Log:Delaya: Last Light of Killesa
OOC Date: April 6, 2022
Location: Grand Bay, Delaya
Participants: New Alderaan, Ty Killesa NPC, Lars Syrush NPC, Bors Thul, Rune, Ulani Kalgaav, Nora Frayus, Sorin Endesea. Ban Iskender, Corto, Aryn Cortess GMing/NPCing
It's said that House Killesa's blood line began with the sea. Whether it be some notion of pride, or the fact their family has manned the seas of Delaya for thousands of years, there is some truth to it. Aboard the VIGILANCE, a seafaring vessel and skiff of magnificent make and build, those championing Lord Ty Killesa's call for help follow Alderaan's 'Green Knight', Lord Ban Iskender, into conflict.
The foe is a lawless band of mercenary pirates serving the Usurper, Lana Panteer, who has fashioned herself the Grand Duchess of Delaya and an enemy to the crown. House Killesa renounced Lana, and they were punished for it. Their punishment was to spend their days in the dungeons of their own keep watching as pirates and mercenaries ruined their home, violated their rule, and ravaged the seas of commerce and peace they spent generations preserving.
The Vigilance is the last vessel of a fleet that was keenly stolen by Ty Killesa, the last free scion of the Great House Killesa. He sails it out into the Grand Bay of Delaya, toward the stormy seas and mists. Their goal? To reach Last Light, the seat of House Killesa and fortress that has served as the first line of defense against all domestic enemies who would prey upon the good folk of the sea. Last Light is a beacon in the storm, and even though its stone is profaned by the presence of lesser men and women, its foundation was built upon the salt and blood of a family who knows the sea like nothing else. Ty Killesa is at the helm of the vigilance, wearing an ornate set of armor bearing the sigil of his House, and a saber at his side. A long rifle sits on a rack before him, aside from the large wheel he mans, and a fine blaster pistol is holstered on his leg. From his position, he can see the large deck of his ship, and the laser cannons. There are two other decks with cannons, too, all of them manned by true, loyal people. Those with Lord Ban? They serve as Marines for this last ditch effort to reclaim Last Light, and begin to feel the cold sting of rain as a storm wades in from above, and ship begins to toss more violently.
Lord Ty had seemed not so confident when he met Ban. Now, on the sea, the young Captain laughed as he tossed the wheel in one direction and called out over the crew of Marines and sailors. "HEAR YE, HEAR YE.. THIS STORM IS THE BEST CHANCE WE HAVE TO APPROACH LAST LIGHT. FIVE GREAT SHIPS WERE STOLEN FROM MY KIN, AND FIVE GREAT SHIPS SHALL FIND THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA THIS DAY. THESE BRIGANDS BELIEVE THEY KNOW THE WATERS, KNOW THE STORMS, AND SPREAD TERROR! HAHAHA.. TODAY, THEY LEARN WHAT TERROR IS. BRACE YOURSELVES, WE GO TO THE HEART OF THE STORM TO DECIDE THIS CONTEST! TO VICTORY.. OR DEATH. FOR ALDERAAN! HOIST THE COLORS!"
Commands are yelled down the line of crewmen as the youngest of their bunch emerges from the cabin carrying the Killesa streamer. It's attached and raised, the men and women cheer.
Then, the mists ahead give way to the shadows of the grand ships he had mentioned. A small fleet of five approach, lumbering in poor formation, but formidable all the same. Those cheering grow silent as rain begins to sheet across the deck and tall waves hit the side of their vessel. Lord Ty Killesa tosses the wheel one direction again, taking them toward 'faster waters', and points their starboard guns toward the fleet in a defiant first volley. "PREPARE TO FIIIIIRE!" Screams the Gunnery Chiefs as they walk the cannon lines.
<She's LOVELY on the foreyard, an' she's lovely down BELOW boys!"> He's been singing for a while now, dock songs again - the sort of music that the nobility of Alderaan might well blanch at at court - the workers song at the loading docks of space ports and the dingier taverns where they go to spend their shore-leave pay. Or aboard seafaring craft, timing their work to the beat; like a marching cadence.
<"Roll Boys! Roll boys roll! She's lovely 'cause she loves me, that's all I WANT TO know boys!"> a fist pump with his free hand and a bit of a kick-step to Bors's walk and even a little spin on his feet, crossing past the main sail and looking out from the deck <"Way HIGH, Miss Sha'vi Grone!">
Carbine raised, helmet on, rain sizzles when the ion-wipe sweeps across the T-shaped visor of the old republic commando armor, the scope of the EE-3 feeds his HUD information, overlaying the zoomed information into a quarter of his vision.
<"She's LOVELY on the foreyard, an' she's lovely down BELOW boys!"> He's been singing for a while now, dock songs again - the sort of music that the nobility of Alderaan might well blanch at at court - the workers song at the loading docks of space ports and the dingier taverns where they go to spend their shore-leave pay. Or aboard seafaring craft, timing their work to the beat; like a marching cadence.
<"Roll Boys! Roll boys roll! She's lovely 'cause she loves me, that's all I WANT TO know boys!"> a fist pump with his free hand and a bit of a kick-step to Bors's walk and even a little spin on his feet, crossing past the main sail and looking out from the deck <"Way HIGH, Miss Sha'vi Grone!">
Carbine raised, helmet on, rain sizzles when the ion-wipe sweeps across the T-shaped visor of the old republic commando armor, the scope of the EE-3 feeds his HUD information, overlaying the zoomed information into a quarter of his vision.
