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DRAGONMOUNT

A WHEEL OF TIME COMMUNITY

Lesson 1.


Myth

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Sam's Post:

 

Once again Bobby enjoyed the ‘calm’ of the early morning sea. The night before a relatively mild squall had occurred; many of the green recruits would likely not have slept well. They would become accustomed to the movements of the boat soon enough. Yes, their nerves would be raw and on edge and hopefully they would be tired and irritable: the perfect conditions under which to begin training. Dark one’s blood he loved this job.

 

The young Captain of The Merry Pauper turned his head slightly to focus his hearing on the bathing sailors out of sight over the bow. They would be finished soon and it would be time to start in earnest. He always found him nervous, despite his experience, when it came to the actual training. It would be so easier for another vessel to approach and see what was happening. While information as a ship training its own small band of warriors on the high seas may not be useful to whoever saw it, the information would be valuable to those who had coin to spend in acquiring it.

 

He had positioned himself amidships, resting the back of his head against the main course and allowing the aroma of tea to warm the air around him. With luck there would be no further squalls, tempests, storms, or light forbid, maelstroms before his planned exercises for the day were over. With luck the coupling of sailors and recruits working in the confined space aboard the raker would not result in a brawl or mishap, it would be nice if things would go smoothly for once.

 

Perhaps ten minutes later his rag-tag troupe of would-be troops was dripping before him, clothed at least, not that this improved the sight in most cases, some people took the idea of being evil far too seriously. He made himself a mental note to at some point force them all into wearing pink sailor caps, even though he had no idea what exercise he could possibly chalk that up to. It would be good for a laugh.

 

He smiled warmly and briefly, before addressing them with his efficiently clipped accent: waste not want not, after all. “Welcome aboard The Merry Pauper,” pause “I apologise for not greeting you personally when you arrived, I had other business to attend to. In my absence you appear to have enjoyed yourselves.” His eyes lingered on the recruit who had been injured, Drak was it? August was a brilliant healer by the traditional sense, and polished his homoeopathic remedies with a dusting of saidin. Drak would be tender for a while, but he would survive relatively unscathed.

 

“If you look down around us you will notice many belaying pins. I would like you each to retrieve one and hold it in your right hand. Good.” Several of the recruits made faces as they realised that the belaying pins had been weighted with lead. “These belaying pins, until I decide otherwise, are you swords. Yes, they are much heavier than long swords--merely to add to the fun you are about to have.

 

“You will see behind me the shrouds. Well, that is where you are headed—yes—with the pins. I am aware that it will be difficult, but should you fall someone will ... palliate your fall. At no time may the pin fall from your grasp; although if you can somehow manage to exchange hands without slipping you have my blessing. Up one side of the ratlines and down the other; shouldn’t be too difficult for physical specimens such as you. Don’t just stand there. Get to it!”

 

OOC: for the sake of my sanity you're in a group of twelve people, go up the shrouds and down the shrouds and make-free with other persons trying to push you off or falling or whatever. The landing won't be light, just not enough to kill you. The ratlines on a raker would get pretty damn high I'd imagine.

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Drak stood before the captain for the first time, and took stock of the man who ran the boat as the captain took stock of his “crew.”

 

Drak knew that he didn’t look too impressive this morning, although in this motley batch of whoresons and rejects scraped from the bunghole of a forgotten refuse barrel he would be hard pressed to pick the least appealing. Despite the sea bath they had just taken, the mangy lot still looked scroungey enough to scare their own mothers. The only exception was a pretty girl who was nearly as different from the rest of the new folk as he was.

 

The bath had been more pleasant than he had expected, but it didn’t do much for the rest of him to be sure. As a healer, August would make a good blacksmith, but after much unnecessary swearing, spitting and general unpleasantness the ham-fisted lout had managed to put him back together in one piece. He even possessed just enough strength in the Power to knock the edges off the worst of his injuries.

