airship's hull in an attempt at rendering them unable to take to the waters.
The sound of wood splintering under the force of a marine spear being thrown at it echoed across the ocean and a wide, shark-like grin would spread across Tarakona's face as she'd turn around to raise her eyebrow at her fellow crew members.
Harnessing the strength of the currents, the merfolk would vault over the waves to land on their ship's deck.
Drenched to the bone and still leaking waters, spilling forth from her gills, Tarakona would shake off the humidity as her spiny ears perked up.
"How's that? I can fill 'er hull with some more holes but if you guys keep destroying their sails they're definitely going to sink before we can go raid 'em." The Merfolk would muse, resting her Trident over her shoulder as she'd step closer to the railing.
If she were to gain enough momentum in the waters she may have been able to board the enemy's vessel herself but that would definitely be suicide. And she knew there was worse than death for a Merfolk getting captured by human folk.
Her spines rustling in the wind, betraying her drifting off thinking about things unsuited for naval combat, the Tarakona would shake her head, grasping her trident tighter as she'd will the water she spilled on their deck to return to her, starting to circle her like shark's fins.
Captain Vyxyl sighed loudly as Grimgal made a fuss before letting loose a mini-tornado at the Flyrian ship. Thankfully it didn't cause it to crash down atop them otherwise she was going to strangle that old quack. "You damn quack, stop distilling your rancid flatulence! Wait, go get one of your stink bombs!" She wanted the enemy to surrender sooner rather than later and stinking up their ship might just be the final trick to make them give up. Kill the moral and the will to fight and they'll be more inclined to be civil while they took what they wanted. Making them sick to the stomach would make it harder for the enemy to fight. "That's a god damned order," she barked out, since the old man seemed too senile at times, or at least he pretended to be.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught smoke, for her ship and spotted the flames licking at her deck around Oliver. She forgot she needed to be very clear with her orders with that thing. She had forgotten to specifically state to not set their ship on fire. "Dammit Oliver, stop setting my ship on fucking fire! Just, prep the ship to board and pick out the splinters after!"
She watched as her Quartermaster finally made an appearance and trying to make himself useful by assisting with reloading the cannons. "Mister Harper! Once you are done loading that cannon you are going to fire it! You have to bloody learn how to shoot one. Best shoot it before we ascend!"
Captain Vyxyl did a final push of wind in their sails before returning to the helm, though leaving Tyr to maintain control over the ship. "Tyr, position us bow to bow with the Weatherby and then ascend directly up. We are boarding. Everyone, prepare for boarding protocol! Tara, prepare to douse the fire on their sails, we don't need them crashing down and we've crippled them enough where they can't run! Marceline keep an eye on the zombie and put the maggot addled thing to use! Gru! Once they surrender you are not to touch them! Fen, you want a task? Go fucking board when we're nose to nose!"
The Captain of the Weatherby could be heard shouting orders for them to try and drop their anchor and to try and move the ship to use it to damage the Whimsical Lady. "Someone sever their anchor. I don't care who! I don't want any more fucking holes in my ship!" She used the wind to help Tyr position the ship before they would ascend. Neither ship had bow cannons to fire which meant once they were on even level this would be a battle between the crews until one side surrendered.
"The scoundrel that brings me the back the captain's hat gets an additional 5% cut!"
"R'ye daft? I don't 'ave more farts! I'll need ter eat spicy food; back in a minute!" Grimgal walked down to the lower deck, where the kitchen was.
The old man returned shortly after, the last bite of a burrito held in his teeth as he slowly slithered it into his mouth with his lips. In one hand, he held a black bag with alchemical tools and general crafting items.
In his other hand, however, he was holding a green-glass bottle with a funnel up to his buttocks. Every few seconds, his lower body released an intermittent squelching, wet sound, mixed with loud clicks as frequent as the sound of a chainsaw. He finished the burrito and took cover, continuing to fart into the bottle for several seconds, in the sight of the crew and seemingly without shame. After a moment, it stopped, and Grimgal paused for five seconds, making a hard face, as he pressed the muscles of his stomach mentally and let out one, last fart to seal the deal.
He took off the funnel from the bottle, pulled up his trousers, then got to work, putting down his alchemical tools in the middle of the chaotic deck. He added some kind of suspicious yellow powder (sulfur) to the bottle, and a pinch of some gray powder (gunpowder). He added a mystical herb that grew for a thousand years, adding the concept of [Longevity] to the concoction, then a drop of highly potent distilled perfume to conceptualize [Intensity].
