CREW CLUB

[katabasis]

WHO: Forces + Some special guests
WHAT: Boat Combat 101
WHEN: Post-Orzammar, early Justinian
WHERE: The Waking Sea, etc
NOTES: A catch-all for mandatory naval training. OOC information located HERE. If you didn't sign up but still want to join it, feel free to jump in.

Early in Justinian, roughly half the would-be sailors and ballista engineers and mages and anchor shard bearers in Riftwatch pile onto the sleek Tevinter-styled schooner in the outfit's possession. They cut out from Kirkwall harbor in the early hours of the morning, and won't return for two days. Unfortunately, this cruise is more bootcamp than a yachting tour along the Waking Sea coastline.

Over the course of the next two days, training participants will be run through the gauntlet; they'll be assisted by a skeleton crew of a few seasoned hands who are used to working the ship, but otherwise will be expected to jump when they're told to jump, climb when they're told to climb, and not complain too much about the questionable state of the food coming out of the ship's galley.

Anyone with a fair amount of experience in any of the fields covered by training may be volunteered as a section leader—so if you're someone with sailing experience, or who knows a thing or two about offensive magic, you may find yourself in charge of organizing and conducting the lessons for the people around you.

SEAMANSHIP
Bowlines, hitches, and bends—oh my! The first thing any good sailor needs to know is how to tie an array of basic knots. Practice tying off lines; practice tying up your friends! Just don't call the thing you're putting a knot into a rope.

Speaking of lines, while they're learning the basics of how to secure them, everyone will also receive a crash course on basic rigging and how the ship functions. No one will be expected to actually sail the damn thing (that's the sailing master, helmsman and captain's job), but they will be expected to fall in and help haul away on the right bit of line when barked at. They'll spend a few hours drilling on the grueling work of lowering and raising sails, making a series of minute adjustments to bring the ship to a better "point" of sail, and then scrapping the whole setup and doing it all over again until everyone knows which barking orders mean what. On the plus side, the crew knows a wide variety of extremely risque work songs to set the tempo for all of this. So at least there's a soundtrack to sweat to.

And while the dangerous work of securing the sails is left to the valuable topmen of the established crew, everyone will be required to go skylarking—ascending the ladder-like ratlines to climb into the upper rigging of the ship. On the plus side, the Tevinter ship's masts aren't half so tall as an Antivan merchant vessel's, so unless someone is very sensitive to heights, it's likely only a nauseating experience rather than a paralyzing one.

COMBAT DRILLS
As with most combat, naval strategy boils down to a relatively simple truth: If you have the advantage of numbers or firepower, give chase; if they do, retreat. While there are exceptions—insert convoluted tactical outliers here—, the bulk of naval combat features two main stages: closing distance (in which you aim to do as much damage to the other ship as possible at range in an effort to wound or exhaust the crew aboard), and boarding actions (where you jump onto the other boat and kill however many people you can find until someone surrenders).

With no targets to chase, no actual fighting will be simulated. Instead, everyone will be familiarized with some basic concepts and instructed that if they ever are in a real fight, that they will be expected to follow directions and 'try not to fall in.' Heartening!


DEFENSIVE DRILLS that everyone will be run though include: the raising and lower of boarding nets—dense nets raised along the ship's sides to entangle enemies attempting to, you guessed it, board the ship—, and being acquainted with the orders to man the rails, the most orderly way to put out fires, getting out of the way when someone with more expertise is doing on the fly repairs, and fundamentals of What Do Do When Someone Is Wounded (spoilers: the answer is 'get them below decks, and if you can't do that they get them out of the way'). Mages, rifters, and anchor bearers who can use shielding magic/have some kind of shield-based abilities will be familiarized with stations along the ship's rails and in the rigging from where they will be expected to defend against the likelihood of projectiles, oncoming enemies, or (rarely, given that these are southern waters) other magic.

