The Resplendent Flagon stood proudly amidst the waning spray of weakening seas in the seaside town of Lysander’s Respite, a middling town on the great archipelago Chiardani’s Weave. The great summer swells had just given their final attempts at a terrible facade of inimitable power, beating the shores with wild breakers and tempests sent by the Gods themselves. The tavern, however, glowed on, shining in bright colors and the sounds of raucous mirth. The sailors burned the last of their coffers on drink, games, and nighttime engagements, knowing the morning calm would bring back their lives on the open seas. Between the circulating lifespans of mugs in a mead hall sat two liberally seasoned sailors sipping their drinks and eyeing the evening show on the only clean table in the building. A sign behind their read as follows: Only for Those Most Daring There sat a short ledger and feather in an inkwell, lines listed blank down the sheet except for four already taken slots. Beside those lay a contract; short, but clear on the objective. They were recruiting for an expedition to the island of Corpse Spring. It is said that the island flows freely with the dead. The island lies beyond Ghardian Ocean and its great beasts in the dark recesses of the deep, past the Corusilan Isles of fabled ocean mysticism, and even further than the ragged coasts of snaking Moleasecian continent, where nature grappled with the progression of men and won. On to the uncharted waters and continents unknown. To pursue a treasure, naturally, lost by the last great expedition. An expedition who’s ship never left the shelled shores of the isle, except one survivor set adrift in the flotsam of his own vessel to be snatched by the Corus on the verge of expiration. That sailor, as was told, spoke of a violent struggle just to get there, with the very seas arming against the expedition. The treasures he relayed were vast, but his obsession lie in one piece; something of great luster in which he never fully described. Only that it was searching for a possessor, that it wanted to be found by only one who could wield it. The man said that the treasure bade him to go unharmed as he watched the destruction of his fellow crew. But that is as far the Corus are believed to have gotten with the man, and some years have past since the minor details of the story had been relegated. These two sailors, sizing up every curious eye that poked their way, were hunting for that crew. One was young but grizzled; scarred along his chinned in a jagged chain. The other had more aged to him, his skin browned with studded with years weathered the surf of a thousand seas. The elder of the two breathed deep and stood with great presence and volume. The chair screeched loudly as it slid back, and his flagon slammed with audacity. “Oi! Be there a man with the stones to fly sails into the maelstrom? Be there a lady with hooks for hands to string them on high? Be there a creature of courage in this establishment to helm a strong carrack into the mists of uncharted seas? Be there a cutlass worth more than dogwatch on a lowly trade ship? “Aye, I believe there to be. I believe there to be more to this lot than bunch of measly cutpurses slashing each other’s packs for scrap. Let’s make something of ya. Strong wills beating back hard seas. Adventures beyond comprehension. Treasure shares making paltry sums of island governors and kings. I sees it in ya, in those most daring.” He sat back slowly, savoring the silent attention. His partner looked at him with a smirk of incredulity. Then they waited for a crew ready to earn their salt. As a Roleplaying Game This play-by-post adventure roleplay is set very much on the open seas, with semi-frequent stops at various islands depending on the situations that come up. It’s a rather straight-forward adventure quest that keeps the players mostly together on the ship, focusing on the character’s interactions between major events that shift the play of the game. There will be a fair share of fighting and other adventure related danger, so keep your characters on their toes! As a sidenote, magic does play somewhat of a role in the world here, but it is limited to more natural magic, and magic users are few and far between. Typical spellcasters are a rarity here, to the point of not being allowed for your character unless there is some real good reason. Most are hunted in this world. The Corus people have a certain type of magic that will appear in time. Best to stick with non-magical classes and people and work around that. The creatures in this world lean lightly on fantasy, except when we get farther out, when it becomes more along the Greek and Roman style Odysseus kind of fantasy. I’m not using the same creatures and Gods, which you are free to develop for your characters as well, but the writing and fantasy is to fall along those lines. Rules 1). No god-modding: This sucks the absolute life out of any RPG. Your players are humans and humans alone. Since God-modding isn’t much of a problem in purely human RPGs, I would note that the Mary/Gary-Sue’s are fairly boring as well. To add, do not speak/act for another character. Stick to yours and yours alone. 