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19:50, 28th March 2024 (GMT+0)

Out of the Wreckage.

Posted by DMFor group 0
DM
GM, 28 posts
Fri 22 Mar 2019
at 00:20
  • msg #1

Out of the Wreckage

There are times when a bright line can be drawn between that time of “before” and the time of “after”.  “Before”--a time of freedom to visit with friends and family, to follow the pursuits of one's own will—that time was over.  It had been in the middle of Avivah, as the last slushy bits of winter snows were fading away when the end of that time came.  The last memory of “before” was a brutal blow to the back of the head.

An uncertain amount of time had passed before awakening in a dismal, stinking room smelling of unwashed bodies, vomit and excrement.  Chained to the beam of a bunk, stripped to undergarments, barely able to half-sit in the small range of motion allowed by the bonds.  Gradually, the motion and noise became recognizable—the room was the hold of a ship, five tiers of wooden bunks stacking those within like so much cordwood.

Seasickness was common, both from the tossing of the ship and the lingering effects of the blow to the head.  Gradually, though, it became clear that there were quite a few prisoners, perhaps as many as forty folk from the Thousand Islands were bound here.  From above, there were the shouts suggesting that this ship was being rowed.  Thin gruel was served up, enough to keep soul tethered to body, but not to keep much strength up.  A very homely—perhaps even ugly—man came to deliver the gruel on a regular basis.  Sometimes he would seem almost friendly, perhaps bordering on too much so, and other times he would beat one of the captives with a leather strap, seemingly for no reason other than his own  enjoyment of the resulting cries.  Perhaps worst of all was the knowledge that all of one's family, friends and dreams were being left further behind with every moment, snippets of what the man bringing gruel being enough to tell that they were bound for the slave markets of Karakul, where the best hope for “after” was a kind master who might be willing to allow a slave to keep a few coins to someday buy freedom.

Mockingly, the keys to the shackles that bound each hung from a hook by the ladder to the hatch for the deck, perhaps only a matter of five feet from the nearest of captives.  For all the use it was, it might as well have been as many miles away.

It had been a few days since awakening in the hold when the ship was hit by a squall.  After a half a day of tossing and rolling, the squall turned into a full-fledged storm, and the motion of the ship became even worse, making a fear that there would not be an “after” other than drowning somewhere in the waters of the Thousand Islands, or perhaps even the open stretch of sea between the westernmost Island and Karakul.  The ugly sailor, Matuk, opened the hatch and a cold spray struck those closest to the open hatch as the wind howled.  One by one, he forced some of the folk above-decks, cursing all the while as he lashed those who moved too slowly for him.

Another day of the storm had passed, and Matuk took more of the folk and forced them above-decks, while his heavily accented Karakulian curses seemed tinged with a hint of worry.  Above, through the open hatch, there were the sounds of shouts and whips keeping rowers in line, along with the howling of the wind and the spray of water washing into the hold.

At least another day of storm had passed since then.  Matuk had not returned, nor had anyone seen the other pirates who had been occasionally glimpsed.  None of those forced above-decks had returned, and there had been no gruel at all for at least a day.  The shouting and sound of cracking whips now faded away to an eerie quiet.

The ship continued rolling, and there was an enormous crash, a grating, grinding noise, and the horrible shuddering of the ship as it ran aground.  From above, there was the sound of snapping spars, and a great crash which could only have been the mast coming down.  Nine captives remaining chained to the bunks were thrown toward the bow, bruising against the shackles which did not allow for so much movement as, for a moment, they tried to move forward even as the ship was coming to an all-too-sudden stop.

The bow of the galley shattered at the impact, and then was torn away entirely.  An unfortunate woman too near the splintering wood screamed as she was impaled, a scream that died away as the port side of the galley laid open against a boulder, and a ferocious blast of numbingly-cold air and rain came into the hold.

Now, but for the howling of the wind and the pounding of surf, it was quiet.  Through the open bow could be seen a small section of rain-pounded rocky beach, littered with shattered wood.  Once there had been four bunks end to end in this hold, but now the most forward of those had been torn away in the crash.
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:14, Fri 22 Mar 2019.
Dak
player, 7 posts
Fri 22 Mar 2019
at 00:52
  • msg #2

Out of the Wreckage

Dak pulled against the shackles to right himself in his bunk.  The ship had crashed and they could be sinking.

