He Watches the Game Beneath the Sea, ((Open))

[King Monkey]

Vass Rumaldo possesses the corpulence that only the moderately wealthy can attain. The buttons of his fashionable jacket strain to hold the garment closed over his bulging stomach and his fleshy jowls hang on either side of his face. His head is vaguely pear shaped, the close, sloppily cropped hair on the top not hiding the fact that is is narrower than his heavy jaw and the thick sideburns and mustache only accentuating the fact. His dark eyes, as he looks at those gathered before him, are too small and set too close together and he has a habit of squinting them when he's concentrating on something so that they almost seem to disappear in the folds of his face.

Despite his obvious wealth, Baron Rumaldo seems perfectly at home in the seedy tavern in which he's chosen to hold this meeting. He wasn't going to invite people like those gathered before him to his house after all and there are a pair of large, shadowy figures standing nearby to ensure that no one mistakes him for an easy mark. Still, the familiar way with which he deals with the serving wenches and the easy way he sits in his chair indicates that he knows this place well.

"I have called you here together because I am in dire need of the kind of assistance that only people such as yourselves can provide," he says, his voice a bit wet as though his mouth and throat are constantly filled with spit.

The signs and messages and contacts that brought this particular job to each individual's attention said only that there was a dangerous task to be performed and that there was quite a bit of pay in it for anyone who was brave enough to answer.

[Altair]

The only thing that might have been more odd than the fact that the finely-dressed nobleman seemed quite comfortable in the less-than-opulent environment of the seaside tavern, was the fact that a small and rather rough-looking group of his guests did not. Indeed, they looked as if they could have easily come screaming out of the womb in any of the dark corners of this seedy establishment's main room, their first breaths heavy with alcohol, pipe smoke, sweat, and any number of other unsavoury things. From the way the two large, hairy men caressed the hilts of the curved swords at their waists with meaty thumbs and scanned their environment with narrowed brown eyes from beneath dark, scraggly brows, however, they struck an image more akin to fish flopping around on the deck of a ship. The man they flanked - smaller, but not by much - seemed somewhat less nervous, seated across the table from the baron with his arms folded over his chest and his piercing blue eyes fixed steadily on Vass Rumaldo. This had more to do with a talent for keeping appearances than true confidence, however; he felt the same way about this place as his own bodyguards. It might have been neater and more organized than they were used to, and the patrons were certainly more subdued, but their was an unfriendliness in the air that was almost palpable enough to be tasted.

That they were all in a foreign land farther away from home than any of them had ever been had something to do with it as well. The people who lived in this place were strange, their habits and customs completely alien. They all dressed and spoke differently from one another, they appeared to be highly selective of who they interacted with, and they treated each other almost as foreigners. It was as if ten separate nations inhabited this single settlement. Of greatest interest to Adel Alta'ir, though, was the round man seated across the table from him. From what little he was able to glean about this strange society through his own observations and those of the men who had accompanied him here, he understood that this Baron Vass Rumaldo person was supposedly the descendant of a long and proud line of warriors. That was what he was led to believe the 'Baron' part of his name meant, but now that he finally had a chance to gaze upon the man, he found the claim ridiculous. Baron Vass Rumaldo's appearance was absurd, bordering on the comedic, and he might have laughed at the mere sight of him if his own interests weren't so firmly rooted in not insulting the man.

Alta'ir noted that this strange person who had summoned him even sounded inhuman, like some sort of frog. He seemed to prefer the larger and more complex words of his language, which the foreigner found mildly frustrating since it took him a moment or two longer to penetrate his speech. After the fat nobleman finished speaking, there was a short pause before Alta'ir leaned forward slightly, one elbow planted firmly on the table, and peered across the space between them through the shadow cast over his features by his drawn hood. "Hwat sort off assistance?" he prompted Baron Vass Rumaldo to continue in a strange, near-impenetrable accent.

[King Monkey]

Rumaldo's gaze focused on Alta'ir and there was a brief, but unmistakable flash of disdain for the man. He was clearly a foreigner, after all, and thus, barely worth noticing. The "good" baron paused a moment as though mustering the effort necessary to speak to such an undesirable.

"I'm glad you asked," he said, his voice as sweet as warm honey and a friendly smile on his face. He might not have gotten his title through battle, but he certainly knew how to keep it and advance his power.

"My daughters have come up missing," he says, clearly, legitimately pained by that fact. "My dear, dear Criselle and Hiplita are lost."

He has to pause and dab at the corners of his eyes where a bit of moisture has gathered. "You see, I sent them off to Westwood Finishing School so that they could learn the manners and decorum needed to become proper ladies and good wives. That was almost a month ago and I just recently received word that their ship never arrived. You see, Westwood is the finest institution of its kind, but it is rather a distance away and they had to sail to get there."

He clears his throat, as if pained by the need to go on. "I was frantic, of course, and sent out inquiries about their fate. It was only then that I discovered that many ships that have taken that route have gone missing. A bit more research indicated that it wasn't just ships sailing that course."

[King Monkey]

Rumaldo spreads out a map on the table, his sausage like fingers actually rather dexterous. The map is a nautical chart of a portion of the Sea of Mists. A circle has been drawn on it in red pencil. In the center of the circle is a small island.