 

The best part of the treatment had been a blissful night’s slumber. Being healed by the Power often did that, in addition to making you hungry. Drak had slept like a log. A log that had beaten within an inch of its life, without a doubt, but a good night’s rest all the same. Listening to the complaints of the rest of the newbies, evidently most of them had spent the night retching and cursing the sea.

 

“Ah,” he thought to himself with a smile, “It is going to be a fine day.”

 

This morning, he no longer felt his ribs grinding under his skin like rocks in a bag, and he no longer bled like a cut horse, but the man’s healing ability was only adequate. While he wouldn’t have any scars, was able to move around without too much stiffness and muscle pain, and his bones were mended well enough that he had no need to worry about gouging a bone out of himself in a very unpleasant fashion, he still felt like he had been pulled feet first through a knot hole.

 

His eyes felt like someone had dropped ground glass in them. His mouth tasted like something dead a week gone had somehow crawled into his mouth and died again. And his skin looked like some desert landscape painter’s sunset gone wild, a hideous blend of purples, yellows, and greens from all the bruising. Especially his face.

 

But it had all been worth it.

 

Even if there hadn’t been a healer on board, it would have been worth it. The way the rest of the crew treated him this morning was proof of that. No one had dared say a word to him or caught his eye all morning. Even standing here in the lineup, he was given a wide berth.

 

Smiling slightly and meeting the captain’s eyes, he knew he had made a successful first step on this dangerous journey. True, his official position hadn’t been altered in the slightest, but the crew now recognized the fact that he was not one of them. He was something else, something apart, something terrifying.

 

Something beyond them.

 

He hefted a belaying pin the captain directed them toward and looked at the ratlines and the shrouds. He was completely unfamiliar with boats and their sundry parts, but it looked like today was the beginning of the end of that ignorance.

 

He kicked off his boots, and clutching his oddly weighted burden, he began the long, arduous climb to the top of his world.

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Emerging from below deck, Jak was like a shadow that loomed over his fellow crewmen as he passed them by.  Nearly as black as night, the dreadlocks that hung from his hair were darker still and in complete contrast to the baggy white breeches that he wore.  Held up by a red sash that hung low near his left ankle, the only other piece of apparel that the man wore was a pair of long leather bracers that only marginally hid the scars.  The result of fires and worse, they travelled from the back of his hands to his shoulders and were only to be rivaled by his mutilated ear lobes and the marks of an almost fatal scourging upon his back from his time before he had joined The Merry Pauper and his crew.  Lastly, a guitar hung from his shoulders by a thin black rope that he was usually seen with when he wasn't engaged in any particular task at the time.

 

His long fingers enticing a relaxing tune from the strings, each step taken on the wooden boards underfoot was as sure as the sway of the ocean that moved with.  A natural grace, it was little wonder considering that he had been born and raised seafolk.  Why such a man served on a crew with Westlanders was a mystery, the only clues being the marks he bore because he had never seen fit to volunteer the information.  Those who had asked questions over the years had quickly learned to ask elsewhere or had become better acquainted with August and his limited healing ability.  But, regardless of why he was there, he'd learned to become part of the crew and the crew had accepted him and the fact that as far as he was concerned, nothing had happened before he had signed on with Captain Redpath.

 

Indeed, even the First Mate, John Sweeper, had come to accept him.  It had been a painful first few months, but after a brawl in Ebou Dar where they'd almost killed each other, they'd come to understand one another.  The First Mate had come to understand he was not some piece of piss seafolk that couldn't hold his own, and Jak had come to realise that he hadn't been a cowardly bastard who had targetted him just because he was healing and couldn't fight back at the time.  A few years later and they even got along in a half friendly, half dangerous manner that could occasionally be precarious.  But, friendly enough that Jak was more than happy to lean on the rail next to the man who was, in turn, watching the Captain dealing with the recruits.

 

"Play us something, Jak'o."

