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You scramble to your feet as the water ebbs, running forward. She’s usually so sure on her feet, like a cat, but there is little she can do in the face of the ocean’s fury when flung from the rigging into the boom of the mainsail. You hear the slap of the impact as the archer hits the landing with none of her usual grace, falling limply from the boom into your waiting arms below. It’s like catching a bundle of twigs, with no weight to the unconscious bale in your hold.
The light around you darkens and you look up just in time to see another wave, the biggest yet, loom terribly high above you. The Coy Siren does not clear the crest on this one, and the white water flings you away with all the merciless momentum of a Montbrun avalanche. In that half-second of sweeping wash you feel your hip hit the railing and suddenly realise you’re overboard. The lifeline around your waist goes taut and you pull your head rears above the rough water, Jess thankfully still in your grasp. Water is in your eyes and the world seems to be in constant motion, but you can make out that your up against the side of ship to your right shoulder. The lifeline tugs and tugs, bit by bit you find yourself lifted out of the roiling waves. Looking up you see that your saviour is none other than Brother Marcel Rousseau, white Comitas cloak flapping in the wind and arms bulging as he gradually lifts you up with a herculean effort. A prayer of heartfelt thanks is still on your lips, whispered to the Almighty and the holy knight both, when the rope snaps.
The last thing you see before being plunged into the churning white water is the outreached hand and look of distraught agony on Brother Rousseau’s face.
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