"Any ship that has stopped at this island in the last month hasn't been heard from again. Any ship that just gets close has gone missing as well. The vessel carrying my daughters was supposed to resupply here. I can only hope that they are still there and unharmed.

“Of course, I’ve notified the Navy of these facts, but they’re too cowardly to do anything about it. If you want to make sure they don’t visit someplace, just tell them there might be something dangerous there. I don’t know why I bother paying taxes,” Rumaldo says with obvious disgust and derision.

He looks up at those gathered before him with a mixture of despair and hope in his eyes. "Please find my daughters. Please bring them back to me safely."

He withdraws two more rolls of parchment. “This is Hiplita,” he says as he unrolls the first parchment and lays it out flat over the map. The picture scribed on that parchment is a work of art. The girl portrayed has a lovely, oval shaped face with a rosebud mouth, a straight, small nose and high cheekbones. Her eyes are almond shaped and have an air of serious, thoughtful dignity about them. Her dark hair is cut at her shoulders in a simple style that would be easy to manage. She would be considered pretty by any standard.

Any standard but one, that is. “And this is my darling Criselle.” The girl displayed in the second picture is breathtakingly beautiful. So much so, in fact, that one assumes that the artist who drew it took some license with her appearance. She has the same pert nose and high cheekbones but her face is perfectly heart shaped and her mouth is like a perfect bow. Her eyes are almond shaped as well but set perfectly in her face. Her hair is long and lustrous, framing her face like a wavy silken curtain. She has the innocent, trusting look of someone who everyone loves.

“I have procured the services of a boat. They can be ready to sail as early as tomorrow morning. Anyone who goes to save my girls will be paid handsomely upon their safe return to me.”

[Striker]

At the far end of the room, where the deepest shadows fell heavily over the tavern's occupants, a silent man sat alone at a table and serenely lifted a glass of wine to his lips to take another sip. He hardly seemed to be interested in what was going on at all. His eyes had barely glanced at the speaker more than twice, and he didn't bother to look at the map nor the pictures of the young women that had been unrolled for the onlookers to take in. He seemed disinterested in the whole affair. He didn't even seem all that thrilled by his wine, though it got far more of his attention than the conversation did.

He was a man of greys; it seemed that there was no color to him at all. His skin was not overly pale, but it seemed almost to have a greyish cast as though at some recent point he had been desperately ill and had simply never recovered from the experience. His hair was midnight black but seemed somehow dull. It was long enough that it just barely brushed his shoulders, but it had been very carefully groomed, as if each lock had been put in it's place by the hand of it's owner and carefully ordered to stay that way.

In fact the strange man looked rather rich indeed despite his odd appearance. It was not just his richly groomed hair. It was the expensive black coat that rested over his shoulders. It was the well made breeches that covered his legs. It was the shiny leather gloves that carefully covered his hands.

But the oddest thing about him, aside from the fact that he was wearing gloves indoors on a warm evening, was his eyes. They seemed to hold the only colour that came near him. A very faint touch of blue mixed with grey. He turned his steady gaze upon the speaker and they cut through him. His gaze was like granite. Like ice. "And which intrepid vessel have you procured and who so bravely captains it?" His voice was low and quiet but it cut through the tavern like a knife, like a sharp and sudden wind, powerful but fleeting.

[Altair]

Alta'ir noted well the disdain that dripped from the baron's watery words, and the fact that the sentiment was directed at him and his men, but he didn't seem to mind. As far as he was concerned, falling under the contempt of a fat, stupid pig was something to be worried about more than being regarded poorly by Vass Rumaldo. The foreigner was of half a mind to turn down this man's petty errand, regardless of how many virgin daughters and mountains of gold he might have, simply because he found the look of him intolerable. He bit his tongue, though, for the time being; he and his men had other reasons for pursuing this.

The dusky-skinned man seemed disinterested by Rumaldo's plight, and if anything at all, contemptuous of his pathetic display of emotion. After all, if he was so worked up about the disappearance of his daughters, it could only mean that he had raised a pair of weaklings whom not even he, their father, was confident could take care of themselves. If this was the case and there truly was something foul afoot (which he strongly suspected there was), Hiplita and Criselle were in all likelihood already dead. Either way would suit him just fine, but he was sure the nobleman would not be pleased to hear it, so he carefully kept those thoughts to himself. Alta'ir did perk up slightly when Rumaldo unrolled his nautical chart, however. For as much as he despised these people - these Skaelians - their ability to map the great waters was nothing short of astounding. Every island and current was rendered upon the parchment's surface in detail, and the whole image offered up a dearth of navigational information. It might take some time for his best sailors to unravel this language, but when they did, this chart would prove to be the greatest reward for their services.