Grimgal corked up the evil bottle, gave it several good shakes like a bartender preparing a drink, then hit it against the floorboards a few times to give the pressurized stomach gas that extra oomph.
The bottle, despite its green translucence, could not conceal the hideous, bright lime-green cloud yearning to be released from within.
He took an arrow and snapped off the head, then tied the bottle to the tip.
He showed the result to the captain, saying, "This will make them so sick they won't be able to stand and think, let alone fight. Some of them might faint, most will vomit; those who do both will choke on their own insides and probably suffocate. It's about five times as bad as skunk scent and lingers for just as long. Well, assuming it hits the target. If you still want to loot the ship, I sug'st we bring masks."
He handed the bottle-arrow-stink bomb, very carefully, to Sherlyn. "Don't miss."
"J'us when I gets us right proper an under da damned t'ing, nows ya wants ta board?!" Tyr exclaimed even as he spun the wheel, arcing the Lady out and away from the burning naval vessel. Several of the guns roared out their defiance as the Lady's course brought them into play, but all they managed to accomplish were impressive columns of water all about the ship.
"Bows on she says," Tyr muttered, judging speeds and distances. "Board she says. An if'n som'ting appen to de bowsprit, who she gonna blame, eh? Likes a pair o damned duelers. SHIFT DE SAILS!"
Tyr hauled back on the wheel as the sheets suddenly shifted on the yardarms, much of their forward press now being diverted into lift. For long moments the water clung to the hull of the Lady, reluctant to release the ship form its grasp, but then the magically enhanced lift overcame the tension, and the Lady leapt into the air, trailing a curtain of water behind and below her like a jeweled curtain. Tyr watched carefully as the ship rose, then tapped the wheel forward. With a loud crunching sound, the bowsprit of the Lady came smashing down on top of the warship's bowsprit, forming a bridge for their boarding party. The jibs of the warship went flying as the Lady's bowsprit sliced into their rigging, flapping madly and tossing both ships about. Tyr kept the Lady in firm contact with the other vessel, but it was hard, and getting harder.
"MOVE IT YE DOGS!" he bellowed. "I can't keep dis up for long!"
Harper stopped briefly from his duties to stare at his captain incredulously in disbelief. He'd never fired a cannon in his life, and she was expecting him to hit something at a time like this?
"N-now?!" Jules squawked, the sudden bristling of his ruffled and bedraggled feathers emphasizing just how disbelieving he was of her words,, but it seemed like she'd already set off to other things to pay him heed.
Deciding that, despite it most likely being a terrible thing asking him of all people to fire the blasted thing, it might be a better idea to do as he was told than to give them a reason to accuse him of disobeying and split their coin one way less, which he didn't put above them considering they had a few murderers in their ranks, he set to finding a match.
He'd read a lot about cannons, much like many things in life, and knew how they worked, but of all the things he'd expected today, firing one just hadn't been on the list. He never even wanted to fire one, he knew the dangers! Like the large chance of it simply exploding and turning him into a cooked chicken if too much gunpowder was stuck in it, and for his sake he certainly hoped he'd put in the correct amount.
He pulled out the match, struggling to get a grasp on it with his small hand-talons and lit the small stick of wood before sticking the flame on the rope and flailing his way away from the thing with a terrified shriek as the thing blasted a ball of iron at the opposing ship, before ascending the wave, as Lady Vyxyl had suggested.
He made a strongly worded mental note to complain to his captain after this. Of course he would never bring himself to speak his mind to her for the sole fact that Captain Vyxyl was scary, his superior, and a woman, which somehow made her more scary and difficult to talk to for Jules. Something about them just made it difficult for him to find his tongue.
Considering he now had a taste of what firing a cannon was like, and how much he didn't like it, he set to dealing with all the bits of fire raining down from above instead using his ice magic rather sparingly, running around and blowing cold mist onto the pieces of wood, making them little more than cold bits of tree. @Fyuri
Sherlyn made a face as she took the arrow from Grimgal. The smell from it, despite being reduced by the bottle, was still pretty bad. Even by pirate standards. Regardless, she still had to shoot it. She could ignore the spell long enough to do that.
"I never miss." She said.
