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"Up From the Deep"Date: December 28, 2001 (Aether: June 10, 3909)  It is a cold, clear morning. The summer heat is but a memory now, left behind with those warm, dark waters around Haven's bay. Rather than rolling green hills and fertile fields, the lands glimpsed on the horizon are formidable and rugged -- rock and ice and snow. The breezes that turn the waters into choppy froth have the unmistakable bite of winter. The Amarada has been heading steadily north for several days now. This morning starts off as uneventful as any other. Seagulls lazily circle above, and off in the distance, to the west, is a line of snowy peaks. The Rusalka's Jhoi can be spotted intermittently, keeping pace with the ship. All seems peaceful. Except for the sting of the cold. Up on deck of the Amarada, the eerie Najada has kept to himself. Expression as cold and stoic as the frost-bitten winds, Vikesha occupies his mind in studying the horizon and the waters below the ship. Not a word is spoken to anyone, and by now most of the sailors have learned to leave the vojak alone. His hands, the skin an odd shade between dark bluish-grey and white, are placed upon the railing before he leans out over the side, as if contemplating diving in. It would seem he changes his mind, for soon afterwards he settles back on the heels of his bare feet and pulls his stone knife free of its sheathe. His thumb brushes across the blade, testing its sharpness. Wrapped in her thick, homespun cloak, Deianyra stands at her usual perch this morning, gloved hands steadied on the railing along the ship's edge. Violet-blue eyes skim the choppy water and the horizon idly, yet their focus is farther away, some other time, some other place perhaps. Cocooned in wool and silken feathers, the Dyer presents a lonely riot of color. The Rusalka, Cyrene, is absent from the deck this morning, still swimming alongside her Jhoi, the orca whale Zelimir. She paces him easily, surfacing when he does, a pale blur beneath the water. Cyrene senses: There is something amiss. The waters seem calm, but for the occasional choppiness of that icy breeze. And yet... Zelimir is troubled. There is a fleeting sense of danger in your mind; just a thread, that weaves through your thoughts. You have a sense, all of a sudden, that you are not alone. "For the last time, Rona, the captain is doing fine. Your warm concern is not needed in his presence but rather up there, in the masts." Rasamei's clear voice shatters the silence much as she attempts to pierce the air with the sharp gesture made upwards to the vessel's top. "I am pleased with your offers to help me out protecting those fragile men on board this ship from this cold" the ship's second grins widely at the various sailors around her before she continues to address the Atlantean deckhand by her side "but Demetrius is the last one to need you right now. Besides, should you drop it wouldn't make you ill, unlike the rest of these gentlemen." Heavy irony lids the Varati woman's tongue when she moves towards the ship's front, leaving the girl to climb the robes. With the next rise of Zelimir to the surface, Cyrene's hand wrapped 'round his tall dorsal fin, the Rusalka lifts her head higher above the water. A spray of exhaled breath mists the chilly air, but though Cyrene cranes her neck this way and that, she spots nothing but endless water, rocks, snow... An ebon glance is cast up at the Amarada, her expression troubled. "Mr. Burke?" She calls aloud, her voice carrying somewhat to the deck above. This isn't the day to do without a sailor's warm, fuzzy-armed embrace... but Jeni has her moments of masochism. A yawn still tugging her lips, the cyprian breaks the "surface" and rises through the hatch like Cytherea rising from the sea, half-lidded hazel eyes opening wide and bright at the sudden blast of cold air. They take more interest in the movements of the deck than the barren shores beyond. Jeni's arms enfold her own figure in soft hug as she strolls toward the railing, curls bright and blowing in the wind. Drawn irresistibly to the gaudy peahen on her cold, cold perch. Leaning her back to the rail, Jeni glances around the fluffing feathers and into the profile of Deianyra, half a smile on her lips as she speaks. "Huh. It's either Tyche gone mortal, or th' famous Domina Lyracides." Unfortunately Master Burke isn't on deck right now. One of the sailors leans over the rail however, "Mr. Burke ought to be here soon, just wait a while m'lady." Respect and awe for Cyrene can be heard within his voice, but his emotions betray an unwillingness to disrupt the captain's stand in whenever this strange creature's wishes to speak with him. Down below the deep, black waters, something stirs. Shapes, sleek and dark, and swift as shadows. Too large to be fish. Porpoises? Perhaps. Something breaks the surface of the water down near the prow; a black, bald head, gleaming like an oil-slick. A webbed hand follows next, tipped with curving nails. *Clunk* They dig into the hull of the ship, and that dull sound acts as a signal. Suddenly, more dark shapes rise up from the sea, surrounding the Amarada, and they start swarming up the side of the boat with those scrabbling, scratching claws. His ice-blue eyes are immediately drawn to the Rusalka as she surfaces with her pet whale. The barest beginnings of a frown tug downward on Vikesha's lips, and slowly, he strolls along the deck closer to the alien halfling. He blinks down at Cyrene, none of the awe visible in his own features. Rather, there is something closer to contempt. That's when he spots the Najada. A sense of cold washes over him, the rush of adrenaline fills his veins, and quite abruptly he whirls on his heel. He draws in a deep breath and bellows at the top of his lungs, "NAJADA!" Strange how one usually so quiet can be so loud. With the sudden song of danger threading through the water and vibrating in her bones, Cyrene's gaze falls to the water around them, her hand clenching on Zel's dorsal. Throwing back her head, membranous wings flaring behind her in agitation. "I don't think this can wait!" she cries aloud. With that she slaps Zel's back, urging him forward. Eyes of a dark green light up in the darkness of Jedrek's face when his head arrives from the water. Sharp teeth are revealed in a grin of delight at the sight of the eager youths reaching for the nails and the claws, attempting to climb the Amarada's hull. He himself drifts some distance away from the vessel, his hands embracing knife and solid water, concentrating when around him more heads are revealed, each pushed up in the same rhythm of the waves which in turn reach higher and higher. Deianyra turns her head to regard Jeni with a surprised and then contemptuous look. "You." She nearly spits the word, half-turning to regard Jeni. Violet eyes skim the