 

Jak smiled as he acquiesced to the First Mate's suggestion.  The name was one of the kinder ones that he had been given, this one simply because of the Westlander song about some man who danced with the shadows that bore the same name.  That and because, like shadows, he was dark.  Even as he worked the melody, Jak responded with a deep lilt that was as exotic as the music.  "What are you thinking about those new boys and girls, I was thinking that maybe we could go and pick up some speed by tossing them overboard."

 

Mr Sweeper seemed amused more than anything as he looked to Jak.  "Keen to reach land are we my lovely co-conut tree?"

 

Snorting, Jak looked over at the recruits.  They were retrieving the belaying pins, the familiar exercise would begin soon enough.  "I can't say I like sharing my rations with sandkissers."

 

"I don't blame you."  That much they agreed on, this training was a waste of their time when they could be busy doing other things of a more worthwhile nature, like sitting down.  "But, the Captain knows what he's doing and he says we take them on so we do."

 

Silent for a moment as his melody progressed to a different key, Jak finally said.  "What about your funny boy over there by himself?  He looks like he could use cheer."

 

"There are two kinds of people on this ship.  Those that give orders, those that take orders.  The Captain knows best."  There was a note of warning in that voice, but Jak knew that he was fairly safe.  The only person more zealous than himself when it came to the Captain was Mr Sweeper which was proven if someone said something untoward about the Captain and Mr Sweeper didn't get to them first.  That was the reason that the First Mate would never contradict the Captain, but Jak was fairly sure that Mr Sweeper would have loved nothing more than to put the man's head through the main mast if only because he'd had a perfectly good reason to.  It wasn't that the recruits were usually all marvellously well adjusted people, but when someone laughed in the face of a man with cudgels for fists while they were being beaten repeatedly with the aforesaid knuckles, it showed a distinct lack of survival instinct as far as Jak was concerned.  Unpredictable, dangerous, better with their throat slit or thrown overboard than giving them another chance.

 

But, Captains orders, he'd live for now.

 

As the exercise began, Jak pushed off the rail and made his way over to the Captain who was observing the recruits.  The Captain didn't even need to turn to know that Jak wanted to talk to him, Jak had changed his tune to the one that had quickly become the Captain's song.  Not by his choice, but it didn't bother him either and was even the source of amusement for occasion.  It wasn't quite heralds and trumpets, but not every Captain had their own theme.  Still, the Captain didn't respond immediately as he watched the recruits try and scamper up the ratlines with their belaying pins in hand.

 

"Yes, Jak?"

 

Jak towered over the Captain as he stood next to him but there was no mistaking the subservience to the shorter man's authority as he spoke.  "Begging your pardon Captain, but I was concerned that we might have lost a little speed.  My humble suggestion is that maybe we could be using one of the recruits to smooth the keel.  Maybe the one that Mr Sweeper didn't get to conclude his d-i-s-c-i-p-l-i-n-a-r-y discussion with, Captain."

 

 

Jak

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There, a man almost to the top of the shrouds, dropping his belaying pin. There a man slipping from the ratlines; Rat lurching forward with dynamic movements of his hands to cast a web of saidin and stifle the fall. As Bobby expected, the trainees—as a rule—held the pins in one hand till it tired, and then switched. One enterprising recruit had used a corded lanyard from around his neck to lash the belaying pin to his hand, using it as a mountain climber would a pick-axe, lodged through the netting.  "You know what, you're right. I should just have you cut down the shrouds with them on it, and then we can throw their copses into the sea."

 

Jak brightened considerably at the prospect, dead men didn't need their rations after all.  They weren't underfoot either, or nauseating him with their incompetence.  His tune progressed to a sharper key to reflect his enthusiasm for the Captain's suggestion.  "Permission to retrieve a hatchet from below deck and make your idea a reality, Captain?"

 

“For all your talents, Jak, you couldn’t pick up on sarcasm if your life hung in the balance, and just between you and me, if you weren’t so light-accursedly good with that guitar, it probably would.

