- Markshire PCs:
“Warm winds, Lars, warm winds,” muttered Thrakh, steering them out of the murk and toward the warm, dry light of a dawning day. The buckets continued to move, and Nils began to chant a prayer for the dead. When he was finished, he went forward to take Tranak, who now sat weeping quietly—below.
As they neared the outer edge, Thrakh called out, “Lads—we’ve got seamen’s work ahead—every other man from buckets to sails.” He pointed to the ripped, slowly dripping flesh that was the ship’s mainsail. “Take that mess down first and toss it o’er—we’ll need proper canvas right quick.”
As he watched the men, he noted that their spirits seemed to be recovering more quickly than usual—despite the loss of Lars, who was well-liked. “Only three casualties,” thought Thrakh, “besides the usual lost night: one dead, one mad, and one…gone. Lightest we’ve ever had. Hmmm—wonder what they’re nattering on about.”
He looked around, then remembered he was the only trained helmsman left aboard. “Marco—what you got there? Bring it.”
Marco gave some quick instructions to the other crewmen cutting down the mainsail, and they cut out a large section and lugged it back to Thrakh. Marco just pointed—the black rain-light had sliced cleanly and easily through the sail, but stopped right at one of the girl’s purple symbols. “Could just’ve been the way the sail was hanging,” Thrakh began, then looked as Marco indicated another section of canvas, this turned to the thin flesh, where the symbol also remained unchanged, blood and something fatty oozing over the purple threads.
Thrakh gave a quick sharp glance toward the girl, who was still quietly passing buckets. Then he shook his head. “No rhyme or reason to the Crossing, lads—now, stop yer lollygaggin’, toss it all, and get some new sail up!” As he looked over the crew manhandling the disgusting, greasy and bloody “sail,” he added, “Marco—you lads can wash that off with the bailing buckets when ye’re done—gulls’ll eat ye else.”