WHO: Yseult, Darras, Derrica & Flint WHAT: Gathering intel on the blockade failure and the state of Val Chevin's harbor defenses; an unexpected dinner party. WHEN: Early Wintermarch WHERE: Val Chevin, the Waking Sea NOTES: N/A, will add if necessary.
"Lucky my name means 'careful'." Darras grins at her with (for Yseult, at least) familiar stupid bravado. It's nothing of an assurance and nothing of a response, really. But at least he doesn't embarrass her any more than that.
Besides all that, he's ready for the work. As soon as the little boat has hit water, he's climbing his way down, easy with it. The sun was high and warm today, but with the dying of the light, a coolness is rising off of the sea. The waves are short and choppy, and lap at the sides of the boat which rocks a little when Darras lands in it with a quiet thud.
Derrica is painfully nervous. Not about the work, which is familiar enough, but about doing it in such close proximity to both Commander and Scoutmaster. She scrubs her palm anxiously against her thigh before nodding jerkily and swinging her legs over the edge. The soft sound of Darras' landing comes just as she settles her weight.
There's a moment's pause where she is clearly trying to think of something to say, before she gives up, flashes a brief, stiff smile over her shoulder and lowers herself down after Darras. She drops the last few feet to land just behind Darras, arms spread slightly for balance.
"Let me sit towards the bow," Derrica says, knowing full well they aren't meant to fight but on the off chance this is a trap or they happen upon someone capable of raising the alarm, she can try to contain it at a distance.
Down in the boat, Darras makes dutiful space for Derrica to move into the bow. He takes up the oars--flashes one last grin up at Yseult (his name might mean 'careful', how's she know that it doesn't), and with that as his farewell, he pushes off from the sloop and starts them toward the wreckage.
The sky is painted with the last fingers of the sunset. Dusk is not proper dark. They have a little bit of the light still, though it won't last them long, so they make as swift a way as they can toward their goal. The wind is mild, and those choppy little waves prove surprisingly easy to cut through. Soon the sloop--and Flint, and Yseult--are behind them. There's the land before them, sprinkled with lights here and there, brighter down the coast to the left. No obvious patrol ships, nothing ahead of them. The waves and the wind and their progress, wrinkling the smooth face of the sea, trailing a white furrowed wake that is smoothed over by the next wave, swallowed up again.
Darras eyes the water as the oars make their next cut through it, pushing them forward. "Got to be close," he says aloud, half a question and half a statement. Surely they are.
"I can see something ahead of us," Derrica agrees. She's been chewing the inside of her cheek nervously, but the further they get from Flint and Yseult, the steadier she feels. "Can you try to pull to the left slightly? We'll be able to drift alongside."
Wrecks give her a terrible feeling. This stretch of sea is almost soaked in the lingering after-image of death and misery. She can feel it as clearly as the spray of sea water on her skin.
"Do you think it's odd no one else is out here?" She murmurs, turning to keep Darras in her peripheral vision as they glide closer. Were the patrols that confident in their defenses?
His grunt has a kind of positive lilt to it as he takes another pull on the oars, favoring the right for a few strokes until their little boat has turned in the direction she'd requested. He's thinking about the sloop's position on the map, the little ticks marking out the perimeter of the wreck--and thinking about what's ahead, how much farther they have to go.
"It's dinnertime. Or it's superstition," he opines, as they continue forward. "Not even a patrol wants to mess with watery ghosts. That's a joke." In case that was in question. "I doubt our scoutmaster would have sent us out here if she was expecting a surprise. Can't say that with the same surety for Captain Flint. Don't know him half so well." Also a joke, but he doesn't call it out, only grins a little as he keeps up the job of rowing. "They did say to keep a weather eye out. So if this is a trap, we'll just be quick about our examination. Get out before they can spring it."
Which they'll have chance to do quite soon, seeing as they're nearly upon the wreckage.
All he gets in return is a quiet hum of assent as her focus shifts from the possibility of discovery to the rapidly closing distance between them and the wreckage coming into focus before them.