OFFENSIVE DRILLS include learning the basic anatomy and operation of the ship's weapons. This particular ship was designed with a crew of mages in mind, and so has a limited number of weapons. It's outfitted with three medium sized swivel-mounted ballista (one at the front of the ship, and two in the rear). It also has two catapults on the main deck, one to port (left) and one to starboard (right).

The ballista's fire heavy bolts which have, for this the purposes of training, lengths of rope secured to them in hope of retrieving them once fired (though some losses are to be expected…). The catapults typically fire a wide range of ammunition—bundles of caltrops, balls of nails and pitch designed to be set on fire before being lobbed over, and pots filled with quicklime, ativan fire, angry bees, venomous snakes. You know. All the usual stuff you might throw at someone to ruin their day. Luckily, today everyone will be firing jars filled with paint and aiming to find a target among a series of barrels which have been floated out in the catapult's range.

Once everyone knows the basics, everyone will be broken out into teams for a catapult marksmanship contest. The teams (which you either signed up to play out or potentially handwave by checking the appropriate box on your sign-up form) are:



TEAM ONE Marcus Gabranth Benedict TEAM TWO Edgard Barrow Darras TEAM THREE Tony Diana Glimmer TEAM FOUR - RNG says this team wins. Congratulations! Your prize is an extra ration of booze with dinner (sorry, Ellis)! Ellis Jone Laura

TEAM FIVE Matthias Kostos Zoya TEAM SIX Nikolai Byerly Fenris Colin TEAM SEVEN Derrica Gwenaelle Margaery Ellie (dq'd on superpower grounds)


Mages, rifters, and anchor bearers with offensive abilities will be given more specific instruction as to which targets on a ship are the most vulnerable/most useful to damage. Damaging or destroying sails, rigging, or anything which propels and steers the enemy ship is as much of a priority as exacting casualties. Anyone with long range offensive abilities will be run through similar hit-the-floating barrel drills in an effort to identify range, accuracy, and general effectiveness.


STILL WATERS
Late in the day, the ship will arrive at it's overnight port of call—a secluded inlet East of Kirkwall that's remote enough to be unobserved. In the relatively calm waters, anyone who wants to try their hand at swimming is more than welcome to do so, though it isn't required.

However, everyone with an anchor shard and anyone familiar with combat around closing rifts will be taken ashore. After a thorough survey of the beach and surrounding tree line, they will receive extremely pointed orders that what they're about to do shouldn't be shared with anyone outside of Riftwatch, made part of any official record, or utilized in the field without express orders from a Division Head. Then those with anchor shards will be tasked with opening rifts.

Highly experimental and generally exhausting, the aim will be to determine how many rifters it requires to open a rift when the Veil is relatively intact (whereas usually the practice is only done to open places where the Veil is weak and likely to soon open a rift on its own). Anchor bearers will be split into groups—those opening the rifts, and those following after them to immediately close them. Any reinforcements are just around in case something goes wrong and a bunch of shades or demons fall out between Step 1 and 2. The work is slow, and methodically done to make a dangerous thing as safe as possible, and very tiring.

And when that's all done, everyone who went ashore can return to the ship for something to eat, a reasonable amount of sleep (unless you've been saddled with one of the night watches), and whatever other mingling people might feel compelled to do. The return trip to Kirkwall consists of more drills, more marksmanship practice, and more knot tying.

Comments

[bouchonne]

i. seamanship
[ It's likely not shocking that Byerly knows a lot of knots, being as he is a noted pervert. Rather more surprising, perhaps, is that he also knows the other points of sailing: he's deft and adept at hoisting sails, is shockingly uncomplaining, and knows all the words to most of the songs.

Where he falls short is when it comes time to ascend the rigging. At that point, he crosses his arms, and invites whoever is behind him to step forward in his place. ]

You first.

ii. still waters
[ The water's a little too chilly to properly bask in, but Byerly enjoys it nevertheless. He swims like an eel, and is quite happy to support the weaker swimmers - and to pull shitty pranks on the stronger ones. ]

[rezni]

Don't tell me you're nervous.