Alta'ir's brilliant cerulean eyes narrowed in obvious interest as their patron described the rumours about the island inside the red circle. He didn't even pay any notice to the detailed representations of his daughters etched upon another pair of scrolls he unfurled for them. In fact, the hooded stranger and his two hulking bodyguards seemed to be satisfied by that map alone; Rumaldo was in the middle of explaining that he had procured transportation for them when Alta'ir rose to his feet, gathered the sea chart and the pictures of the young heiresses in his hands, and handed them back to the man standing off his left shoulder. "Hwe hwill find your daughters and return sem, Baron Vass Rumaldo." He turned away from the fat nobleman and was about to lead his bearlike companions out of the dive, when a new voice cut through the soft din to address Rumaldo. Alta'ir paused, turning his piercing gaze on the dark-clothed stranger, and instantly decided he did not like this new person either - if for entirely different reasons.

[King Monkey]

Rumaldo hadn't even realized that the enigmatic stranger was listening or interested in his conversation. He gives a little jump of surprise as the gray toned man speaks and a bit of his wine sloshes over the brim of his cup to spill onto the table. From the looks of the wood, no one is going to notice. It's just one more stain in a long history of stains.

He looks over the newcomer to the conversation for a long time, trying to discern anything he can of the man. In the end, though, he learns nothing, except the knowledge he began with, which was that he didn't want to get on this man's bad side.

Perhaps that is why there is an oily, ingratiating smile on his face when he answers the man's question. "I've managed to procure the services of the Mist Rambler , " he says. "Captained by the stalwart Jeremiah Kane."

He's concentrating so intently on this newcomer that Alta'ir has already scooped up the documents laid out on the table and is moving away before he notices what the barbarian is doing. Rumaldo leaps to his feet, moving with impressive speed for a man of his bulk. The chair he was sitting in squeals in protest as it is pushed back along the floor.

Before giving the gesture a thought he reaches out and grabs one of Alta'ir's sinewy arms, his own thick fingers soft and heavily padded. "Wait!" he declares before going silent. He stares down at his hand where it grasps the other man as though the appendage belongs to someone else. The grip lingers a moment longer and then he snatches his hand away as though Alta'ir's arm is a skillet fresh from a fire.

"If you have a boat I'll happily pay you what I was going to pay Kane," he rushes on, nervously. "In addition to what I'll pay you for actually going on this perilous endeavor.

"I think it would be best if you took everyone with you, though," he continues, nodding towards the newcomer. "Whatever danger lies out there, it can be better faced and survived with more swords working together than if you each go it alone. Please, for the sakes of my daughters."

It is beyond Rumaldo's understanding that none of these men would be swayed by such an argument. From their birth Hiplita and, especially, Criselle have been quite useful in convincing men to do what he wants. Most men fall all over each other to gain favor with either or both of the girls and Vass has used that to great advantage over the years.

[Striker]

Rumaldo's desperate plea for the safety of his daughters did not produce any kind of emotional response from the grey toned man. His icy gaze remained steady and his face almost seemed to be a mask carved in granite. The strange man in black cared nothing at all for the man's suffering, nor for his daughters nor their suffering. He had his own reasons for being interested in an endeavor of this kind... and those reasons would remain his own, unspoken and unknown by anyone else until such time as he saw fit to enlighten them... a time which would likely never come.

"No, I've no ship of my own." He said in a flat voice, lightly shaking his head from side to side once so that his black hair danced around the nape of his neck. "I will, however, willingly join these others." If they could carry him to their destination, that would be satisfactory. For now.

There was no question of whether or not he was welcome to join the others. It seemed that he had made his decision and he expected others to abide by it. Something about the look in his icy eyes when they fell on Alta'ir should have told him that it was a bad idea to try to refuse the offer of his services. "I will depart with you then, upon the morrow," and he inclined his head ever so slightly as if expecting the man's acceptance before he departed.

[Altair]

The mysterious party of foreigners was nearly at the door when the baron's hand shot out and clutched Alta'ir's arm. Though the leader of the strange group gave no immediate reaction to the gesture, not even a start or flinch, the two larger men who accompanied him regarded Vass with mixed expressions of surprise and outrage. Surprise that such a fat, ungainly creature had been able to burst out of his seat and launch himself across the room this quickly. Outrage that this same creature dared to touch their leader. Little did Rumaldo realise how fortunate he was that there were clothes and a heavy cloak between him and the foreigner's bare arm, otherwise he very well might have lost that hand then and there. As it was, the two bodyguards reached for their weapons somewhat slower than they would have otherwise, but stopped short of drawing them when their charge sent them a warning glance and a slight shake of the head inside his hood. This was a situation that called for diplomacy, after all.

By the time Alta'ir had turned around to face the portly nobleman, Baron Rumaldo had snapped the offending hand back. His dusky, shadow-wreathed features held no offense or malice toward his new client for the grievous social infraction he unknowingly committed, though his intense blue stare bored into Rumaldo, scrutinizing him carefully. For a moment, the traveler questioned whether he should let it be known that he had a ship, and a good number more men than the two he had brought with him. He might expose the rest of his companions to undue danger if he even let slip that they existed - but then, they were accustomed to danger, even expected it on this journey. They needed the money, besides, as loath as Alta'ir was to admit that fact. Not even his people's soft-hearted neighbours, the Tregulans, had much use for it, so his expedition had been ill-prepared when they first came to this foreign land and saw how deeply ingrained the corrupting influence of empty wealth was in this society. He wished to keep his men as far away from that disgusting thing as possible, for the purity of their undying spirit, but Alta'ir quickly realised how unrealistic this desire was. After a lengthy pause, the hooded foreigner bowed his head slightly, and announced, "I do haff a ship, and men to crew it." Then Alta'ir looked up to the colourless stranger who would apparently be joining them on this journey. "Come to the dock at first light. Ours is the ship with three-edged sails."