Soon, they're close enough for Derrica to put a hand out to guide them up alongside the ruined husk of the wreck. When the rowboat comes to a stop, bobbing gently in the wave, she leans even further over. Death clings to every fiber of wood.
"Look at this," she murmurs. "Some of this damage is from when they must have moved the wrecks, but this..."
Derrica is no expert, but she has seen wrecks. She has seen the aftermath of fires. The charring around the great blown out holes in these ships is irregular, or at least, it is not what she had expected.
It's darker than when they first set out, but there's light enough to see by. The spars of wood jut up from the surface like claws of some sea-beast. Derrica's hand looks very small, laid where it is. And the rest of the wreckage is just there below the surface, and all of it marked clearly with the black char that the water hasn't managed to wash away.
Darras leans a little to the right, trying to see around to the other side of it. "This side that's facing us," he says, slowly, "that'd be what faced outside. And then the other side--it was Orlesian, yeah? They're always painting the insides. Look there--the way the spliter happened. Means that whatever blew those holes out did it from the inside."
"Do you think they swayed some of the sailors to set off explosives inside?"
They shouldn't really be questioning this here, out on the water. But Derrica doesn't see another option. Unless someone managed to get aboard and plant an explosive, or pay off someone to do it, how else could a ship be blasted apart from the inside?
"We should look at another," she continues, before Darras has a chance to say either way. "In case this one was a fluke."
Risky, but neither Flint nor Yseult have signaled them yet. It's likely safe enough to try to poke around a little more, take that sounding and then retreat. The silence continues to be unnerving. It serves their purpose for the moment, certainly, but Derrica's skin is prickling with anxiety as she looks at the ruined ship in front of them.
"Coin can sway a lot. I'd think a sailor would have the good sense not t' blow up the ship they were standing on. Considering the consequences."
But, then again, given the evidence-- Well. Darras tears his gaze away from the splintered wood and takes up the oars again without further comment. He's going over it in his mind as he guides them over to the spars of the next shipwreck over. It's a short distance, not far to go. Even as they're making their approach, they can see the markings all over again. Black char, splintered and wrecked wood. The waves slap at its ruins, and the sound seems loud in the eerie quiet.
Darras stops their little boat when they're within easy reach of the wreckage. It's the same. He doesn't need to say it. Leaving them floating a moment, he shifts, the boat rocking with his movement, and digs out his sending crystal.
"We can make a report," he says into it. "Any sign of company yet?"
"No," she says quietly, eyes on the scorched wood. She can feel the misery of this place clinging to her skin. Forcibly, she pulls her gaze away to scan along the water. A faint ripple of sound comes across. Voices, the bob of a torch too far to make out.
"Not yet," she amends. "I can hear something, but I can't tell if they plan on getting into a boat or just watching from where they are."
Easy enough to evade someone who plans to stay rooted to the dock. There's no urgency in the distorted murmurs that make their way to them across the distance.
"Ask if they can see anything with the glass," she says, and then, a little softer, "I want to take those soundings. We might not get another chance."
Darras nods, and raises his crystal to speak into it. He's marked that torchlight as well, moments after Derrica. He's watching it now, distant though it is.
"We're on the wreckage," he says to Yseult, careful to keep his voice low. "Don't want to turn back until we've done what we came out here for. There's some light off to the east of us. Far off from us. Can you see what they're about with the glass?"
"Looks like a fisherman," Yseult reports, lowering the glass.
She speaks more directly into the crystal. "You ought to be fine. We'll let you know if they start moving closer. And you send word the moment you turn back to us."
The crystal's message is for Derrica to hear as well, and Darras nods to her once Yseult's response has come through. "We'll be quick," he says in response, then tucks the crystal back into his pocket. They'll hear any warning Flint and Yseult might send.
He trusts Yseult's assessment of the other ship. That doesn't mean he has to feel entirely at ease, and his gaze flicks back to the torchlight as he takes up the oars again.