woman's face, focusing on her odd tattoo a long moment. "You-" Further words are cut off as the cry of 'Najada' goes up through the crew. Anxiety tightens her face and the cant of her wings and she steps back from the railing. "Tyche..." She breathes, looking at the water wildly. Contempt here, contempt there, and someday one of 'em is going to get a nice solid smack in the face for it. For now, however, Jeni only lifts a brow and readies a nasty retort... one cut short by the arrival of the Things. Now those fuzzy arms are tempting. A yelp cuts the air like a knife around the startled cyprian, a string of epithets close on its heels. "What'n hell?!" Unarmed and bloody well aware of it, Jeni abandons the anxious bird, backs up hastily and very purposefully into a batch of deckhands who take up pieces of rigging to wield in defense. Her head snaps about toward Vikesha as he roars, preferring to stare slack-jawed at him rather than those currently slithering up the sides of the ship. The cry of alarm disrupts the day to day routine of the Amarada and Rasamei is amongst the first who reacts. Spurting to the side, orders are already shout out loud from her mouths. "Weapons!... arm yourself and stand ready!" Deianyra barely escapes being overrun by the Varati second who pushes the startled Empyrean woman away from the rail, "Passengers out of the way!" And through hissed teeth she calls, "Bowmen!" Her own hand moves to the belt slung around her waist drawing the curvy saber dangling from it. "Shoot. Others... back off and stand ready!" Around the deck, sailors drop their chores and draw weapons. Those armed with bows and tridents rush to the rail, attempting to throw some off ere they ascend the Amarada. Now that the attack has been made, those sleek, dark bodies are everywhere. Swarming up the side of the ship, bobbing in the water, swimming swiftly to surround Amarada and Jhoi alike. It's difficult to tell how many there are, for they blend into the blackness of the ocean. The first to claw their way up the hull have now reached the top, and they slide over the edge, bearing knives of bone, coral, and stone. They do not speak, and their attack is silent. Immediately, they lunge for those nearest -- Vikesha, Deianyra, and Jeni, along with those sailors who've drawn their weapons. At the sound of the alarm, the Hatch is thrown open and the burly mongrel First Mate, Mister Burke, barrels through. His hand drawing his own sword, he rushes over to Rasamei and demands, "Just what in the nine Hells is going on?" Oh, sure he can see the Najada swarming onto the ship, and in the Aesir tongue he tries to demand their attention. Following behind the First Mate, peering out through the Hatch is the Cabin boy, his dark brows drawn down in what could be confusion or anger. Staying out of the way for the time being, he calls out to the one Najada he knows, "Vikesha, make them stop!" His voice might not even be heard over the din of combat. Snarling beneath his breath, Vikesha takes a step back from the railing and looks wildly about him. His knife is clutched in his hand, however he seems about to sheathe it in favor of finding something to throw. But too late. Whatever plan he had in mind must now be abandoned, for as the youth watches the first climb over the railing, he barely has enough time to ready himself. He is likewise silent as he rushes to meet the attack, knife of stone held at the ready and the coldness of death in his eyes. Off on the horizon, two boats coming fast toward the Amarada. Surely it is not pirates this far out? Though with the luck of the Amarada and her crew of late, that might not be surprising. The ships are low and fast, the keels carved into the shapes of serpents. And the sails are emblazoned with a symbol. A white tower jutting up on a field of blue. The ships are of the Aesir. The ships might arrive in time to fight off the Najada, but gods only know if the Vikingr aboard will decide to mop up the easy target left. Hel, with the boarders coming in such waves, the Aesir ships may go unnoticed until they draw closer. Shoved roughly back by Rasamei and a few other sailors rushing to the railing, Deianyra's wings flare out from beneath her maroon cloak, ready to take flight if necessary. Fingers unsheathe the dagger at her waist, taking a step back as the Najada leap towards her and several of the others near her. She had assured Demetrius she could take of herself, but she never expected...! The first lunge of the Najada opposite her catches her arm with his stone knife, tearing through layers of wool and cutting skin. Her own metal blade flashing, Deia grits her teeth and lunges back at the Najada. *Splash* the first of the Vojak is to fall back in the waves, victim to one of those few arrows sent successfully ere the Amarada's crew have to resort to the use of weapons meant for the hand as the Najada come aboard. The warrior's companions do not react, paying no heed to the ones too weak to survive this battle's first crucial minutes. The water reflects what little light there is, much as do the blades of their knives, that is until the first blood stains these weapons. Eyes gleaming with delight. Suddenly, screams can be heard from one the Atlantean crew members, "No!" he calls out and leap forward, past the defenses of his mates... saber thrown aside. Why does no one ever have the decency to wait until after breakfast? Jarring herself out of the shock, Jeni allows one of her former clients to engage the nearest Najada attacker while she herself takes a step back. One deft motion unhooks the belt of bells from her waist. Waiting for an opportune moment, the cyprian ducks under the sailor's shoulder, smiles with impish gaiety at the Najada, and swings her madly jangling little belt at his dark, ugly ears, catching his attention for one half second. Long enough for her lover to brain the man with a wedge of ship's tackle. Rather jaunty now that the initial fear is past, Jeni saunters among the other battles with the bells swinging from one hand, working her 'magic' at will. "They swept upon us... no warning." Rasamei calls out to Burke, her eyes not looking away from her opponent. One of those overly eager youths of the Najada has climbed aboard, a lad barely past his first decade. His knife drawn, he jumps around, only to stumble when one of the tumultuous waves destroys the Amarada's balance. It is with a clean cut, without mercy that the Varati ends the lad's life, yelling, "Water Mages!" Telepathically, Vikesha, Cyrene, Deianyra, and Amahl sense: A song sings in your mind. It buzzes up from the waters -- from countless minds joined in one purpose. Death. The bloodsong sears through your thoughts -- this is no attempt at piracy. No punitive warning. These Najada are determined. They are going to kill anyone in their path. There is only the violent, dull clink of