Set Sail, for blades of Fire and Air((Attn: Captain))

[Kura]

Oh the advantages of the Shadow! So very far a distance, traveled in a heartbeat, and the brief ride from the Tairen country side to it's capital was a short one. It reminded Arcon a bit of his youth, on those rare occurrences that his father taught him anything but plotting. Except, his father had obviously kept different company. That thought required him to suppress a smile, looking at the men who had come with him. All were from that rather satisfying stay in the Pit, and even though one or two actually ranked above him, they took his advice for orders. That advice had kept them alive.

 

They rode through the bustling city of Tear, their horses catching some eyes when they traveled through the perfumed quarter to the docks. He wondered briefly why he had even bothered to accept these lessons. If a situation occurred where he couldn't channel, then he was most likely up against those that could. A sword would be of very little use at that point. Still, it would hone his body, and the extra stamina would be useful, not to mention appearances. Most Lord's at least carried a blade, even if they never had the intent to use it.

 

These thoughts in mind, he found himself hurried off of his horse, and ushered into a small rowboat. His followers said nothing, though Arcon doubted they were pleased. Still, appearances, he knew it would do if the entire Fortress any good if they knew the influence he had over his small group.

 

The man who manned the oars gave him a dirty look, "Those fancy clothes won't last very long on board, ye might be thinkin' to change them." Arcon gave him a level glare, "I've come prepared." He was surprised when the man laughed, didn't he know what could have been done to him at that moment? He must, and that thought was unsettling. Why would he not fear an acolyte, a future dreadlord? He squashed the thought, as they came to the huge Raker.

 

Even Arcon's couldn't hide his shock, though all he did was widen his eyes. A Raker? We are to be trained by Sea Folk? As they climbed up, Arcon expected to see beautiful women in brightly colored trousers and blouses, with chains hanging from nose to ear, along with matching men. When he saw people of a more familiar origin instead, he was even more amazed. They stole a Raker? Impressive. The Dreadlord who had accompanied them spoke up, "Listen to whatever the Captain says, or you will face a fate much akin to that in the Fortress." With that, he climbed back down, and was rowed back to the docks. Arcon and the others waited, not sure what to do.

[Sam]

Mr. Sweeper greeted the recruits.

A Mr. Sweeper greeting works something like the following . . .

First, every new recruit is lined up on the deck. This is standard. Then, they are divested of their weapons and personal items, especially their shoes. Leather shoes cost a fortune in oil to keep on salt water. Captain Redpath wears boots. Why the double-standard? This question has been asked already and should not be repeated. The other person to ask was never found. Slight addendum: parts of him were.

 

Phase two incorporates shoving, spitting, glaring and ‘glaring’. You may ask why the second glare is placed neatly inside inverted commas. I shall answer. The second glaring refers more to the headache a recruit may wake up with in the medical bay below the deck than to anything done to the eyes . . . unless you count his fist. I think what I am trying to say is that if his glaring is reflected by a recruit’s glaring then their glaring causes worse glaring by virtue of a wallop. Confused yet? I know I am.

 

Mr. Sweeper remembered the lecture he was given by the captain on his previous unethical behaviour; that is, knocking the then recruit Drak into unconsciousness. This time he was mindful of his own actions and did nothing untoward. The captain would become less vigilant as time passed but for now best behaviour all around.

 

Mr. Sweeper was, as is only natural, from the standard mold of first mates. He was tall. Very tall: shorter than a trolloc and higher than comfort; thicker than a mast; windblown as the sails and as gnarled and wooden as the effigy on a prow. His was a sacred duty, one which he cherished with sadism and cruelty. He loved his job and surprisingly, he was very good at it.

 

“Welcome aboard the Merry Pauper! I am yer hum-ble first mate Mr. Sweeper. Ye may be refer-in’ to me as ‘Mr. Sweeper, Sir’, or ye’ll be seeing how long ye can be holding yer breath beneath The Great Lord’s ocean. Am I un-der-stood? Good. Now for the rules: ye’ll be obeying me and ye’ll be obeying the captain. Ye’ll be staying away from my crew until such time as ye’re invited to help guide the ship. Until then, allow me to acquaint ye all with two friends of mine:  bucket, and mop. Are there any questions?”

