(2023-01-18) The Revenge

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Author:	Athena
Summary:	The Ebon Blade ship "Revenge" sets sail for Northrend with a ship load of pain-addicted reanimated undead who are the spearhead of the Ebon Blade's launch into the north. Fun times ensue. Please see Content Warnings. 14,500-ish words.
Rating:	M for Mature 17+

Arc: Death Knight PR

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contains so many death knights, contains non-graphic mentions of harm to animals, brief descriptions of maggots, character conflict, brief romance/kissing, intense depictions of very bad weather

Day 1

South of Acherus, on docks once abandoned, unusual activity is underway. A great, low-slung ship of dark wood with black sails rests in the harbor. One might think it's simply an ordinary dock, except that the workers bustling to and fro are all just a little too fast, just a little too sharp in their movements.

As the sun rises, others begin to arrive - figures in black saronite on skeletal horses, coming to answer the summons of the warrior who now stands on the deck of the ship, Darion Mograine. He watches them approach with grim satisfaction. The time of Revenge is near.

One of those figures is a sin'dorei woman, her dark hair in a braid falling over the back of her armor. She wears a spotless Ebon Blade tabard over her slightly less spotless saronite armor today. As she approaches the boat she slows and dismisses her horse into the shadows, walking toward the boat as her eyes scan the area.

Syarra has two shadows.

One ordinary kind beneath her feet, and another in the form of a death knight behind her, who dismisses his horse with a sharp yank back into the Realm of Shadows. Roper's energy is almost electric, the Death Mania from the Sunwell still buzzing through him so much it's almost shocking he isn't snapping with energy.

He's in dark black and gray flexible leathers more befitting sailing rather than the traditional saronite — although the Ebon Blade tabard announces his allegiance — and he wears a dark hood that casts deep shadows over his features, but his eyes burn with a force of necromantic power.

"All is well with Alaisa?" Syarra asks quietly, as they board the ship.

Roper almost bounces up the ship, each footfall completely silent in the soft-soled-boots, as he inhales the sea air, and eyes the Argent Crusaders across the way. "Yeah," he says, scanning around. "There was an echo there, but I'm not sure exactly what it was." He turns a grin on her, that energy making it impossible for him to stay still as he jumps up onto the railing, leaning down to her. "Aze?"

"Better," Syarra says, with a nod. "Though I have no idea when I'll see her again. No echoes there. So now we just need to survive this trip."

She turns to watch for others approaching.

"At least we'll have fish," Roper drawls, already messing with some of the rigging in a way that seems like he's familiarizing himself with it that looks like he knows what he's doing. "Theris isn't coming. He's staying in Duskwood."

Syarra raises an eyebrow. "Not interested in killing the Lich King?"

Roper shrugs his shoulders in a loose, flowing motion as he steps along the railing as easily as though it was the deck. "Thinks he can do more to repair the damage a certain someone's done to our reputation in Darkshire than be at the vanguard." Roper scans for the others again. "Thinks it'll be a long campaign, and he'll portal over when it's established after we've pushed through first." Roper moves his right hand in the air in a way that doesn't throw off his balance. "Might be his style. Same thing as the Battle of Light's Hope."

"I see," Syarra nods. "Well. He's not wrong, if she's not coming either."

"She may be. That's gonna be…interesting." Roper makes it sound like he's looking forward to it, but there's a dark, almost manic grin on his face. "You remember what she said about her cravings." He does a forward flip, for seemingly no reason other than to keep moving. There's a dip in his tone. "I figure we're landing with fewer of us than we start with, for one reason or another." He looks to Syarra. "Not us, though. We're getting there." It's almost a threat.

"I've done what I can," Syarra says, tightening one gauntlet into a fist. "But a week or even more…"

Roper flips off the railing onto the deck, reaching a leather cased glove for Syarra's hair. "Hey. We're gonna make it. I'll — " He stops partway through the sentence, and casually drops his hand part way as he flicks his eyes to movement near the dock.

Kiekel seems to materialize just right behind Syarra and Roper. "So, what we talking about?"

"Fish," Roper drawls. It's not inaccurate. There was a mention of fish in there. "Kiekel. This is Syarra, if you haven't met."

"Hunger. Voyages." Syarra shrugs. She looks the gnome over. "I meant to speak with you, but we haven't seemed to match up."

"Yeah, hunger. That's why I brought a few invisibility potions. Want some?" He upnods the two of them. "As he said; Kiekel." He winks at Syarra. The gnome climbs the railing to stand at their height. "I brought that thing." He points with his chin at a ghoul shambling around, carrying a huge bag. "And it's also carrying a few of his friends. I couldn't leave them home, you know, they'd have rotten uselessly. Might keep us busy for a few days."

"That's not a bad idea, invisibility," Syarra says, holding out one hand. "And I did bring plenty of corpse dust. But if it comes to it, we'll be stronger as allies."

Roper can't stay still — he stalks around the ghoul, his head tilting one way and then another. "Which is true here and anywhere else. Like I said, we stay focused on the Ebon Blade. How long you ever gone without a single taste for the Hunger, Kiekel?"

Kiekel shrugs, removing one of his gloves. He speaks nonchalantly. "No idea. I try to not get hungry at all. 24 hours, maybe? It was right after the battle of Light's Hope Chapel, though. That was basically a buffet." He snaps his fingers and the ghoul begins slowly making its way towards Kiekel and Syarra, away from Roper. Once it reaches them, looks at Syarra, extends his hand towards the ghoul's bag and says, a grin on his face: "Suit yourself." He is keeping everything important in that bag. Potions of invisibility and… everything that could make a ghoul that isn't corpse dust.

"If we can save it for later…" Syarra says, looking at the ghoul. "I should be fine for a couple of days."

"We were at the Sunwell," Roper says, and it might be because of the buzz of energy around him. "So we'll be fine for a while." He looks harder at Kiekel, although his hood makes his attention a little harder to pinpoint. "Guess you'll find out how long you can go on scraps."

"Yeah, now's as good a time as any to find that out. Pretty sure I can last long." He grins, then turns to Syarra. "I meant… the potions are in that bag, if you want one. I'm not offering you the carrier just yet."

"Ah," Syarra says, accepting the bag. She digs through… stuff… to retrieve a few potions. She does not seem bothered. "Thank you."

Roper doesn't take the potions, for one reason or another, as he jumps back up onto the railing, looking out over the boarding as he watches several of the Ebon Blade make their way onto the ship.

"Anyway", Kiekel says, jumping from that same railing. "I'm going to go put that bag in my cabin before everyone else gets the good ones. Or whatever we get as rooms." He snaps his fingers at the ghoul again. "Might not see me for a little while," he adds, winking at them. Whatever he means by that, he's leaving that ambiguous as he makes his way below deck with a smirk on his face. The ghoul difficulty follows him with the heavy bag.

Syarra watches him go. "Eccentric. But seems sincere."

"Yeah, he's a good pick," Roper agrees. "Weird gnome humor, but also has that…" He waves his hand vaguely in a loop through the air. "You know. Gnome." That's an explanation, maybe. "I have a cabin in the bow. Made sure of it. It's locked now," he drawls as he sits, facing the dock. "Wasn't before. Doesn't look like many of them come with one. But, they all open inwards. Easier to barricade from the inside, but also…" He taps his fingers against the railing.

"A cabin, that's good," Syarra glances toward the bow. "But also?"

"Easy to trap someone inside it with you," Roper says, and there's a dark tone to his voice, no sign of a rasp. "Death traps, all of them, in the wrong hands." His eyes are still too bright, staring at the boarding death knights. His voice drops lower. "Don't go into any room with fucking anyone. That includes me, after day five or six. I mean it, Sya. I don't know if I'll be able to let you back out again."