stone knives meeting, and the cabin-boy's call is unheeded. Vikesha's mind is consumed only with the thoughts of defense. Defense of his mind and defense of his body. Like the others he battles, his face is a cold and stony mask slicked with blood that belongs to him and his opponent. His own personal battle is soon over, for when Najada combat, they go for the quick kill. The invading vojak slumps to the deck, victim of a knife through the throat. Vikesha has not gone without injury, suffering a long gash across his cheek that steadily bleeds. But he turns to find the next, and in doing so he spots Amahl. In the churning waters, the pod behind the Amarada has drawn closer, but the sudden surge of bodies leaves the orca whales hesitant. Zelimir suffers from no such confusion, however. With the reassuring presence of his Jhoi at his side, his warning squeaks and whistles thread through the water, reaching the whales behind them. With the small whirlpools created by Cyrene's magic disrupting a few of the Najada near them, Zelimir ruthlessly tears into those that draw too close to his teeth. Further out, a pair of searing blue eyes watch the battle rage on board the ship. A lone Najada circles at a distance, his face an expressionless mask of carved ebony. He is Shurik, Najskor of these Najada. Their chieftain. Silent as a shadow, he gazes on the besieged ship, before he swims closer and soon ducks beneath the waves, honing in for the kill like a shark. The boats move closer, the prows bursting through the waves. They ships ride the water low and dangerous. The distance closes in on the Amarada. As it draws closer; long oars can be seen dipping into the water in rapid and coordinated pace. Standing at the prow, is a single Aesir, calling out the cadence. His words are lost in the distance and the wind. In a fury of flashing metal and a few whimpers of pain, Deianyra struggles with the Najada lunging at her with his stone knife. A jangle of Jeni's bells manage to catch him off-guard as well, however, and it is an easy task for the Dyer to dart in and slit his throat, his blood joining that already dribbling out of the cuts on her arms. Swallowing hard, Deianyra turns away, finding herself surrounded, and promptly in another fight. Teeth gritted, she dances out of range of the Najada. More and more Najada swarm up the hull. More dark bodies intercede between the pod and the Amarada. Stone and bone knives dart out toward Zelimir, scraping his thick hide. The Najada move in a concerted effort to cut off the Jhoi from the ship, while those on board continue to swipe and slash at the sailors and passengers. Some fall. But others take their place, and those dark bodies lie forgotten by their comrades, or splash down into the water lifelessly, their blood mingling with the waves. The Najada fight on. Wading into the fray, his own saber brandished, Mister Burke attempts to slice into as many Najada as he can, adrenaline ignoring any cuts or slices he might incur. "And no one saw them coming?" he demands of Rasamei, turning a brief scowl to Vikesha...he could have brought them upon the ship. Staggering as she ship heaves, he misses having his throat cut by the advantageous movement. "Keep the ship steady!" he bellows to whomever might be at the wheel. Before Amahl can do much else, he is nearly knocked flat by the Najada's telepathy, his hands gripping the edge of the hatch so that he doesn't fall back into the belly of the ship and kill himself that way. The waves to the left become higher and higher, proving the abilities of the Voda Mocny, whomever it may be. Several of the Vojak are still within the ocean, readying themselves for when the waves will sweep them up to the deck, allowing them to land on the wooden floor with an understanding of the sea's rhythm. "Agh!" Just when things were looking up. As the Amarada heaves, Jeni slips in a pool of someone's lifeblood, tumbling dangerously close to the edge. The chain of bells flies from her hands and over the side as she herself bangs her temple sharply against the hard rail, slumping into a heap of bright satin not ten feet from the Domina Lyracides. "Tyche's... bleedin'... tits..." Jeni sinks her nails into the deck's planking to hold herself steady and blinks up with groggy eyes... only to find herself staring down the nose of yet another stone dagger, with a murderously grinning Najada poised behind. Hell. Sedna save them all! If only her sister were here, then Cyrene would pluck each and every one of them off the deck and thrown them back to the hell depths they came from! Her own magic is no match alone. Keeping a death grip on her Jhoi's dorsal fin, she sings out through the water, her siren's voice calling to the pod behind them for help. Nearly cut off, she slaps Zelimir's side, the water around them frothing red, urging him out of the ship's immediate vicinity. Though she would help the Amarada all she can, she cannot risk the life of her Jhoi. And the death knell in her head assures her they are all in danger. "Later," Rasamei grunts between clashed teeth, her eyes having picked up the scowl marring Burke's mouth. This is not a time to lay blame... as her motions suggest. One of the men closest to her sags down, his throat pierced by a knife thrown by a woman bearing little to none covering, distracting some sailors for that one crucial second. "Nice." the Varati mutters as she engages in combat with the other warrior, ignoring the sting of a blade. Again the ship's balance is destroyed and this time it is she who stumbles, just in time to escape a knife thrown by one of the Vojak nearby. The cabin-boy is intensely watched before Vikesha is forced to turn and take on the next opponent. Not a word, not a battle-cry sounds before the two engage in combat, the fighting fierce, bloody and merciless. The young vojak's lip curls back from his teeth in another snarl. This opponent will not be so easy to defeat, being older and stronger. Little by little, Vikesha is forced to begin backing away until he is pinned against the railing. Rows of dark heads rise up from the water behind Cyrene and Zelimir -- in front of them -- to the right and left. They are surrounded. Knives flash. Zelimir is struck again. Cyrene's gossamer wings are swiped at. The Najada are dissuaded only by the Rusalka's magicks and the ferocity of her Jhoi, but not for long. More of them emerge to surround the pod that had been called to her rescue. More knives flash, more blood flows into the ocean. They seem tireless, these silent killers. Closer, closer, closer come the blue sails with the white pinnacle emblazoned on them. Close enough for those aboard the Amarada and for her attackers alike to see not only the banners, but the men crewing the ship. It is indeed the Aesir. The broad shouldered empyreans of the North. As the ships close, the rowing oars disappear. The