"I'll keep us in place. Take the soundings, I'll break and write 'em down as they come. Fair?"
Derrica follows the movement of the torchlight uneasily before she looks back to Darras and nods.
There's no sense fleeing at the sight of a single fishing boat. But Derrica is thinking about how quickly guards would come scrambling at the sound of a shout as she reluctantly shoulders her staff. She can't work and clutch it, and there's no way shes going to give up on getting this particular piece of information so—
She takes the soundings, potentially with weighted ropes, who knows. And the entire time she's murmuring back to Darras she's straining to keep track of the fisherman or to anticipate the crackle of warning from Darras' crystal.
Darras does as he'd said he would, dutifully scratching out everything Derrica says. This sort of notation is simple enough to manage, the sort of thing he's learned to get by. And he stays calm, easy--watching the torchlight, ears pricked for the distant sounds of the fishermen that come over the water, that occasional splash of an oar, or slap of a wave against the distant bow.
They get no word of warning as they work, and Derrica is winding her potential weighted rope back up, he picks up the crystal again.
"Finished with the one. We'll get another. Those fishermen stayed fishermen?"
The conversation comes in muted, distorted waves across the water. As Darras speaks, Derrica plunks back into the boat. The weights drops to the floor, resting against the sodden roap, as she strains to get a glimpse of the fishermen and try to chart their trajectory from where they are. Yes, Derrica wants one more measurement. But she doesn't want to have to kill two fishermen for the crime of floating too close to them while going about their business.
Yseult, still keeping a careful eye on the fishermen and the docks both, replies quietly through the crystal: "Yes, still clear. One more, then come back." She flicks a glance sideways at Flint to see if he'll disagree.
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Besides all that, he's ready for the work. As soon as the little boat has hit water, he's climbing his way down, easy with it. The sun was high and warm today, but with the dying of the light, a coolness is rising off of the sea. The waves are short and choppy, and lap at the sides of the boat which rocks a little when Darras lands in it with a quiet thud.
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There's a moment's pause where she is clearly trying to think of something to say, before she gives up, flashes a brief, stiff smile over her shoulder and lowers herself down after Darras. She drops the last few feet to land just behind Darras, arms spread slightly for balance.
"Let me sit towards the bow," Derrica says, knowing full well they aren't meant to fight but on the off chance this is a trap or they happen upon someone capable of raising the alarm, she can try to contain it at a distance.
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The sky is painted with the last fingers of the sunset. Dusk is not proper dark. They have a little bit of the light still, though it won't last them long, so they make as swift a way as they can toward their goal. The wind is mild, and those choppy little waves prove surprisingly easy to cut through. Soon the sloop--and Flint, and Yseult--are behind them. There's the land before them, sprinkled with lights here and there, brighter down the coast to the left. No obvious patrol ships, nothing ahead of them. The waves and the wind and their progress, wrinkling the smooth face of the sea, trailing a white furrowed wake that is smoothed over by the next wave, swallowed up again.
Darras eyes the water as the oars make their next cut through it, pushing them forward. "Got to be close," he says aloud, half a question and half a statement. Surely they are.
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Wrecks give her a terrible feeling. This stretch of sea is almost soaked in the lingering after-image of death and misery. She can feel it as clearly as the spray of sea water on her skin.
"Do you think it's odd no one else is out here?" She murmurs, turning to keep Darras in her peripheral vision as they glide closer. Were the patrols that confident in their defenses?
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"It's dinnertime. Or it's superstition," he opines, as they continue forward. "Not even a patrol wants to mess with watery ghosts. That's a joke." In case that was in question. "I doubt our scoutmaster would have sent us out here if she was expecting a surprise. Can't say that with the same surety for Captain Flint. Don't know him half so well." Also a joke, but he doesn't call it out, only grins a little as he keeps up the job of rowing. "They did say to keep a weather eye out. So if this is a trap, we'll just be quick about our examination. Get out before they can spring it."