Ever since he first set foot on a boat, Rune has not been good with water faring vessels, the tossing and tumbling of the Vigilance constantly reminding him of that fact. While others move to and fro in assistance with the ship, the Ysannan is found at the edge, clinging for dear life to the railing, and relieving himself of all his lunch over the side. Every so often the green face of the Padawan comes up for air, looking very sickly as the ship rolls over the waves, then it's back to business with a heave over the side.
He has no idea how the others do it, the yelling Captain at the wheel, the folk standing heroically on the deck, and he's clutching to the side wishing for the world just to stop for a moment. Fortunately, the mists they venture through part and their destination is laid bare, the ships they meet in battle revealed. With wobbly legs, Rune moves into position, wiping the back of his sleeve across his lips, the green tint of his flesh fading to look somewhat more hale than before.
The last time Ulani can recall being on any kind of water-faring vessal, it was on Naboo. Specifically beneath the waters in the realm and kingdom of the Gungans. Even more specifically, there was an underwater drilling facility filled with corpses and a terror of the deep swimming in the murky depths. That place exploded -- mostly because of her and wholly intentional -- and they were chased back towards the surface by a squid. Or was it a whale? Or an octopus?
Back on the sea and Ulani is looking a little green around the gills. While it usually helps, Bors' singing to the rhythm of choppy waters only seems to make her more queasy. Clinging to the railing, she looks out over the mists towards the storm they sail into and the enemies beyond, rifle on her back and lunch threatening to hit the deck.
So this is what war looks like.
Much of Nora Frayus' life has been spent in luxury, wealth, excess, and safety. While battles raged, they did so far away from Castle Frayus. She had the privilege of hearing their stories -- of valor, heroism, and noble deeds -- from a distance. Action and violence were things to be practiced, to be certain. A dagger through the soft palate in the dark. A sword through the stomach in a duel. But war like this? On this scale? This was certainly never a part of her father's careful machinations.
But that's just how plans go, isn't it?
She stands near the canon line, arms folded and pretty face formed into a severe sort of scowl. She's opted for some more practical attire -- the robes of the Jedi Order. Though not anything immediately identifiable, they're far from high-class Alderaan fashion. Comfortable, breathable linens. A tunic skirt and thigh high boots. Sashes and scarves, poppy red. When that ship swings around, Nora leans forward to catch herself on the railing at the sudden shift of motion. She inhales softly and exhales nice and slow, trying to listen to the sound of the waves and the rain hitting the hull. The beginnings of a melody that waits for the percussion of canon fire.
Leaned into a section of durasteel upper-deck railing, another of a lineage born of the sea scans the nearing mists, hand to brow. Sorin, of and by Endesea, last of his own mariner line, has not but a dour look to share with the forms of those great ships that emerge from gloom in their shoddy yet still-dangerous formation. Saltwater spray has dampened the man's hair, and a sheen of this sea remains upon his face as he looks back to Lord Ty. It was time then. Time to fight, whether live or die follows remains - as always - to be seen.
There's a push-off from durasteel as the Knight takes what final moments of simple travel remain. The vessel beneath his feet cuts through waves, and the feel is right. "If we remain as true as this vessel's keel, you'll have your keep back by evening, Lord Ty." Sorin's words come grimly, but there's a glint to hazel suggesting he savors the prospect. At his side, that crystalline blade hangs ready. It, in contrast, looks almost eager to be withdrawn. And perhaps it calls to the man, for a hand slips pommel, gauntleted fingers curling around it before sliding further down to test that grip.
Ban Iskender had inquired where aboard a ship on the sea boarding parties are best posted, and been told to seek the forward deck for attack, and the aft castle for defense. For all his experience at war, Ban Iskender's homeworld was an arid one, and this will mark his first battle aboard a surface ship. The gentleman cuts an impressive figure in elaborate heavy armor and his ever present emerald half-cape, though his bearing is slightly more stiff as he grows accustomed to the notion of the deck underfoot. Serene and stoic, for the moment, his sword remains dark.
Often, natural forces are used as metaphor. To encompass an inexorable force backed by the power of Mother Nature herself. Though fire was the usual topic, water was just as glorious, and just as dangerous. The sea was a fickle beast, giving respect only to those who had earned it and swallowing those it did not. For it is said in the annals of the before times that as one gazes into a watery abyss, those that call it home are always gazing back.
It was for this reason that we come to the vagabond of our tale, far from the hero of the gathered Alderaanians and merely in the right place at the right time, as he was prone to do. For he had not earned the respect of the sea and thus he treated it with care, standing at the prow of the vessel and holding his wide-brimmed hat to his head. Corto the Drifter was nothing more than driftwood in the current of time and even now he looked out of place, his hat better suited for endless sands, rough-woven poncho to protect from the sun, and a seven-foot-five frame better suited for being tied to the deck as some sort of ballast.
Forward, he gazed. Ever forward. There was no point looking back.
The Captain points his hand and drops it, screaming, his voice cracking and betraying his age, but none could doubt the courage in his heart. "FIIIIIRE!" The command is repeated, and the side of the Vigilance alights with a valiant spray of red as cannons are engaged with heavy yield volleys. The sea parts slightly from the kinetic force of the discharges, the flash-heat of tibanna misting along the side of the ship as contrails of their payloads travel the distance toward the fleet of five intercepting them.