men and women stand and let out hoarse battle cries, faintly heard over the din of waves and wind. T heir voices amplified by the clanging of axes against armor. Wings unfurl like sails and half the crew of each boat leaps high into the air. The second ship turns toward Cyrene and her Jhoi, to offer aide from those still aboard the ship. Having already let loose half its warriors to aide the Amarada. From the lead ship, the first to fly towards the ship is Axel Arneson. His beard and hair flow in the air as the harsh sea winds whip at him. As the wave clears and the water washes off the sides of the deck, it is revealed that more Najada have come aboard. They uncoil from crouches, claws and knives poised to attack. Among them is their leader, the Najskor, Shurik. He is taller and stronger than most, standing head and shoulders above his comrades. He rises from his crouch and moves forward, silently slashing the throat of a sailor who'd darted forward to attack him. The man falls, and the black Najskor steps over his body, blue eyes already searching out his next prey. A brightly-hued wing soundly thwaps the Najada holding the knife before Jeni's nose. Between the physical blow and the one Deianyra pulses telepathically to him, the Najada staggers. Another solid thwap sends him over the railing, leaving Deianyra, bleeding and breathing hard, staring down at Jeni. "Now we're even," she mutters cryptically, whirling away as more Najada crawl over the railing. Freeing himself from some of the closest Najada, the First Mate slides and slashes his way to the raised railing to try and nab any that try to clamber on from there. A hand is cut off here, a throat cut there, a chest pierced over there, but there are so many! "Damn..." is cursed as he parries one knife to take another, less serious wound. "Keep fighting, men...if the ship goes down, we go down with it!" It takes Amahl only a few moments, his eyes becoming glassy before he draws his jeweled knife and bursts out of the Hatch. His smaller height is his advantage this time as he ducks and twists among the fighting sailors and Najada until he is behind the one fighting Vikesha. With as much strength as he can muster, he jabs his knife in the dark Najada's back More and more of the Atlanteans aboard back off, eyes nearly shut in an attempt to defend themselves against the vicious entries of their beings. These are men and women from warmer, more gentile waters and cultures. Unprepared to fend off the vicious mind raping of the Najada. The lucky ones move backwards, those less fortunate hesitate... their motions frozen for that one second needed for their opponents' steel to strike. Sharing a grin with Death himself, the cyprian Jeni feels time slow down for a heartbeat, blood from the head-bash trickling down to her chin as she closes her eyes. Her time has come... her knell has rung... Is it too late to make love, not war? At the sharp 'THWAPS' she opens her eyes - one at a time - and mournfully looks herself over for the death wound she didn't receive. Blink. Deianyra? Saved by Deianyra? Thunking her head back against the side of the ship, Jeni groans. Tyche has a cruel sense of humor. The clash of steel to stone finally prompts the woman to stagger to her feet and out of the line of fire, distinctly tired of playing Warrioress for today. Vikesha's opponent doesn't have very long to feel the pain of a knife in his back before he is finished. With one quick swipe of his stone knife, the younger vojak slices a line of pink across the dark skin that severs bone and sinew. Lifelessly the invader crumbles to the deck, and stepping away from the rail, Vikesha casts only a glance towards Amahl before he looks up to select his next combatant. Gossamer wings flare and fold anxiously, barely avoiding the slash of a coral knife. That knife is torn away as another whirlpool is created by the Rusalka, attempting to defend herself and her Jhoi. But one woman and one orca stand little chance against so many attackers. The slash of claws and knives have cut Zel deeply, leaving the water a darker red, and another descending blade catches Cyrene across the thigh, catching in the muscle clenching the skin of the whale beneath her. A shriek of rage and pain split the air, even that sound oddly melodic. The pod of orcas has joined the fray, attempting to answer the Rusalka's summons for help, but Najada knives cut them deeply too, further bloodying the water. The squeaks and whistles of anxious whales cuts through the water, as well as the keening of death. Already the yearling has been slain. Near crazed by the pain of her whales and the telepathic knell in her head, Cyrene's magics reach out for any medium around her, air, water, minds. Ruthless, regardless. The second Aesir ship veers away from the lead and heads instead towards Cyrene and her whale friends, having paused only momentarily to allow half of its men the opportunity to launch into the air and assist the Amarada. Orders on the deck of that vessel now seem to come from an Aesir standing at the forefront of the vessel, his silhouette larger than most others which can be seen. War cries rise and fall alongside the sharp tones of drawn weapons as the ship cuts a swath through the waves and its crew prepares to assist the Rusalka and her allies. Andrik looks over the men and women present before his mighty war-hammer points forward to indicate the attack. Jedrek turns his head, his eerie eyes taking in the withdrawal of the Rusalka and her Jhoi. Whatever triumph felt before is shaken at the sight of the Aesir vessel and a warning is sent to any and all who are part of the mind link. *Aesir!* The Voda Mocny's arms are spread when once again he summons the currents towards him, asking them to surround the hated vessel which is to be destroyed, utterly. It is the will of Vodyanoi. *ThaWUMP!