What will we do with a dwarven sailor?
What will we do with a dwarven sailor?
What will we do with a dwarven sailor
Early in the morning!
Another wave crashed into the hull. The ship yawed and teetered until it was almost sideways. All through the deck, sailors latched to mast and rigging and railing, clinging on for dear life. It was quite possible that several of them were screaming, but their voices were lost amid the din of the storm.
From the helm came the shout: "Hold 'er together, lads!" How the captain managed to make himself heard over the thunder and pounding rain was a mystery for the ages.
They were nearly upright again when another wave hit them. The whole vessel shook. One sailor, a human, lost his grip and went tumbling across the deck and into the roiling waters. They would probably never see him again.
The squall had been raging for two days and three nights. It would be another three days before the crew of The Osprey the light of the sun. In that time, another sailor, this one a dwarf, would be lost to the waves.
Taran rubbed at his eyes. He had dozed off in the workshop again. As ever before, the old dreams had come to visit. Not the more pleasant ones either. He never dreamed of the wenches and the gold and the glory, oh no. It was always the voyages, and typically the worst of them.
He picked up his saw and went back to hacking lumber into furniture. There were beds that needed making.
Shave his beard with an iron cleaver
Shave his beard with an iron cleaver
Shave his beard with an iron cleaver
Early in the morning!
It was the final day, and the storm had already spent most of its fury. The sailors figured it was safe to move about on deck once again, and many were moving to and fro, adjusting rigging. One sailor had climbed the mast to relieve the poor bastard who'd been stuck on the crow's nest for an entire week, only to find him tied to the top of the mast, dead from starvation or dehydration.
Morale was low aboard The Osprey. The crew was hungry and low on supplies. They had lost more friends in that week than any person should. And to make it all even worse, half of their haul was ruined. They had lost what was left of the whale carcass on the first night, when a wave rammed into them and threw the damn thing overboard, along with half the railing on the port side. It was unlikely that they would be able to catch another whale before supplies ran out and they had to turn back home.
A furious shout came from below deck. The hatch to the cargo hold opened, and two human sailors emerged, looking grim and one foot in the grave. They jogged toward the helm to address the captain.
"It's worse than we thought, sir," one of them piped. "Both the try pots spilled. Whole room is ankle-deep in slush."
The captain cursed under his breath. "And the supplies?"
"Fruit is running out," the other sailor replied. "There's fish, but I don't know if it'll last us the whole trip back. Water seems low as well."
The captain cursed again. Behind him, the first mate piped up. "What should we do, captain? Do we turn back?"
"Not yet," the captain replied. "Fairst we ride oot th' storm. Then we'll see what needs doin'."
In the back of his mind, he hoped the inclement weather wouldn't disperse in the next few hours. He would need that time to think.
Taran stashed the carved whalebone under his tunic. He rose from his knees and patted his trousers to dislodge the wet sand. His gaze went skyward, to the old familiar stars that had so often guided him in his youth. Thick clouds assembled overhead, pregnant with rain. Taran hauled in a deep breath. It would seem his prayers weren't over for the night. He fell to his knees again, eyes closed, and waited.
It was only a few minutes before the drizzle started. Cold blood soaked into his shirt and matted his dark hair and beard. Taran cupped his hands before him, held them there until they overflowed and spilled life's fluid into his lap. He parted the sand in front of him, forming a shallow hole that would soon be a puddle. The old prayers and chants passed through his head like rain through a sieve, marching through but never lingering.
The rain stopped some hours later, leaving Taran with no company but the rumbling of the waves and the black of a moonless night. He opened his eyes at last. The small pool in front of him had filled with blood. It looked like murky ink. He drew an old glass vial from his coat and dipped it in the puddle. He'd have to show this to Balor come morning.
Taran rose to his feet again. He didn't bother wiping the sand from his trousers. Instead he walked forward, into the ocean waves. Once the water was deep enough beneath him, he took a dive and let the icy darkness wash over him.
Dip 'im in the waves 'til the sharks come for him
Dip 'im in the waves 'til the sharks come for him
Dip 'im in the waves 'til the sharks come for him
Early in the morning!
Daylight at last. For the first time in days, The Osprey was still upon the ocean. The disheartened sailors gathered on deck, human and dwarf alike staring at the helm, awaiting the call.
The rain had lasted no more than an hour, and the captain had to decide their course of action. Now that he was forced to make the choice, he felt that all of his deliberation had been a waste of time. His heart had been set from the moment the two sailors had told him of the state of things.
He looked upon his crew. They looked haggard and weather-beaten. He knew what they wanted. They all knew what awaited them if they went back empty-handed, especially the dwarves. In the end, what choice did he have?
"Very well, lads, t'is time to move," he began. "Humes, get belowdecks and get some bleedin' rest. Us dwarves'll handle work for the next couple hours." A simple call, really. Dwarves were hardier by far. "Half o' ye, git swabbin' the decks. Oth'r half, haul sail nor'wards. Once we get oot o' these thrice-damned waters, we can start huntin' another whale." A sea of heads nodded in assent. The longshanks trudged belowdecks to the cabins. The dwarves set to work, behaving for all the world as if everything was well aboard their ship.
"Talk to th' quartermaster," he said to his first mate. "Find oot how bad we'll have t' ration supplies."
"Aye, Cap'n Taran."
Taran wrung his beard with both hands. A torrent of blood poured down his tattered shirt. All around him, dwarves took mops to the deck, scrubbing to take the crimson out of the once-polished wood. According to his charts, they could be out of these haunted waters in just two days if the winds were good. Then it would be time to hunt again.
He muttered a prayer to the Old Dwarf, to the Maiden, even to the Sunken One. He'd need all of the gods of sea and sail to come out of this trip alive.
That's what we do with a dwarven sailor
That's what we do with a dwarven sailor
That's what we do with a dwarven sailor
Early in the morning!
Weigh-hay and up she rises
Weigh-hay and up she rises
Weigh-hay and up she rises
Early in the morning.
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Topic: Crownhammers, the #1 undead, murderous bird sanctuary in the world (Read 66883 times)