[ says the man who seems visibly thrilled at the prospect of the climb. ]

ii

[altusimperius]

[It's no balmy Nocen Sea, but at least it also isn't the no-doubt utterly poisonous sludge surrounding the Gallows. Benedict isn't basking, per se, but it's been a while since he had a proper swim, and he is allowing himself to enjoy it.
At what cost, is the question.]

[katabasis]

COMBAT DRILLS; (closed to mages/powered rifters/folks with anchors; threadjacking welcome)

With Darras as an active participant, Flint plays the role of calculating observer from the margins of the training sessions for most of the excursion. He's the taskmaster whose stern, barking orders call to shorten or let fly sails, who sending the assembled crew running this way or that in deference to the working of the ship. Praise is rare, but so is criticism.

It's when the day transitions over into the combat section of the training that he comes down from his proverbial watchtower to begin the interrogations. If you're a mage, or a rifter who has divulged your status as having some kind of extra-natural abilities, or even just an anchor bearer with the use of an anchor ability beyond closing the rifts, Flint is probably going to have some questions.

OPENING RIFTS; one thread pls

The rift snaps shut with an inverse crack!. What is left of their unwelcome guests on the beach—a scattering of shades—melts away with it.

"Belay that"—is for the group already stepping up to begin re-organizing in order to start the whole process of tearing again. "Take a rest. See yourselves watered at the very least."

Which is why, five minutes later, Flint can be found sitting on a chunk of driftwood with his sword stuck in the sand. It's late in the day; the sun is threatening the horizon line, and the whole sky is ceding into fiery golds and reds. At this rate, they'll have time for one, maybe two more additional rounds of this madness.

"Mind the time," he warns in greeting, and must mean the two lines drawn radially out from the upright blade—a makeshift sundial, so as not to allow himself to sit too long.

EVENING;

At night, with the sounds of conversation floating up from below decks and the moon heavy overhead, Flint can be found posted up by the taffrail in the warm glow of the ship's large stern lantern. The captain's cabin is stuffy, the wind blowing in the wrong direction to offer any relief by its open stern windows, and so of all places in the ship this is the one from which it is preferable to make a series of notes in a heavily bound ledger.

He has to stand to do it, and there's some risk of dumping the inkwell off the back of the boat with an errant elaborate cuff, but he'll trade both for some respite from the heat.

WILDCARD; you know what to do, and if not feel free to snag me on plurk or disco to spitball.

opening rifts

[molineux]

There's a beat of surprised silence, before - "I will."

When Margaery comes to a stop beside him, it's to stand a good distance away, far enough that he won't have to strain his neck to look up to her.

Her hand with the shard aches something fierce, emanating pain louder than the dull tension she feels all over. She might've started with a diplomatic introduction otherwise, but she's tired and hungry:

"Would you be the right person to ask why we're being tasked to open and close rifts - and with such secrecy?"

wildcard

[novokribirsk]

Zoya has made some concessions for practicality; her long hair is braided down her back, her boots are sturdy and gleam with brine, and she's even eschewed her kefta for pants and a shirt of dark blue. The decision hadn't come easily, but when she'd had to consider the distinct possibility of having to try to wash the smell of fish out of her only kefta,

well.

She's ill at ease without, but it doesn't show in this moment. Instead, she stands all straight-backed and imperious, arms spread wide in preparation of summoning. She says,

"I've propelled ships over sand and through the air." Though not by herself, she's explained already, unless the vessel was small and light. "I doubt it'd be much different on the sea."

[molineux]

I. SEAMANSHIP

Anyone who catches a glimpse of Margaery will find her looking strangely content despite the exhaustion that also clings to her; there's something arguably refreshing about being on a boat and not having to entertain mindless conversation and keep up a pretense. Her arms and hands are shaking by the time she's finished her drills of lowering and raising sails, and she can feel a large number of callouses that are already forming on her tender hands, but the day goes quickly without her having to entertain a single, unnecessary thought.

