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[3/3]
The sound outside of the hold is maddening, and the deck itself is bustling with movement as sailors desperately strive to save their ship. All hands are on deck and every at metre apart is depicted another age-old tale of a man battling against the elements, his life tied to the fates of the sea. Men secure rigging or ring up ballasts, swept aside every other second and helped up by the grasping hand of another before launching themselves back into the fray. Hoping against hope that their small part in the struggle might make the difference between life and a watery end for all.
It is a forlorn hope. The jagged rocks of the coastline loom large, close enough that one could imagine they need but hold out their hand to touch the foreboding cliffline sweeping by. And there is no cove in sight, no refuge from the furious storm. Slowly, inexorably, the ship is being torn away from any route to safe shelter to meet its vicious end on the rocks of the Cathagi Strait.
The despair of the pilgrims below and the desperation of the sailors above, good men held captive to forces beyond their control. You know what must be done, and all around you sailors step out of the way and blink in stupefied surprise at the fully armoured knight of Cantôn to the front of the ship in the midst. Behind you, unseen by your eyes, the pilgrims have begun to spill out at the mouth of the hold uncertainly. Even Captain Alfonso ceases his hoarse attempts at shouting orders from his place at the helm, already muted by the fury of the gale. His brimmed hat has been castaway and wet locks of hair plastered across his face as he stares at you in dumbfounded shocked, further commands forgotten at the sight of you striding to the fore of the ship as if answering the challenge of a mortal opponent to single combat.
Later, men would swear to what they saw. Langlish sailors and Cantônian pilgrims both, they would swear on their lives, their mother’s graves, and on any holy book placed before them. They would swear so, despite the howling winds, booming thunder and deafening crash of waves. They would swear that they heard your next words as clearly as the bell for Sandag Mass on a warm summer’s day.
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> “YOU COULD NOT KILL ME THEN. YOU WILL NOT KILL ME NOW.” You thrust your sword upward, the blade pointing to the heavens as if to pierce the very storm itself. [Haughty]
> “THIS VESSEL IS UNDER THE PROTECTION OF THE ALMIGHTY GOD. STAND. ASIDE.” You hold your sword before you by the blade as a cross, hilt first to the sky as if to shield the entire ship under it. [Hearty]
> “Almighty in Heaven, heed my prayer. Blessed are... “ Kneeling humbly and head bowed against the steely rain, you pray. [Idealist]