The dark mists and shadows looming part and retreat to the crimson of laser cannons, and the response from impacts sees some massive damage from the get go. On the sea, there were no shields. On the sea, there is no mercy.
The Vigilance has spent her turn firing and has to angle for another position. Lord Ty answers Ser Sorin even as he's handling the wheel. "She shall see us through our darkest day. The Last Light, true in name.. and is mission. Good fortune, sir."
As they hit a large wave, the Vigilance tilts to the side then mantles over, the direction risky and brave all at once. POWERFUL waves smack the side of the ship showering those eager for boarding operations. "STAY AHEAD OF THEM, MY LORD.." Screams the First Mate from the side, peering thru a set of macros.
"WORKING ON IT," Ty yelled back, his confidence high, still. One of the five ships hit flounders and lists, having taken a sizeable hole to the front of the vessel and taking on water because of it. The ship has a sudden stop, bringing her stern high and throwing much of her crew. Ty laughs out loud, the odds leveling, yet. Four ships sustained their course, and another damaged vessel looms near. Rather than swing from ropes to board the vigilance, some fifteen (15) boards use rocket packs to cross the distance, their jets seen in the grim lighting through the rain. They land on the deck of the Vigilance and one immediately slays a gunnery chief. "WE ARE BOARDED, TO ARMS!"
And thus the battle begins. Ty moves the Vigilance to stay ahead of the ship closest to them, managing it for the moment and giving them some breathing room to deal with their new guests.
Ser Lars Syrush, the First Sword, joins the Marines from the bottom deck and draws his sword upon seeing the marauders. Drenched by rain and sea, he holds defends the only way to the below decks, immediately locking swords with a foe.
Singing drowned out by the blast of the heavy guns and the roar of the jetpack assaults, Bors's maglocks are shifted to quarter strength with a blink at an icon on his HUD and he is charging towards one of those landing upon the craft, <<"Buhbors Engaging">>. Slipping into old habits when his shoulder bounces off of one, sending them stutter stepping back and the Lord Thul is knocked off balance by a shot leaving a glowing circle on his shoulder pad.
His first volley goes wide, the periodicity of its report warbling in the new sounds of combat joined, creating a contrail of steam in the rain before disappearing into the mist. The barrel raises and his aim is true the second go - the figure that'd damaged the plastoid shell hurled back and overboard when the rapidfire stream of the weapons burst of fire lifting and carrying them out of sight and memory.
<<"Target down.">>
The red of the volley bathes all watching in a deep crimson, the light fading rapidly once each shot strikes true. Rune slides a decent measure when the ship mantles a large wave, the Jedi having left the safety of the rail and moved toward the center of the deck. He's definitely having trouble keeping his feet and, when the rocket packs ignite and the foes land on the deck, an even harder time focusing on the fight at hand.
Still the black metal cylinder at his waist leaps into his hand and, with a quick press of the ignition button, a verdant blade extends from the emitter. The first pirate engaged by the Padawan is fortunate through one swing, the attack extending far too wide to the left causing the Force User to stumble beyond his engagement. However, he's not so lucky on the return swing, the very thing that caused Rune to miss helping to bisect the pirate on the backhand. The humming column is reset in a defensive pose, lashing out to catch a second pirate in a thrust before they too drop to the deck bereft of life.
Given the moment of pause in attack, the other boarders rushing the remainder of the crew, Rune takes the opportunity to heave into a nearby barrel, his pale skin reflecting the unease he feels. "Why are there no hover lifts? Would it not be easier to traverse the.... *BLERGH* ...traverse the sea when flying ab... *HURK* ...above it?" the novice complains, the green blade of his saber spun about to be held before him, warding away any attacker that might decide he an easy target.
Still clutching to that railing, Ulani has an excellent view of the battle's beginning shots. Cannon fire rips across the tides into the stolen fleet: ships to meet the bottom of the bay before being left in the unworthy hands of the enemy. Ships, afterall, can be rebuilt. Pride and honour? A bit trickier.
Rather than approaching on boarding like proper pirates, they take to the air on jetpacks. "I have to admit... that is certainly more effective." If begrudgingly. Forced to release the railing to pull up her rifle, she rifles into the air hoping to hit one of at least a dozen enemies heading their way. And manages to hit none because she's a damn landlubber but learned experience with the firearm does mean the ionized bolt rips unnervingly close between two approaching foes, singing clothing and soiling pantaloons
But maybe not that last part.
Nora Frayus takes several steps back and away from the cannons shortly before they begin to report. The booming cannons begin to provide a sort of strange percussion to the otherworldly sounds in her skull. It's as if the sea is singing and those canons are merely driving it to some terrible, murderous beat. Frenzied. Try as she might to wrestle with it, to gain control of it, she cannot make sense of the song. Even if her soul seems to understand it.
She begins to move towards Ser Lars Syrush as he emerges from below deck, but her path to her fellow Alderaanian is briefly impeded by one of the rocket-packing marauders that lands on the deck in front of her.
His steel already drawn, he tips his head to the side and steps aggressively towards Lady Nora, briefly thumbing his bottom lip as he sizes her up.
"Bit far from land, pretty bird," he murmurs, "Shouldn't you b--"
A sing of steel through the air cuts through rain and flesh alike as she draws it from its sheath in a back-hand motion across his chest. He staggers back and blocks her second blow with his sword, but Nora's twisting fencing flourish draws her tip in a circle towards -- and though the back of -- his throat. She pulls it away without a word and continues on her path towards Ser Lars, though her eyes remain scanning the battlefield for any opportunity to put down a foe or protect an ally.