With nothing more to be said, Alta'ir turned on his heel and strode out of the tavern, his two subordinates trailing close behind. "I do not like that man," one declared in their native language, referring to the one who had interjected himself in their dealings.

"I know," Alta'ir responded flatly. "But he is coming. It is my decision."

"I like the fat one even less..." the other bodyguard muttered softly under his breath. Alta'ir only nodded.

[Striker]

The grey man nodded only once in acknowledgment of the stranger's words, silently making note of where he would be able to find the ship and it's crew in the morning. The Baron he ignored completely. There was nothing of use that he could learn from the man and he had no interest in more talk of money. Nor did he wish to hear any more sniveling over his daughters and how important their safety was to the man. It was irrelevant. All of it.

Just like it was irrelevant to him how he reached his destination. So long as he reached it.

With nothing more than that nod he swept out of the seedy tavern and disappeared down a side street and was lost in the night. No one saw hide nor hair of him until the next morning. In the early hours just before dawn when the first pseudo light of false dawn had begun to creep across the sky, fading it from black to deep blue, he appeared out of the darkness and silently approached the ship with three-edged sails. He had brought little more than a single pack with him, and he carried it slung over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing, though if anyone else had tried to pick it up they would find it very heavy and extremely difficult to lift.

In the dull light one could see that he had changed clothing. This time he was wearing an ashen grey shirt underneath an open overshirt of black along with black breeches. His cloak this time was of deep crimson, not of black. It seemed that his wardrobe wasn't entirely without some touch of color. Perhaps he was not always a grey man. Perhaps today he was in a bloody mood.

He stopped at the base of the gangplank and called a greeting up to the ship above. It seemed he was not entirely without respect, as he waited to be permitted on board before simply strolling his way on board. Of course it probably would have been extremely foolish to simply waltz unannounced into the crew which was likely to be armed. As soon as they discovered that he too bore weapons, though they were not immediately visible, he would likely have been cut to shreds. Perhaps Alta'ir had even hoped he would be just so foolish as to try it so that the stranger would not have to bring him along.

Of course the crew had no idea how foolish it would have been to try to cut him to shreds.

"I am here at the invitation of one Alta'ir." He announced along with his greeting. "I wish to come aboard so that I will not unduly delay our departure."

[King Monkey]

Rumaldo never knew his danger. He didn't even notice Alta'ir's two bodyguards reach for their weapons. Other than business dealings, Vass was not a particularly perceptive man. He DID see the glint of danger in Alta'ir's eyes though and a shiver went up his spine, causing his corpulent bulk to ripple like the waves on the sea at low tide.

"Ah...um...ah...thank you. Thank you all," he manages to stammer out as he steps hastily back and watches the fighting men depart.


The day hardly dawns at all under a sheet of rain and dark clouds. The drizzle is just heavy enough to be discerned from the fog that it does nothing to dispel. The water falling from the sky is bitterly cold, however, the kind of rain that normally only falls in the winter. No matter how one tried to cover up and protect themselves, it manages to find its way down collars to send chills down backs and dampen hems to soak ankles.

Rumaldo is far less discreet than the grey man. He arrives just after the adventurer with a full retinue of both guards and servants (one of whom tries without much success to keep an umbrella over his master's head) and barges onto the ship as though he owns it.

"Good morning, good morning all," he says, his voice rising impressively over the din of preparation to reach all ears on the ship. "I'm Vass Rumaldo, your patron. I'm here to thank you all, personally for undertaking this venture. I'm certain with such a fine, hearty crew my girls will be safe in my hands again in no time. Just to make sure everyone knows who you're looking for, I've brought pictures. Please, everyone take one."

His servants begin passing out pieces of parchment that have smaller, cruder drawings of his two daughters.

[Altair]

The foreigners' vessel was almost certainly unlike any their guests had ever seen before, unless, of course, they happened to be extremely well-traveled. It bore a certain resemblance to the triangle-sailed Tregulan sea craft, but it was much sleeker and sharper, with a long, pointed ram at the prow and a shallow draft. This was clearly not a ship meant for transporting goods to distant markets, like the sort that Tregula produced; it was a raiding vessel, built for swift, savage strikes. Indeed, it was a class of ship normally used for piracy against fat and vulnerable Tregulan merchant ships, though its purpose here was of an entirely different nature.

When the strange man from the previous evening came to the dock and announced his arrival, two heads popped up over the deck rail, hoods drawn forward to protect their heads from the rain. One of them, who had accompanied Alta'ir the day before, exchanged a few brief words with the other before turning his attention back to the grey man. "Hwe know who you are," he shouted back with an accent even thicker than his leader's. "Come, come, hwe are making... ah, shadaleh muras!" The man's words slid back into his native tongue the instant he saw Vass Rumaldo emerge from the veil of mist and rain. Whatever he said, it must have been quite amusing, as the other man descended into fits of hysterical laughter.