"That goes for you, too, then," Syarra raises an eyebrow. "I've never tried to go longer than two days before."

"The Sunwell should buy you more," Roper says. "But, yeah, I know." He flicks his gaze from the others to Syarra. "I'll be careful." He draws an x over his heart, as his voice slides back into a deep drawl. "Cross my heart and hope to never die."

"No matter what it takes," Syarra nods, glancing to the other knights with a guarded look in her eyes.

A human death knight in a long hooded cloak quietly makes her way onto the ship. Her feet are wrapped in leather, toes bare, and a tremendous greatsword is slung over her back. She keeps her head down as she climbs the ramp, her face completely hidden by the droop of her hood. She is identifiable only by her above average height and broad shoulders, for those who know her: Fionette Crawford, largely silent, dependably obedient, and entirely lacking in opinion or personality.

Her hood perhaps restricts her peripheral vision, because she slightly jostles the huge hulking storm-gray ice sculpture of a draenei who is already on deck as she passes him. Neither of them flinch or acknowledge the contact. His jaggedly ridged head is bare, his long sable hair neatly plaited into a single thick rope, and he is staring into the middle distance with the expression of a man doing complicated math in his head.

Roper has no difficulty identifying the two, likely for a myriad of reasons. He drums a quick beat against the rigging, his leather gloves making barely audible sounds against the rope, as he keeps his voice low to say to Syarra, "Hey, that's her, Fionette Crawford. The one with the big fuckoff sword. Near Forge."

It is definitely a fuckoff sword.

Syarra glances over the two. "Forge I have spoken with before. Fionette…" she looks at the sword. "…I have not."

She raises a hand in greeting. To Forge, to Fionette, it's ambiguous.

"Wouldn't bother, with Fionette," Roper murmurs. "But not surprised she's here. Shit goes down, she'll be one staying in the party line." He doesn't greet either, although he does move restlessly along the railing again, keeping his balance in what looks effortless.

Forge raises a hand in return, coldly. Fionette just continues to stand motionless, hooded head down, like a Hallow's End decoration.

Syarra shoots a meaningful glance at Roper, and moves over toward the unwelcoming pair.

"Are you prepared for the journey?" Syarra asks.

"Yes," says Forge.

Fionette says nothing. She is standing near him, but otherwise seems unassociated.

Syarra peers at the statue that is Fionette. After a moment, she says, "You are missed. Just a thing to know."

With the assumption that there will be no answer, she turns her attention fully to Icaros. "How is Paluuva? What did she think of the plan?"

"I do not know," says the deep, reverberating, heavily accented voice of the hulking draenei Forge/Icaros. "I write letter. Likely she is angry. Best guess based on last five, six things I do."

"What have you done that would anger her?" Syarra furrows her brow. "You did not harm her, surely."

Forge shrugs. "I never knew. Not once."

Eckart Barlowe walks up the gangplank like it personally offended him. His dark brows are drawn down in a permanent scowl, and his jaw is clenched as tight as his fists at his side. Blue smoke like sublimating ice trails from the glacier blue of his eyes, tangling briefly with the salt-and-pepper of his long hair. He stands for a moment at the top of the plank, looking at the others there. Measuring. Weighing.

Then he pivots neatly on heel and storms to the prow and the railing there. He doesn't speak. He just waits.

A male human Death Knight with his hood over his eyes strides onto the ship, practically seething with impatience. He does not stop until he has a solid visual on the Argent Crusade's ship.

Roper's eyes catch on Mourn, and he flips off the railing once more, his gaze following Mourn's line of sight to Crusader's. "Hey, Mourn. She's there."

"She's there," Mourn hisses. "And I'm not." He holds the railing in a death grip.

"Yeah, where she fucking should be," Roper drawls, leaning back against a rope as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Over a week, Mourn. Nothing alive but the fish in the sea. You ready for what that's gonna mean?"

Darion Mograine, standing at the end of the boat, blows a horn in one long blast. The sound carries with it somehow the chill of the depths of winter. The more sailing-inclined members of the Ebon Blade begin to haul in the gangplank and prepare the ship for travel. It is time to head to Northrend!

Eckart growls, a low and feral sound of satisfaction.

Syarra glances up at their leader, and then back to Forge. "Best guess?"

Forge considers. Calculates. "Paluuva have many… feeling. About vhat I do. Mostly anger. I am not know vhat will make this anger. This make her more anger. I give up to understand, long before death. Now… no longer worry. Anger like… vater against ship in dock. Smack. Smack. Ship not move."

"Even in the worst case, I will survive." Mourn fixes Roper with a stare that challenges him to declare otherwise.

Roper looks darkly amused, his eyes almost painfully bright to look directly at, that edge of mania still around him.

At the sound of the horn, Roper looks up. He makes a tsk sound. Roper is one of the sailing-able, if not necessarily professionally inclined, Death Knights, and he scoffs as he moves into position to begin aiding with the set up of the foremasts and the stays, passing deliberately by Syarra as he goes, his left hand reaching out briefly to touch her arm, avoiding the dangerous spikes of her armor with familiarity. It's a small gesture, and nothing overt in it, except for the simple implication of some form of intimacy in it among many who go out of their way to avoid such.

Mourn glances between the two, his eyes lingering on Roper for a moment, before he turns his attention back to the Argent's ship.

Syarra pauses when Roper passes, looking over to catch his gaze for a brief moment.

"And yet she keeps meeting with you," Syarra looks at Forge with mild curiosity. "So it works. Well. Now we have a clear goal, but after… we will still need to build our place."

"I vill brink back samples of Nortrend flora," he says. "She vill forgif."

The Ebon Blade sailors move in something like sluggish tandem, as they strive to get the ship launched, most with extremely minimal communication. The ship starts to lurch into action like a newly awakened ghoul.

Roper looks out across the way over the side at the Argents in their boat, who have started to pull ahead, as the living sailors work in a smoother, guided approach. From his position in the stays, Roper turns to Syarra with a grin wide enough to flash white teeth in the gloom. He glances to the others of the sailors of the Ebon Blade, and inhales a deep breath before starting to sing. His voice is clear and projected, the uncanny echo amplified by what seems to be deliberate choice.

"The king and his men stole the queen from her bed"
"And bound her in her bones"

He claps his hands with a resounding smack. The pull of the familiarity of the shanty is strong enough that several sailors call back the ho! automatically. Several seem to awaken from a dullness, moving faster and with more confidence, as muscle memory leads them through the launch.

"The seas be ours and by the powers"
"Where we will, we'll roam"

Roper sings louder, and there’s a terrifying grin on his face, eyes wide and lit with a dangerous light.

Forge turns his head to listen to the singing, some kind of mental math going on in his head, clearly.

Nearby, Fionette remains motionless, head down, but those nearest her can hear her begin to hum to herself quietly, an imperfect alto harmony lent gravitas by undeath's echo and her preternatural stillness.

Eckart turns his head slightly. He says nothing, just listens. Or watches. Or wonders if he left the oven on. Who can tell. Soon, he's back to staring at the horizon as if he can see Northrend already.

Syarra sings quietly under her breath, perhaps loud enough that Forge, next to her, might hear.

Forge listens intently, strategically, through the first two repetitions of the shanty's harmonies, and then when it starts up a third time he joins in with the bass line, his voice as powerful, implacable, precise and mechanical as the engine of an icebreaker. He doesn't know the words, and so he simply emits a rhythmic AAAA-AAAA-AAA, enhancing the eerie effect that he is nothing more than a great wind instrument or organ, a hulking inanimate object that a great deal of cold air is passing through.