"Help!" he shouted.  "We're still down here!  Get us out!"

They wouldn't just leave them to die, would they?  They were valuable, they could still be sold.  He realized his sudden change in priorities.  He'd rather be sold than drown.
Storm
player, 2 posts
Fri 22 Mar 2019
at 01:06
  • msg #3

Out of the Wreckage

Storm sits up looking around at the carnage. He attempts to break his shackles with brute strength to save himself and his fellow captives. Having been weakened by his captivity and the occasional beatings, Storm does not know if he has the strength to break free. However; his determination to escape death and take vengeance on the evil slavers gives him the strength he needs as he calls on his inner reserves to break the bonds.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:35, Fri 22 Mar 2019.
Koga na'Kana
player, 3 posts
Fri 22 Mar 2019
at 01:07
  • msg #4

Out of the Wreckage

Of the multitude that had once inhabited the lower decks of the ship, it seemed that at least some were of Elven heritage given their smaller, leaner frames and more delicate features. One such elf, clad in only a linen loin cloth, suffered along with the others as the days and nights passed in misery and torment.

He had taken fever early and had shivered and slept a great deal, vomiting up what little they were fed until the sickness seemed to pass from him in a sheen of sweat and and a sudden return of appetite. After that he had remained weak but observant at the least as he watched the hold slowly empty of its pitiable chattel.

Ironically he seemed to somehow come more alive during the storm, as if animated by the charge in the air, the frigid gusts and roaring waves all about them. He screwed his eyes tight and winced at the sound the woman man as the ship ran aground and then lay there, breathing heavily as he stared out at the hole that had been made. In time he began to look to see if the keys were still where they had been left, and if the damage the ship had suffered might have some how made it easier to finally escape the miserable vessel that had been their home for far too long.
Telemachus
player, 1 post
Fri 22 Mar 2019
at 03:30
  • msg #5

Out of the Wreckage

Some not so small amount of blood came down Telemachus' head, it having slammed against hull on the impact.  It could be major or merely a irritating scrape but he wouldn't know till he or someone else could stop it.  He had been one of the ones who took longest to recover from the head wound when they had been taken, and the gruel that they fed always seemed to be not enough to make him fully well.  Now he had taken another one but to the front rather than the rear.

It made him want to laugh.  So he did...

The quiet laugh of someone on the edge of sanity because of adversity.

He didn't want to die though so he tried his shackles again.  Hoping that the water and the lack of enough food might have made his limbs thin enough to slip their bonds.  Baring that his eyes sought out the same things that Koga looked for...the key.
DM
GM, 29 posts
Fri 22 Mar 2019
at 10:15
  • msg #6

Out of the Wreckage

The position that the prisoners were locked into seemed designed to prevent anyone from using strength to bear.  The one thing that the designers failed to account for, however, was damage incurred in the event of shipwreck.  But as Dak pulled to try to improve his position, at first it seemed just a matter of imagination, but then it was more certain--his bunk was damaged, and he just might be able to break free.

The keys were still hanging from the hook near the hatch.
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:08, Sat 07 Dec 2019.
Angus
player, 3 posts
Fri 22 Mar 2019
at 12:33
  • msg #7

Out of the Wreckage

Angus strained and stretched toward the keys on the beam, the chains holding tightly against the strain. He winced at the pain and wondered if they would live or die, ever pulling toward the beam, straining against the broken bunk and the chains, but they were solid against his strength.
Dak
player, 8 posts
Fri 22 Mar 2019
at 15:51
  • msg #8

Out of the Wreckage

The only response to Dak's cry was the strained grunts around him as others tried their best to escape and a resigned laugh from the depths.  He wasn't going to give up though and pulled hard against the chains that bound his wrists above his head, bracing himself between the hard surfaces of the plank beds.

The crash must have shifted or broken something just right because with a sudden snap, he struck himself on the head as the resistance disappeared.  His hands were still shackled a few hand spans apart, but he was free of constraint.

Seeing a few of the others straining to reach the keys, he clambered through the debris to reach them.  He could free himself and then help the rest escape.
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