* The huge form of Axel lands on the ship. The crazy fool lands in a heavy crouch in the midst of six or seven of the Najada. He lets out a booming laugh and looks about. "Come, let my axe spread your ribs as my muscles spread my wings." He challenges those who have gathered around him, and in the same breath lashes out with his axe. The blade arcs toward one of the sea-warriors. It's sharp edge doing just as its owner foretold. The splatter of gore only brings another laugh to the throat of the warrior as he begins the death-dance. His eyes though fix on Jedrek. "Someone put something sharp in that bastard!" He bellows in accented common of Haven. Shurik cleaves through those fighters who fly at him with weapons raised. He fights with single-minded purpose, for his gaze has found the one he sought. One of his kind, but not his own. He wades across the blood-slick deck toward Vikesha, stepping up to take the place of the fellow Najada the young vojak slew. But he is no mindless warrior, blinded by the bloodsong. His blue eyes are keen and clear, and they bore into the youth's with all the ferocity of his will behind them. His lips part. He says something, rough and guttural from a throat not made for speaking. But there is too much hate behind it for the mind to hold. He raises his knife and brings it down toward the youth, even as he unleashes a blast of raw power, slicing at Vikesha's thoughts. Once he saw the Najskor, he knew. He knew and he tried to prepare himself, but even so, there was little he could do. All that could be matched was the hate. Vikesha steels himself against the blast of power, he tries to dodge the knife slicing through the air that could pierce his heart. He only manages to do a partial job of it. Sinking to his knees, raising his arm to block the knife, he screams at the agony ripping through his mind more than at the pain of stone sinking into the muscle of his arm. Rasamei grunts as she regains something akin to a balance, grimacing when she sees her erstwhile opponent slain by the knife meant for her. "Thanks." and with that she lunges herself upwards, her blade slicing through the surprised thrower's leg. A scream can be heard which is silenced with a quick flash of steel across his throat. No time to gloat, or to wait for the rescue. Beneath her, she can feel the currents of a whirlpool as it begins to surround the ship, "Rip the bastard's mind... now!" A new dye stains colorful feathers as the blade of a knife catches in Deianyra's wing. Grunting with pain, the Dyer furls her wings, spinning about just in time to avoid another slash of the knife. Picking up quickly on the way these Najada use their minds to fight, she uses her new knowledge against her opponent, managing at least to distract him long enough to wound his chest. Using more a series of distractions and techniques for catching him off-guard, she manages to edge the Najada to the railing and throw him overboard as well with a carefully placed whap of her wing. He had to land on her side of the deck. This is the second time she's been splashed with innards... these people really are determined to ruin her wardrobe. Holding her head in one hand and the rail in the other, Jeni tears her eyes away from the carnage around big bad Axel, leans over the side, and quietly empties the unattractive contents of her stomach on whatever or whomever happens to be lurking below. "Thank the heaven for Aesir," is grumbled as Mister Burke stabs at some more Najada flesh. At the familiar voice he turns to offer a grin to Axel...when he gets a good slice across his back. This only serves to anger him more, and whirling, he scans the water for the one causing all this mess and hurls his sword at the Water-Mage. Even if he distracts him for a moment it's worth it. Once that opponent is gone, a still glassy-eyed Amahl searches for another...his gaze mirroring that of Vikesha exactly. His knife at the ready, held as if he certainly knows what he's doing, he is balanced as much as he can be, ready to strike. But as the Najada ally is attacked, he lunges at Shurik, but does little more than stagger blindly as he is hit with the same wave of mental pain. Singing, can you believe it, Axel is singing. A counting song for those that know any of the tongue of Axel's tribe. A children's limerick used during the harvest. A bit out of place perhaps, as the Aesir harvests a bloody crop of dead Najada. His axe crushes bone and flays flesh, spraying himself with blood. Blood that splatters around the smile curving his lips. A fellow tries to be sneaky, and receives the heavy pommel of Axel's blade on his head. Another manages to sneak a stab in under the Aesir's guard, but draws only the clang of stone against chainmail. "Go!" Andrik booms from the second Aesir ship, that single feral-toned cry being all that his crew needs to set themselves into action. They line up on the sides of the ship and, spreading their wings, launch into the air and glide down to sweep above the water. Their weapons slice and smash at the slick Najada forms that engage the whales before secondary pumps bring them back onto the ship's deck for a second attack. Sea foam in the area is stained with the blood of these aggressors as wounds are opened in numbers. The knife bites hard into Vikesha's flesh, but that mind-blast cut deeper. Shurik is ready to finish the job when he is distracted by Amahl. Those blue eyes dart toward his would-be attacker, and the Najskor's characteristic silence is broken by something like a growl. All too easily is the youth's swipe blocked, and then that curved blade, keen as a shark's tooth, slashes across Amahl's chest. The Najskor readies himself for another swing, intending to finish what he started. Oh, they're noticing him now, are they? And well, they should be. Jedrek dares to come just a bit closer, his hands moving together in one giant clasp mirroring the pushing of the water against the ship's wooden hull. Planks groan beneath the pressure, one can imagine little seams appearing which soon will grow worse when at once... there comes Mr. Burke's axe. Out of instinct he dives to the side, breaking his concentration and his promise to Vodyanoi. *No!* A shout of horror can be felt throughout the Najada when the water, drawing them closer to the ship at first, bursts away, swallowing several of the dark warriors, literally tearing them apart. A chestnut-haired youth with almond-hued wings is fighting doggedly, not far from Axel's side. For that is Sven's customary place -- a hound ever following in the steps of its master. He wields an axe with some skill despite his youth, and he is as energized by the blood on his wings and sark as his jarl. He yells enthusiastically each time axe-blade meets Najada flesh; such is the boy's bread and butter. The whales, frenzied with the death of one of their number and the pain-filled shrieking of the Rusalka, have torn into several of the Najada, leaving limbs floating on the choppy waves. The Aesir, coming to their rescue, further add to the carnage. Cyrene and Zelimir, separated from the rest of the pod, have shed a fair amount of blood themselves; they cannot last much longer. Wounded deeply along his flank, Zel tears into another of the Najada, his sudden movement dislodging Cyrene from his back. A knife plunges a hole in one of her gossamer wings, calling forth another painful shriek, fearing limning her tone. "ZEL!" Desperate, Rusalka and orca are pulled beneath the surface, followed by the Najada attackers. A light little snicker as Axel spies Jeni heaving to over the railing. "You are a lover, not a fighter I see." Before she can reply he is distracted by a Najada jabbing his thigh with a blade. Blood running down his pants, he dispatches the attacker. The knife is left in place, it will bleed less that way. And he leaps then, wings spreading to carry him toward