She quickly scurried back up the rigging. She'd have a better shot from up high. Sherlyn was operating under the assumption that there wasn't a specific spot on the Weatherby she was supposed to hit. Just any old spot so long as it was in a place where the cloud released could permeate throughout the ship.
Sherkyn chose the captain of the opposing ship. He was standing in the middle of the Weatherby's deck. Rather stupid of him. But then again, when was the last time most people saw an archer on a boat. Never. Sherlyn drew back and released. The arrow flew throigh the air and... damn. It barely missed the Weatheby's captain, landing just a foot away from her. Still, the job she was supposed to do was done. The noxious cloud was released when the bottle broke and began to do it's work. Sherlyn did not envy those soldiers.
"Hope you have some masks ready!" She called down to the crew on the deck below.
Marceline paused upon hearing her name. As the captain finished ordering the crew, Marceline quickly tossed over the last piece of debris she was holding and slowly turned to look at Oliver. Her face scrunched up as her eyes said Oh dear...
Uhhh.... what do I even tell him to do without telling him to destroy the enemy? She slowly walked up to the zombie, whom was still picking at his wounds. "Uhhhh... Make the enemy's weapons so hot that they burn their hands?"
Being in the company of this assorted crew taught her even more about the vastness and capabilities of magic than she had before, but she was more worried about making sure Oliver doesn't end up hurting their own crew because of poor wording.
Events were unfolding rapidly before Oliver's luminescent, orange eyes and things only seemed to be getting more complex. If it were up to him and him alone, he would have just engulfed the entirety of the ship in hellfire and let them sink to the depths. But this wasn't his ship and he didn't make the calls. The captain did. So, he obeyed nearly all orders to the T. So, when control was transferred over to the woman who needlessly pushed him out of the way of the fire beneath his feet, the zombie merely turned to her expectantly. The hesitation she wore on her face did not inspire confidence but to be fair, no one on this crew really did.
The order, if you could call it that, she gave was simple enough to follow and something he did quite often when being pursued by paladins or knights trying to end his un-life.
He spoke, his voice guttural and harsh, "Under.....stood...." His flame colored gaze shifted over to the enemy ship once the First Mate put them in position. Oliver slowly raised his hands in the direction of their foes and put forth a minor amount of effort. It wasn't hard to make steel or iron red hot. What it required was precision and while it sometimes seemed that Oliver was rather clumsy in his art, he was actually incredibly precise and calculated. It was just a matter of being specific when people gave him orders.
The air around Oliver became stifling as he channeled his magic and within seconds, the enemy combatants that weren't already ablaze from his previous attack, started screaming out in pain. Their cutlasses, daggers, pistols, rifles, and knives started to glow bright red. If they held their weapons in their hands, it burned them badly and forced them to drop their equipped weapon. If they had their weapon holstered somewhere, they would be forced to discard the weapon for it was burning their hips, backs, or wherever they had it placed on their bodies. The only individuals that escaped this fate were those that carried bows or crossbows, as they contained little to know metal. The wood was still very hot and could engulf into flames at any second but one could push through the pain to fire off a shot. Unlike those that carried steel....
The enemy crew was effectively disarmed. Oliver took it upon himself to erase the flames on the deck so that their allies may board the ship without fear of getting set on fire. Only the enemy sails still burned... or what was left of them at this point.
"What.... else.... do we.... require...." He asked quietly to Marceline.
Grinning up at Captain Vyxyl, Tarakona would lean against the ship's railing, the many spines adorning her form fluttering like a parrot's plumage as she'd raise her gaze up at the Flyrian airship hovering in the skies above.
"Aye aye Cap'n!"
Their sails were already in a pretty rough shape, courtesy of their friendly undead crewmate and as the tidestalker would raise her trident in an attempt at conjuring forth a barrage of water to douse the flames the zombie himself whisked the fire out of existence, leaving nothing but smoke rising up into the sunlit sky.
Her shoulders, tense as she had gripped her trident tightly in the process of beckoning forth her element would slowly be lowered as she turned around to shoot Oliver a rather sour gaze, her clear blue eyes narrowing as her lips parted to reveal her shark-like teeth, rows of still smaller rows of teeth peeking out from her gums as a grimace spread across her scaly face.