The Revenge picks up speed as the crew work, starting to pull and heave and, yes, haul together, as collective memory takes over, the undead moving more and more as one.

Roper's voice continues to build, as he holds onto the lead of the shanty, lending considerable drama to the words.

Maybe encouraged by the weird draenei wind instrument next to her, Syarra raises her voice slightly to join in. Maybe no one will hear her over the sounds of the ship and departure, but her voice is there, in the chorus.

The former spy flips from the stays to the railing and then off once more, landing with a near silence on the deck, with an alacrity of someone whose balance once decided if he lived or died and now is simply for his own entertainment, the soft soles of his leather boots whispers of another life against the wood. He moves to the bow, balancing on it with an expertise so exacting that he makes it seem a simple thing to do, as he turns in place, grinning at Syarra from across the ship.

“Never die, never”
“Yo-ho, haul together”
“Hoist the colors high”
“Heave-ho”

Roper turns his face to the waters of the north, as he reaches out a fist and clenches it, a frost rune pulsing in his right hand sword, as a wind howls in tandem with his voice, and he holds a single note in one, ringing warning on die.

“Thieves and beggars”
“Never, never, never shall we die”

The Revenge sails through the waters smoothly, the undead crew picking up the beat for the next shanty as the other fades. They won't be far behind the Argents.

Roper, his work here done, to make sure the Ebon Blade isn't left behind, makes his way back to the others, a wild grin on his face flashing his teeth in the shadows of his hood, his eyes bright enough that they cast a glow over his features enough for them to be visible, if very blue tinted.

"Hey," he says as he gets closer. He nods at Forge. "That was some bass," he says to the Draenei, that near-manic energy in his tone almost drowning out the husky note of his voice.

Forge grunts in acknowledgement. "Song easy to learn," he says flatly. "Repeats again and again. Simple. I long ago in Eredath vas part of – " He mutters a word in draenei." "I do not know vord in Common. Many singer, together. Such music of Argus much more difficult. Many…" He gestures vaguely, mutters something in draenei. "Parts," he approximates. "Sometime, on ships of naaru, singers sing this old songs, to not forget."

This speech might once have been sentimental, even moving, but it is delivered now, from this source, as though it is a list of laundry items in need of washing.

"Shanty, yeah," Roper says. "Same deal. Helps with rhythm." He looks around. The ship's crew is moving together at least as long as the shanty continues, although how long that cooperation lasts once the song has concluded is anyone's guess. "Didn't want us left behind."

"Make sense," says Forge. This, he makes sound like the highest possible praise.

"Speed would be appreciated," Syarra glances toward the horizon. "We'll need an enemy before we turn on each other."

"Well, we've got a few advantages working for us, at least," Roper says, and there's that focus of his as he watches the crew. "We don't get tired, and we don't need to sleep. We have some ghouls, and we've got the fucking fish. The more we cooperate, the sooner we get to his [censored] [censored] [censored]." Roper probably means the Lich King. "But we'll see who has the focus and who doesn't to make it."

"I vill not have problem," Forge says flatly.

Roper gives him a lopsided, too wide grin, a sharp edge to his expression. "I won't bet against you then," he drawls. He scans the deck, his hood moving with the motion.

Fionette is still humming her part of the shanty softly to herself, whether the rest of the crew is still singing or not. She has also not moved.

Once the ship is well underway, Syarra says, "I'm going to check the cabins, below." She heads belowdecks.

Ice sculpture and Hallow's End decoration remain Ice Sculpture and Hallows End decoration.

Kiekel who had joined who had joined the previous unknown shanties to him with "na na na"s, following the rhythm of the others, decides now to start his own. With one he knows well, of course. He stands proudly, fists on his hips, on top some of the railing.

"And the doom bar rules the bay
She will take your breath away
Tide's times are getting worse
We all fear the mermaid's curse"

Kiekel sings with an acceptable singing voice. He waits for other sailors to join in, which they eventually do.

Roper, watching from a position near the bow, his arms crossed over his chest, his hood still up high enough to show his face in shadows, turns to look at Kiekel. After the second chorus, Roper joins in, pitching his voice lower, using the reverberation to create an eerie, deep baritone counterpoint. His eyes are bright on Kiekel as he watches like he's looking at something interesting, strolling along the railing of the ship as easily as if it were a steady deck.

Now that people have joined in, Kiekel decides that it's time to stand out from the crowd. He begins adding short melismas to the song, projecting his voice louder. He is still not a perfect vocalist, but he shows some control over his voice.

"I will curse this quiet stretch of sea
The price you'll pay for the life of me
Is a life of pain and scorn"

Roper is not the only Death Knight of the Ebon Blade to laugh at the line, though his might seem louder, given the way he's been projecting his voice.

Kiekel winks at Roper.

The song keeps going, eventually reaching the final chorus. At this point, Kiekel blends in with the other voice once again.

And then, it is time for the end. Kiekel repeats, more slowly

"We all fear the mermaid's curse
Tide's times are getting worse"

But the note on "worse" becomes a lot longer than it needs to be. Kiekel plays with it, adding a complicated vocal run cascading from his higher notes to his lower ones, before going a little back up at the very last second.

Day Two

The singing and sailing continue through the night, as the Knights of the Ebon Blade have no need for sleep. When the cold dawn finally arrives, the Ebon Blade ship is alone, with nothing but water stretching in every direction, as far as the eye can see.

Mourn, who had been watching the Argent ship the entire time, began to panic as their paths diverged, and he stared at the other ship until it disappeared on the horizon. Now, he paces angrily back and forth along the railing, the sound of armor scraping together following him, along with venomous, whispered words.

Syarra comes back onto deck from below, and sees Mourn pacing and muttering. She approaches him, but stops outside of arm's length. "Are you well?"

Mourn stops. Stops muttering, pacing, and scraping. A long silence follows, his hood blocking any view of his expression. Then, his cold eyes emerge from the shadows. "We are going the wrong way," he informs her.

"Mograine does not make mistakes," Syarra says, meeting his gaze. "What do you base this on?"

Mourn gestures widely at the empty ocean. "What is missing, would you say?"

Syarra sighs. "The other boat? We weren't following them. We're both going to Northrend, you can find her later."

"Have you ever looked at a map in your life?" Mourn hisses. "Do you understand how large Northrend is?"

"Have you ever heard of gryphons? Portals? I don't know, horses?" Syarra raises an eyebrow. "It is large, yes, but you won't be finding her by foot. Anyway, I thought Roper found her a shadow for you."

A very large draenei appears next to both of them and helpfully unrolls a map, without greeting or preamble. He angles it so Syarra can see it. He rolls it back up as soon as she makes her retort.

Syarra nods her thanks to Forge for the ready prop.

"The shadow is a temporary measure. She will be in over her head out here." Mourn returns to his angry pacing. "And finding one person in a place as large as Northrend is not a simple matter, even with gryphons and portals and horses."

"I will watch for her as well," Syarra offers. "I agreed, a long while back, to do what I could to keep her safe. I intend to hold to that."

Eckart hasn't budged overnight. He's still at the prow, staring ahead, arms folded. He's fun to be around.

Roper drops down to the deck from above in the ropes within sight of the trio, making only a slight sound as he hits the wood, hood still up but not particularly concealing. "Gets a lot easier when you learn to ask the right questions," he drawls, his right brow arched high. " Forge, you mind?" He gestures to the map, and makes a little unrolling motion with his hands, fingers flashing deftly in thin leather gloves.

Forge obediently unrolls the map, holding it out so Roper can see it. This means angling it down considerably.