But moments before those tibana-assisted volleys are concussed forth, Sorin's helmet had been swung over and brought down. Tracking data is immediately displayed for the outward blasts, the system designed foremost to triangulate fire. [PLOTTED] appears again and again, in rapid succession with outbound trajectory data superimposed as those shots begin impacting.
But then something new, contrails streaking through the sky, in opposing and very much downwards trajectory. That boarding is accomplished with more tactical acumen than the pace-keeping of those hostile ships and battle is joined with an immediate chorus of shouts, discharges of blasters, plasma-hum of lazer swords, and in Sorin's case, the hard-clang of that blade of Endesea cutting into the armored pauldron of one hostile marine before he'd had time to rebalance himself. A second swing cuts into the lines of a wooden deck plank, giving it character!
Ban Iskender's green regard is narrowed on the distant marks as he observes the effects of Vigilance's cannonade, then turned to the mist shrouded sky as boarders rocket toward them. His sword goes from darkness to light, an emerald glow radiating in the mist as he sweeps the blade into a salute. Bracing against the crested wave, he moves over the pitching deck with uncanny balance to meet the incoming foe. Once, twice, and thrice he strikes. The first attacker is cut down before they even set boots to deck, the second sees their weapon and torso split by the same cut, and the third is impaled with a lunging thrust. "Bring not thy callow cutthroats against Alderaan."
Enter Corto, stage left, dynamically.
That spear tackle would go down in the history books as less of a takedown and more like a meteor strike. The hulking alien had flown through the air as though hurled from a ballista, shoulder ramming into the man who had just had the misfortune of coming up against a sword-wielding power-armoured figure. It was hard to tell which was worse, but the man now pinned for a five-count wasn't conscious enough to appreciate it.
"There's merit in the simple things, young Rune!" bellowed Corto, his rumbledrawl evolving into full blown rockslide-roar. "Enjoy the experience while it lasts!"
The Marines aboard the Vigilance can hear the Pirate yells from the enemy ship that looms closer, mantling the wave and setting heavily down upon the stormy sea to give chase. They cheer at the sight of their boarders closing the distance and landing among the smaller Vigilance and the crew. They cheer when they see the chaos that erupts from their arrival, blaster bolts and swords, the scattered fighting.
Then, they stop cheering at the defiant sight of lightsabers responding. Dread fills their heart when the chaos they sought to sow is righted with efficiency, and definitive blows. This foe does not bow. And that resonates among the pirates as they realize they fight kin who were once Lords of the Sea.
"THEY SIGHT US, SIR. PULL HER HARD, PULL HER HARD!" Yells the First Mate, while crew scream over the chaos of battle, "BRACE!"
The ship chasing them has achieved a broadside despite Lord Killesa's effort, and he throws the wheel in one direction last second just as the port side of their enemy's ship alights the grim, stormy stretch and releases a terrible volley in response. MASSIVE laser cannon shots impact the sea as Lord Ty coasts the Vigilance down off a wave, using the sea to protect them in a stunning display of sailoring, miraculously leaving the Vigilance unmarked by fire. "THEY OVER SHOT US!"
"STARBOARD.. PREPARE TO FIRE!" Screams Ty over the rain and sound of thunderous waves. The command is repeated despite the battle. "LINE READY, SIR!"
"FIRE!"
The tune has changed, he's getting his rhythm and Bors is singing again, unconsciously, though it's shifted to another song of the sea - the words already on his lips while he pirouettes around Sorin, from his left, behind and then stopping on his right while the ship bucks and his mag-boots keep him from sliding and skidding outside of the intended movements he is making.
<"Well the first mate is platin' the Captain aboard!"> throwing himself towards a rail and hard locking his boots when the broadside comes, yallering all the while <"Row me bully boys ROW!"> somehow fortunate enough for the boarders to miss him in the melee while his carbine is leveled once more, <"He looks like a Fanplume with pistols and swo-ord!"> consistent as always his duck behind another of the masts to evade fire costs him his shot by centimeters, heating up clothes and armor <"And it's row me bully boys! We're in a hurry boys! We got a long way to go!">
An arc of crimson energy darts precedes his roll out of defilade, carbine held low and using the crook of his arm to absorb the recoil of the plasma bursts that stitch a line across the foeman's midsection, <"An' we'll sing, an we'll dance, an' bid farewal t'Fr'ienz! And it's row me bully boys row!">
Ugh he wants to buy a boat now.
Ulani he's buying a boat.
It's happening.
Boat purchase. Boat parties. Boat everything.
There was no argument to be found against the simple things having merit, but after the last wave of seasickness claimed his body, Rune would be finding the enjoyment portion a little hard to grasp. Still, the dark haired man managed a chuckle and a nod to the huge man, afterward, resuming his scan of the fight and any targets that need be marked.
Miraculously he begins to feel better after that last bit of weakness, the swaying of the deck not seeming so treacherous and debilitating. Not that it matters much, the pirates that rise up to attack all deftly maneuver around each of Rune's slashes, the glowing blade nipping at nothing but the air it sizzles through.
Now in top of the sway of the water and the blasting of cannons, there are enemies on the deck and rain pelting down. Ideal battlefield terrain for her this is not. But Ulani is not lacking in spirit and, if nothing else, she is one more distraction. And that's the best she can hope to be right now: a distraction. A potential threat who hasn't quite made it there yet. Another shot goes wide, missing the forms shifting in the rain around her. The only ones she can make out with any kind of certainty are the Jedi with their sabers and Bors whose armour lights up like a Life Day tree.