 

 

 

 

[Kura]

Arcon ground his teeth. This trolloc wannabe was irritating him beyond even his ability to mask his emotions. He took a steadying breath, and assumed the void for the control it offered. The light of Saidin pulsed, but he resisted. There must be dreadlords aboard the ship. Powerful ones, most likely. Then, something happened that caused him to loose it.

 

"Until then, allow me to acquaint ye all with two friends of mine:  bucket, and mop. Are there any questions?"

 

He seized the source.

 

He knew he had to be quick, and also realized that fire would be a very bad idea. So, he lashed out with another of his most powerful elements. Air. Throwing his full strength behind a single club of air, he threw it at 'Mr. Sweeper' with every intention of cracking that insolent, common skull of his. At that moment, someone with incredible strength took control of the source. Arcon could guess who this would end.

 

Sure enough, his weave was sliced, revealing to the boy exactly how that weave was done. He didn't have much time to celebrate, as flows of air wrapped around him, and tossed him back over the deck. All Arcon could do was straighten out, feet first and dove into the cold water. Seconds passed before he resurfaced. He thought briefly of boring a hole in the Raker, but his men were on board. It wasn't that he was afraid of that mystery channeler, never that.

 

The Acolyte fumbled for the rope ladder, and climbed swiftly. He had little faith in Mr. Sweeper, and doubted the man would hesitate to cut the rope if he knew that an attempt was made on his life. Scrambling over the top, he fell onto the deck sopping wet. He stood, and refused to look ashamed, or even chastised. "Mr. Sweeper, sir. May I embrace the source to dry off?" His tone was level, but rage skimmed the edges of the void...

[Sam]

Rat heard the call. He knew that the others heard it, too, but he was faster. Like a spider, the stumps of his arms and legs, and his body bending on strange angles, he descended from the crow’s nest with speed and purpose. Saidin was not unleashed yet, but it was close; always was on The Merry Pauper.

 

If Rat’s mouth worked, if it was not forever silenced by flame and power he would curse Sweeper’s brash and dauntless approach. Dread lords were not given to co-operation, he was an example of this, and no shadow’s peace was enforced upon this ship, not as far as the dread lords were concerned. It was respect and respect only that kept them loyal.

 

His crippled feet touched the wooden decking with barely a sound, senses stretched outwards to find the source of power. The weave was completed, almost beyond the borders of his myopia. Melted eyelids did that to a person. He struck out to intercept, his body twisting and turning as he used his own body to weave it.

 

Rat was once powerful, but the incident required him to find new ways to perform those things that should have been as simple as breathing. No longer would his eyes enable him to weave perfectly; no, all that the boosted senses of holding the source achieved was to allow him to see the weaves at a moderate distance. In order to safely channel those destructive forces of Saidin he used his own limbs (what was left of them) as foci. Around his arms and around his body he wove, his body constantly twisting and moving.

 

The Merry Pauper was small enough that every inch was known to him, and so here his gift remained strong. But so long as he wished to continue grasping to the dregs of his former personality he was bound to the vessel, for beyond the bulwarks lay a world he could not see. A long time had passed before he had learnt to accept this.

 

The club of air was severed cleanly, Rat focused his attention on the aggressor, using the elementals to pull him or her, he could not be sure, into the air, over the side and plummeting into cold ocean, unaware that Mr. Sweeper had made such a threat earlier minutes before.

 

 

To say that Mr. Sweeper was unhappy was the understatement of the century, Akin to believing that the taint on the source ‘wasn’t that bad’. Dread lords went missing all the time, it was what they did. This would be no more suspicious, although the bolt holes may give it away. That and the crude signature Mr. Sweeper was going to leave on his body, “kick me” perhaps, or, “If you think I look bad now, you should have seen me while I was living”. There were only two problems with this: Mr. Sweeper could not write, and he didn’t know anyone who would do it for him. No time like the present to take up new hobbies!

 

When he saw the fop climbing back up the rope ladder he was about to take to him with a belaying pin, but the captain’s caveat stopped him. Instead, when the boy asked him, with not even a little bit of respect, if he could use the power to dry himself, Mr. Sweeper dropped him with a blow to the mouth that would have felled an ox, or at least really upset it.

 

Congratulating himself on his own restraint, Mr. Sweeper gave the order for the shielding to begin, and for anyone who could feel such things, The Merry Pauper trembled with the strain. His voice bellowed above the sounds of the ocean, “Cast off, boys, tis time to go ‘ome!”