Which they'll have chance to do quite soon, seeing as they're nearly upon the wreckage.
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Soon, they're close enough for Derrica to put a hand out to guide them up alongside the ruined husk of the wreck. When the rowboat comes to a stop, bobbing gently in the wave, she leans even further over. Death clings to every fiber of wood.
"Look at this," she murmurs. "Some of this damage is from when they must have moved the wrecks, but this..."
Derrica is no expert, but she has seen wrecks. She has seen the aftermath of fires. The charring around the great blown out holes in these ships is irregular, or at least, it is not what she had expected.
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Darras leans a little to the right, trying to see around to the other side of it. "This side that's facing us," he says, slowly, "that'd be what faced outside. And then the other side--it was Orlesian, yeah? They're always painting the insides. Look there--the way the spliter happened. Means that whatever blew those holes out did it from the inside."
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They shouldn't really be questioning this here, out on the water. But Derrica doesn't see another option. Unless someone managed to get aboard and plant an explosive, or pay off someone to do it, how else could a ship be blasted apart from the inside?
"We should look at another," she continues, before Darras has a chance to say either way. "In case this one was a fluke."
Risky, but neither Flint nor Yseult have signaled them yet. It's likely safe enough to try to poke around a little more, take that sounding and then retreat. The silence continues to be unnerving. It serves their purpose for the moment, certainly, but Derrica's skin is prickling with anxiety as she looks at the ruined ship in front of them.
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But, then again, given the evidence-- Well. Darras tears his gaze away from the splintered wood and takes up the oars again without further comment. He's going over it in his mind as he guides them over to the spars of the next shipwreck over. It's a short distance, not far to go. Even as they're making their approach, they can see the markings all over again. Black char, splintered and wrecked wood. The waves slap at its ruins, and the sound seems loud in the eerie quiet.
Darras stops their little boat when they're within easy reach of the wreckage. It's the same. He doesn't need to say it. Leaving them floating a moment, he shifts, the boat rocking with his movement, and digs out his sending crystal.
"We can make a report," he says into it. "Any sign of company yet?"
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"Not yet," she amends. "I can hear something, but I can't tell if they plan on getting into a boat or just watching from where they are."
Easy enough to evade someone who plans to stay rooted to the dock. There's no urgency in the distorted murmurs that make their way to them across the distance.
"Ask if they can see anything with the glass," she says, and then, a little softer, "I want to take those soundings. We might not get another chance."
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"We're on the wreckage," he says to Yseult, careful to keep his voice low. "Don't want to turn back until we've done what we came out here for. There's some light off to the east of us. Far off from us. Can you see what they're about with the glass?"
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"Have them send word the moment they turn back."
They'll slip the anchor cable and be free of this place the moment the boat is swayed in.
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She speaks more directly into the crystal. "You ought to be fine. We'll let you know if they start moving closer. And you send word the moment you turn back to us."
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He trusts Yseult's assessment of the other ship. That doesn't mean he has to feel entirely at ease, and his gaze flicks back to the torchlight as he takes up the oars again.
"I'll keep us in place. Take the soundings, I'll break and write 'em down as they come. Fair?"
https://i.imgur.com/gWxwPbn.jpg
There's no sense fleeing at the sight of a single fishing boat. But Derrica is thinking about how quickly guards would come scrambling at the sound of a shout as she reluctantly shoulders her staff. She can't work and clutch it, and there's no way shes going to give up on getting this particular piece of information so—
She takes the soundings, potentially with weighted ropes, who knows. And the entire time she's murmuring back to Darras she's straining to keep track of the fisherman or to anticipate the crackle of warning from Darras' crystal.
https://i.imgur.com/5avaxe7.jpg
They get no word of warning as they work, and Derrica is winding her potential weighted rope back up, he picks up the crystal again.
"Finished with the one. We'll get another. Those fishermen stayed fishermen?"
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Hopefully, their pathway has remained clear.
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