2). Be active: People have busy lives. I would certainly know, being a full-time school/work/mod… However! I do expect some sort of commitment from those who wish to join. Daily posts are always ideal, however, no more than a week without posting will be permissible. This is to keep the RPG on its feet. If something will be taking you out of action for a bit, please just let me know. I don’t need details, but if you will be gone longer than a week I will need a heads up so that I may continue the story while keeping your character in mind. I’ll come up with something to keep them occupied in isolation for the time being. 3). Be respectful: Don’t be an asshat. I mean, there’s a certain amount of character interaction that is certainly allowed to be that way, but please. Just use the golden rule when actually interacting with others. 4). Quality/quantity: I love detail. I love length. I do ask for a minimum of 2 paragraphs per post. No one-liners. No chat speak. Full, complete sentences with mostly decent grammar. I won’t go crazy with that of course, but please try to practice actual writing. That’s what we are all here for. 5). No erotica/detailed sex scenes: This can certainly occur between characters, but please, keep it in the PMs. This section isn’t screened under the same age wall that the erotica section is so we simply aren’t allowed to have that stuff in here. 6). Enjoy it!: This isn’t meant to feel like work or an assignment. This is purely for the love of writing, so please don’t stress out and have fun with it! If you are struggling in any way with a writer’s block or staying active…let me know! I’m no expert, but I would be happy to hear you out and help in any way I can. I can provide ideas and suggestions which you can choose to take or not, no offense will be taken. Character Sheets Name: Age: (16+) Gender: Appearance: Personality: Background: (Feel free to make up a certain region you’re from, just realize that most people in this RPG are from island settlements and at least lightly familiar with the seas. Give me a little time and I will have broader map, but otherwise you can have some free reign to come up with your own island’s nation of which you character hails from. There are literally thousands of islands on this archipelago, so feel free to com up with some stuff.) Sea-Faring and Adventure Skills: (Navigation, cooking, astronomy, wars fought in, position held on a ship previously, etc…) Luggage: (Did you back interesting items? You never know what could be useful. Pack logical things though based on your character and their purpose on the ship.) Make sure to post character sheets in the OOC thread: https://www.writingforums.org/threads/corpse-spring-isle-ooc.171389/
Ophelia bit her lower lip, trying to decide which story she made up would be the most convincing. She waited so long for this moment, but once the sailor's voices filled the tavern, she froze for a second. It was time. Now or never. If she were to screw up now, all the effort to get here would be for nothing. "I wouldn't call myself the most daring" she exclaimed loudly, hoping to get the attention of everyone in the tavern "I spent half of my life in a ship and those most daring had a tendency to end up on the bottom of the ocean. But if you're looking for someone with experience and strength to keep a lousy bunch of sailors in line I might be interested" she stood up and started walking in their direction, trying to balance herself in a way that would convey a mix of feminine charm and strength. She had a linen shirt on, unbuttoned to create a small but noticeable décolleté. She was afraid the swaying of her hips was a bit exaggerated - after all, would a female captain really walk like a stereotypical courtesan? The uncertainty was killing her and her heart was beating like crazy, not because a scheme like that was something new to her, but because she knew that she'd have to keep this act for at least a few weeks. And no sign of doubt could escape her mind and enter her face, adorned with gentle, black mascara and red lipstick. With one hand on her hip, she approached the two sailors, adding in a flirtatious voice "If the price is right".
Stork My Sharkless Astrolabe stumbles over several stools until he finally catches himself on the recruiter’s table, seal’s milk kumis sloshing from his wooden cup onto the edge of the ledger. He hiccups and shouts: “Rouse me twice and oozily, ye oceanic badgers, for I’ve been aeons in the doldrums probing my nostril with the whalebone of desire. What’s this marriageable chatter here, about a maelstrom in a hooked hand? The muffled noose of Ganymede slides millipedally across the hasting brow of the zephyr, and here I snap the geometer’s gullible twig like a nebulous handkerchief’s doubts. Grant me, aquatic squishmongers, the beauty of a fratricidal barnacle in a rum barrel full of shark fins and I’ll slice through your worries gently like Queen Sammy’s baleen scalpel. Take that for your necromantic marmalade, and don’t be sleepy!” And with that Stork My Sharkless Astrolabe takes a small wooden seal from his loin cloth and stamps it sloppily on the ledger. The dark blue ink depicts two scorpions playing chess in the mouth of an eel.