That is, until she winds up at the top of the rigging and feels her courage faltering when she's expected to come back down. Despite the fact that she's used to the rolling nature of the ship, she finds herself tightening her grip - steadfastly ignoring the vocal displeasure of her raw skin - and comically, very slowly inching a foot down to where the next step down should be. She glances down to the upturned face waiting for their turn below her, in hopes of encouraging herself to be faster. All it does is give her a mild headache from the nausea. And the thought of plummeting down to the deck below, an ungraceful splat of flesh.

"Just- give me a moment!"

II. STILL WATERS

There are sounds of splashes in the distance, murmurs of enjoyment that Margaery finds herself desperately envying as she glances to where people are swimming. After a long day of sweating harder than she ever has in her life, diving into cool waters sounds like the perfect way to end the day's activities. Instead, she finds herself nervously tucking her hands against her elbows as she listens to the pointed tones of their instructions. Perhaps she'd think more about why they're being told very explicitly not to divulge this information anywhere, if it weren't for the fact that her shard still makes her nervous.

She glances down at her palm, where neon green glimmers and highlights the reddened skin around it. Up until this trip, she's been happy to keep her hand bandaged so she won't have to look at it - and now to actively try to use it? She takes a deep breath, audible to anyone around her, and wears an uncharacteristically troubled expression.

III. WILDCARD

[ happy to write a customized starter! some other ideas: Margaery will probably be found falling asleep into her food when she gets to go back to eat, might seek someone out to see if they can help her poor hands heal faster during the night while she rests, and be as stiff as a newborn fawn on the return trip home. c: ]

iii. wildcard

[clawings]

The woman sitting across the table from him very nearly tips forward into her plate, except Erik puts a hand out and touches her shoulder, giving just the slightest shake. "You okay there?" He puts his hand down once she seems awake enough not to drown in her own food, but it just sits on the tabletop next to his plate.

i.

[broodypants]

Fenris remembers this woman, the one who looked ready to punch a demon rather than submit to death. Yet, height frightens her? People are strange, contradictory creatures.

"Where did your bravery go," Fenris calls up, not particularly kind, "when you came through a rift?"

II

[muckspout]

Edgard, perpetually unbathed and unshaven, steps forward towards a woman he hasn't met before. He watches her glance down nervously and makes an assumption. He claps her hard on the shoulder, it's intended as friendly, and says,

"Don't worry, not a big fan of the water either."

He glances around.

"Probably they won't make us, but we could probably find somewhere to hide if you wanted."

ii

[altusimperius]

Margaery isn't alone in her unease, but her sigh catches the attention of a tall figure standing cross-armed beside her, the appearance of her shard coupling with his realization that he's never seen her before. Must be a Rifter, though it's easier to tell with some people than others.

"It doesn't hurt much," Benedict whispers sheepishly to her, "I mean... it's not comfortable, but. It's mostly strange."

i

[novokribirsk]

Zoya says,

"We'll be back at Kirkwall by the time you've had your moment, at that rate."

She isn't exactly eager to have her go at scurrying up the lines like some sea rat, but the heights don't daunt her.

[truthtied]

i. Seamanship

Diana is not as familiar with ships as some of her comrades (and certainly not ships of this caliber), but she is very game to learn. And despite the loss of her natural powers, it's enormously satisfying in a way to finally see how much of it remains. She haul away with the best of them, only just beginning to sweat when others are tired and panting.

Skylarking is... nothing like flying. But it's close. And she forgets herself a few times, leaping from one perch to the next in response to some barked order, taking the sort of leaps only one who is accustomed to gravity being a suggestion might. She's quick to reach out a hand to help anyone who seems to be struggling alongside her in either task.

"Here, I'll hold fast if you'll tie off the end!"

or

"Don't worry, I have you. Hold out your hand and we'll get down together."

ii. Still Waters

The idea of opening a rift intentionally does make her a bit nervous. For a being born of magic, this feels dangerously close to mucking around with things that will attract attention from other beings.

Specifically: "Does the Maker not live in the Fade?"