"I don't think--- wagh---" The boat takes a hard turn and bobs in the rough waters, sending her back into the railing again with an oomph. "---I'm much cut out for the water!"
No boat purchase! Flying with Bors already puts her heart in her throat. Imagining him as a captain of a ship could give her gray hair early!
Lady Nora continues her slow and deliberate movements towards Ser Lars Syrush and the rest of the marines. The way she moves is airy and effortless, one foot placed in front of the other as she moves across deck of the ship, splashing rain and blood in her wake. Though there's sound of laser canon fire, screaming, cheering, and Lord Bors' singing, she's blessed enough to only hear the sound of what she's come to know as the Force echoing in her brain. Strangely enough, it's all of those things. It's the rain and the waves, the yells and the fire. It's Bors singing and the sound of bootsteps on the floor. It's the thread that connects the man that charges towards her and the swing of his sword. Swish swish, step step.
Nora moves this way and that way, reaching roughly backwards and driving the pommel of her sword into the back of his skull. He staggers forward and twists around to attack again, but her second hit impacts his cheek with the flat of her blade in a back-hand motion towards the floor.
Crack.
He slumps onto his side, still breathing, but badly hurt.
Nora continues to walk until she's closed the rest of the distance with the marines. Pink hair matted to her face, she peers at the man with those cold blue eyes shortly before turning to stand at his side and the rest of those fighting for House Killesa.
"Ser Lars," she says.
The injured marine standing before Sorin but a half second earlier is now quite uncomfortably pinned to the ship's deck, unconscious yet still immobilized beneath the weight of a brute of a Feeorin. It takes a moment for Sorin's mind to catch up with that captured blur, for that's all it had been behind the man's widened hazel gaze. Corto receives a tilted helmet in reply, distinctly a nod.
That's the split second reprieve the Alderaanian is afforded before a vibro-axe wielding Panteer-allied marine charges, ruining the moment. With servo-assisted quickness Sorin avoids - however narrowly - the vibro-hum of that brutal weapon, though his twin replies, grunted ripostes in the form of cerulean side-slashes, do little but clang off hardened plasteel plate.
It's at that moment the last scion of Endesea looks to his left, and sees the maw of an RH8 laser cannon emplacement but a dozen meters away and aimed directly at him. 'Endesea Dies', is his first and only thought, and there's a moment of peace, and tired acceptance. Endesea's mission of rescue has concluded. Suddenly a hard shift to rudder and the Vengeance heaves opposite under the frantic hand of the Lord Ty.. Just as that cannon's barrel shifts, shifts up and away, it discharges. Sorin feels the static wash of the bolt's energy, just far enough off trajectory to lance harmlessly into the clouds.
He breathes.
Ban Iskender braces when called to by the crew, grasping a shroud cable with one gauntleted hand as the sudden maneuver of the ship beneath him and changing angle of the winds send his sodden cloak flying out sharply from his shoulder like a green pennant. Returning to the melee with a swift advance, the knight defects one attack with a deft parry, slaying the attacker with an immediate riposte. A second boarder is slain in as many moments, but the third fires their jetpack in a short backward hop and skillfully evades Ban's third cut.
When you find yourself locked in a fistfight with a man that is bigger, stronger, and faster than you, you had damn well better find a way to be crafty. Engaged in a battle royale where he was far from the most dangerous participant, however, and you had best hope you got time to prepare your funerary rites. Though perhaps it'd be best if the Drifter catches you, for he is much more forgiving than the Alderaanians, Jedi, and still adheres to an old code of honour forgotten centuries ago.
There is of course some leeway, because after all, being unable to continue fighting doesn't mean it won't /hurt/.
Amidst the rain and the flashes of lightsabers, a long blue arm reached out and a dinner-plate hand reached out and clamped the scruff of the neck of a certain nameless pirate. Strikes and blows bounced impotently off a forearm made of durasteel-strength sinew and the weight of the man even in armour did nothing to stop the Feeorin's inexorable march towards port side. The pirate's feet kicked uselessly as he found himself lifted like a sack of lothtubers and held aloft above the dark blue. "Gerrof! Lemme go!" the marauder ordered the budget knockoff of a talkie Tatooine holofilm.
Poor choice of words.
"Hokey dokey. Hope you can swim," was the inaudible declaration amongst the chaotic din that was warfare, rain, and waves, and Corto did just that.
With a splash, the abyss swallowed the man whole.
Cannons firing from the Vigilance's starboard light up the grim stormy air, drowning out sound just from the concussion of the blasts. The ship groans, wood and craft getting a taste of gravity and the sheer force of nature as the sea lifted them up and set them back down. At close quarters, the vessel they attacked is obliterated. Splintering bits of craft penetrate along her port as three levels of cannonade rip the pirate vessel to shreds in a single pass. Mother nature did the rest, splitting the ship in two with a thunderous crack.
Men and women screamed in terror as the sea began to swallow them up. There was no fighting the waves, the current, or the saltwater abyss, only death in the peaceful silence of the depths below.
Ty ducks a shot intended for him, the blaster bolt splintering a bit of his wheel as he tosses it in another direction to lead them from the devastation they just wrought to set up another pass on the remaining three ships. His technique fails, and the pirates show a decent mastery of helms work as they set up a pass from two vessels at once.