The elder sailor belched a full-breasted laugh when he saw the awkward little man stamp figures in the place of a signature. Other drunks on a nearby table burst out even louder than he, sloshing ale with the slamming of mugs at what they saw to be a great joke. The large middle-aged sailor leaned forward over the table toward the small man, towering above to no doubt scare him into reconsideration. “Every deck needs its swabs.” The table beside erupted again at the sailor’s joke. The grizzled young sailor frown deeply and kicked his large companion behind the need. The older man fell with a yelp and a great slam from his weighty belly. The man in the chair sat in shock and fear, as did the table nearby. The bar quieted to a low hum. “The Siaulim are born with more salt in their bones than five of your lifetimes, cook.” He spat the last word as if it were filth rest deep in his throat. “Their language is that of the sea itself. He be more like a boatswain than a swab, if the captain wills.” The grizzled man gave the Siaulim a flat face of approval and nodded. The ship cook hung his head low, lifting eyes lightly to the young sailor. He judged him now with a more discerning eye, carefully searching for the right words. When he found them, he resumed his former stature, with an even grander smile. “Welcome, my boy, welcome. I’m sure the good quartermaster here be advising well.” He gestured with a light nod as his companion did. “I be Kaddawal, the carrack’s illustrious chef” The nearby table resumed its explosive chortling. Kad looked at them only semi-disapproving. “And your fine quartermaster here be Mr. Larken. If the captain deems you a fine position like boatswain, you be receiving a healthy sixteenth share of the treasure. Same if ye be a sailing master, of which we would be needin’. The captain will judge that of course. But alls same her young sir. I be feedin’ ya no matter your lot. At the docks by the break of the first sun. We be the only carrack in harbor.” When Siaulim moved on, Larken leaned to the cook. “Grab that table of drunks you roused. They be four brothers and a sister, spawn of the master fisher here. We need strong sea hands no matter the mount of drink.” The cook looked towards the still joking table. “Oi! All! Look at this clan a cowards scared straight into their own drinks and each other when a small man can dare on his own.” The entire bar stared at them expectantly. The older brother, a lanky lad with height that didn’t help his girth, stood up furiously “Who you calling a coward, ya fat bastard?” The other siblings jeered behind him. “You, ya yellow drunk. To weak and scared to man a deck bigger than ya mother’s left tit.” The bar howled. He threw his drink down and stomped up to table, while the others followed in even stride. “Alright then, let’s have it out then.” He rolled his sleeves. The quartermaster sat sipping his ale. The girl pushed through her brothers to the front. The older brother pushed her back and she kicked him between the legs. He crumpled, doing everything to resist biting floor in pain. She looking impatiently for her brother to rise again. “Ya always takin’ to piss right out the gate. Never listenin’. We was goin’ anyways and you knew it.” She turned to the quartermaster, who’s eyes now fixed on hers. “Got spears?” “Plenty.” She smiled brightly, almost hungry with expectation. “Then we be whaling, boys.” The brothers, minus the older still recovering, cheered, the shortest clanked his ale mug drunkenly against another brother’s fist and splash him, earning a swift punch. They scrawled their names in varying degrees of legibility on the ledger. The oldest and thinnest was Davis, the muscular one with an overt amount of freckles called himself Bron. The twins, drunkest of the bunch, were Junter and Jabille. Their hair ran long and their teeth jutted out front. The last was Lydia. She was slight as most the brothers were, but her skin seemed more tan and harder. It stood dark against her sun-bleached hair. They left the bar almost immediately after the cook talked shares, of which she earned a healthy twentieth for the lot. The next one took the cook aback, stumbling him with his words. She presented herself as Ophelia, a former captain, but all he saw was her appearance. “Oi, the price is sure right, ma’am. Don’t you worry, we’ll keep a good officer place for someone of your-” he was cut off as Larken’s fist knocked the table. His mouth latched shut with instant obedience. “Mr. Larken, sir?” He quivered. “Ophelia, show me your hands. The palms.” Larken slid the ledger back. “But the captain deci-” Larken pushed Kad back further. “Shares are a matter of merit, boy. Something I watch close. Your palms, miss. Let me see what the salt has layered them with.”