 

“With a few minor exceptions, this round of trainees seems more inadequate than usual. I would almost think a joke were being played on me if those who sent them were aware of humour’s existence. Mark me: you will have plenty of opportunity to bloody the decks before we are through.

 

“As for that particular concern. Wait and see. The problem may correct itself. If not, by all means smooth the hull. It is you, after all, who have the most experience in requirements of th—"

 

Bobby paused. With a slow, deliberate movement he pivoted, looking behind him. There lay one of his new ‘trainees,’ belaying pin in hand, lying awkwardly on the deck. His eyes were fixed towards the skies, and before the blood began to seep from beneath his head, the Captain already knew he was dead. Rat gave an apologetic gesture.

 

Bobby turned back to Jak and gave him a look more telling than words.

 

 

Following the Captain's gaze, it seemed to Jak that the Captain had been right after all, the problem would solve itself.  Laughing darkly as he caught the look that the Captain gave him, Jak leaned forward to him.  "I bow to your wisdom as always, Captain."

 

Walking over to his fulfilled wish, Jak knelt down next to the corpse and got to work.  Taking the man's belt knife, he used it to cut the man's purse strings.  Claiming the sheath next, he replaced the knife and slipped it into his red sash along with the man's pouch.  Noticing the quality of the man's boots, he took those too and tossed them clear of the body.  Someone else could use them when they got to shore and they were necessary.

 

While he wasn't a monster like Mr Sweeper, Jak was still perfectly capable of lifting the corpse by its shirt and belt, carrying it over to the rail and tossing it overboard.  Spinning as it fell, it hit the water only to disappear in the undertow of the ship's passage.

 

Cheerful about the entire incident, Jak ordered a couple of unoccupied sailors to swab the deck where the blood was beginning to congeal before walking back over to the Captain.  Strumming a happy tune, Jak looked up at the remaining recruits as he stopped next to the Captain.  They were only halfway and struggling, with the ratlines and with each other.  "Dead man's coin says that we get another pair of boots before they're done."

 

 

Jak was a mystery as far as Bobby was concerned. The man had experience, efficacy and efficiency. Where these came from ... Bobby was wise enough not to enquire. If a man wished to keep his past a secret, there was a good reason, and it was not worth losing a fine sailor over.  Who, or what Jak may have been was unimportant: that he followed orders was important. That he knew the design of The Merry Pauper upside down and backwards—that was important.

 

The first few experiences with Jak had been interesting. It had given Bobby a good excuse to rid his vessel of various distasteful corporal punishments. It was not as though Mr. Sweeper required the cat to inflict pain: his arms were as hard as the brass monkey and his fists struck like cannonballs. Bobby almost pitied the trainee who had been on the receiving end. Almost, but not quite.

In response to Jak’s wager, he snorted. “Why not just ask me to wager against my having eight fingers and ten toes?”

 

 

It might have been cliche to say that Jak chuckled evilly, but that was the best way to describe the way that Jak expressed his amusement.  At the rate the recruits were going, there was going to be another happy sailor who was going to get an early Bel Tine.  As for the coin, he'd end up putting up a game of cards or dice or some other form of competition for it, it was good for morale.  It had been worth inviting the Captain to increase the pot nevertheless, maybe one last try.  "I could go and bring August up on deck, just to make it sporting."

 

Bobby laughed. There was something about Jak, he was so ... he was just ... Jak. Shaking his head with laughter the Captain walked past his lieutenant in search of a cup of tea. Sporting indeed!

 

 

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Drak hung from the top-most rigging of the ship, his right elbow draped over a rope and reveling in a brief moment of relaxation. He had no idea what the name was for this particular bit, but he knew for certain that he was a LONG way above the deck. He had no real fear of heights, but being fearless meant nothing if he fell.

 

The fellow who had plummeted to his doom a few minutes ago hadn’t uttered so much as a “look out below,” but he was still dead as the Compact of Ten Nations. The only last words he’d be remembered for was the audible SNAP as his neck broke his fall.