Roper traces a finger along the map to a point. "This is where the Argents are headed, and always have been. And this," he moves his finger along the map to another point. "Is where Mograine's steering us. Once your girl makes landfall, she's gonna be surrounded by people. The Alliance's forward scouts and supply lines are already there. Now, maybe she gets it into her head to ride directly into a blizzard, but the point gonna be same that a lot of people are gonna see it happening. And that makes her a lot easier to find, especially if you stop to actually ask it, instead of riding off into the first blizzard you see assuming it's where she went."

Eckart turns and walks toward the map group. Not even stiff and sore. Fucking undead people. He bows his head to study the map, ignoring the strands of his shoulder-length hair that get caught in the angled winds.

Forge slightly adjusts the angle of the map for better viewing by both.

"Where is Arthas?" Eckart growls. His voice is ragged and low, and has the echoing quality shared by all the Knights.

"Hey," Roper greets the new growly death knight. "Don't know yet. It's part of what we gotta figure out when we get there. Information has priority: exactly where he is, what his forces are, what he's set up as strongholds, where he's stuck his generals, and how many places he can think of to name with 'Death,' Deathholme, Deathcity, Deathtown, etc. I can tell you where he's not, and he's not in either of these landings. After that," Roper spreads his hands in a show of them being empty. "I'm good at information, but I'm not fucking prescient."

Eckart keeps growling, only this time without words. He turns away again and walks back to his self-assigned post, staring off at the horizon as if trying to pull them closer to Northrend and port.

Forge looks to Roper. "Map still need?" he inquires tersely.

Roper has his attention still on Mourn. Roper's body language is fairly relaxed, but not the battle ready loose that signals a real warning sign. He flicks his brows up at the other death knight. Map still need, Mourn?

Mourn brushes away the map in irritation. "I should have been on that boat, not here with…" He makes a vague gesture at all the Death Knights. "I will be leaving the moment we make landfall. My mission is with them anyway." He glares at Roper, as if daring him to challenge his decision.

Roper makes a sound of amusement, but there's a dangerous light in his eyes. "Yeah, what could have possibly gone wrong with a Death Knight slowly starving around a boat full of the living?" He snorts. "Their mission is to kill the Lich King and the Scourge, same as ours. Only difference is that here, with us, you won't have a bunch of us turning to look at you after and wondering if the next mission should be to remove any loose ends. Careful where you put your loyalty too soon, Lord of Blood. Some of those Argents are just waiting to destroy you the moment their leader's back is turned."

"And what's your plan, when the Lich King has fallen? I had thought we were out to gain their trust. Make them sympathetic to our cause, so that they do not turn on us at the war's end. I can't do that from here." Mourn returns to the railing and stares out at the ocean. "If the Ebon Blade exists to stop the Lich King…where are we left if we succeed? What then?"

"That is the plan," Syarra confirms. "But we can't skip steps. We need to earn that trust, bit by bit. That process wouldn't be helped by picking off sailors one by one in dark corners."

"Exactly. You think of yourself as one of them, you're fooling yourself. You're one of us. Working with them, for our goal — our survival. That's the mission with them. Don't forget that when you're riding off at first touch." Roper nods to Forge. "We're done."

Forge rolls up the map with an elegant, economical gesture and tucks it away without a word, awaiting further instruction.

Day Three

The death knights keep the boat functional and pointed in the right direction for the rest of the day, and no ships come into sight. The third day of the journey dawns cold, windy, and empty. No living thing is in sight - except a dolphin that jumps near the bow once, seems to reconsider its life choices, and swims away…

Roper, standing on the bow as easily as if it were the deck, raises a single brow at the dolphin. His right hand is covered in ice that periodically shoots out to kill a fish within his range with a crushing disease of frost. It does not seem to be lifting the Death Knight's spirits significantly, but he seems calm all the same. The fact that he doesn't have his back to the other sailors, however, speaks to the growing mood of the ship.

There are no shanties today, as the sailing crew moves with increasingly stiff motions, some stopping to stare at nothing at all for periods of time.

Forge seems fine. He might actually be fine. There is really no telling.

Fionette stands somewhere with her hood draped to hide her face, as usual, but she is obviously not fine, to judge by her white-knuckled grip on her fuck off sword, which is planted in front of her in the sort of pose usually reserved for actual statues.

Mourn has found a dark cabin to stand in, his sword also drawn and ready, and he stares silently at the door.

Syarra is trying to help keep the ship in order, helping with adjusting sails and moving things about, but her gaze is distracted and distant.

Kiekel looks around at the other Death Knights. He's looking gloomy, a complete contrast to the way he carried himself for the first few days. He grunts, frowning at those around him. He gulps down one of his invisibility potions and goes to stand on some of the boat's railing, staring into the waters.

Roper's hood is up, and he turns slightly to watch Kiekel disappear. He seems to follow the movement when Kiekel hits the railing, his eyes on the railing as though watching for something, but Roper looks away after a moment.

Syarra blinks as Kiekel goes invisible, and considers the others. Who is best to approach?

She walks over to Forge, and says, "We might try fishing." She seems to realize then that she didn't greet him at all, so she adds, absently, "Good morning."

I could tell you what Eckart's doing but I think we all know. He might be silently snarling as an adjunct to his scowling of the previous days.

Forge seems unperturbed by the lack of greeting. But when does he ever seem perturbed? He nods at the fishing suggestion. "I vill get pole." He sets off, presumably to do so.

Syarra nods, and then heads to Roper. She says, "Let's get people fishing. Fish, I know, but it might help. I did bring gear."

Roper doesn't flip off the bow sprint, just steps forward and then off, landing with a rogue's silent footfalls on the deck. His eyes aren't dim, but they lack the brightness of the past two days. "How much gear?"

"A few poles, hooks… does that work at this speed?" Syarra asks, and adds, as if it's related, "Kiekel's invisible."

"Yeah," Roper nods to the last place he saw evidence of Kiekel, which means nodding more at the railing where he was watching for a shift of the wood. "We're not even getting above 6 knots, as far as I can tell. Winds aren't right for faster. We should be going fucking faster. We…" Roper taps out a beat of something in the air with his left hand, eyes going a little middle distance, before he zeroes back in on Syarra. "Yeah. You can troll. If you have nets though, might make it easier to get more."

"Might be more fun to use hooks," Syarra says, looking out over the water. "If only we had trolls… What is troll, in fishing? I don't think I ever spoke to anyone in Common about fishing."

Roper gives her a brief flash of a lopsided grin that drops quickly, but it doesn't seem to be from lack of sincerity. "'S what it's called, fishing off a moving boat with a pole and lure. Might get something big enough to make it worthwhile. Might just pick up some odd ones. Don't know how much we're likely to get here, but…" He shrugs. "People might need to get creative. Could see how many we get to follow us with bait, and just…" He reaches out a hand to mime grabbing something, a coating of shadow on his glove. "Even if they aren't biting."

Syarra nods, taking a breath. "I'll get the poles I have, offer them around." She heads off towards the cabins.

Roper moves along the deck, one hand on the railing skimming it lightly as he walks to where he last saw Kiekel.

"Careful with that hand," Kiekel says as he jumps out of the trajectory of Roper's hand, a bit further on the railing. His voice sounds a lot less expressive than it did two days ago. "Flattered, but we don't know each other like that yet."

"The hand's taken," Roper drawls back. He looks with unerring precision at Kiekel's face, as though he's pinpointed the sound. "You interested in getting something to kill?" A beat. "Fish."

"Sure, better than nothing!" Kiekel doesn't break out of his invisibility. "I never held a fishing rod, though."