"Crap" Ophelia thought, looking Larken straight in the eyes. She knew something like that might happen, but she really hoped it wouldn't come to this. Well, whatever. Her whole plan's success now depended on her acting skills. But what is life without a thrill? "Of course" She said slowly, keeping her hands crossed on her chest "But" she added, gracefully spinning to face the rest of the sailors in the tavern "I must say, after seeing at least a dozen fools making such vulgar requests, I grew tired of seeing them weeping in a pool of blood. So, before we'll get the formalities out of the way, I think I owe you a short tale, Mister Larken" she turned her head and gave the man a confident grin. "When I was but a wee lass, my father taught me how to sail" She jumped onto one of the tables and raised her voice to reach even the drunkest of the seafarers "And, I might add, he was a man of a very short temper. On our small island of Kambag'al, people were divided into the natives and the colonists - you might've heard of a few wars going on between the two." This part was easy. The best lies were the ones grounded in reality, after all - if she knew about the wars on the island, why would she lie about her dad? A small part of her was very proud of the little scheme she came up with. And that helped the smirk on her face to seem even more confident. "But, just like to colonists come in all shapes and forms - Staplesians, Moleasecias, even these Hungfong shietheads" she was gesticulating as if the story was some sort of a puppet show with her hands playing the lead role "So do the natives - and ours was the proud Guhg'al tribe" She took someone's Ale and drank a toast to her made-up heritage "By the Gods, what a tribe to be a part of. Every one of us carries the Guhg'al's honor and lives by the rules. One day, we were working with my Papa in the docks - or rather, he was teaching me how to work. But what is a story without a damsel in distress, ya might say? Well, the distress came with a piercing screech of my voice, when a single splinter found its way under my nail. And of course, with distress came a knight in shining armor - a boy, about twice my age. What a hero! He approached the poor ol' me, took my hand, and looked at its palm. And with that..." "SPLASH" she jumped down onto the floor, trying to make a loud impact "Before I knew what happened, my face was all drenched in blood, the boy's brain slowly dripping down his face. Daddy took the knife and started cutting the bastard's stomach as if it was an ol' plain Tuesday! I got back to work, trying to ignore the sound of cut flesh. When we got home, Dad cooked the best meatballs I ever had in my life! But why were there pieces of cloth in them?" She stuttered, filling the tavern with dead silence for a while, before getting back to her story. "Anyway, mom got a bit mad that day. After all, she couldn't even meet my new husband before dad turned him into a bloody pulp! My parents were arguing about this matter for a while, with my Dad constantly saying "I couldn't just let my little lass be taken away by such a scrawny bastard." For a while, I thought that maybe the boy just didn't know that when a Guhg'al girl shows her palm to a man, it means he takes her as her dearly beloved? But what a silly thought that was - after all, who doesn't know the tribe's code? I thought everyone had to have it memorized before learning how to walk!" She giggled sadistically. "Oh, how shocked I was when it turned out that wasn't true at all! When I was working with one captain, he too asked me to show him my palms. What a thrill that was! He wasn't exactly my type, but then again, any man who can tie a knot can't be all that bad, right? But for some reason, once we made it to Comland, my dear lover was having his way with - merciful Gods - a prostitute! Can you believe it? A fine wife like me and he was playing with some street whore!" She paused again and started walking through the tavern, seemingly lost in thoughts "Oh, to this day I think I might've reacted a bit hastily. After all, that coat he wore must've been worth a pretty penny - I only realized that when the alligators ripped it in half. But, fortunately" she aggressively turned to face Larken once more and walked back to the recruitment table "I learned my lesson and killed the others without damaging their possessions. Oh, and after some time it did occur to me that some men just don't know how to treat a lady. But, of course, I don't see a problem with showing my palms - if such a commitment suits you" She leaned on the table, looking Larken in the eyes, hoping this little stunt will be enough to keep the man from her delicate, unblemished palms.