"Good mohrning, Bahron Vass Rumaldo! How nice to see you again!" the first man shouted back down in response to the noble's greeting, as he almost absentmindedly stops the first servant from setting foot on the ship's deck with a hand firmly planted on his chest. An exception was being made in the strange colourless man's case (who was even more strangely colourful today), but outsiders were not permitted to board their leader's vessel. The large foreign warrior did take the scrolls from the servants, however, and tossed them to his companions, which resulted in a number of wolf whistles and excited chatter that was completely unintelligible to the baron, grey man, and the servants to rise up into the morning air. "And how nice to see them again," the first man said to the second, to which both shared a hearty laugh.

[Striker]

The strange man didn't seem to be the least bit bothered by the rain. He wasn't huddling under anything to keep himself dry. In fact, he hadn't even pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. Oddly enough, he didn't even seem to be wet at all, though the rain pelted him the same as it did everyone else. The hem of his cloak wasn't the least bit damp. The only part of him that seemed to suffer the usual effects of the rain was his hair, which hung in damp clumps around his head. Even the excess water dripping from the tips of his midnight locks didn't seem to have any luck at getting the rest of him wet.

One thing could not be denied; this man was strange. Strange, and powerful.

He made his way up one side of the gangplank when he was finally invited, sliding past the Baron and all of his servants without letting a single one of them come into contact with him. He disappeared away from the edge of the ship before any of those scrolls could be forced into his hands and he didn't accept any from the foreigner who handed them out either instead shaking his head and waving his hand in what could pass as light dismissal. He did bow his head slightly in a polite greeting, however, and remove himself to an out of the way place on the deck to await an escort to his accommodations. He strongly suspected they would be none too welcoming, and hardly cared. It would take more than a petty show of 'putting him in his place' to get under his skin. It was a way to get where he was going, luxurious or not.

For the moment he was silent, though for all the strange crew knew, it was because he couldn't understand any of the conversation in the first place. He refused to look at any of the pictures. He didn't care what the girls he was supposed to be on his way to rescue looked like. He sincerely doubted the artist had rendered accurate representations in the first place. It wasn't a desperate rescue mission that had brought him here.

Then again... there was no reason that anyone needed to know that.

[King Monkey]

Vass Rumaldo was somewhat taken aback and offended by being denied access to the ship. He was paying for its usage, after all and to his mind that meant that he should be able to inspect it or at least set foot on the deck. He only had to take one look at the men wandering around that deck to hold his tongue, though. The men he'd hired to escort him were very good at their jobs and pretty much without any morals that couldn't be bought with coin, but he didn't have that many of them. Certainly not enough to take on the whole crew.

As the pictures were passed around and a few of the comments reached his ears, Rumaldo wondered, not for the first time, if he wasn't pulling his daughters out of the ice box and tossing them into the bait bucket. These heathens seemed to have little respect for his daughters' noble blood and delicate sensibilities and he shuddered to think what horrors they might be subjected to on the trip back. He once more cursed the Navy for their laziness and cowardice and aimed a couple choice words at the gods for leaving him with only this group to save his girls.

"Well, I'll just...I just leave you to your work then," he says to the nearest sailor, the one holding his man back. Raising his voice he calls out to the whole crew. "Good luck! May the gods keep you safe and your sails full of wind."

With that, he takes his leave, a heavy knot of uncertainty and dread laying like a lump of lead in his belly.


As the days pass it rains and rains and rains. There is not a single hour or minute when rain does not fall on the ship. Sometimes it is a light drizzle, only noticeable from the mist that perpetually lingers by the fact that it is heavy enough to pool together and run in tiny rivulets into collars and eyes. Other times it is a downpour as though someone is dumping buckets of water over the deck and one wonders if they are still above the surface of the sea or if they have somehow gone under it. Sometimes it is a howling storm with lightning and thunder and the wind hurls it against skin and cloth until it stings like a cat-o-nine tails. But it never ceases and it isn't long until everyone on the ship is drenched from head to toe.

As though the incessant rain were not strange enough, sharks follow the ship. While it is not unusual for one or two of the creatures to trail a sailing vessel in hopes of dining on the remnants of dinner, there are a half dozen fins following the ship after only a day or so. More seem to arrive every day. Many of the sailors mutter about ill omens but others stare at the sharks, curious about them.

One, named Cha'Sult seems more fascinated than any of the others. A young, quiet man, he spends all his time when not on duty at the stern of the ship watching those fins cut the water. The other sailors cut him a wide berth, especially when he begins to mutter to himself.

"They must feed! They must have meat! He devours all! We are nothing but food for his unending appetite!" he abruptly shouts one day. "The one who feeds eternally must have sustenance!"

With impressive agility, he hauls himself up on the railing, balancing there with his arms outstretched for long moments. Then, very deliberately, he throws himself over the side.

For a moment after he splashes into the water, nothing happens. Then, almost as though directed by a single consciousness, the fins converge on the point where Cha'Sult hit the water. There is the flash of black, pitiless eyes and wide, tooth filled mouths and the water roils as though it is being vigorously boiled. It's all over in seconds and then the fins resume their positions, following the ship and leaving behind a ring of deep red in the water.

