( closed ) bustin five knots, wind whippin out my coat

[champions]

WHO: Marisol, Korrin, Nikos, Ellana, Norrington
WHAT: A group of smugglers have set up shop in a corner of the Wounded Coast, thankfully they are going to be stopped by a beautiful Antivan woman. And I guess some other people help.
WHEN: Cloudreach… sometime…
WHERE: the Wounded Coast
NOTES: ⛵🌊⛵🌊 ⛵🗡️✨🗡️✨🗡️👏👏👏

Sometimes having contacts was very useful. Sometimes it could lead to minor nuisances, as well, and she’d categorise this particular thing as both.

On the one hand, she’s not eager to show too much of her hand to those not of her particular social sphere. In this instance, of course, “social sphere” would refer to her particular brand of alarming mages and relatives. She’s sure these others are quite pleasant, but they aren’t hers. Not everyone can be be perfect, though, so maybe she shouldn’t hold it too much against them.

On the other hand, it is a chance to be useful, on the sea, enjoy some of those things she is very good at and drag Nikos along with her. (Poor Nikos.)

The Wounded Coast, unfortunately, is rather less pleasant than the Antiva coast, but maybe they'd be lucky. Maybe there'd be sharks.

Comments

[serannas]

Another advantage to this form is that Ellana can see in the dark, and she can see her target isn't entirely deterred by her intervention. Granted, she is low to the ground and he's still on his feet, trying to load another crossbow bolt, so he's not willing to give up the fight just yet. She'll just have to inflict as much pain as possible to distract him. Leather boots protect his legs up to his calves and therefore Ellana has to scratch and claw her way up higher as she snarls and tries to be as intimidating as possible.

Clamping teeth down onto his thigh, she hopes that will be enough to get him unbalanced. Any man with a sense of self preservation would try desperately to prevent a wild animal from chomping on his manhood, right?

[exsecutus]

There's another scream, rather more frantic, and the snarling scuffle of claws on leather, and then cloth. Nikos tries to sort through the sounds even as he's trying to adjust his vision to the low light belowdecks. There's no moonlight to aid them, and the shapes are shadows at best--but he starts to pick them out. There's space behind the gangplank to circle around--the soft form of lumpy sacks, the solid lines of crates, but space enough that he could fit--and Marisol, on the other side, tight against the wall, it's mostly her eyes that Nikos marks--and then the writhing form of the smuggler, wrestling with a badger.

The crossbow bolt zips by without aim, thrown off by the attack and Marisol's hex. Nikos narrows his eyes. The badger is keeping brutally low, so fine: he'll go high. If the mage-turned-creature can't tell friend from foe and turns on him next, he'll put a stop to it.

Without particular finesse, he shoves away from the wall and sidesteps the smuggler, whips around to hook his bad arm across the shoulders and pull his dagger across his throat. He doesn't need any particular power in his hold. The smuggler is distracted with its other combatant.

In perfect and accidental comedic timing: the knife slices right when the badger gets either too close or right upon its soft small target. The smuggler's strangled cry is less than dignified.

[champions]

Their teamwork is rather excellent. Marisol would laugh, if she were not doing her best to be quiet by default.

She realises the wall she is pressed against feels slightly unsteady a moment too late, when there is a hand clad in a leather glove tipping her jaw up and a knife pressed against her throat, and another smuggler with a sword and shield beside the brigand holding her.

"Sunshine," he growls out, "move a muscle and I'll do the same to this slattern what you did to Gumpert."

Marisol, for her part, does not loo thrilled to be being used as a human shield and hostage. The man with the knife to her throat has the air of someone in charge, and a leather satchel. The other seems to follow his lead. "And call off that bloody dog," he adds.

One thing she'd like to raise, though, as she is steered about, is that Gumpert does not sound like a very imposing smuggler name.

[serannas]

It's satisfying to see the man killed efficiently. Less so to hear the voice near the wall. Ellana turns and takes stock of the situation in the dark. Two men that she can just make out, one with a shiny center to his shield and a sword in the other hand. The one who speaks holding Marisol at knife point.

Well, shit.

Launching forward would result in Marisol's blood being drawn. Transforming into another of her animal forms might give a moment's confusion, but would still put the woman at risk. Could Ellana maybe run up to the top deck like she's retreating and shift back to elf, calling down to try and force them back up? Unlikely, and she'd be abandoning her allies.

There's not much she can do until she gets a better read on the two men. See what their demands are and adjust accordingly. So on small badger legs she backs away from the fallen body of Gumpert (what a name), and bides her time.

[exsecutus]

Nikos registers the new voice. Still with his knife in his hand and his arm around the dead man, he finds Marisol's eyes in the dark. The glint of metal. The outline of two men he'd overlooked.

A jolt jumps through Nikos, charged and angry. He clenches his jaw.

Then he let go of the dead man. The body, heavy and lifeless, falls, awkwardly, hits a crate beside them and sprawls with a damp thud.

"Badger." Said like, Badger, you motherfucker, and it's only the knife at Marisol's throat that gets him to bite down that response. If it were anyone else. "I hate dogs."

No helm on the man. Half-hidden behind Marisol, lessens the target area. Satchel. Putting a knife through his eye at this distance wouldn't be a trouble, but he might cut Marisol anyways. Put the knife through his hand instead, but that possibility still remains. And there's that bastard with the sword beside him. For their side, Ellana the badger has moved back, fallen still. Now the tableau is quite different. And there's Marisol. Not exactly helpless.

And Nikos has picked out his target, unless his cousin gets to him first. Staring at the man with the satchel, he keeps his hand tight on his knife.

"Best let her go. Slatterns know where all the soft parts of a man are. Could drive a spike of ice right up the tip of your prick."