Larken's frown lie mute and stolid through the entirety of this woman's story, never even flickering or telling any sort of belief, or doubt. He simply existed like a statue on display for the tavern rest their elbows on while they pretended to not be as drunk as they really were. Kad, however, was a beaming mass of body language swaying to every turn of Ophelia's tongue. Every grand gesture, or artful tease, he followed with his whole self. He was enthralled. Larken naturally noticed this, but instead of chastising his idiot shipmate, a better plan came to mind. There was no doubt that they needed crew, but the appearance of a selective board was necessary. Desperation never attracted any but the desperate. Larken knew though that he would probably take anyone anyways. He just wanted to see what they were made of first. Only a Siaulim sailor he would trust on site, but those reasons were his own for no one else to know. Never a Corus, except maybe the captain, but even then at an impersonal arms length. Everyone else had to show something of who they are. Ophelia here showed herself more than she probably knew, but that was only for him to hint at. Just enough to justify her place in a crew she was already bound for, despite her problematic demeanor. Likely the first mate would sort her into something of great use anyways. She had her ways like that for those she took interest in. And it was always the liars and thieves that she watched the closest. They were like old friends. Larken let his expression flatten into a more fatherly look of disappointment. "Do you know when I was sure your story was codswallop? When you mentioned the Moleasecians. The last of them I saw were less than human, more like blackened Rockfish crisped on a long forgotten spit. They lived in the fires they fought the ever-growing forest with, and I haven't seen another off the coasts of their own lands. They don't trade and they don't parlay. You don't know Moleasacians." He sipped his mug loudly. "But you could." He slid the paper forward but didn't lift his hand. Kad looked relieved. "I don't need to see your palms to know they're as smooth as your unblemished cheeks, but Kad would be delighted to have a hand in kitchen. For a thirty-secondth share." Larken didn't need to look at Kad to know he was beaming. "But if you'd tell a tale like that eight nights of a fortnight to the crew, the good captain may grant a twentieth. The choice I leave to be yours." Then he stood and leaned over the table in a more menacing fashion. "But lie to me so brazenly again and I'll have you plucking barnacles off the hull at ten knots. A carrack is a big ship, and this expedition is long. Many a thing can happen in deep places of the world." He turned to Kadderwal. "Right, cook?" "Ye- Yes sir, Mister Larkin, sir." he driveled out across the table, eyeing the scar on Larken's face and holding his own left side. "Many a thing, sir." "So, miss, let's be making for a better trip than you started with here. Aye?" He eyed her direct with a eyebrow raised, being sure to focus on her expressions behind the face she wore presently. His finger tapped the paper like the statement beat of a deerskin drum.
Well, that was bad. But at least, now Ophelia knew one thing - Larken was a tough one to fool. For a while, she had to avoid him. Or be much more delicate. But since she had to talk with him directly, either way, she might've as well tried one last trick up her sleeve. "Now, Mister Larken, I thought sailors lived to tell tales of their daring deeds. Sure, I might've exaggerated a few things, but look at the crowd!" the woman pointed at the barely conscious drunks in the tavern "I think they loved the show! And besides, as an experienced liar yourself, you should already know one thing" She leaned closer and whispered into his ear "Every lie has a grain of truth in it" When she leaned back, the contract was already signed with a signature of almost artistic quality. Ophelia returned to her table and violently guzzled her Ale. Though she tried to hide it, she felt humiliated. Sure, there were times when someone caught her red-handed, but not before she even had the chance to start her scheme! But, she couldn't let that stop her. She planned to observe the sailors, keeping an eye for any other potential candidates and she was going to use every piece of information to her advantage - especially against Larken.