Shurik. "Hai, whelp of the shit eaters." The insult called in Aesir, for the name of Shurik's tribe is close to Aesir for excrement. "It's time I finished you." He faces the Najada and motions him forward. The tide is turning. There are more dark bodies littering the ocean's previously-calm surface, but that hive-mind bloodsong buzzes on. The Najada fight on for their leader has not yet called them off. And their gods have not yet been appeased. Only when the ocean is stained red with the blood of their enemies will they cease. Through his haze of agony and blood, Vikesha is capable of seeing through Amahl's mind the knife that is swinging low to sever his life. The vojak cuts off his scream by gritting his teeth, and he surges up to his feet in order to knock the Najskor's arm off-course. He does not seem very steady, and the effort - though he does his best - might seem half-hearted and useless to the stronger warrior. Andrik could be no more than nineteen years in age, but it seems that Axel's influence has given him much experience in these battles. "Steady!" yells the young Aesir warrior as the waves become momentarily rough and then calm once more, those still below deck working the ores to keep the ship near the clash of whales and Najada. More of the crew glide free of the deck and swoop above the water, swinging their swords and axes downwards at whatever sea-warriors should expose themselves to attack. Andrik steps closer to the fore of the ship and peers down in search of the Rusalka he knows he might have seen. A painful mind flicker and the endless drone of that bloodsong bring Deianyra to hesitate, eyes shutting briefly against the pain. Trickles of blood from arms and wings go unnoticed, but the loss contributes to the light-headed feeling afflicting the Dyer. With a shake of her head, she lifts her gaze, its hue falling upon Jeni and the Najada beyond. How many more? How many...? Before she can wonder much further, another blade comes thrusting at her, dragging her back into the fray. Urrrgh. Drained and wobbly, Jeni sinks down into a shadowy corner and pulls a handkerchief from a pocket of her skirt, wiping away blood, bile, and other miscellany while Axel and the boys "guard" her section of the ship. Doing her best to ignore the shrieks of agony, the laughter, and the weapons' clatter that crackles through the air, including Axel's oh-so-clever jibe. Let the Najada carve out her liver if they like; the cyprian has had her fill of this particular morning. Carefully tucking the handkerchief back in its place, Jeni lids those glittering hazel eyes and passes out cold. A snarl mars the ebon mask of Shurik's face as his slash is interrupted by the young vojak. With his other hand, he brutally shoves at the Najada, intending to push him down onto the blood-slick deck, and there end his life as if the vojak were no more than any of these other mind-blind foreigners. Yet he gets no further than the shove, for that is when Axel's insult is heard. His is a voice familiar to the Najskor. Shurik turns, flipping the knife in his hand, and his lips twitch back from sharpened teeth; that is the only warning before the Najskor darts forward swiftly to swing his curving blade at the Aesir jarl. "Snap out of it." Rona blinks as she is pushed aside by her superior but within minutes does the young sailor attack her mind rapists with the same fervor exhibited by her rescuer. Another Vojak is thrown across the rail and the two women resume their battles, though the Varati's eyes are dull with tiredness and something else. She is a Healer and more than her own pain is harboring her whenever she fights. But fight she does, rallying more of the Amarada's crew to her side, "Form a front! Push them over board..." a spare glance at the Aesir and the fighting Najskor. But they can look after themselves. One of the orcas, a younger female, rises up in the water suddenly, breaching in a desperate attempt to both escape the attack and end it. The crash of her body takes a pair of the Najada with her, more borne away by the sudden surge and flood of water about the ship. It bears away not only the Najada, however. The tightly knit pod is forced to dive and separate or risk being overwhelmed. One of the other females, the youngest's mother, does not swim away, however. Her hide cleaved by deep wounds, her body turns over lifelessly, floating on the surface. Of the Rusalka and her Jhoi, there is yet no sign. Left without his weapon, Mister Burke can do little but punch and grab at his attackers, earning him armfuls of cuts. Finally, taking a bow from one of the fallen archers he withstands more slices and tries to shoot at the mage once more. "Die, you bastard!" he snarls as the arrow flies its course. Tossing that weapon away, he slashes at more of his attackers with the bow until it is hacked to pieces, "Planning on scooping us all off the deck, Axel?" Grunting, he staggers a bit, beginning to feel some of the blood loss. But his adrenaline keeps him up, as well as the urge to get this filth off his ship. "You there!" he shouts to one of the still-standing sailors, "Guard the Hatch!" After all, the Captain's in there. Nearly blinded with pain from the telepathic attack, the slice in Amahl's chest is too much. He has tried to withstand it, but when it comes down to it, he's only a boy...still really a child. With a blind stab at his aggressor, he passes out on the deck. Swiveling the axe in his hands, bring it crosswise to raise and break the flow of the knife toward him, Axel smiles grimly. "Your mother, Shurik, she serviced my goats. I wonder, will you do the same?" His eyes twinkle, the endless babble of words spit out with no more thought then he gives to breathing. The cadence of insults and jibes meant to enrage the enemy, make him act foolish. Axel lashes out with a massive boot to strike at the vojak's stomach and give him a little more room for some axe-work. The battle-lust is on him, and he's ready to enjoy this fight. Andrik motions backwards with his war-hammer as he looks over at a younger Aesir carrying his orders to those with the ores, seeing what they swath they cut through the ocean is doing. "Take us back a bit, slowly. Let the whales stay together," he orders before walking again to the fore and surveying the scene around his own ship. Najada are lifeless in numbers and staining the seas with their blood, but the occasional Aesir has also suffered an upwards stab that leaves blood on the decks. "There should be another with them ... but continue the attack and watch. Go!" And so, the Aesir swoop again as Andrik picks up his warhammer and spreads his golden wings, leaving the deck to join the prowl. A guttural 'uff' escapes the characteristically silent Najskor's lips as Axel's boot meets with his midriff. He staggers back, bare feet scrabbling for purchase on the tossing deck made