The question isn't asked to anyone in particular, but it is full of unease.

iii. Evening

As it turns out, there is a point in which she actually can't push any farther. Which isn't a new feeling, but it is an interesting one. She doesn't quite make it below decks to the hammocks, propped up instead against the curve of the ship railing. A seagull is perched on her raised knee, making soft complaining noises.

Diana mostly looks resigned to her status as seagull perch.

WILDCARD
[ hmu if u want a specific starter, Diana's here to be the good natured jock who doesn't know her limits yet. ]

iii

[sparklequeen]

Glimmer has had an eye on Diana all day. Partially just because, well, she's tall and strong and it's hard not to notice that. The other half is that she feels a lot like Adora in her willingness to help, her smile, her eagerness to work and be useful. So, at the end of a very long day Glimmer ends up taking the chance to sink down next to Diana at the railing, flexing her aching, newly calloused hands.

"...You made a friend." She grins, though it's a weary expression.

"You were amazing today."

[tender]

seamanship.

Unsurprisingly, Derrica is spending more time instructing than absorbing instruction. She's spent more time on land than sea since joining Riftwatch, but that doesn't exactly offset having spent years as a pirate sailor beforehand.

So in the course of trying to raise and lower the sails—

"It's going to tangle if you pull on it like that," comes the kind interjection, following a light tap to the shoulder. "Do you want me to show you?"

drills.

Initially, Derrica's focuses had been raising barriers. It's more demonstration than anything, raising rippling fields of light green on cue across the bow or up over the rigging for people to mimic after.

But now—

Balanced up on the side of the ship, rigging close at hand in the unlikely event of calm water turning suddenly rough, Derrica plants her feet, raises her hands and brings down a great crack of lightening that leapfrogs from one barrel to another to another and so on, before petering out into discordant crackles on the foam.

And then turns a bright smile back down, a hand reaching to grasp loosely at the lines beside her.

"I can only control what I hit first, but if I do it right, I can make sure it bounces far enough to make an impact."

Neat, right?

still waters.

Being on a ship at night is good. Familiar. It's easy to feel satisfied with the events of the day.

She'd missed sailing. Derrica rarely gives that much space in her mind, but being on deck in the half-dark, she can acknowledge it.

But not dwell on it to the point where she turns away from other Riftwatch members also sitting up, on watch or otherwise.

"Do you want some company?" comes without any expectation. Derrica is offering in such a way that's easily turned down.

wildcard.

[ do whatever ]

still waters.

[molineux]

It's quite absurd, how only an hour or so ago, Margaery had been ready to sink into the ocean if it meant getting rest. Now, though, there's a restless sort of energy that keeps her awake, comfortable where she sits on the floor as she listens to the ship creak over gentle waves. Is it anticipation for the work that awaits her tomorrow? Or perhaps it's the simple fact that she's never been able to sleep well in a new environment.

It's a testament to her exhaustion that she doesn't startle at Derrica's offer, Margaery blinking up at her instead. The smile is slower to appear, but deep enough for her dimples to cast shadows. "Please. Come sit with me."

Pleasant, gracious company feels like the best possible distraction from the way her own body feels alien to her. "You've sailed before." A soft observation with a question preserved within - only to be cracked and answered if Derrica wishes to.

drills

[novokribirsk]

"How far is your range?"

Zoya asks, her eyes alight with interest. The wind pulls at the fabric of her dark blue shirt, her trousers, the braid at her back — her kefta left in Kirkwall, because Saints forbid she have to wash the smells of fish and bilgewater from it, when she doesn't have any replacements — but lightly, and doesn't bother her.

[heorte]

seamanship.

It's not that Ellis is greatly concerned by heights. He has stood at the mouth of great chasms and bolted across ancient bridges of questionable strength in near darkness.

But the thing about the ratlines is that they feel extremely insubstantial.

And it's a long way to fall.

Ergo, Ellis is taking his time about ascending, head tipped back to observe the ascent and descent of others while he considers his own chances.

still waters.

Unlike literally everything happening on the ship, this is familiar ground.

