closed. hunting the ciconia (war table).

[brennvin]

WHO: Astrid, Gwenaëlle, Loxley
WHAT: The manifest and schedule of the Ciconia, a merchant ship plying chattel cargo between the Tevinter port city of Carastes and Seheron, has fallen into the People of the Silent Plains’ possession. They’ve tasked Riftwatch with intercepting the Ciconia, seeing the slaves freed (and remanded to the People’s care), and the ship’s crew executed.
WHEN: Sometime
WHERE: The Nocen Sea
NOTES: OOC info, spreadsheet

It’s a brilliant sunny day on the ocean off Tevinter: clear skies and gusting winds, clear views across the horizon, a swelling breeze carrying the Bright Song along and filling a Riftwatch griffon’s wings.

Potato is a pinprick in the sky, whirling and banking, giving her rider a good view. Riftwatch’s agents have been taking turns on scouting, getting a birds-eye view where their own sails won’t be spotted, searching for their quarry on the Nocen Sea: identifying her by number of masts and style of sail and colours and oars and figurehead, before creeping closer to squint at the names painted on the side.

The Ciconia.

After a while, Potato descends back to the Bright Song. The griffon’s claws score into the deck, landing with a jarring jolt, and Astrid climbs off on wobbly legs.

“East about four leagues,” she says to the captain, Herati Cerralo, then she looks over to Gwenaëlle and Loxley, where they’re checking their weapons. The other two are friends with each other; she doesn’t know the latter, but no time like the present for meeting a colleague. Ride along with some pirates. Raid a ship. Free some slaves. Normal shit, right?

She fidgets with a wrist gauntlet. “No sign of the slaves, I think they’re all belowdecks. How do we want to approach it?”

Comments

[elegiaque]

All belowdecks nets a hum of agreement as Gwenaëlle considers this, assessing; makes sense. If you make people into cargo, then you stash them in a cargo hold during transport. At least it means they might be easier to not accidentally kill in the process, though she has a mind for worst case scenarios and does briefly, vividly imagine the ship going down.

Not a good outcome. Don't blow holes in the ship, she thinks, flexing her hand as she secures her anchor gauntlet into place. So probably it's fine that Bellerose is not quite ready yet to be brought out into the field with her— burning the thing halfway into the sea beneath would serve none of their goals. The question of what will makes her suck her teeth,

“We target the mages first,” she says, glancing at Loxley. “I know they want us to kill everyone, but that's immediate satisfaction for little long term gain. Dead people don't learn from the experience, so—”

A shrug.

“What some survivors means, practically...”

Maybe that depends on how they behave. Once they have the slaves off the ship, making an example of it becomes an option.

[charmoffensive]

It's the height of summer and, this far north, the air is practically tropical in a way that, mingled with the scent of salt water, is borderline nostalgic. The sounds of the sails filling, creaking wood, the thrum of boots on the deck. It likewise sends a sense of restlessness through Loxley—he had never been much of a sailor back then, only put on a ship to do what he's doing now, but there had always been expectation that when a ship was moving, especially whilst giving chase, there was no reason a man should be standing idly.

So there is a little bit of pacing, more occupied with ensuring he's getting out of anyone's way rather than watching the horizon for the Ciconia and yes, readied with weapons: a silver rapier at his belt, and a wealth of daggers about his person. Besides the fact that he's an unusually lean qunari, he otherwise fits in, his clothing a colour mismatch of patterns, decidedly piratical in arrangement and selection.

"Most men aren't going to die for their cargo," he says. "They likely won't even die for that captain."

[brennvin]

Unaccustomed to this northern heat, to the rolling waves of the ocean, to psychological maneuvering, Astrid tilts her head and considers. There’s sweat trickling down her temple and it’s made her thoughts sluggish, eyes squinting from the sun even with the black-out greasepaint smeared on her cheeks, raccoonish.

One thing she does know, however, is scavenging and reusing what you can and avoiding wastefulness. It’s a nice-looking ship. Sending it to the bottom of the Nocen will accomplish the immediate goal, sure, but:

“You think if we target the captain and the mages maybe we could take the ship ‘stead of blowing it up?” she asks, chewing over their thoughts. “I mean, yeah, I’d rather not sink good timber, and we can probably find a use for it. If it’s for the Gallows rebuilding or for the airship plan or…”

(Something else?)

[elegiaque]

“It's not as if we couldn't take out the rest of the crew after that if we're wrong,” is — perhaps casually overconfident, but there's a reason for it. They wouldn't be here, doing this, if it weren't plausible that they could fucking do it. Taking out the biggest threats first is worthwhile no matter what the end goal ends up feasibly being. “But I think we do need survivors, or this is just a ship that never reached destination. The escapees telling the story is one thing.”

Firstly, they simply might not. Secondly, it's easy to imagine that a heroic tale of escaping slavery must be easy enough for the perpetrators of it to dismiss; that the ship went down with all its cargo, that tales of survivors are wishful thinking, a hopeless people keeping hope alive. Maybe a problem, but a different sort to the definitive knowledge of a threat to their supply line.