HSI: The Island

Mauve was thrilled to greet the new clear and stormless day. As much as she wouldn't admit it, she had been petrified. She wasn't good in situations completely out of her control and she had no faith in gods or people for that matter which didn't help her get through it.

Her flowing red hair looked like a rats nest so she did what she could to pull it together into long braids but her wet clothing clung to her like a second skin. Still it was hard not to be a optimistic. They had survived, well all except the cook which was most unfortunate. Who would make their meals now?

After making herself somewhat presentable, she sought out the closest person she had to a friend and playfully punched him on the shoulder.

"Well Fafnir, we made it. But Berwyn looks strange. Should we approach him and find out what is bothering him so much? I'm sure we are off course at the very least."

Gonnar was no sailor, but loaned a hand where he could during the storm. Battening hatches, tying down gear, stowing tackle and sails — he was not one to sit idly while others toiled against elements or foes. Whipping ropes had added a few more red lashes to his already heavily scarred body, for the man normally went shirtless and barefoot on the deck. His dark Mohawk drooped in the wet, but now, in the morning sun, the man’s distinctive hair style was back to form.

He surveyed Mauve carefully when she came from belowdecks, as he did with anyone who had taken his interest. He wanted to tell the woman should should cut her hair like him, that it’s less trouble, but she made for Fafnir, the loud-mouthed northron man she spent most of her time with. Sitting on one of the gunwales, the heavily tattooed desert nomad turned and looked towards the troubled captain before his raised his accented, rough voice.

"We’re lost, yea captain? How bad?"

Mauve found Fafnir dunking his head in a bucket of sea water, trying to scrub crusty vomit from his beard. It wasn't that he cared much for his appearance, but the smell made him want to puke more. This whole voyage his stomach had been a traitor, but during the storm he felt it was trying to stage a coup!

When he heard the cook had been thrown overboard, he laughed maniacally. When they held a brief moment for the man, he spoke up: "Maybe he was poisoning me this whole time! Rest to your soul, mighty cook. Never had Fafnir the Cursed faced a more cunning opponent!" Sure enough, he hadn't puked since the storm, and he was confident the worst was behind him.
Fafnir took the punch without so much as a flinch. He was much leaner than before and so the jab struck bone, but the massive Northener was more worried about her hand than his arm.

"Ah, I hadn't noticed. Is that why it is so peaceful?"

He saw Gonnar had already beat them to it. The two big men had given each other a fairly wide berth during the voyage. Growing up in the North, sometimes being the biggest invited other you men to challenge him, wanting to make a name for themselves. As a mercenary, he found the same was true the world over. But Gonnar didn't seem to be like that. He seemed confident in his own accomplishments, and that made him even more dangerous.

There were two other dangerous men aboard: Halor Smyth and Gwydion. Halor, he told himself, was dangerous because he had absolute faith in his God. A man like that could do anything in the name of his god, and warpriests were ever formidable foes. But deep down, he knew that the real reason Halor was dangerous to him was because he gave Fafnir hope, and he had to ward against that carefully.

Gwydion he stayed clear of. Mages always gave him the shivers. Even though he seemed polite and mild-mannered enough, but he was always writing in that book of his. Nothing good ever came of books. And the fact that he wielded sorcery was reason enough to think of him as dangerous.

And then there was Mauve. She was the most dangerous one of all (maybe even more than himself), which is why he liked her the best. The best way to deal with dangerous folk is to make 'em friends and not enemies.

"Mauve, you are too curious by far, but I suppose there is no helping it. Let's go talk to the Captain then."

Gwydion is towards the bow of the ship. He has raised his staff to his eyes and has it pointed towards the sun. "No good. No good at all." He murmurs. Gwydion lowers his staff, fishes out a scrap of parchment, and makes some marks on it with a charcoal stick. Seeing the others converge on the Captain, Gwydion drifts on over to join them.