slick with water and blood. Shurik lifts his head and spears Axel with those icy eyes. He offers no insults or jibes, and he certainly doesn't smile. But the Aesir's ploys are working; the Najskor is enraged. It is felt in his mind, slicing like a scythe at the tangle of thoughts around him. Most noticeably, at Axel's. The Najada attacks with more than blade as he moves in close to swipe at the Aesir again. Knowing that if he were to fall, he might never rise back up, Vikesha struggles to remain on his feet. But the Najskor's shove brings him down hard to the deck, and his knife goes clattering away with a dull rattle. But even so dazed, he is aware of the moment he loses touch with Amahl's mind, and believing the boy dead, his fury is stirred. Blood gushes down his face and his arm as he rises up to his feet on wobbly knees, face composed into blank stoicism as he struggles to keep the boundaries of his mind intact against the Najada's song. He remains still now, however, waiting and silently challenging someone to approach him. Reeling back a step or two, Axel's wings whip in the air to keep his balance from the assault on his mind. The blade slices open the thigh not already pierced by a knife. A less experienced warrior would go down with it. But this Aesir is well into his fourth decade of life, and a Vikingr does not live to that age without knowing how to overcome obstacles on the battlefield. He rallies and lunges back forward. His axe swinging upward from the deck toward Shurik in a wild, wide arc. "You will not send me to Valholl just yet, you slimy wad of horse-snot." Chaos ensues within the waves. A chaos bringing the wanton destruction the Jedrek craved... but unfortunately one that is more deadly for his own people than the survivors upon the southern vessel. Of course, those of the Amarada unlucky enough to be thrown overboard while still alive find themselves pulled to the depths, wild currents preventing them from coming up, lungs filling with water. A faith not shared by the Vojak but they too are ensnared by the wild waves, forced under and away from the vessel, closer towards the bows of the Aesir and the orcas' murderous beaks. Jedrek himself is amongst those latter, half mad, struggling to gain some measure of control. Slitting the throat of her latest attacker brings Deianyra within reach of Shurik's mind. Already assailed by the bloodsong and the minds and pain of those around her, this is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Staggering back, wings crumple at an odd angle as she slams against one of the mast posts and slumps to the ground. The Dyer, too, is out cold. One of the Najada had seen Jeni go down -- not from a blade, but in a faint. And he had moved forward to finish the job, shark's-tooth blade held at the ready. All looked lost for the pretty cyprian, with death looming above her in the form of an expressionless dark face, eyes glazed by the bloodsong. Until.... *Thunk* Seemingly out of nowhere, an axe descends on the back of the Najada's skull, cleaving it open like an overripe melon. The Najada staggers and falls, slumping onto the deck, while a smug Sven stands behind him, struggling to free his weapon from a mess of blood and brains. That roiling surge of water brings to the surface lifeless bodies even as it drags those still living underneath. Half-conscious, one of those dragged up from the depths is the pale form of Cyrene. Zelimir, her constant companion, is missing. It is all the Rusalka can do to splay her hands against the current and raise her head, seeking the other whales and her Jhoi. "Zel!" She calls desperately. "Someone get that damn mage!" is bellowed once again as Burke's arrow missed. Well, screw it...as long as they're getting wiped out let the waves carry them away. His back bracing against one of the masts to stay upright, he continues to hack at the Najada still about...thank the gods they're growing fewer and fewer. His eyes scan the ship, trying to see where Rasamei is...and if she's still relatively unharmed. "Ahh," Andrik says to himself as he glides over the surging ocean waves, seeing the Rusalka surface not entirely of her own free will. Perhaps she never went under freely to begin with. The young Aesir's thick arms spread, one bringing his war-hammer to an unpleasant collision with the back of a Najada's head and the other hooking around Cyrene and pulling her from the water, holding her to his broad and armored chest. His wings aren't meant for flying long, but sheer will and determined endurance gets the two good pumps necessary for Andrik to carry Cyrene back to the deck of his ship. "Get over here and treat her wounds," booms the youthful but hulking warrior to the crew still on deck as his eyes gather the status of the battle. Shurik had been too sure of himself. And too enraged. He didn't see the axe singing upward towards him until it was too late. There's a dull, heavy 'thunk' of a sound, and then the hand that had been holding that wickedly curved blade goes flying, upwards, end over end, dark fingers still curled around the knife's handle. Blue eyes widen, and Shurik has time enough to see his own severed hand land on the deck before the pain hits him. It hits everyone else, too. The bloodsong of the Najada is overwhelmed by the mindscream from their leader, and dozens and dozens of glazed eyes flicker with agony. Some of the Najada curl forward, clutching their heads; others collapse. Most of them dive into the water or sink beneath the waves, leaving their dead comrades in their wake. The attack has been called off. The bloodsong has lifted. And Shurik, the leader, staggers toward the railing and falls, clutching his wrist, to disappear into the dark waves. Cyrene struggles feebly in Andrik's grip, but she can do little more than that. Bleeding from wounds on her thigh and shoulder, a hole punched in one of her wings, the Rusalka still possesses the strength to rise, however. Ignoring the Aesir's cries for aide for her, she struggles back to the railing, calling shrilly, her melodic voice rising in pitch and fervency. "ZEL!" "Don't just stand there, go on." Rasamei is such a charming woman when she orders the smug savior of Cyprians around, jumping next to him to ward off another knife thrown at the back of one of the Amarada's defenders. Blood is running across her arm but she is ignoring it, gesturing wildly with her blade as she continues to fence with one of those few Najada left. Yet, the weariness in her eyes grows more noticeable and it is over Jeni that she stumbles, falling down. The Dyer remains dead to the world, having escaped the last mind-shriek by already having passed out. Slumped against one of the masts, the blood from her wounds slows to a trickle, finishing the dyeing of her wings to a new vivid shade of crimson. It matches her cloak at least? "There will be time