Thursday, February 7, 2013


Lightning split the skies. Thunder roared. Even the waves beneath the ship churned in a rather irritated fashion. Shit was a mess.

....aaaand so was the vomit (and other fun), the elf noted, as she sidestepped a fresh flood of the upcheck. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as she daintily avoided the seasick, and she flashed a disdainful glare at the idiot stupid enough to shit on (perhaps literally) her ship deck.

The source - a towering mass of red curls and meaty muscle - was unique enough to give her pause, regardless of the storm. It was rare to see a truly honed and dedicated fighter, but something about the casual cant of the notched and pitted axes slung across the poor woman's back suggested that - when she wasn't vomitting - she could give any guard company of royal soldiers a run for their money....even if they were all attacking at once.

The elf edged a bit closer to the hurling woman. She made sure she stayed upwind. She smiled firmly. She patted the burly woman on the shoulder. It was a great series of moments.This was totally going to work out well.

Then, the wind shifted direction.

Two hours later, fully cleansed, the elf emerged from her crappy ship's chambers. Apparently, while bathing and cleaning up, a drinking game had been started in the galley to pass the time. The burly woman she had spotted before was, predictably, a participant. Apparently being seasick conferred a heavy advantage, and, one by one, the sailors staggered away from the revelry, eliminated from the contest. The large axes and daggers and crossbow and muscles certainly played no part in this outcome.

Soon, only one sailor (and the giantess of a woman) remained in the game.

Of course, this is when the shit hit the rudder.