Waiting around to beat whatever demons topple from a rift in pulp is absolutely within his wheelhouse. He's been doing it on Tony and Wysteria's behalf for nearly the entire stretch of time spent with Riftwatch.

During some break between one attempt and the next, Ellis breaks off to tip his waterskin over his face instead of his mouth and wipe away the stray splatter of ichor left behind by the one stray demon that had hastily heaved itself from the rift. As quickly as it had been dispatched, it had still left a splattering of black smeared across the sand and across Ellis, who seems more or less unconcerned about it.

He still turns towards the sound of approaching boots, eyes moving first to mark Flint's position, before turning fully towards company, and lifting his waterskin in silent offer before he asks, "Are they trying again?"

wildcard.

[ do whatever ]

seamanship.

[poleaxed]

Jone is, as ever, helping. Arms outstretched, she positions herself as best she can below him. Is this a joke or not? Who cares; she's committed to it.

"C'mon luv, teamwork! You know I'll catch you!"

[rezni]

seamanship.

Either Nikolai is a seasoned sailor, or everything in life comes easily to him.

Or both are true, according to Nikolai, though he is a fairly decent teacher. Having ascended and descended the ratlines several times (either to demonstrate it as a harmless exercise or for the pleasure of doing so, who knows) he's offered himself to work through the process of tying knots.

Or untangling attempts at tying knots, as the case may be.

"It's certainly secure," he teases, holding out his hand for the line. "If you like, we can pretend this is a tactic native to Thedas that I'm simply unaware of just yet."

still waters, pt 1. ( one thread, please. )

The latest effort has left his hand aching. It's an unpleasant and strange feeling; there's a raw quality to the process of utilizing that shard that seemingly judders directly into his bones, sends needling points of pain up his arm and back.

But with the concussive boom of closure to mark a successful maneuver, Nikolai steps back from the group, in the same motion as he tugs his glove back into place. Sweat has gathered at the nape of his neck, darkened his blond hair, but he hasn't loosened his tunic or shifted off his coat.

"It was faster that time, yes?" he questions. "A sign of progress, I assume."

Though the optimism in Nikolai's voice doesn't quite offset the fact that he hardly knows what he's doing. Holding his hand up, and hoping for the best? The shard in his hand feels largely outside his control still, and he's not so pleased about it.

still waters, pt. 2

Despite being more or less exhausted, Nikolai hasn't descended to the hammocks. Instead, he's strolling the length of the deck, one side, then the other, at a leisurely pace.

If eventually, he falls into step with someone passing, well.

"So, are you going to flee as fast as you can from this ship once we return to Kirkwall, or did you enjoy some part of this exercise?"

Surely a fair question to ask, considering the day's events.

wildcard.

[ do whatever. ]

still waters 2

[thereneverwas]

"It's always a pleasure to get out of the city."

Barrow is weary, and he's sore from the work they've been doing, rifts excluded; someone of his stature is always going to be drafted for heavy lifting, and he does it without (much) complaint, leaving himself feeling like so many cooked noodles at the end of the day.
But the man at his side is friendly, and there's no good reason not to be friendly back.

"...though I admit a soft bed will be welcome."

still waters pt1: friendship is closing and opening rifts

[archademode]

"Better, yes, though I am not yet certain what we aim for in our own technique." He works one coarse thumb against his unarmored palm, attempting to dispel the memory of something singing in his veins like a struck tuning fork, rattling against the backs of his teeth.

Their efforts here are isolated, at least. Secretive enough that he works without his helm, and without the heavy set of his own gauntlets, making obvious how steeled he is against showing so much as a glimpse of discomfort, when they are all in this moment undoubtedly taxed.

"It is an evasive magic— if it can even be called so much as that. Perhaps no more than a connected circuit, inclined to snap on or off when properly prompted."

He has never been much of a scholar, anyway.

[luaithre]

"SEAMANSHIP";

There is a heavy thump of two feet when Marcus lands back on the deck from the mandatory excursion up the rigging. Throughout the day, he's been efficient in his affairs, following instructions, paying attention, but otherwise quiet. Silent, even, in a more marked manner than usual, and over the course of the hours since casting off from the shores, his composure takes on a slightly more frayed quality.