"BRACE!" Yells Lord Ty, the command repeated down the line as they stare down the barrels of cannons from two warships. Showing inherent skill at sea, once more, Lord Ty throws his ship toward the embrace of the sea, taking a high wave just as the pirates fire in quick succession.
The loud cracking noise of cannon fire reveals the contrails of large lances closing in at the Vigilance, but the sea sustained the blow again, and Ty laughs as he walks the wheel hand over hand back down after they crest a massive wave and angle back DOWN toward the sea.
Set to fire again, the young Lord cries out for cannons to prepare, and he orients the ship to broadside, only having to wait for the waves to pass once more to reveal their foe.
The moment he sees the first ship, Lord Ty screams fire, and the crew responds. The third ship makes its presence known in that moment, though it poorly judges the sea and current, missing what would have been a devastating ram against the Vigilance. They instead, get caught in the current and have to wait for another opportunity.
Pirates from this ramming vessel begin to jetpack over though, and like before, they cheer and scream, landing aboard the Vigilance to fight. Ten (10) join the remaining four (4), making a hearty fourteen (14) to stir chaos on the top deck.
As Lady Nora makes it to Ser Lars, the Knight has dispatched two foes in quick succession. He kicks one off the edge of his sword and takes a guard stance, "Lady Frayus," Said, breathing heavy from his ailments but holding true form, "Ever the deadly flower." He compliments, before locking back up with a foe and yelling out as swords clang against one another.
He's gonna find a way to strap thrusters to it when the sails aren't enough. Reinforced keel, strengthened hull. Just you wait, Ula. He's going to sail all over the place and you will absolutely -love- it. For real.
Not yet, though, as the rocking of the ship from fire and sea cast Bors to one side and he's unable to compensate for the movement that slams him back against another rail, driving the wind and song from him and his blaster shots run skyward like an inverse meteor storm. He's yet to take a single shot to the leg, or really any blow whatsoever, but that doesn't seem necessary.
<"ZOUNDS!"> Language.
Another heave of the craft and weapons fire surging all around and the hope to regain his tempo is lost when a pirate cadaver hits his legs and would have upended him if not for maglocks,
<"CODSWALLOP!"> LANGUAGE. BORS.
The deck near his feet looking particularly scored up by carbon now!
"Neither am I, Technie.... neither am I." Rune would reply to the offhanded comment by Ulani, heard over the din of combat. Having kept foot on nothing but solid land for nearly the entirely of his life, Rune wonders if he would ever get used to the rolling of a deck beneath his feet. It's hard enough in space when the pilot takes a hard turn and he had found himself in the corridors or not firmly strapped in a seat. But evil and injustice doesn't wait to pick easy ground, it charges where ever it can try to find a hold and it is the mission of justice to meet it where ever that may be.
As if called on command, more pirates rise up and board the ship, pouring over the railing to get at the crew and the defenders of the Vigilance. Rune's overhanded swing removes the arm of one fellow, his blaster clattering to the deck to slide away while the previous owner falls among the rapidly piling bodies around them. It seems that first attack caused a bit of a pause, his next two chops meeting nothing but the space between the Jedi and his foes, the pair that he harried having dodged back a pack to stay out of reach of his thrumming blade.
Brace! BRACE!
An order Ulani can follow with gusto. She hunkers down as close to the deck as she can get without laying upon it and grips hard onto the railing. The impact never comes and while she is grateful, it does take Ulani a bit longer then it should to come to that realization. She staggers -- legit staggers -- to her feet and wobbles at the verticality of it all.
Oh, dear. Bors is swearing. That must mean things might be going pear-shaped. Littled does she know the sea-bound escapades he is planning in the back of his ever-busy mind. Oh, that realization will come later. Should she not end up overboard and a permanent fixutre to the bay.
She raises her rifle... then topples backwards as a wave lifts the ship up into the air, saving herself from an undignified fall but contributing little else to the efforts. Except maybe some physical comedy. "F-Forgive me, Lord Killesea. The spirit is willing but--- whoop!" She catches the railing again.
"Ever the flatterer," Nora says to Ser Lars. Her toe slides in a circular motion across the deck of the ship, slicking rain in its curved line just as Lars locks blades with his foe. Another pirate staggers towards Nora now, her head cocked at an angle, lips and face scarred from a lifetime of hardship at sea. Each scar's a memory of a conflict that she'd won. A triumph she'd fought for and earned. It matters not. The first hit sees her reeling, backwards. She's never fought anybody like Lady Frayus before.
She is relentless.
The pirate is able to lift her sword to parry Nora's second strike, but again, it seems that strike was meant to open her up. And opened up she is. Nora's blade thrusts through her belly at an upward angle, through her heart, and out her back. The young woman pushes her off her blade and she tumbles off the ship and into the dark, churning waters of the sea. Nora flings her head back, wet hair sticking to her face in ribbons now. The ship is driving down the back-side of a massive wave, and her whole perspective is upended. The muscles of her hip engage to keep her steady at this new angle, but she finds herself sliding a few feet down and towards the helm. The pirate ship meant to ram sails past and Nora's eyes narrow in its direction.
Not unlike how a cat looks at an especially tall ledge that it wants to jump to.
Everyone and everything seems to be in proper melee. The boarders. Their reinforcements. The ships that surround them. The sea is awash in geysers of errant blaster and cannon bolts, and the sweeping wakes of ships maneuvering for even the smallest bit of advantage. It's madness, and within that madness this pack of Alderaanians continues to savage Lana's dogs.