Before long, Syarra emerges with three fishing poles, already prepared for fishing. She glances around the deck, and then decides to first approach Eckart. She holds out a fishing pole. "Do you want to fish? Maybe get something to hurt?"

"Fish," Eckart growls. His head turns toward her, lips pulling back off his teeth under moustache and beard. "Fish… do not feel pain." The pause and the flare of his eyes indicate that he bets he can name one thing near him that would.

"They do," Syarra says, looking at him flatly. "Not much, but they do."

Roper taps his hand on the railing, and makes a tsch sound. He opens his mouth to say something to Kiekel, and his head swivels with predatory rage in Eckart's direction. It takes Roper a beat before he says, presumably to Kiekel, "It's easy."

Forge appears silently alongside to join them, pole in hand, his general aura surprisingly mellow.

He turns a bit more, eyeing the foredeck which sounds like an important part of the boat where important people stand that isn't the prow. Mograine may not be visible, but his presence is felt. "There are rats on the ship," Eckart says, turning forward again. "When you are done fishing, hunt those next."

"You have other plans to deal with the hunger?" Syarra asks, and there's an edge to her voice.

"Run back to yer boyfriend, little girl," Eckart says. "When I need a death, there are plenty aboard who need killing."

The air temperature drops several degrees around Roper, as his body language relaxes fully. That might not be a good sign. He's watching Eckart, saying nothing, unmoving.

"Little girl," Syarra says evenly, raising one eyebrow. She adds in a low voice, "Try that, and you'll find out what I am. We kill the Lich King, not each other."

Kiekel opens his eyes wide as he listens to Eckart from afar. Not that anyone can see. He looks at the people involved in that conversation, as well as at Roper. His hand tightens around the handle of his runeblade.

"For now," Eckart agrees.

"I begin to see," Forge observes dryly, "Why Alliance not trust us."

"He's right though. Rats can be a real fucking problem on a ship like this," Roper drawls, his voice cold and hard. "Gotta watch for when they start eating things they shouldn't, and if they do, well. Send in the cats. Which," he spreads his hands, gloves coated in frost. "We didn't bring. So we'll have to suffice."

Syarra stares at Eckart in silence for a moment longer, and then turns away. She speaks to several of the other knights, and one takes a fishing pole, heading to the side of the boat. Then she brings the last extra one to Roper. In a low voice, she says, "Problem child, in case you didn't hear."

Roper leans in very close to Syarra, and murmurs something too low and quiet, his hood obscuring the movement of his lips, back. ("If he touches you, I'm fucking destroying him where he stands.")

Roper straightens and speaks to the last place he saw Kiekel, eyes going roughly to where a gnome would be. "Kiekel. Let's go. You got anything starting to get useless for a ghoul in that bag of yours? Could use fresh bait."

Syarra nods to whatever it was Roper said, and then turns to Forge. "You seem…. fine."

"Yes," he agrees. Whether he means he is that way, or seems that way, who can say.

"Sure." Kiekel is now standing a little closer to where Eckart was. He difficulty lets go of his grip around his sword. "Definitely saw new life in that bag. Fel orc-flavored maggots; If you were a fish, would that sound appetizing to you?

"Like a worm," Syarra considers that. "We can try it."

Roper clearly knows his way around a pole, in this case fishing, and nods at Kiekel's new position. "Better than nothing. Once we get something, we can use the pieces of it for more. If not for the fucking fel, I'd say use some strips of flesh. Wanna make it look like a smaller fish, if we want to get anything worth the effort. If we're really lucky, we'll pull up a shark." Roper grins, a sharp expression with cold eyes, but the sense of the cold around him fades.

"At least fel contamination doesn't matter," Syarra says, casting her line over the side. She looks over to see how Forge is doing. "It's not like we're going to eat them."

Kiekel jumps onto the floor. "Okay, let me just get the whole bag here." Although still invisible, he doesn't seem to be trying to be sneaky right now. He makes smol 'tap tap tap' noises as he heads below deck.

Roper follows the sound of the gnome, his hood turning with it, before he moves to the side of the boat, examining the water.

"Food," Forge says, rather grumpily. He doesn't elaborate.

"Do you miss food?" Syarra asks, keeping her eyes on the water.

Roper eyes Forge from beneath the hood at the question, leaning against the railing. He leaves his fishing pole idle. He might be waiting for Kiekel.

"I do not know if 'miss' is right vord. In life, I vas - I do not know vord. Choose carefully. Strong feelink."

A big bag is moving on its own, being dragged by an invisible force towards the group. The gnome probably took another invisibility potion while he was in his cabin. There's no sign of the ghoul that used to carry the bag anywhere. "Here you go! Everything must go."

Roper reaches down to slide the bag over to him, opening it with a flick of his hand. He doesn't seem even remotely bothered by the contents. "Yeah. I can work with this." He doesn't remove his gloves as he reaches in. Some unappetizing sounds, sights, and smells later, he's acquired what he wanted.

"Alright, watch. This is how you set it up." Roper moves through the motions of setting the fishing pole up with no verbal instruction, moving at a pace that could barely be described as slightly slowed down from what he's probably capable of. He holds the finished product up, and casts it correctly. "Easy." He gestures to the pole. "Hold here, until you feel something pull back."

Helpful.

"Yeah. Let me watch while you do this once or twice again, and I'll give it a try too." Kiekel doesn't sound grateful for the lesson.

Roper shrugs, a quick movement of his shoulders. He doesn't seem offended though, as he holds onto the pole. "It's easier than it looks." That may or may not be true. What's probably true is that Roper thinks it's easy.

"Many things that seemed important no longer are," Syarra says, watching carefully for signs of a catch. "You can still eat, though. If you wanted."

"Not same," Forge says grumpily, and casts his line.

"Wait! I see a big one, right there! You'll never catch it with that fucking thing!" Kiekel jumps off the boat, finally coming out of his invisibility, and lands onto the sea which turns into a block of ice under his feet, trapping a big fish inside. He breaks the ice with his fists and grabs the frozen fish by the tail. A big, malicious grin appears on his face as he holds up a fish as big as he is towards the others! Then he realizes that the boat is still moving. And he isn't. He starts running. "Hm. Hook me?"

Roper rolls his eyes, but he pulls his pole out, tossing it aside before he starts running back along the deck at a terrifying speed. His hand stretches out as a rune pulses in his left hand sword. Another hand of shadow bursts from the glove and twists out, reaching for where the gnome's voice last came from. By chance more than anything it latches onto his torso rather than his neck, and Roper pulls the gnome to him.

Kiekel gets dropped on the deck on his stomach. He stays on the ground, but raises his hand holding the struggling fish. "Got one! Who wants to go first? I wouldn't mind going first!" he says, his grin hidden by the fact that he has his face on the floor.

"Yeah, you're welcome," Roper deep drawls, stepping around the gnome. "It's yours." He pauses and there's something cold in his voice, the husky note of it nothing but a whisper. "Just don't fucking pull that shit again unless you feel like walking to Northrend. I'm not gnome fishing this shit." He keeps moving to get back to his pole left discarded by Syarra and Forge.

"Yeah, yeah, thanks," he moves away and whispers. "Still caught more fucking fish like this though." Kiekel does Death Knight things.

Forge seems strangely unmoved by the whole affair.

"No, it isn't," Syarra says simply. And then there's a sharp tug on her line, and she straightens eagerly. "Fish." She starts reeling whatever it is in.

Roper, his back to Kiekel, rolls his eyes again. He snatches up the pole, and resets it back into the water, leaning against the railing. His left hand rests on the wood, starting a rapid tapping, the sound muffled by the soft leather of his gloves.