With the eventual signature of Ophelia, the remainder of the Resplendent Flagon made their gradual way to the recruiting table as expected. Not, but a handful of the aged yet seaworthy signed on, some for their last ride while others had nowhere else to be or anyone there to wait for them. The salt swelled in them so much that Larken could taste it in the heavy air. There were a few lads and lasses on the shallow end of their twenties, and he knew there’d always be a young stowaway to swab decks. But the crew made its assembly known on the slip in front of the two sailors. Larken flattened his frown with approval while holding the list in front of him as the waiters cleared the last stray mugs from the floors. Thirty-two names, not including the ten already obligated to the ship and boarded, himself and Kad included. Forty-two they’d sail with, though there may be a handful more along the way. Larken leaned back, gradually draining his lukewarm flagon in the quiet of the evening. Kad was sleeping next to him, arms folded under the mountain of a head he bore. “Forty-two” he stated to no one in particular. “Forty-two souls to match the seas and storms, to brave the vicious trails of those already damned.” He sipped his flagon one last time, loudly. “Forty-two souls I carry to the edge of the world, and release to the unfathomable deep.” His eyes glossed over, a fog in them formed and grayed the hazel irises with whisping tendrils of smoke. Then, as quickly as they formed, they dissipated, and his face resumed its unpalatable nature. Larken stood and left unceremoniously, Kaddawal still sleeping on the table. Danna Tyndall strode upon shining deck of her good captain’s grand carrack, basking in the warm breeze of the Southern seas. She tasted the salt on her breath and cherished the gentle lapping of the cool water against the stained redwood hull. Every creak and groan, every wayward rope and flapping flag about the great masts made her feel at home. Danna smiled lovingly at the sight. She had spent nearly five years aboard the massive vessel, The Horizon’s Rift, working up through the ranks with Larken, despite the ever-changing captains. One day, she promised herself, she would be one of those too and purchase the beautiful, u-shaped ship. Three masts shot up from the decks, with sails of varying size and direction. Netting expanded in width down the sides at an angle from the crow's nests of each, some with crew deftly maneuvering the dizzying heights in preparation for the voyage. Danna watched them swing and step confidently as they did their diligence across the wide berth of the rigging. She remembered her childhood, climbing the netting with the crew and turning midway up just to dive from a height into the sea. She remembered the then first-mate would always scold her mid-dive, whilst calling for immediate furling of the sails. Before the sea had taken him deep in the Ghardian Ocean. She wouldn't have given up her childhood for anything. A fish she was and a fish she would be no matter the journey. Though the current expedition worried her. This new captain was a very private man, rarely coming out to breathe the fresh sea air. She knew private men kept secrets that would get her into trouble. He was young, one that may even be called exceptionably handsome, but dark in ways that kept even someone as inquisitive as her at bay. She spoke to him only in the most business of tones. "Ma’am," spoke a grizzled voice from behind, "whenever you find yourself to be satisfied with the state I’ve left the ship in, the manifest is prepared.” Larken grumbled and stomped to a sharp attention. He was too stiff for her, but he was dependable. “And the forty-two are accounted for, the captain included. And his potbellied brother.” Miss Tyndall let out a sharp snigger, though she tried to stifle it quickly. “Deck quarters sorted and armaments situated, quartermaster?” “Aye, they be right in order as the surf’s daily tide. I keep the armory keys on me-self as always.” “And I the brig assortment. Good. Notify the captain” She nodded to the quartermaster as he curtly turned off but watched the new crew with suspicion. There were always problems in the midst of a fresh crew, especially one on such an expedition as this. Danna spotted the Siaulim easily, their short and small stature giving them away more than most anything else. He was likely to be the navigator, but she would put him through his paces regardless. Those men were more akin to the fauna of the sea, ebbing and flowing to tides in their spirit and their language. She was prepared to understand a full tenth of what he would say and would just go on faith that it was right. They usually were. There was an oddity aboard Danna’s deck though. One that called herself Ophelia had boarded, standing out amidst the sweat salt-soaked crew with an air of cleanliness that didn’t fit. Larken had mentioned her nature, coming out with more lies than truths and feigning command with nothing to show. Danna had dealt with her kind before, molding sailors out of farmhand sheep and barflies alike. She had yet another project on her hands with this one. But altogether she could see the crew taking shape. Deckhands loading the final crates bound for the base hold, the fisher family adding personal hand painted touches to the spear boat, and the quartermaster spouting off orders to terrified swabs across the deck. It was a voyage brewing, one that she could be proud of. A crew to chase legends.