 

Shaking the mental image free from his mind, Drak focused again on the task at hand. The ratlines and shrouds were strung tight as could be, but they were still ropes and had some slack no matter how snugly they were tied off. It made for a very challenging, and wearying climb. The belaying pin that was currently tucked securely under his left armpit had seemed so inconsequential earlier, but its unwieldy weight had long since caused his hands to cramp up.

 

The climb up had actually been beneficial, to a point at least. It allowed him to work out all the stiffness from yesterday’s beating, but by the time he had reached the top the burning in his shoulders and aching in his hands had returned tenfold, and his head throbbed like a bass drum inside it was applying for a job.

 

His perch here at the top of the world provided not only a temporary respite, it also gave him a chance to take another look at his fellows. None of them were nearly as spry and eager as they had been when they began their climb. Not only was climbing this Light-cursed mess incredibly difficult, the deadly risks were all too apparent. Furthermore, the nonchalant attitude of the captain and rest of the crew over the death of their barely-known comrade had made quite an impression.

 

For himself, Drak knew life here was cheaper than a whore in port. For an instant he wished for another set of eyes in the back of his head, because he certainly needed to watch his back. If anything, his gamble with Mr. Sweeper had painted a target on it with the other high-ranking members of the crew. He suspected that they wouldn’t like the fact that he wasn’t dead already. But that left him with far fewer threats to worry about, so his gamble had paid off. The regular crewmen were all terrified of him and hadn’t even tried to dislodge him or shove him aside as they had begun the climb, as they did with each other.

 

He had passed the first hurdle, but many more still lay in his path including getting back down without breaking his own fool neck. He just had to keep his wits about him.

 

His brief rest had temporarily rejuvenated him, and with a deep breath he forced himself to begin the arduous climb back down.

 

When his feet finally landed on the deck, he couldn’t recall exactly how he had managed to make it down. His right hand was cramping so hard, that he had to stand on the belaying pin to pry it loose. He looked back up at the rigging and vowed that he would climb it every day until he had mastered it.

 

He was certainly no sailor, but that meant he would have to work twice as hard as those who were in order to insure his continued place on board. He had things to do on this boat, and he could do none of them from the grave.

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  • 3 weeks later...

Cup of tea in hand, the young captain watched expectantly from amidships. His vantage certainly afforded him the best view, even if he did have to use his spare hand to shield his eyes from the creeping sun. Some of the recruits were fitter than others, this was as it should be, but Bobby Redpath wasn’t so interested in what men could do, as what men could not.

 

Through his wide set legs he felt ever shift and nuance in The Merry Pauper, could identify within several heart beats any change or weakness of condition. He felt now the ocean’s gentle cradling. He knew, too, that his new recruits would feel it, strung out across the ratlines as they were. Any fool worth a pinch of salt could man the rigging at such times as this, but the sailor’s true pluck came with the storm. They would be tested … in time.

 

Some of the regular crew saw fit to watch the spectacle and even engage in a little gambling, others swam, enjoying the temporary reprieve, and the rest were below decks engaging in more private pursuits—perhaps. They were content, and safe in the knowledge that their Captain would not cast off until untrained hands were no longer traipsing about his sails. What a mess that would make!

 

He knew Mr. Sweeper was there, his presence coalescing like a maelstrom. He would be watching just as keenly, with different motives aforethought. The first mate would be enjoying the physical aspect, spotting early on which recruits were more agile, stronger, and swifter—displaying the best foundations for line riding killers. Bobby saw it as a chance to observe his students unseen.

 

Who would help whom? Which recruits would form connections earlier on and with which other persons? Did any have it in them to trample others for “victory,” after all, they were all bound to the vessel—more or less—for the deals struck with The Great Lord, it was silently implied that some unsavory character attributes would arise. Bobby had seen the shroud climb countess times, and was well beyond registering surprise or shock at anything he had seen. Knowledge was power, and this exercise would be his first toehold over the personalities of The Great Lord’s servants.