Halor had spent much of the storm in the thick of it - in the torrential beating of water and wind, holding down ropes and making repairs against the will of the sea. At its its strongest, Halor could have been seen with ropes wrapped around his wrists, clenched tightly in his fists, screaming insults and challenges into the maelstrom.

Now, this morning of relative tranquility, he appears rather morose. A tall man, muscled, flaxen-haired, and in his late 20's, his eyes burn with the passion of his youth and the strength inherent of one both comely and capable. He considers their predicament and the people aboard the ship with him. Dangerous folk, several of them, then there were the sailors. He admired sailors - he got sailors - for all their endeavors, each outing a testament to their strength of will. Those who sailed for years, and learned the art well, had undergone many trials by sea and were blessed indeed.

It were the dangerous folk that he didn't know well enough to understand that gave him the thrill. Would they be contenders, set as obstacles upon his path? Or would they be like-minded travelers, or even friends?

Not one to harness himself with such open questions for long, he rustles his confidence and approaches the two of them that now were talking amongst themselves - Mauve and Fafnir. As he approaches, they break and start walking towards the captain. "A fair morning to you both," he says, flashing a smile, "Going to speak with the captain, are you? He's been uncharacteristically quiet today."

"So I'm told!" Mauve says to Fafnir, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Her hand rises to smooth her hair as is her habit when she remembers she has it braided. She is not used to having her hair constrained in such a fashion but the way she sees it she has no choice unless she wants to look like a vagabond.

"Morning Halor. I hope you weathered the storm well. The captain does look a little glum. We must be off course after such terrible storms but perhaps it's something worse. We are still afloat so that's a situation worth being happy about I'd say. If there's something more troubling him, I'd like to know what it is."

Mauve spots Gonnar already speaking with the captain. There's an interesting man, she thinks, and makes a note to ask him about his scars. There must surely be great stories there for each one of them. His appraising glance at her when she came up from below decks didn't go unnoticed. She also made a mental note to ask Gwydion what he was writing on the parchment he was carrying.

"Weather the storm?" Fafnir comments on Mauve's words. "I guess you didn't see him. Halor was out there all night, looked like he was challenging the storm to single combat. I'd say the storm weathered him, bwahaha! And none too well. I'm not sure if you're crazy or what, Halor, but it was a sight to see."

"See him? I couldn't see one foot in front of my face during that tempest."

Mauve laughs at Fafnir's remark. Gonnar certainly looked capable of battling all manner of things by himself.

Halor grins. "The storm was no match," he says, "though it did indeed try to best me! Gave us all a good thrashing, I dare say, yet here we still stand."

He glances to the captain. "It is often said amongst those of my faith, that calm skies belie ill winds. It is a good thing to not fall into complacency - I will attend the captain with you, if you do not mind me tagging along."

"Snap out of it captain! Loose the sails! If we don't slow down, we'll strike!" Gwydion pronounces. He places his staff to one side out of the way and moves to undo part of the rigging on the mainsail.

Ever the survivor, Fafnir doesn't wait for the captain. He used his booming voice and cries out:

"WE'RE RUNNING AGROUND! HEAVE TO AND DROP ANCHOR!"

"That's it Fafnir. Keep it up. Keep shouting," Mauve says. "I'll see what goodies are lying around untended in the ship," she adds whispering.

Quick as a flash, she scampers down below decks to see what she can pilfer that would fit on her person.

"Where this island come from?" Gonnar asks everyone present as he slips from the gunwale and pads, wolf-like, to the bow. His permanently squinted eyes widen just slightly as he looks harder that the island, its beaches, and the volcano.

"Not there moments ago. Hiding in fog?" There are shouts to take action from several people who don't know what they are doing on a ship, so the wastelander puts an eye on Berwyn to see how he reacts, and also looks to see how the sails are rigged, and whether there's someone manning the helm.

"May have good cove to put in. For repairs, foraging, yea?"

Fafnir keeps barking out orders and nautical terms. Even if nobody is listening, he hopes to run distraction for Mauve.

"... by the dead, are those mermaids on yonder rocks? Those shells barely hide anything!"