Now, though, by the time he's back on the deck, he's deathly pale, a cold sweat risen to the surface of his skin. He goes from this landing—heavy footed, not quite as graceful as he'd prefer to be—and marches directly from this position to the nearest rail. He makes it in time to as politely as he can empty the contents of his stomach into the ocean and not onto the deck.

So that's fun.

Tempting to sink down onto the deck and let death take him, but instead, Marcus stays where he is, blindly seeking out a kerchief from his pocket to clean himself up in some minimal way. On the plus side, he, for the minute, feels better now.

DRILLS;

Marcus is substantially better at setting barrels on fire than he is catapulting jars of paint at them. The latter thing was attended to with quiet interest, but with the engagement of someone who has no inclination to pick this niche skill up as a hobby even if he's willing to spend an afternoon on it for now. Like polo, or water colour painting. But it gives him something to focus on that doesn't require a lot of running around, and that, today, he can appreciate.

Testing out how his magic plays though brings some element of comfort, knowing what he's doing. He stakes out a position on the deck, and begins an assault. This requires some care, a wide radius, the swing of his staff—heavy wood and iron, bladed edge, runes that light up deep, heated red, ribbons of smoke trailing off the edge—best to be avoided. He is not quite as quick and twirly as some battle casters, dragging magic from the Fade as if piercing it with the sword-like edge of his implement.

Balls of raging flame fly out towards their targets. They even seem to clip the railing of the ship he's on, but some twist of control prevents it from catching or even damaging the wood, while ferociously eating into the barrels when they land.

Soon, this space in particular smells like a firepit, but it's over soon enough, base of the staff thumping down to balance against the deck as the next wave of nausea is fought back. He doesn't retreat, though, casting his attention to other mages onboard who might be doing the same thing. He prowls around behind them, and is liable to offer advice or corrections in form if he sees its need.

DON'T PERCEIVE ME;

At one stage, refuge is sought below decks. Marcus can be found laying down wherever seems clever, arm over eyes, other arm clutching a waterskin.

Maybe Circles aren't so bad after all? Discuss.

perceived

[tender]

"Marcus?" comes as a question, followed by soft footfalls and the shift of fabric as one hand curls around the edge and influences the taut pull of it.

Maybe he'd prefer to be left along entirely, and Derrica is prepared to acknowledge that. After she's checked on him, of course.

[archademode]

CLOSED: Marksmanship contest

This is nothing like airship travel, nor even smaller ferrying vessels occasionally used to broach rivers and shallower streams— he can feel every rolling push of the waves beneath them, and that’s a truth that extends to the equipment they’re meant to use, for each dip and dive of the ship as it sways shifts the angle of their firing line. Precision becomes a near-thing, or an overshot waste, and it’s a pattern that repeats itself with little care for the men that work to remedy it.

“We ought to aim farther—“ he snaps, the visor of his helm reflecting sharp daylight in ways that might occasionally be unpleasantly blinding. “And take our chances when the ship sinks low.”

It is said as he watches the other teams man their own catapults, feeling as though they are already at a loss.

And he does not enjoy losing.

[altusimperius]

"I'm trying," grumbles Benedict as he struggles to turn the winch to a tighter setting, his arms already sore from the day's exercises and now feeling like so much pudding whenever he tries to make them do anything requiring strength.

[closed] marksmanship

[thereneverwas]

"All right, men," comes the authoritative baritone of Barrow's Business Voice, "remember, it's about accuracy and learning the tricks of the machine, not winning."
He pauses to puff at the cigarette clamped between his lips, pointing at the nearby team comprised of Jone, Ellis, and Laura; "but we better fucking beat them, or I'll never forgive you as long as I live."

[muckspout]

Edgard looks at the other team, grimaces, and looks back at Barrow. He sighs.

"What if I did something for you that you really didn't want to do? Would you forgive me then?"

Better lay the groundwork now.