The line goes tight and Syarra frowns, taking a step back with the pole. "Shark? Large fish?"

Roper leans over the rail, looking down into the water for a shadow in the waves to take a guess. "Fish," he says after a moment. "Not a shark. Gonna need more pieces to get them interested if you want one."

"Fish pieces?" Forge looks interested. "Start cutting at tail, fish die slow." He says this in the same calm yet grumpy tone he has said everything else.

Roper makes a facial expression that says clearly 'he's not wrong.' He nods to the line. "Careful how you pull it up. Gentle, slow. Some things die from the shock."

Syarra nods, anticipation giving some animation to her features. She winds in, pauses, winds in again. Soon she gets the fish free of the water, a large salmon.

Roper's expression softens, a lopsided smile on his face, for a moment before it slides away. The tapping has neither stopped or slowed.

Syarra carefully gets the flopping, living fish over the railing. She smiles at Forge, and if the context were different it might look almost natural. "I'll start at the tail."

Kiekel brings back what's left of his fish, throwing it between the three of them, nodding. "One fish per knight is not going to be enough. I'll… keep watching, learning how you're doing it. Give me a second and I'll fish…" he pauses. "Properly, I guess."

Roper leans down to catch it, well, some of it. A rune pulses in his sword as the fish freezes. He tosses it over the side. Another rune, and the fish shatters into pieces. Chum!

"Watch when Syarra's got it set up again."

"I can vait until others fed," Forge says. "Many fish in vater, many brother need to calm."

Kiekel nods at Roper, then at Forge. "Oh yeah. We saw that." He side-eyes Eckhart.

Syarra de-hooks the fish roughly, her eyes bright, and sets the pole up to cast again. She does so, and then sets it up against the railing. To no one in particular, she says, "Can you watch? I need to take care of this one."

"I vill vatch."

Kiekel nods at Roper, then at Forge. "Oh yeah. We saw that." He side-eyes Eckhart.

Roper gestures to Kiekel to take the wheel pole. Presumably, the gnome does, as he learns how to fish without jumping overboard.

Syarra wanders off with the flapping fish. She'll be back soon.

Roper maintains his line, right up until there's a call from another Knight — not his name. It's a call for the adjustment of the sails to account for a shift in the wind, and Roper makes an annoyed tsch sound before he pulls his line up yet again, saying nothing to the others as he leaves the others to attend to Ship Duties.

Day Four

The Knights wile away the time fishing and staving off hunger, or otherwise standing still like statues and hopefully not becoming murderous. Another day passes into night.

By the time dawn approaches on the fourth day, it has begun to rain. As the meager light of sun-behind-clouds starts to brighten the sky, the rain only intensifies, and growing winds begin to sharpen the swells that shape the once-gentle rocking of the Revenge.

Eckart stands still like a statue, perhaps becoming murderous.

Fionette has graduated from standing like a Hallow's End decoration to sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees like a Hallow's End decoration.

Syarra is wandering around the ship, her hair slicked to the sides of her face in the rain. She pauses to speak briefly to knights occasionally, but generally seems to be observing, taking stock. Every once in a while, she just goes still and stares at nothing for a long while before lurching on.

When she comes to the Eckart statue, she watches him for long enough to be awkward, her face falling completely blank. Then she turns away without a word and continues.

Coming to Fionette, she notes the change in position and stops next to her, looking down with an expressionless face. "Are you well, Fionette Crawford?"

Fionette raises her head for the first time, luminous blue eyes visible under the dark hood. Her expression could best be described as incredulity.

"Well?" Fionette echoes in her hollow voice. The tone gives the single syllable the clear meaning of what the fuck is Well? I don't know her.

Syarra stares at her for a long moment, and then decides to translate the question. "Are you able to refrain from murder today?"

There is a long silence. Finally Fionette says, "Everyone here is already dead."

"And yet," Syarra says, her gaze drifting to the sea. "We suffer. We can be killed in a sense. Tell me if you need to be confined, so we still have an army at landfall."

"Confine me if you wish," Fionette says, and lowers her head again. "I have no way of predicting what I'll do."

Syarra steps back, and any sighing is lost beneath the sound of the rain. "You still seem lucid. If you become dangerous, I will." She continues on across the deck, cold blue eyes watching for signs of trouble.

Forge is still calmly attempting to help with the procurement of fish to torture.

Roper is in the front of the ship, usually. Among the stays and foresails, he obeys the commands shouted out by the Death Knight acting as Captain.

The Death Knight is a tall man who looks as though he was once stretched beyond his height, and now has the strange, bent over posture of a Forsake or a Troll, hunched down over himself. His eyes have no glow at all, his skin as pale as bone, with dark, strange black tattoos around his eyes that trail down his cheeks. He says nothing, absolutely nothing, not one single word, to anyone, beyond the orders he calls out for the maintenance of the ship's course through the growing storm.

Two of the seaman death knights have periodically stopped moving or obeying orders, as though they don't hear them, staring into nothing as they go too still.

Roper has descended from his position to see to the work being done, often by shoving it into the seaman's hand, and repeating the order up close with a voice gone rough edged.

From a place near the foreward mast, he tracks Syarra's progress around the deck with eyes gone duller in Hunger, his expression unreadable in the shadows of his hood, the rain plastering his hair on his forehead.

Forge's movements begin to slow, and his gaze loses focus, as of one struggling stoically through pain, but he continues diligently attempting to catch fish. Those he does manage to catch, he puts in buckets he has filled with seawater and distributes them to the death knights who seem to be struggling the most.

One of these includes Fionette, who has begun to keen quietly where she sits, rocking back and forth slightly. When he hands her a bucket with a live fish in it, she inclines her head toward him, then reaches into the water with both hands. It's unclear exactly what she is doing to the fish, but the shudder of relief that passes through her broad-shouldered frame suggests that it must hurt.

Forge is already gone, resolutely continuing his quest to provide the ship with more living things to torment.

As the storm grows, there's a turning point in the behavior of most of the crew manning the ship — a greater urgency to work quickly to adjust the sails to fit with the rapidly worsening winds, as the ship pitches and rolls in the waves.

Roper drops down from a position near Syarra, landing on the deck with predatory grace, a careful distance between them.

Syarra takes one step toward him, and then stops, clenching her hands into fists. "Is the ship in danger?"

"No, not yet," Roper's rasp is stronger, and his expression is almost furious, but he's not looking directly at Syarra. "But the people on deck are about to be." Roper points to the back of the ship sails on the mizzenmast. "Order to take those up should be coming soon. Those go up, people who can't hold onto something need to get below. Rest need to be either holding something, or tied to the ship. And if we need to take up the mains…" He looks at Syarra and his gaze catches too long on her face. The redness around his eyes has grown more pronounced. If he was going to add more, it's lost as he stares.

"I'll." Syarra stops, looking up at the rain, and then back to Roper. A pitch of the deck almost makes her stagger toward him, but she catches her balance in time. "I'll go around and tell them."

She turns to make another circle around the ship, to give warning.

Eckart has a grip on the railing, so at least we know he can unfold his arms. Hasn't rusted like that or anything. His hair whips around his face, and his teeth are bared.

Roper holds his place with the ship as though he's bolted to it, nodding vaguely when she speaks. It takes him too long to drag his gaze off her, before he looks for a large Draenei Rock — Forge.

Forge is still relentlessly attempting to catch more fish, despite the increased difficulty.

"Hey, Forge," Roper says as he gets in closer, still leaving a not insignificant space between him and the other death knight.

Syarra speaks to a few death knights, and then looks at Eckart. She considers, and then does not warn him.