That vibro-axe wielding marine still standing before Sorin shouts a chorus of obscenities. It's answered with a bash of upright blade and power-suit vambrace, which sets the man off-balance. Not quite enough to easily take the first of Sorin's thrusts that follow, for it's battered aside, but the second finds a kink in the join of plasteel at his armpit and that cerulean blade, that brightly sun-catching crystal sword meets flesh. Sorin urges it through with total exertion, servo-assisted and brutal. The marine's obscenities becoming a panicked cry, then a moment of pleading, and then, with a catch of fresh crimson, a gargle that's spit up, to wash down chin, then neck, then upon that hardened topdeck planking itself.
With a clawing at his own armor that lasts perhaps another ten seconds, Lana's dog is put down.
Ban Iskender turns an eye aside to note the blast aimed at their ship's master and pilot. When the young Lord gives the pirate a mortal answer, Ban nods in curt approval and returns to the business of battle. The nobleman's saber work is firmly rooted in the traditions of steel blades, moreso than the grand sweeps more typical of Jedi duelists, but the effects are pronounced as another pair of attacking mercenaries are felled. Another sharp glance as the swordsman expands his senses to take measure of his fellows, finding further cause for approval.
The most dangerous thing to do to an enemy is turn your back on them. But in a melee such as this, there's often no choice. This is perhaps why the pirate could only sigh with resignation when Corto the Drifter's arms wrapped around him from behind and boldly suplexed him into the deckplates.
Another ship is hit by the Vigilance, and by chance, they struck something vital at its core. A huge explosion expands out in a shift of kinetic force, casting rain and seawater outward before the sea simply swallowed the vessel up in a terrible wave. More screams from the mercenaries caught in the open sea and the abyss.
Lord Ty plants his heavy boot into one of the helm's ruts on the wheel to hold their course while he drew his blaster from his side and shot a man twice in the chest before they could reach him. The effort seemed effortless, but Ty was scared for his life, using every skill he'd ever been taught growing up. Jerking his head to one side to rid his view free of the dark wet hair hanging over his face, he pulls his boot back, letting the sea take the wheel just long enough for him to holster his weapon. He latches on with a gloved hand, then reaches out to the throttle to give them more speed by locking it forward. "FULL BORE AND INTO THE STORM! READY CANNONS.. BOTH SIDES!"
The commands are echoed through the crew as Lord Ty orients their vessel to fire from both sides toward two ships at either side; one coming about from poor helmsmanship, and the other rounding the devastation of its sister ship now freshly sinking.
More pirates land to join what's left of the four (4), making fifteen (15) in total. The fighting continues as the Killesa scion raises a hand to signal fire. When it drops, all hell breaks loose from both sides of the Vigilance.
Maglock boots have their noted disadvantages.
Past the body that had slammed into his legs, around the main scrum of hand to hand and hand weapon fighting - there's little cover on the main deck of a warship that is intent on going into battle. Never believe the holovids. Lashed down barrels and crates are fantasy or a sign of being caught unexpecting of the enemy.
The wake of the explosion is light and thunder swallowing the enemy ship and Bors is looking one way or another <<"Ula?">> right arm extending to his side firing just as a rifle bolt slams into his chest plate, rocking him backwards and his quartet of plasma darts poleaxing the aggressor.
More bolts rain in again and he is still locked in, feet refusing to move and lord Thul is kicked over - feeling his knees protest when he keels over backwards - bending there and slamming armored head and shoulders into the deck. Conscious yet, but unconscious of his next shot skipping across the metal plating and into rail of the ship just shy of the fo'castle.
<"Bollocks..."> hissed out more than spoken or groaned.
Chaos in battle is like no other... shouts, clashes of weaponry, explosions, screams of the dying, triumphant voices of the victors, all stacked a top one another like some terrible orchestra all playing different parts of the same piece. Amid that, the low hum of lightsabers could be heard backing the entire selection. One of those backing instruments darted among the challengers as Rune waded through the oppression. It seems the rough waters of the sea were forgotten and his mind had latched onto the need for clarity in a situation of survival.
No sooner had the pirates bolstered their numbers than the Padawan slew three, the vibrant blade slashing through one's midsection to carry through a second. Both topple to the floor as he's spinning to fell a third, a portion of the blade going dark for the briefest of moments as it passed through armor and flesh. All clatters to the deck and Rune is stepping back with saber raised, his eyes darting about for any that need assistance be it in defense or support.
Things are exploding and it isn't the Vigilance. Through the expert captaining of Lord Ty Killesea, they are still full and fighting! Huzzahs are in order! Maybe later. If they're still not dead.
No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than, through the chaos, Ulani's senses picks up something approaching fast. A stomping of heavy boots on wet decking turns her around just in time to see the barrel, a flash of red light, and a smirking sneer behind it. The power of the hit registers first, nailing her in the center of her armoured chest and throwing her backwards. Flailing, she ends up sliding on her butt a few inches backwards and connects with the railing. Again. Always this damnable railing.
The burning sensation comes next, the taste of iron in her throat and her cloudy breaths in the rain wheezing. The foe that took her down lumbers up, bringing her gun to bear once more. Surely something snarky was about to escape the formidable woman's lips, but she is rendered forever speechless when Ulani instinctively returns fire and drops the pirate woman where she stands.