Hasufel Wintercloak Hasufel tramped into the place like he owned it, a grin on his brown face as he flipped his longish white hair. He was dressed in pristine white; his tunic, long winter cloak, his leather belt, pants, and boots, all of it was clean and colorless. The only color came from his glowing skin, his light brown eyes, and the brown bag slung over her torso. "Hasufel has arrived," Hasufel announced to the whole assemblage. He whipped out his sword, long and white it was, beautifully crafted and shining with the light of the stars. "Who must I slay to get a beer around here?" He grinned rogueishly, chuckled at his own joke, and flipped his sword expertly before placing it securely back into its matching white sheath. With a glance over his shoulder, Hasufel confirmed that his transport (an old farmer with a horse-pulled wagon) was leaving safely. For just a small bag of money, this farmer had given him a ride to this destination. This holy destination. It was prophecied that Hasufel would be here. No, not by anyone else, but by Hasufel himself. He was meant to be the Chosen One and this was his chance. Danger be damned. Destiny awaits.
Ophelia's back was about to explode from pain. Not only was the sun too bright, not only did the port smell like rotten fish, not only did some vulgar idiot splatter her white tunic with slop but as soon as she arrived in front of the ship she was to board she was ordered by one of the sailors to help carry the boxes with provisions. The nerve! She couldn't believe it. Why were sailors so vile around a woman like her? Even worse, the crew seemed to consist of other women as well, and they seemed as battle-hardened and tough as the men. When passing Ophelia, they would gaze at her with spite for a while, before getting back to whatever they were doing. Or maybe that was just her imagination? Whatever the case, she couldn't stand being treated like this. Physical labor just wasn't for her. And she was designated to work in the kitchen? She had to find some way to get up in the ranks. After finally taking care of the labor she could properly enter the docked ship. The water under her feet filled her with dread - of course, she wouldn't tell the crew that she couldn't swim. After walking onto the deck, she started to look around for her designated spot. She decided to ask the first person she saw where the kitchen was.
Unluckily for Ophelia, the first person she saw was Stork My Sharkless Astrolabe. He was mumbling verses of love poetry to a mast when he heard the inquiry about the kitchen from behind him. "Hark a spell and I'll appraise ye of the lair of the dread cuisine." Turning about, Stork My Sharkless Astrolabe squatted before Ophelia and drawing the knife from his sandal he began to carve a diagram in the deck. "Firstly shalt thou enter the den of the deciduous snorkel. It'll pose thee three questions- ignore all but the second, to which you'll say, 'Murky is the prescient maripose, m'lad.' The origin of this phrase may rightly puzzle ye and I will plumb it anon for thee. Let's start with 'maripose,' which we get from the word mariposa that denotes 'butterfly' in a certain human tongue. Now when you hear me talk of butterflies, d'ye imagine green caterpillars building seaforts on the bridge of your nose? That's why it's only for the second question, you see..." Stork My Sharkless Astrolabes noticed some of the crew having trouble with the rigging, and made off to assist them. "I'll complete this conference with you at an hour more meet," he called back to Ophelia. The carving he left on the deck was of a trumpet emerging from a chrysalis with cat's feet.
Ophelia stood in place, completely baffled. She knew sailors came in all shapes and sizes but this? She leaned to get a better look at the weird carving. "What the hell is this?" She mumbled to herself. Well, now she knew one thing: never engage other sailors unless it's absolutely necessary. She tightened her outfit to be a bit less revealing and tried to garner as little attention as possible while exploring the ship, hoping she would be able to find the kitchen on her own.