She moves on to Fionette, assuming she is still sitting on the pitching deck. She walks closer to get her attention and says, "The storm will get worse. You should take cover below. And don't let anyone in."

Fionette nods and scurries to obey.

Forge, meanwhile, turns to look at Roper. The strain is evident around his eyes, but he makes calm eye contact through a haze of pain. "Need somesink?"

Roper points to two of the crew who are in and out of functional. He looks as though he's glaring hard at everything around him, but there's no sense of anger to him — just a focus that he's holding on to very tightly. "Those two need to get as much as you can get them. They go overboard or stop listening, we could lose a sail, or worse." He nods at the deck. "And if you're staying up here, get a line tied to you."

A wave crashes against the prow, well over Eckart's head. When it sweeps past, it reveals him still in place though obviously struggling to pull himself forward. His armored hands yank at his belt and he loops it over the railing, securing himself to it. He repeats the process with his sword belt, then reaches in his bag. He removes from it a length of chain with, well, manacles on the ends. The chain gets wrapped around him, the manacles get secured to the railing. Let's hope he doesn't lose the key.

Forge nods, grabs a fish bucket in each hand, and heads toward the indicated crew. Once he has "fed" each of them he finds a rope and sets about securing himself. Then he returns to fishing, as cold and implacable as the storm itself.

The crew lurches into action, in fits and starts that make some of the storm worse, as they fail to perfectly coordinate the sails. Still, thanks to some small amount of death and pain, the two worst cases hold their positions well enough that neither the sails or masts take damage as the storm continues to worsen.

Roper moves from place to place, attempting to smooth out the transition, no line tied to him to give him freedom of movement, at the cost of potential safety. He rights one of the others when a wave crashes hard against the ship, touching them only long enough to force them to keep their feet, snarling "Get. Off. The. Fucking. Deck."

The ship lurches at a particularly inopportune moment, and Forge loses his footing. The rope around his waist keeps him from sliding overboard, but he barrels right into the buckets he'd been using to deliver fish to the suffering and they are quickly lost to the sea.

Slowly he regains his feet, looking toward the place the buckets had stood. His fists clench at his sides and he lets out a slow, deep growl that escalates into a bellowing roar. Head back, full throated rage, apparently daring the sky to BRING IT. But then, as though the sound purged him of whatever had caused it, he simply unties the rope around his waist, coils it up neatly, secures it, and then heads calmly below deck.

Roper's head snaps to the sound only long enough to determine Forge's position relative to Syarra's, and then the apparent trajectory of the rage. Having determined that it falls into old man yells at cloud, the former spy continues the efforts to get several of the main sails furled to prevent them from spinning the ship.

Syarra has been so focused on the crew that she has not stopped to secure herself. The same lurch that knocks Forge over sends her skidding. She angles to catch herself against a railing with an impact that would definitely bruise the ribs of a living woman, but she doesn't fall overboard. As the ship rights itself, she regains her feet and makes her way belowdecks, looking back up toward Roper once more as she goes.

The wind has blown Roper's hood off his face — revealing the unremarkable features of a human man in his late-20s when he died — and the knight hasn't bothered to try to keep it on. His hair is a dark, sodden mess, the weather-proofed leathers he wears shiny with the rain, and his expression reveals how intensely focused he is on the survival of the ship. One way or another, the death knight clearly intends to see there is a tomorrow for the "Revenge."

Before too long, Syarra comes back on deck, now with a thick coil of rope. It's already secured around her waist, and she ties the other end around the mast with a knot that's unlikely to come undone. Then she grimly sets about continuing to help ensure as few knights as possible are lost to the sea.

The last of the main sails up, and the ship rolls with the waves. For those who cannot navigate the ocean, it seems utterly chaotic now.

The remaining crew on the deck is a skeleton crew, in more ways that one, and there are still death knights who remain above. Of the crew, several have tied themselves to a part of the ship.

One who still hasn't is Roper. Only after the main sails are fully put away and dealt with, does he descend from the rigging, attempting to move to the front of the ship as it pitches so extremely that it tilts back as they hit a wave wrong. The knight slides dangerously across the deck, a hand going to a line barely in time to grab hold, his grip tight and icy.

The water hits hard, crashing atop the ship, against one of the cannons on the broadside of the main deck. A rope snaps. The cannon rolls along the deck with the ship, loose enough to pose a significant danger, as the ship rocks with the storm.

Syarra turns at the sound and then sees that the cannon is rolling directly toward one of the sailor death knights, a blond-haired young human man who has clearly been dealing with the sails; he is not in saronite at the moment. Without consciously making a decision, Syarra sprints towards the knight and shoves him out of the way. There's not quite enough time for her to make it clear, but she moves fast enough that the cannon knocks her aside rather than crushing her.

She hits the deck, dazed and in pain, but certainly less so than she would be without her armor. She should probably not be surprised, as she rises, to see that there is nothing of gratitude in the knight's face. Only hunger… and a sudden new interest in her. Syarra staggers to her feet, drawing her runeblade, ready for a fight and a kill. Then…

"No. I was. Helping you." she says under the sound of the rain, each word a struggle to pull up from the depths of her mind. Backing away from the blond knight, she instead pulls out some corpse dust (corpse mud, in the rain?) and summons a ghoul, killing it quickly. The injuries begin to mend under her armor, but she keeps her runeblade out, just in case.

Over the noise of wind, rain, waves, and loose cannon, if one listens closely one can hear Eckart at the prow, laughing deep and dark. From time to time, he too roars at the storm, defiant and mad.

At the moment Syarra's pain hits the air there is another, almost wordless cry into the storm as Roper screams something, hauling himself upright as ice snaps across his leathers in a coat of armor, an unholy rune pulsing in one of the double swords strapped tightly to his back. With unnatural strength and speed he moves across the deck to her, grabbing the blond crewman looking at her with icy hands that close over him from behind, dragging him tight against the former rogue as his lips move. Roper's words are inaudible over the storm, except perhaps to the sailor in his grip, released with a dangerously hard shove away from them both, before Roper sets himself between Syarra and the rest of the ship, his back to her despite the runeblade in a show of trust, the air going colder in warning of a snap freeze to any who venture near.

The blond crewman stumbles back, trying to catch his footing, but whatever he heard and the threat of not one but two knights, seems to have made the possible meal unappealing as he backs away.

"I'm fine," Syarra calls over the rain, and indeed the pain is already fading. She takes one step towards Roper, and stops. She says, "I'll go below. For a while."

Roper turns in a jerky motion at the sound of her voice, and clears the space between them with reckless speed, his right hand moving to her armor as though to check in anything has been damaged, his left clenched in a tight fist of warning to others as chains of dark ice and shadows flicker in and out near them. "Stay." The uncanny echoes are strong enough to make him sound almost like another person.

Syarra stares at him with blank eyes, and then nods once. "Another ghoul, soon. We need more fish."

Roper isn't breathing, and he isn't talking, as he reaches his right hand into the imbued netherweave bag strapped to him, before he pulls out a fist. He doesn't drop the dust as shadows are drawn from around them to form a ghoul. As it starts to coalesce, he releases his hand, only to grab onto Syarra, his body language turned slightly to keep the deck in sight.

The ghoul rises up with empty eyes, immediately soaked from the rain.

The ship rolls again, as a wave hits the port side hard enough to move it, seawater splashing across the deck.

From the prow, Eckart howls against the storm. "ARTHAS! I'M COMING FOR YOU, ARTHAS!"

Syarra doesn't wait to clarify if this ghoul is meant for her. After it's dead, she breathes a little more easily. She looks at Roper's hand, then back to his face.

Just then, Eckart's howling breaks through the wind, and she gives a choking laugh.

