<span class="mu-s">Monegan, 21st Day of Hastrimun, 883 A.C.E. – The Cathagi Strait</span>
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EfH7NnA50JU&ab_channel=Commack – Rough SeasYou stumble across the ships hold, trying not to step on any of the pilgrims huddled across the floor. Captain Alfonso Verdicci has claimed that this is not enough a particularly bad storm, but it’s been enough for him to turn back from their attempt at the Strait in the hope of finding shelter. Well, it feels bad enough to you.
The water trickles and drips everywhere overhead, there is not a dry spot in the hold. Your shirt and breeches are soaked through, and have been for days. Everyone else is the same. You pass Mikail is leant over a bucket, retching. He may as well not bother with the bucket, it’s full of sick and seawater as is and slopping over onto the floor with every jolting wave. Beside him Orin stares vacantly at the beam in front of him, too rattled to sleep and too tired to be sick again. Even Hannibal has lost his feisty temper, and is reduced to a shrunken miserably neighing figure at the rear of the hold. The storm had upset him terribly, and your poor steed had to be restrained with rope and hooded lest he harm himself or another. The stench is… atrocious. But a breath of fresh air is far from the reason you climb up the stairs from the hold, gripping the railing tightly as the ship heaves and groans.
It takes an effort of will to force the door open, and upon success the noise of the hold suddenly shifts into a deafening cacophony as you reach the main deck. A wave directly ahead takes up your whole vision, blotting out the horizon. For a moment you fear you’ve reached the deck only just in time to witness the whole ship go under, but at what feels the last second the Coy Siren clears the crest to safety. Another massive plummet and heave of the ship follows, you have to grip the doorway with both hands to avoid being thrown out facefirst into the wood of the deck.
Brother Marcel Rousseau claps a rough hand on your shoulder, grabbing your attention. Even if the man were permitted to speak, his words would be lost in the two feet between you under this howling gale. But the length of rope in his hand held out toward you says more than enough. The few hardy sailors permitted above deck to tend to the most essential operational parts of the ship must all wear these lifelines that should prevent them being swept overboard in these rough seas. You thank the holy knight for his aid, tying up your own link away from a watery grave before turning your attention back to the deck and shouting up at the lone figure aloft in rigging.
<span class="mu-i">“JEESSSS!”</span> Your bellow is reduced to a whisper in the howling wind and thundering waves, directed at the one figure above deck not secured by a rope lifeline. <span class="mu-i">“WHAT IN THE PIT ARE YOU DOING?!”</span>
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