The sailors gathered at the stern rail cry out and soon everyone not on duty is gathered there, hearing the story. The story changes and expands with each telling growing steadily more horrific and everyone eyes the water behind the ship warily while turning to whatever superstitious acts or baubles they personally hold dear to keep them safe.

[Altair]

When the foreign vessel slipped its moorings and pulled away from the harbour, many of the large warriors crowded to the side of the vessel, waving and shouting rather disrespectful farewells to the baron and his entourage in their native tongue. With the stories about the nobleman Alta'ir's bodyguards returned with the previous night, and Rumaldo's personal appearance at the docks which seemed to confirm the tales, the poor man had become something akin to the punchline of a joke to the barbarians he'd hired. Conspicuously absent from that scene, the leader of the foreign company was content to watch the Skaelian port shrink in the distance until lost in the mist and rain through the split in the heavy curtains that adorned the sole window in his private cabin.

In fact, Alta'ir was not seen on the deck of his ship at all throughout the journey, and the overall behaviour of the crew gave the impression that they didn't expect to. There were no complaints about their leader being sequestered in his warm, dry quarters while his men worked in the relentless rain, though. As for the strange grey-toned man in the red cloak - they treated him politely enough, showed him to his hammock in the crew bunks below deck (his quarters were modest to say the least) and gave him a brief tour of the ship, minus the interior of Alta'ir's personal accommodations of course. Still, there was a palpable air of wariness whenever he was nearby. They had made an exception to their usual customs by allowing him to board their ship, but that didn't mean they trusted him... and as far as foreigners went, he seemed unusually suspicious. However, they said nothing of him either, and the crew continued to quietly go about their work, until the day Cha'Sult leaped to his own death.

Their companion's suicide and the cryptic words that preceded it had the entire crew in a frenzy almost before the sharks trailing behind the ship finished their meal. The crowd at the aft of the ship dispersed in every direction across the deck, bellowing in sheer terror to the others of what they had just witnessed. Soon, everyone seemed to be rushing to battle stations to prepare for a fight against an unseen foe, their previous tasks totally forgotten. Just as it seemed the situation was about to spin completely out of control, though, the heavy hide flap covering the entrance to the ship's cabin was pulled to one side, and for the first time, Alta'ir stepped out onto the deck. By the mere act of sweeping his piercing blue gaze over the whole of the ship, he seemed to calm his men, who had suddenly frozen in place and become silent. His stare was no simple survey of the state of ship and crew, however; it sought one person in particular, and when his striking azure eyes fell upon the grey man, they finally stopped. "Hwat is going on herre?" he demanded bluntly in that strange, exotic accent. With his men descending into hysterics, Alta'ir reasoned that the enigmatic foreigner was his best bet for finding out what was really going on.

[Striker]

The only one on the ship who did not seem bothered by the rain, was the strange man in the crimson cloak. No matter how long the rain battered him, he never seemed to get very wet. His black hair hung limply and even dripped excess water, but it never seemed to seep into his cloak or dampen his skin. He had not managed to find a dry pocket on the ship either, those standing close to him, hoping to share his good fortune were soaked through just like everyone else.

The strange man didn't seem to notice, however, that he did not share the same misery as the rest of the crew. He stowed his single bag beside his hammock and took note of the ship as he was shown around, assuming that this would be the one and only time he would have a guide. He was going to have to keep himself from getting lost or into trouble, and the best way to do that was to take note of everything the first time, and ask what questions he could while he was given a chance.

Though he did his best to stay out of the way, the strange man was not entirely useless. He may have looked like a rich, pampered young man, but he quickly proved to have a knowledge of the sea and of sailing. He also proved far more muscular than his frail appearance ever would have allowed anyone to guess. He made himself useful when he could, tying knots, doing heavy lifting, and even running errands when he could be cornered long enough to be asked to do them. If he was uneasy with the way the crew treated him, he gave no indication of it. In truth, he was just as happy to be isolated. He may have been alone among the strange men, and they may have made it abundantly clear that he was not going to be accepted, but he actually preferred it that way. It was simply easier without attachment or commitment. When there was no work for him to be done, he disappeared to his hammock to be alone and enjoy what peace he could.

He was standing on deck when one of the crew suddenly seemed to go mad and threw himself over the ship to his own death. While the rest of the crew began to run about in panic, he simply stood still, dispassionately staring over the edge of the railing into the bloodied sea beyond. He shook his head without compassion or despair. One would have to wonder if he was completely heartless to be able to stand there and act as if nothing had happened. He almost seemed more annoyed by the display and the ensuing chaos than anything else.

He turned that same dispassionate gaze on Alta'ir when the leader of the strange crew finally decided to show himself in the wake of the disaster. His first thought when he looked upon the man was to wonder if any of the crew would ever tire of simply calling him 'hey you' and ask for his name. His initial answer was to shrug his shoulders lightly as if nothing at all had happened. Then he spoke, calmly and clearly... and in the language the strange sailors used. "One of your sailors went mad. He stood upon the railing," and he indicated the exact spot the man had stood, "and babbled something about the eternal one needing to feed. He then threw himself over the edge into the sea and was devoured by the sharks which have been trailing the ship. It seems that your men are rather frightened, though I can't imagine what they expected to happen when a man threw himself into shark infested waters."