 

Drak had been earmarked as one with aspirations the moment Bobby had seen the unnecessary clash. It was true: John would grudgingly respect anyone who would survive a beating at his hands, not that the recruit would have without August’s help, but the Captain certainly would not. It had been gross misuse of resources and he had better not come to regret the situation.

 

Drak could not have known that the first mate would respect survival, and to that end neither would the other recruits. It was possible that they maintained a distance from Drak due to admiration, respect, awe, such things were not too uncommon, but more likely they believed John Sweeper would unleash the wrath of the bore on him at some point and wanted to be very, very far away when  it happened.

 

For Bobby such a schism in his ranks was not permissible, if any man aboard could not be entrusted with the lives of all other sailors, his own life was forfeit. He would need to put a stop to any fracturing, and it took him until the end of the climb to engineer a consolidation of spirit among his new recruits … granted, he could not have done it without Drak.

 

They lay, his recruits, in varying states of pain and exhaustion, sprawled across the breadth of The Merry Pauper. They had done neither well, nor poorly, but somewhere in the middle. They were not the fittest bunch he had come across, nor were they the most slovenly. It took any man, or woman’s, body time to accommodate the needs of a sailor’s life; they would all be sore come the morrow.

 

“Well done, you have survived with few casualties … but I have bad news. It seemed to me, from the ground, that one among you saw fit to contravene my order and carry his belaying pin beneath his arm. This means, I’m afraid, that I will have to ask you each to drag yourself up off the deck of my ship and climb again. It is only fair that the man responsible leads the drive so … off you go, Drak, get started.”

 

At that, John gave a smile like a punch to the stomach, strong enough to splinter wood. There would be no fracturing, not for a long while now. It would be interesting to see what happened next, after all: Captain Redpath wasn’t so interested in what men could do, as what men could not.

 

 

 

 

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Sitting with his back to a wall, I guess sailor’s call it a wall, on the outer edge of the deck, Drak took his ease and tried to catch his breath. Along with his fellow new crewmembers, he had been exhausted by the climb. He was an excellent athlete, but he had never done anything like that before. His body ached, but he knew he would recover swiftly if he just had a few moments to rest.

 

When the captain began speaking, he watched and listened carefully. The young channeler never knew when the slightest thing could be the difference between life and death here in this unknown arena, and certainly no one besides himself would care if he was the one who died.

 

His eyes grew wide when the captain named him as the reason for the extra ration of suffering, and when the captain’s gaze met his he thought he saw something, was it amusement? in his expression.

 

It can’t be a challenge, Drak thought to himself as he met the captain’s eyes. He is in complete control, and he knows it. I can probably break through the shield his little Rat wove on me, but I doubt if I can do it before his crew pincushions me with steel. I might be able to kill him without using the Power, with just a blade, but then again I might not. Learning to use a sword is why I volunteered, and I doubt he became captain because his arse is waterproof. But again, there is the crew, and I am certainly not fit to take them on. He knows it is a Light-blasted lie that I carried that BLOODY belaying pin improperly. He stood there when I pried it from my cramping hand by standing on it!

 

Ah, yes… This is a test! He wants to see what I’ll do…

 

The thoughts flashed through the young Tairen’s mind faster than a Domani merchant could make a profit.

 

This was a test. He might do the same thing had their positions been reversed. Failing might mean his demise, but he already knew Death waited for him. He just didn’t want to meet her yet. He had much still to learn before making that last trek into the unknown, and he couldn’t do it sitting here.

 

He broke eye contact with the captain as he stood, his muscles screaming out their protestations about how unfair the agony was, his jaws clenched to make sure no sound escaped from his throat. With a grin to the captain, but without a word, or even a look around at the other new meat, he grabbed a Shadow-cursed belaying pin, even though the captain hadn’t actually said he was supposed to, and began climbing.

 

Again.

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