to find that one later," Andrik says to Cyrene in one of the rare moments he doesn't bellow to his crew, his naturally voice actually quite smooth in a deeply toned way. "You will perish yourself if you go back into the water with those wounds. Let them treat you." Hearing the cry of a lookout, the young warrior stomps across the deck and watches the retreat. The whales, regrouping, tear into the last of the fleeing Najada, frenzied by blood and the loss of two of their pod. Or is it three? One of them catches Jedrek in her teeth with a satisfying crunch, dragging the mage below the water permanently. Let him meet Vodyanoi in failure. Staggering from the blow of mental agony, Axel lets the blade of his axe drop to the deck of the Amarada. He takes a moment to rest and glance at his wounds. Then scans the others. Spotting Sven rescuing the Cyprian, he bellows out. "You may yet get laid, lad. You may yet get laid." With a deep breath he heaves his axe onto his shoulder and stalks the deck, lopping off heads of those Najada who are helpless. The problem with their kind is they don't make very good slaves. He watches Shurik stumble away, calling after him. "Whenever you wish for more, you know where to find me, you whore-son!" "Huh?" is Sven's eloquent response as he sees Rasamei fall next to the inert cyprian. He hadn't seen that knife surging toward him until she deflected it, but he has no time to thank her. Nor does he have any time to enact revenge; all of a sudden, his foes are fleeing. The young Aesir looks around wildly, watching the dark shapes dive off the edge of the boat. His confused gaze seeks out Axel, and the young Aesir stumbles toward him, his wings bunched in agitation. "Axel!" he calls concernedly. "NO!" Cyrene retorts aloud, struggling against the hands of one Aesir holding her. Even if she weren't wounded she would be easily to hold, so fragile, so small are her kind. Her eyes are wild, however, and her magic whips up a formidable breeze, tugging at hair, clothing, sails. "I must find him! Zelimir!" So crazy over a whale? The mindscream hits him, and though it leaves him in pain, he recognizes its meaning and reaches up to clutch at his head. But in the hollow aftermath of the Telepathic bloodsong, his own mental laughter rings out. He might not be in much shape to go after the stragglers, but Vikesha has little compunction when it comes to slaughtering those Najada who have collapsed on deck. Scrabbling across the deck, the vojak retakes his knife and rises unsteadily to his feet. His skin is ice-white now, an unnatural shade for a Najada due to his bloodloss, but even the fact that the world sometimes fades out in patches of grey doesn't stop him. He nearly collapses when he reaches down to seize a weakened Najada, but there is nothing uncertain or halting in the way the blade slices across his victim's throat. "Make sure that you kill any Najada still attacking the whales," Andrik orders his warriors before they swoop in to make their final kills. Hearing Cyrene's objections behind him, the young man sighs and turns towards her with patience and perhaps a touch of curiosity. "Do whales not swim deeper when they are in danger? Perhaps he has gone far and surfaced elsewhere." "Ungh!" All but folding in half, Jeni grunts with pain as the esteemed Morgenster Captain squishes her from above. Sven and his axe, replete with its triumphal spattered brains, is gone too soon to be noticed, thanked, laid, or otherwise. Curly hair soaks up the blood of the deck as the woman writhes feebly, half-batting her fingers at Rasamei's limp shoulder. "Cap'n, love," she croaks, "with all due r'spect... git off." Shoving at the Najada who remain near him overboard, Mister Burke makes his way over to Axel, a hand clapping the Aesir's back, "A good fight..." before he moves to see to the Amarada's wounded. Moving to Rasamei, he helps her stand, "Heal yourself, Captain Rasamei...others have need of you too." He'll try and bandage up those he can, tossing any Najada remains overboard as well. He'll have to make more of a reunion later...once the wounded and fallen have been tended to. Axel wipes a huge hand down his face, ridding it of blood and sweat. He looks over to Mister Burke. "Indeed, old friend." He kicks at the corpse of a Najada. Surveying the damage he shakes his head. "Worse then the Sleipnir's Footprint after a midwinter brawl." Tending first to his own wounds, he tears a strip of cloth and winds it about his left thigh. The knife his pulled from his right, the blade wiped and stuck in his belt before that leg is bandaged. That taken care of, he sets about helping with others as best he can; chiefly, clearing the decks. "No!" Cyrene cries again. Quite the protestor today, no? Shaking her head weakly, she still reaches for the remaining whales. "He wouldn't leave me. Not now. I must...I must ask the others..." But her strength falters and her head sags against the arms that restrain her. She hasn't passed out, but she's lost a lot of blood. The anguish in her eyes would arrest the most steely-hearted. "Please..." Rasamei definitely needs to learn how to move on her own two feet. For the second time this battle Rasamei has to struggle to straighten herself, aided both by pushing from below and pulling from above. "Thank you," wryly spoken once she's standing. Already her hand moves to her shoulder, forcing the blood to stop but paying no further heed to her other injuries. "Send me those who need me the most," she tells Burke, sweeping sweat from her brow while moving away from the rail, kneeling in front of a Sylvan crew man spread out upon the deck. Andrik's bullish body comes to a lean as he levels himself with Cyrene, eyebrows faintly arched at her. "If he would not leave you, then you should have faith in your friend that he would follow. You will see him again at the shores of our home." Deeply toned but spoken in a consoling fashion for just a moment, the warrior quickly picks up the gruff act again before his men and women can notice. "Warriors, back to the ship! Injured, go below deck. The rest of you help move to join the lead ship and watch for Najada." Wine-dark seas -- the phrase is more than figurative now, with so many slain; so much blood swirling in the black waters. Those Najada who were not rendered insensible -- and thus, easy prey -- after the mind-scream of their leader have all vanished, their sleek dark bodies disappearing beneath the waves as if they had never come. But there are still other hunters about. Off in the distance, a fin breaks the surface of the water. Then another, some yards away. Friend and foe alike are now no more than meat for hungry predators. FIN Visit Aether's Odyssey - Northern Voyage website, generously maintained by Eos, to read more logs of the intrepid crew's adventures.
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