[Striker]

The cadre of large, tan-skinned men surrounding Alta'ir reacted with more than mild surprise when their enigmatic passenger responded in their native tongue. Bellows of shock and outrage rose up, and a ring of broad shoulders and rippling muscle tightened around the barbarians' leader as if to protect him. They were a people isolated from the rest of the world to such an extent that to hear a foreigner address them in their own language immediately roused suspicions of foul play. There were precious few outsiders who even came to their lands, and most of the men on this ship knew them well. This one was most certainly not one of them.

A few of the men took a step toward him, but before that aggressive act could drive the situation out of control, their leader stopped them dead in their tracks with a soft word of command. Alta'ir's piercing blue eyes stared at the man through the bodies interposed between them for a moment, looking as if he was trying to assemble the pieces of a puzzle. "This makes it easier, at least," he finally said, tilting his chin up slightly. He might have meant that to be a joke, but without a trace of humour in his voice, one couldn't be sure.

"What is this 'eternal one'? Some kind of dark force or ancient demon your people worship?"

The strange man seemed almost amused by their reaction to hearing him speak their language. It was perfectly reasonable that anyone who was allowed to hear their language long enough would eventually pick up on it. He hadn't been among them quite that long, however, and it was understandably odd that he simply started speaking with them flawlessly out of thin air. Unless, of course, one knew the reason why he could do it. It had something to do with the fact that he could keep himself dry in a driving rain, but he wasn't about to put two and two together for them. That ruined the fun of the game. The look in his gray-blue eyes could only be described as... daring, as if he were somehow daring every man on the ship to come at him and see who ended up winning the fight.

Luckily for all people involved, however, it did not come to that. And their leader wisely called his cronies off in favour of continuing with a civilized conversation. If there was a brief flash of disappointment in the stranger's eyes, it was buried quickly enough that no one would be able prove it was ever really there. "Indeed." He responded dryly, thinking that at least their knowledge that he could understand them would keep their comments behind his back under a bit more control, since now they would have to at least make sure he was out of ear shot before they spoke them.

A faint, sardonic sort of smile crossed his lips at the man's accusation, but he seemed more amused than offended. "I'm afraid, however, that I can't answer that question. I don't know who this 'eternal one' is any more than you apparently do. As for 'my people' I'm afraid there's no such thing. There is only me, and I worship no god nor creature."

Alta'ir's eyes narrowed slightly at the dark-garbed man's last statement. He wasn't entirely sure he knew what was more troubling, the foreign masses who prostrated themselves before corrupt, capricious gods and all manner of other dark creatures, or the one who claimed fealty to no one and nothing - on the earth or otherwise. These were certainly strange lands they had sailed into, and they might just have picked up one of the stranger men to live in them along the way.

Apparently some of his crew must have felt the same way, as they began to fidget nervously, waging an inner conflict between their duty to follow their leader's order to stand down and their unease over this odd person. Alta'ir put that uncertainty to rest - though not the doubt - with a light touch on the shoulder of one of the men standing in front of him. Obediently, his hulking bodyguard stepped aside; the others who had placed themselves directly between the two smaller men quickly did the same. "Who are you, stranger?"

If the stranger was bothered at all by the way that the men reacted to him, he didn't give any indication of it. In truth, he'd prefer if they all stayed on edge while they were around him. He preferred if people kept out of his private business and the more nervous one was about getting into his personal business, the easier it was to keep them out of it. His amusement clearly grew, however, at their leader's question. He had wondered when people would get sick of calling him 'hey you' all the time. "You can call me 'Endryn', but adding a name to my face does little to answer your question." Though apparently he didn't seem to eager to offer more of an answer.

The company's leader was not the sort of man who enjoyed riddles. That much was clear by the shadow of displeasure that flitted briefly across his hooded features when the stranger, this Endryn, gave his reply to Alta'ir's question. Whether he was playing games or just didn't want to give him a straight answer, Alta'ir didn't know. He had no inclination to go chasing after the truth, either. "Indeed," the barbarian leader responded softly, then without pulling his sharp gaze away from Endryn, quite abruptly changed the subject. "Azar, a harpoon."

One of the men next to him, apparently named Azar, started slightly when Alta'ir unexpectedly addressed him. When the surprise wore off after a second or two, he looked visibly perplexed, but muttered his compliance anyway and scurried over to where the long, wicked throwing spears were stored. The large man snatched one from the hooks it was perched on, and hurried it back to his leader.

Alta'ir took the weapon from his companion with softly-worded thanks, and hefted it up with his right hand, testing the weight. He really did not enjoy riddles. "Then, since everyone on this ship is at a loss for what happened, our next logical course of action would be to ask if this 'eternal one' would explain itself. Do you agree?"

For the first time the strange gray man tensed. It was apparent that he believed that harpoon was meant for him... however briefly. There was a visible amount of relief in his eyes when it became somewhat apparent that the harpoon was for the sharks and not for him. Still, that alert awareness did not fade from him, even when he was fairly certain he was not in danger of an imminent attack. If anyone was finally going to overstep the bounds of their leader and make a move against him, he was very ready for it now. Anyone unfortunate enough to make that mistake, would not be happy with how it turned out.