Gritting her teeth they would slowly part as her tongue, a deft, vivid blue muscle, would emerge, slithering forth like a moray smelling blood in the current, the many bioluminescent pigments on it glowing a faint white as she'd shake her head at the zombie.
"Come on, lemme have some fun too you overgrown fuse."
The merfolk would muse with a rather disappointed click of her tongue as she turned around to watch how Sherlyn's loosened arrow carried Grimgal's little present to the unfortunate Flyrian crew.
"I really wouldn't want to be in their skin right now." Tarakona added with a light chuckle as she poised the trident over her shoulder, her right hand coming to adjust her belt where two cutlasses were dangling from, their handles covered in barnacles and other marine organisms.
"Say, how about we make their day even worse?!"
The lionfish-like merfolk would finally remark with a shrug of her shoulders as she'd point at the airship with her trident.
"Last to board 'em will get used for bait next time we'll go shark fishin'!"
Tarakona would holler as the Whimsical Lady got into position to board the enemy vessel.
And drawing in as much of the waters on the deck, the Merfolk would conjure a rather comical-lookin' bubble around her face to shield her from what horrors Grimgal had unleashed upon the enemy.
Taking a few steps backwards, the tidestalker would charge forward, leaping off the railing as she'd land on the enemy's deck.
Rising to her full height, sharp fins fluttering in greeting, she'd wave at them with her four-fingered hand, grinning a shark-like grin at them as she'd grasp her Trident tighter. "Good day! I'm Tarakona, nice to meet y'all! Now be so kind to SURRENDER!"
A confident chuckle escaping her lips, causing bubbles to stir inside her watery mask, Tarakona would spin her Trident around as she'd aim for the disoriented crew's legs, causing a many of them to loose their footing and cause even more mayhem among the chemical and singed chaos on the Flyrian vessel.
...and maybe knocking one of the enemy crewmembers off the railing...
"Oh for the love of god! We are not doing this, you stupid fish! I'm a ranged fighter! If I get on that boat I'll be useless!" While she shouted this Sherlyn absentmindedly picked off one or two soldiers. She wasn't sure whether or not they had been killed or just seriously injured. If they were seriously injured they'd bleed out the moment they removed the arrow and be dead soon anyway.
Sherlyn took a quick pause in her speaking before picking back up again on a different track. "But, if you're up for a contest of killing I can start counting!" She hit another soldier. "There's one!"
It was clear to see that Grulashk was rather annoyed, visible from him turning redder by the second like a ticking bomb and he was ready to explode. Or at least that was the case until he got shouted at by the captain, his anger slowly turning to embarrassment as he began rubbing the back of his head. I mean he was acting fairly immaturely, the enemy probably didn't try to mean to blast the kitchen. Hell what would the birthday boy think if he saw Grulashk that pissed off? It was lucky that he was already taken under the deck after getting a unlucky arrow to the knee.
Anyways, the fact that the guy was on death's door didn't matter at this point, he would've probably wanted Gru to be jolly on his birthday anyways. With that new mindset Gru relaxed and just waited calmly until they were ready to board the enemy, Tyr was already under a lot of stress anyways.
As they were getting closer he couldn't help but notice the loud bang from the canon shot by Jules (heh that's like my username) and his somewhat worried expression. Deciding he needed some positive reinforcement Grulashk approaches the harpy before giving him a healthy slap on the back;
"Come on Masta Jules, not everyone' gud at tricky fings, ya kan jus do it like me." he says as he puts the canon ball he's been carrying around next to his neck before taking a step back. Taking a deep breath he spins twice before throwing the canon ball as if it was shot put, catching a unfortunate enemy sailor and sending him over board.
After impairing some sage advice the orc's attention was taken away by them getting close enough for boarding range, leisurely jumping on deck he begins casually begins brawling through the enemy crew who didn't stand a chance against him now that they were bare-handed.
"Naw naw lasses, it's all fun an' games until wun uv yous strains a muscle. By da way, iz it jus me but it's dis ship really stinky?"
Captain Vyxyl blinked at Grimgal's response about needing farts before excusing himself. She hadn't even had a chance to protest or question what the old quack was rambling about until he returned, pulled down his britches and released his flatulence into a bottle... in front of everyone... in the middle of a battle. Her face probably turned a shade of green as the visual invoked nausea, which also prevented her from being able to form a coherent sentence to tell the idiot that wasn't what she had meant at all.
But it was all for naught.
