Barrett Brine stands upon the bow of his ship as it sits anchored in Boreal's Harbor beneath a slate grey sky. With one foot on a cask of ale he holds his cutlass in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other. His troops sit about the deck having consumed the last of the salted pork and hard tack. Sated they see that Barrett is prepared to give a speech and rise to their feet to listen.
As Barrett speaks his booming voice echoes across the bay clear as day to anyone who might be listening.
"Friends, we have journeyed across the rolling seas to a stars forsaken land long abandoned, and yet I smile...
We have just now consumed our last mouthful wholesome food, drunk our last drop of fresh water. There is no turning back now. If we do not land we will surely die of hunger and thirst... and yet... I smile...
The shores beyond our treacherous. An horde of savage beasts and an army of inhuman revenants skulk through the outskirts, ready to attack at a moments notice... and YET I SMILE!
Why? Because we sail with Admiral Karibash, the greatest swordsmen in the history of Dwilight. Because we sail with Drizztle, a faithful first mate who has braved many adventures by my side. Because not far behind us, ready to provide reenforcement is Amy, who shares the blood of the great Cymore and voyages on with the exuberance of youth and the hunger to live up to her family legacy. And most of all because we are about to become legends whether we return home with the treasures of the Silver Temple, or merely our scars to tell the tale!"
He raises the rum bottle higher.
"This is the last strong drink we have on ship. We will not drink again until we stand on the beaches of Darfix! HERE HERE!"
"HAZAH!" the crew shouts back.
"HERE HERE!"
"HAZAH!"
"HERE HERE!"
"HAZAH!"
"All hands to the landing craft. Lock in oars. Weapons at the ready! And fear no darkness!"
Roleplay from Karibash ka Habb (8 days, 22 hours ago)
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The ship cuts through the dark sea, brackish and foamy, under heavy grey skies. The Dancing Tides are calm in their own way, but still rolling and broiling, much as old King Boreal once described them. Not far off is the D'Haran carrack of Admiral Erickson, Karibash is in the Captain's Quarters of his own Dulbese galleon. The first mate comes in to inform him that land is in sight. Standing up from his whittling, Karibash steps out onto the deck to the bow, drawing his looking glass.
Darfix. He had been there a few times in the its Golden Age, a city of almost indescribable splendour. And even still, it is densely populated in a way he thought impossible. It harkened back to the early days of Dwilight, before the west was discovered. The shores teem with fishermen and little docks and apparently merchants.
Karibash closes the looking glass and turns back. "Ready to jibe?" He calls. The men call back, "Ready!" The deck bursts into a mess of activity as the mainsail is drawn up. "Jibe ho!", and the boat begins to turn leeward. Coming about, Karibash calls again "Heave to! Anchors away!" The galleon crawls to a halt as it has come into shallower waters and the anchors are dropped. Looking back, Karibash sees that Barrett has already deployed landing ships. He smirks. "Boats away! We land!" The sailors erupt into a cheer and the warriors begin to cheer from below deck as they start climbing up top. Retainers scramble to bring Karibash his armour and weapons. Turning back, he notices that the locals have noticed the ships, of a sort that hasn't been seen in a generation.
The boats splash into the water, Karibash sits as he tightens his boots and fittings. Kyrjan longboats will catch up to Barrett. Black flags flutter in the wind as the locals begin to scramble away from the shore.
Roleplay from Karibash ka Habb (7 days, 16 hours ago)
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It was true, Kyrjan longboats are fast. Nearing the shore, Karibash is in awe at the size of Darfix, even in these uncivilized days. Cobbled together shacks and hovels fill in the space between crumbling marble, still brilliantly gleaming in whatever sun peers through the tilted towers. The locals have fled before the approaching boarding ships. The intents are made very clear as Karibash's own ship, great ram at the bow, smashes through a small fishing boat. He stands up and begins to cry out, howling curses in the name of Tor.
The scraping of the boats on the beach and the splash as eighty warriors jump in and trudge towards the buildings. They are wild and begin attacking and pillaging, cutting down any who get in their way. Barrett's vessels are closer now and they cheer as they begin to come ashore.
Eighty men cut down three hundred and fifty four innocent souls who stood in their way. Countless more are injured. Horns sound from the city proper, up the hill. The locals have assembled a mob to defend themselves.
Black flags fly high as the Great Admiral himself, the man of more legend than reality, the greatest privateer of all ages steps up beside Karibash. Karibash smiles, "Beat you to it, oh great commander." He nods up the hill, "and it would seem the locals are not too interested in our operating freely. Perhaps they can be reasoned with?"
Admiral Barrett smirks, "Oh, it seems we are about to engage in Toren negotiations aren't we?"
His and Karibash's men form into line with practiced precision as the hollering mob starts appearing at the top of the hill. Karibash's men wear heavy plates and chainmail, great wooden shields, menacing swords, axes, hammers, and spears with mortars and hand-cannons. In contrast, Barrett's men are true privateers, great powerful crossbows creak under tension that would snap lesser wood, immaculate chainmail of feather steel as strong as folded steel but light as tin, and fierce and dangerous cutlasses and bucklers gleam in the sunlight.
Outnumbered 12 to 1, Admiral Barrett grits his teeth. It is roughly twice as many men as he hoped they would meet. He cries out for his men to fire and the twang of the crossbows cracks across the harbour.
For just a moment.
Turns out the Toren mortars are much, much louder.
The front line of the peasantry crashes and bodies and gore scatter across the hill. To their credit they continue to charge, the second volley goes better for the crossbows: their bolts pin men to the ground and cleave body parts. The Toren scramble as a mortar fires a blank, the other three not making good contact.
Again and again the volleys fly, the superior reloading of the crossbows evident but the crushing power of the mortars thundering as they can make them fire. As the peasants charge closer, too close for mortars, the Toren begin hollering and screaming praises of fire and death.
It is apt. Drawing their hand-cannons the Toren fell 119 peasants in a single volley of smoke and thunder. As the ranks close another great volley of rolling thunder kills 118 before they draw weapons against the wild mob. Seeing their moment, the agile Privateers jump forward and face the brunt of the strike as the Toren grumble and throw down their cannons to draw steel. Karibash howls, arms outstretched as his men bring his shield and sword.
With the commencement of close combat brings horror unimaginable. The professional and elegant Privateers contrast with the violent and brutal Toren. Taking damage, they withdraw to ready the boats as Karibash provides cover.
The peasants were slaughtered to the last man. So began the plunder of Darfix.