Alta'ir probably did not get the answer he was looking for to his query, however. Endryn's smile had disappeared, but at the man's word a soft sound escaped his lips and it became apparent quite quickly that it was a mirthless laughter. It faded almost as quickly as it had begun and the gray man was somber and serious once more. "Certainly. But I rather doubt that we will get any form of answer from this 'eternal one' nor from the sharks which stalk your vessel."

Though he did a commendable job of keeping it from showing through on his features, Alta'ir found the strange man's laugh to be a thoroughly disturbing sound. It seemed artificial and mirthless to him; an abomination, almost as much as these strange happenings which claimed the life of one of his friends. But, he reminded himself, one mystery at a time.

Pushing the feeling down into the deep pit of his stomach, the barbarian leader turned to face out toward the water and raised his arm, narrowing his eyes as he took careful aim at one of the sharks chasing his ship. After a brief moment of intense concentration, Alta'ir's arm suddenly swung forward, and the harpoon flew from his hand with a speed that ought not have been possible for any normal man; a speed that cut the air and shattered the relentless drumbeat of the rain with a shrill whistle.

[King Monkey]

The whistle is ended with a sharp, wet thunk as the sharp, barbed tip of the harpoon pierced the rough gray skin of Alta'ir's target. There was a preliminary jerk as the weapon sunk into flesh and then a moment of calm. Then, the violent thrashing begins as the shark begins to struggle against the line that binds it to the ship.

But that is nothing compared to what comes only a few moments later. Again the water seems to boil as the other sharks turn on their injured companion. The unending gray of the ocean becomes a frothy pink as blood mixes with the water and gets turned into foam from the violence of the struggle.

The rope is jerked and pulled in Alta'ir's hand with every bite, the strands fairly vibrating with the staccato violence going on below and behind the ship. Soon, the shark stops resisting him, leaving him only to fight the occasional hit as another shark takes a bite.

Then, all resistance disappears and the captain of the vessel would easily be able to haul in his harpoon. Of course, all that is left of the mighty fish that he originally speared when he gets the weapon on deck is a gobbet of meat that would fit inside his fist.

And, once more, the sharks resume their patient, methodical pursuit of the ship. Their moment of frenzy and feeding ended they are just a number of darker shapes beneath the surface of the water and a few fins breaking the surface again.

[Altair]

The display of unadulterated, brutal violence did not reassure Alta'ir at all. Although this sort of cannibalistic behaviour was not unheard of for sharks, he remained convinced that there was some evil force at work here. Normal sharks simply didn't follow a ship for days on end like this, and his men simply didn't lose their minds and kill themselves. Someone, or more likely something, was guiding these events, and the barbarian leader had hoped to provoke it into revealing itself. That it didn't take the bait showed intelligence, rather than raw bestial instinct. That alone was somewhat disconcerting. For a few moments more after the harpoon was safely reeled back aboard and the morsel of shark gore was committed back to the sea, he continued to stare over the aft rail of the ship, his cold, azure gaze fixed on the formation of sleek, shadowy figures chasing them beneath the waves.

At length, Alta'ir finally turned his back to the choppy sea and swept his eyes over the throng gathered around him. "No one is to come to this part of the ship unless absolutely necessary. Keep an eye on the man to your right and your left; I want any strange behaviour, no matter how minor, reported to me immediately." Though his men nodded their understanding quickly enough, he saw that a lingering fear still resided in their eyes. They were simple men - warriors all, but though they had each faced the many terrors that stalked the wilderness of their homeland, this was the first time any of them (himself included) had a sense of having to wage a battle in their own minds. "Do not be afraid. We all feel a great evil here, but remember the purpose we have been given."

[Striker]

The strange man who had called himself Endryn watched the display of violence as dispassionately as he seemed to do everything else. His dark eyes did not widen. His face did not even twitch enough to show any sign of what he might think or feel at having witnessed such a thing as this. When the line had been dragged back in and nothing remained by a small sliver of meet, Endryn only shrugged. He had expected little more to come of the attempt, though he had to admit that Alta'ir had gained some manner of his respect for being so bold as to try it.

"I suspect," he said, his lips pressed into a grim line, "you'll get no further answer from this 'eternal one', who or whatever it may be."

Endryn had nothing further to say about the matter. He watched silently while Alta'ir doled out orders to his men, but he did not move from his position near the edge of the deck for several moments after the others had moved away. Sharks were violent creatures indeed, but even Endryn thought that they were acting oddly. Someone or something had to be driving them or controlling them. There was some force here stronger than the natural order.

He tilted his head up and to the side slightly as though he were listening for some sound the others could not hear. Apparently, however, he did not find what he was looking for. Moments later he let out a soft sigh, shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly and turned away to follow the others.

He suspected he was going to have to be very careful over the next couple of days. With the sailors keeping an eye out for odd behavior, and he being a foreigner and odd to them in every way, he suspected he was going to fall under heavy suspicion from most of them. That was just fine with him, however. He knew how to take care of himself well enough that he wasn't the least bit worried. The next couple of days were likely to prove interesting ones.