He finished his work and handed off the bottle to Sherlyn with instructions to be very gentle. Honestly, if she was sick just watching the thing being made she pitied the poor bastards about to deal with what was coming their way.
"M-Mister Tyr," she gurgled out trying to get her stomach back in order. "While I can appreciate sass at times, now is not the time. I want this battle over with sooner rather than later because we don't know if they were bait or not until we search their ship. Hold her steady as best as you can. The rest of ya bastards get your damn asses aboard the Weatherby! And don't breath if you can help it!"
"Mister Harper!" Captain Vyxyl shouted sternly "Use your ice and patch the bloody holes in the damn hull you cuckoo! Marceline can deal with the fire along with Resia."
"Mister Tyr, remind me later we need a true bosun," she commented to her first mate, who was probably going to give her some of his classic sass, but he would still remind her as she ordered.
Sherlyn by now had shot the potent stink bomb at the enemy ship. There was a cry of alarm followed by loud gagging sounds and the crew of the Weatherby - including its Captain - scrambling to the of the ship to purge their stomach, though most at the point of impact didn't make it that far and ended up vomiting immediately. Nearly half of the crew fainted after exposure and Vyxyl sighed.
"Also, have a word with Grimgal to never store one of those ghastly things aboard my ship."
Screams of alarm could be heard as the zombie Oliver heated up the metal on their weapons, causing many to suffer burns and for them to drop their arms. This should end the battle soon at the rate they were going. However, they had not yet surrendered. She didn't know if that was due to the idiotic stubbornness of the Captain, because they really did have a relic, or the Captain had passed out. Or perhaps they were buying time till another ship was lured in by the smoke from their battle.
The last few who were left on the Weatherby were those who had scrambled up to the crow's nest or rigging and were using wood-based weapons. There weren't that many and when Tara boarded one of them could be heard screaming, "It's a merfolk! It'll summon the Kraken and destroy us both! You mad pirates!"
Gru and Tara had been the final straw that broke the crew of the Weatherby. A voice called out weakly, "W-We surrender." Seems the Captain had managed to stay conscious after all. Vyxyl grinned widely. "Ya here that mates?! They've surrendered! Secure the living crew on the deck of the Weatherby! Gru, go raid their food stuffs for whatever you need. The rest of you dirtbags go loot, but you fucking touch that relic without my permission and I'll let Tara eat you!"
"Mister Tyr, you may disengage and come about to the port side. I will be boarding." Captain Vyxyl stepped across the deck, over the bow and onto the Weaterby, using her winds to keep the stench at bay as she went over to the Weatherby's Captain and lifted them up by the collar of their uniform. "You best be carrying a relic or I'll have to take a better prize to pay for the damage you've done to my ship."
Harper was not a happy bird, and while the orc-chef, whom was one of the few members of the crew that he'd grown fond over his time there, attempted to comfort him, nothing could truly help him out of his panic-induced state as, one more, his captain yelled at him.
He stared in awe as the mountain of brawn next to him simple threw a cannonball at their enemies, and made two mental notes. Don't mess with his food-creations, and to calculate how strong his friend was to be capable of such a feat, "Yes Cap'n! It's Harpy, Cap'n!" he grumpily corrected, shaking himself to get a response audible enough for someone to hear him over the sound of cannons hurling deadly metal at one another.
"I-I-I don't like boarding!" he cried to the cook as he sprinted back down below deck, charging downward as the ship rose into the air in search of the foretold holes.
Jules flapped, scuttled and slid his way past each door, running with difficulty, frantically searching for the damaged areas of the ship, peering into each room with his less than stellar short-sightedness and searching for where he felt the gusts of wind emanating from.
He found a few small ones and made barriers as quickly as he could with his ice magic for make-shift repairs until somebody more professional fixed them properly, before finding a rather large punch through one of the walls, causing him to unleash a most fearsome squawk of fear as he stumbled over to it, his feathers quivering from the heavy gales as he began pouring his energy into fixing the wall. Thankfully out of his many quirks, a fear of heights wasn't one of them. It was slightly disorientating to be standing on solid ground while looking at the ocean however
"Iwontdieiwontdieiwontdieiwontdieiwontdie…" she mess of feathers kept frantically repeating to himself in some sort of mantra finding the sound of his own voice much more pleasant than the yelling that could be heard above deck, attempting to not think about the odds of getting hit by a stray bullet or some other thing, like magic.