Ulani stares at the body in front of her for longer than she should but doesn't freak out. Instead, she manages a pained "I'm hit." while trying to find something sturdy to grab onto. She's completely lost track of where everyone is.
Nora's center of gravity raises up as the ship levels out, and her fingertips slick across the rainy deck as she lifts to her feet. He eyes turn towards the the Thuls when that first bolt strikes Bors' chest and sends him backwards. Those pale blue eyes turn to see Ulani struck as well. Though her feet had already begun to carry her in their direction, they move at a quicker pace to close the rest of the distance between them. When she arrives, she turns her backs to both Bors and Ulani as they collect themselves, a sword raised and pointed to any remaining pirates that might think it a good idea to follow up their attacks.
Rain and blood create an effect that's near to watercolour on the steel of her sword darkened by those ominous clouds above. And yet it's Nora's eyes -- those cold, frosty things that somehow manage to pierce through the veil of grey all around -- that are the most ominous.
"Come near them again and not even the sound of the sea will drown the sounds that I will tear from your lungs," she says.
Amid that cacophony of tibana-charged heavy cannons, this melee becomes further entrenched madness. There's no front line, just a deep zone of conflict increasingly strewn with the bodies of the fallen and the smears of their fluids. Within this madness, Sorin has been pulled deep within a battle haze. No vocalizations beyond increasingly winded grunts as that sword of cerulean crystal - NOT METH YOU HEATHEN - swings, meets armor, meets flesh, cuts through, and then again. A body falls while another stumbles, and they are but still-shot moments within that rage of screams and yet more thunderous cannon discharges. His helmet compensates for those concussions by briefly cutting auditory sensors, and he fights in those moments in tinnitus-tinged silence.
Ban Iskender remains stoic in the swirling melee and slashing rain. As the latest wave of assailants descends upon them, Ban steps to meet them, a profound calm resonating through his voice as the broadsides erupt with righteous fury. Between steps and thrusts, counters and further slaughter, Ban recites with poetic measure, "Now loosed the fires of liberty, to burn down stolen might that noble blood endure to see the wicked put to flight. Now may thy ruin a beacon be, our guide unto Last Light."
Stand. Turn. Pivot. Grab.
In a brawl like this, with reinforcements coming in to meet the metaphorical blender of lightsabers at every turn, it was the far more prudent choice to just punch people in the head. One hit, down, clean efficient, move on to the next. But grappling was an act of style, and when you have the frame of a dunkball player and the width of an average outhouse, you use it to your advantage.
Like the proverbial puny god, an armoured pirate was ripped from his standing position by a huge meatfist wrapped around his ankle. With a mighty roar, the blue-skinned Drifter pulled back and swung.
/Non, je ne regrette rien/ metaphorically punctuated the slow-motion overhead swing of a pirate screaming his lungs out many feet above Corto unable to do anything to arrest his momentum. It was a terrifying and comical sight, almost unmissable. Time resumed with a horrible crumpling noise. The pirate's momentum abruptly ceased as he came into sudden, inexorable contact with a wounded comrade. Gravity took hold and the deckplates welcomed their shattered forms.
Cannons from starboard and port sides of the Vigilance erupt in righteous, thunderous fury, releasing a wave from both sides of crimson contrails that strike enemy ships simultaneously. The Vigilance crests another wave, water cascading over her bow to shower the melee. Devastation is yielded from the attack as the ship upon the starboard side is hit thrice and explodes. The mushroom shape of the smoke is swallowed up by the mists as the concussion of the blast sweeps rain and seawater wide before the ruin of the vessel is taken to the abyss below.
The port side ship fairs better, her Captain angling the ship just right to sustain a blow, but Lord Ty is entrenched in battle at the helm, having to, again, draw his pistol while holding the wheel and gun down two, the third killed by the First Mate who tackles them away from the young Lord. Unable to focus on battle and piloting, the Vigilance has fallen into the sights of their foe. They fire, and Ty throws the wheel, cresting another wave /just/ in time for the cannonade to impact the sea instead of the Vigilance hull.
The Vigilance groans and creaks as Ty brings it over the wave and walks the wheel down, fighting physics but aligning another shot against their foe. "Master Yates!" Ty calls out to his First Mate, who returns to his post, answering, "Yes sir?!"
"Fire! SEND THEM TO THE ABYSS!"
"Aye sir.. PORT CANNONS.. FIRE!"
The command is echoed through the ship as the two vessels enter into a deadly dance, circling death. The Vigilance fires first, and all three decks tear into the enemy vessel, splitting her hull and triggering an explosion that lights up the sky.
Lord Ty throws the wheel back on heading, setting them on course for Last Light. "THE FLEET MET TERROR, AND OUR FOE AWAIT IN WHAT ONCE WAS HOME. SO SHALL IT BE AGAIN WHEN THIS FILTH IS WASHED AWAY BY THE SEA!" Yells Lord Ty Killesa, defiant and filled with vigor. "THEY CLAIMED THE SEA, BUT THE CURRENT BETRAYS THEM, BECAUSE THE SEA BELONGS TO KILLESA! FOR ALDERAAN!"
Up ahead, Last Light looms, its towering battlements a tall shadow in the storm, yet.. its fire, burning eternal, can be seen with no issue. One spark of courage ignites the fire of hope.
Lord Ty, thankful for the rain, cries, his gloved hands gripping the wheel. "Hold on, dad.. I will be there soon."