He wished he'd chosen some other field of magic, like wood magic. It would've made fixing the things so much easier, but noo, he'd gone for the 'cool' choice, all for the sake of a pun and its ease of access! Why didn't the church have more books about magical boat-hole sealing things. Ice was okay for it, but there was obviously something better! Probably, like summoning a familiar to do it for you! That was, if they worked the way he thought they did, anyway.
Once the hole was fixed, the bird, once-more, scuttled his way above deck before sprinting over the deck opposite their murderous enemies and throwing up what little he'd eaten that morning as the most nauseous smell infiltrated his mind and made his eyes water.
Stupid Grimgal Trismegistus. If Jules didn't know better, he'd think the nasty doctor was insane what with his revolting ideas and lack of common decency. How someone so old could concoct such a vial of pure evil was a miracle.
Once the quartermaster finished pouring his innards into the ocean, he scuttled over to face their enemies in preparation of the fateful boarding befo- oh.
The fight was over, it appeared they had won.
Jules fell backwards and curled up, wrapping himself in his comfortable feathers as he tried to cope with the ferocious experience of a near-death experience, yet chuckling to himself through his shakes. Jules simply sat there comfortably as the mixture of both adrenaline and fear made it's way to his mouth, aiding to his stutter.
"H-h-he-heh-hehe.. J-j-j-j-ju-j-ules d-d-oes it again! L-l-li-li-v-v-vin'!"
If the captain and all the others wanted to run onto that stench-filled boat, it was fine by him. He'd never been particularly good at being threatening anyway, although he'd definitely practised it in front of the mirror a few times. There just seemed to be something inherently cute about feathers, and while he quite liked them personally, he never thought he'd exactly fit in as a pirate because of them, not that he'd been chosen for his looks by his captain. @Fyuri@June Verles
Tyr, at the wheel of the Lady. Addressing no one in particular.
"Sass she calls it," Tyr muttered to himself. "Can' be bothered ta gets a proper helmsman. Can' gets a proper bosun. Gots'ta manage de sails, gots'ta steer da ship, gots'ta keep an eye on da gunenrs an da rest o de lunatics in da crew. Damme if'n I don' miss bein' just da navigator sommat."
Tyr studied the way the Lady's bowsprit lay over the other ship's, then nodded to himself. They'd have to do this the hard way.
"Hands ta sheets an braces!" he shouted. "Prepare to back de sails!"
Tyr waited a moment, watching as crewmen and women raced into the rigging, nodding to himself. They were good at sail shifting.
"Back de sails!" he called as he pulled back slightly on the wheel, lifting the bow ever so slightly. The Lady began to slide backwards as the bow lifted clear of their opponent, and Tyr watched carefully, making certain that they didn't get tangled in the other ship's rigging as they slid away. Once they were well clear, he spun the wheel, causing the Lady's bow to drift towards the other ship's port side.
"Set de sails!"
The rigging crew quickly swung the sails back to their normal facing, and the Lady crept up alongside her prey.
The canvas of the Lady's sails vanished just as grappling hooks sailed over to the other ship. Lines tightened, and the Lady drew alongside her target. Tyr remained at his post at the wheel, ready to respond if the other helmsman decided to try anything, but he doubted it would happen. The appalling stench from the other vessel making his stomach roil as a breeze carried a whiff to his nostrils.
Marceline released a sigh of relief as she watch Oliver cast his magic, happy that she didn't end up giving him an order that could endanger the Whimsical Lady or her crew. Marceline watched as her fellow mates, including Harper, respond to the enemy's surrender. "... may the gods bless his poor soul..." She murmured before coming up with an devious plan.
Marceline turned back to Oliver. "Alright, put out the fires burning on our ship and the enemy's ship. Don't let a single ember touch our ship while we're boarding them. Once that's done... uh... you can return to the lower decks to mend your wounds?"
Marceline shrugged her shoulders as she turned to her original duty, carrying water up to the deck, but more importantly to the bird, leaving the zombie to himself. Dragging a nice bucket of cold water from the ballast, she walked up to the curled up bird and smiled. Casting an illusion spell on the bucket to turn it into a cannonball, she held it over the quartermaster's head.
"Quartermaster Jules! What should I do with this?" she yelled while pretending to be losing strength from holding up the cannonball (bucket of water).