Roper closes his eyes to the sound of Syarra's laughter, and pries his fingers off her one by one as though it's taking significant effort for him to let her go. "Stay. Where I can. See you." He opens his eyes and there's something in them that looks more like him than the monster. The echoes have faded back slightly as he adds, the faintest touch of a drawl in the word, "Please." He takes a step back and away, the wind howling around them, likely only the storm.

Syarra nods at Roper and turns to secure the cannon. After a pause, she screams toward the prow of the ship. "HE CAN'T HEAR YOU! YELL LOUDER!"

That makes Roper laugh, a slightly wild sound to it, as he darts in closer to Syarra, his right hand grabbing her chin to turn her towards him for an almost brutal crush of a kiss, her saronite breastplate hitting his chest hard enough to cause a small pain of a bruise. It's less than a breath, before he pulls away, sprinting across the water slicked deck with an agility of another life, as he gets back into position, finally securing himself expertly with a length of rope.

Syarra barely has time to react, but she looks after where Roper has gone, a moment of relief of her face when she sees him secured with rope. Then it's back to the cannon, and several other death knights move in to help get it back into place and strapped down. Then she scans the deck, waiting to see if there will be another crisis.

Day Five

Eventually, the storm dies down, and day passes into night. The fifth morning arrives colder and somehow stranger. There's occasional ice in the water, and barely glimpsed sea creatures flicker beneath the surface. It's impossible to say what one might fish up.

Roper remains on deck, in the front of the ship, perched on the railing. His left hand taps so rapid a beat that his fingers are a blur of speed. His eyes, dim and reddened, are on the movement in the water with intense focus.

In the depths of the cold, northern water, a small pod of dolphins has kept pace with the ship, and one very unlucky one has come too close. The white streaks on its side against the black make the hourglass dolphin a strange echo of the death knight staring at it, waiting for it to get fully into his range.

It does, as it surfaces with a playful leap, ready to spray the ship with sea water. Roper's right hand stretches out, as a shadow twists for its target.

It does not end well for the dolphin.

The Death Knight, however, seems calmer, relatively, as he adjusts the sails on command.

The same two of the crew are struggling, however. They've missed more orders. Some of the others, including the blond haired crewman Syarra helped, have attempted to fill the roles, but the lack of coordination has caused repeated issues as the ship gets off course and then must be righted once more.

Syarra has begun to pick up some of the sailing tasks where she can, learning from observation. She moves slowly through the motions, but with grim determination.

Only after the unfortunate dolphin does Roper approach Syarra, maintaining a very careful distance, as he demonstrates the correct motions, explaining with terse, short sentences what to do for what order bellowed from the captain, who remains unmoving from his position, barking out the instructions with absolutely no change at all. If the captain is affected by the Hunger, it doesn't show.

Roper lingers near Syarra even after she's taken control of the task at hand. His hood is down and he is either unaware of it, or no longer cares. His voice has a gravelly, grating sound to it like he's been screaming unceasing for hours. "You seen Forge?"

"Not since the storm," Syarra says. "He went below."

"We need more to kill," Roper grates out. There's a faint tinge of green to his skin, and his hair is a disaster of sea water stiffness. His eyes are on Syarra's neck, with a strange, very fixed stare even as he keeps talking. "We need to get Humpty and Dumpty back up again." Roper twitches his head in the direction of the two crewmen who have stopped functioning.

One has gone full Hallow's End statue, staring off into an infinite space, the Sin'dorei man a display of Not Here. The other, a dwarf with an onyx beard and shaved bald head, has crouched over a coil of rope, squeezing it as he mutters incomprehensibly to it. They seem fine.

"If we can't. I need at least one more spot covered doing just one fucking thing. The rest of us will cover it, but we can't leave that open. We keep getting out of sync, and this time, I don't think even my best singalong will cut it." His left hand reaches out towards Syarra for only a moment, as though for her throat, and there is nothing tender or affectionate in the gesture. He pulls it back, clenching his fist to his side and he tries to tear his gaze from her neck, unsuccessfully.

Syarra takes one step back from him. "I'll go check, see who I can find." She backs away from Roper, only turning when she gets to the stairs to head below deck.

Roper watches her go. As soon as she's out of sight there's a contortion of pain and hate on Roper’s features that seems directed internally before he simply looks angry, as he walks back along the deck to the foremast.

Eckart is still there, by dawn's early light, though rimmed with salt and ice. Some of it cracks and falls to the deck as he unfastens his lashings, as he unlocks the manacles. For a moment, he wavers. He catches himself, barely, against the railing as though his bonds had held him up instead of holding him fast. His shaggy head bows, then drops to his hands, and he groans. The sound has more in common with the ship's tortured creaking during the storm than of the wild Death Knight that rode it out.

Another Kaldorei knight stares at the wild shouty man. It's ambiguous whether she appears to be seriously considering Eckart as a potential target or thinking of attempting to aid him. Before she can follow through on either possibility, Roper's head snaps to the side to pin her with a dangerous look. "Leave him be." It's a sharp, scraping order, teeth bared in a threat.

She halts, a brief expression on her face before it drains away and she returns to staring out at the ocean.

Roper doesn't slow or stop, before he launches himself up into the rigging of the foremast. He doesn't seem to be watching Eckart, but that doesn't mean he isn't.

Syarra wanders through the darkened hallways. She pauses once, when she hears a sound. "Forge?" she asks.

There is a muffled grunt in response. Forge stands out of the way against a wall, his arms folded across his broad chest. He's not looking so hot, his storm-gray skin gone pale and his eyes sunken. Closer inspection would reveal that he is digging his fingernails into his upper arms.

Syarra stops just out of reach. Almost without volition, she reaches out one hand toward his upper arm. Then, with some obvious effort, she clenches her fists and drops them to her sides. "We need people above. Are you able to help?"

Forge nods wearily and pries his fingers loose from his arms, pushing stiffly off the wall. "Tell me vhat to help."

"Follow me," Syarra says, plodding her way back to the stairwell up to the dock. She glances back occasionally, her gaze equal parts wary and predatory.

Forge's gaze is dull and fixed; he hardly seems to see her, much less be a threat to her. He follows her as though he is attached to her by a rope, no conscious thought seeming to be involved.

Syarra emerges back onto the deck, with Forge still behind her. "Forge. Here to help." She calls out for whoever might be listening. She tries to look around for Roper.

Roper, in the rigging like a four limbed spider, turns his head with a predatory twitch at the sound of Syarra's voice, dropping back down to the deck on dangerously soundless feet. He gets in closer, stopping just outside of either of their reach. There's a brief expression on his face as he looks at her, something darker and more deadly, but adjacent to longing, before it's gone, replaced by another. He looks as though he's enraged, brows drawn hard enough to make deep furrows into his face as he turns his attention to the draenei.

Despite the look, his voice has a flat, terse tone to it with no trace of anger in it. "Fish or rope." He directs it at Forge.

Eckart drags his head up, teeth gritted. Not that anyone but the dolphins could see it, and they all hauled flipper outta here after one of them got mauled. So he grits his teeth at the horizon. One vertebra at a time, he forces himself to straighten. He does not, however, let go of the rail.

"Need bucket for fish," Forge says. His voice is strained, as though speaking while lifting something heavy. "Or barrel. Vith vater. Or fish die fast. Losed buckets in sea. Cannot find more. Find barrels, but full. Then haf to stop look, too angry."

Roper makes a harsh tsch sound that echoes, as he looks around the deck. He runs a hand through his hair hard enough to pull his hair tight against his scalp with a faint, perceptible amount of pain. "I'll be back. I have something you can use," Roper says before he moves around the draenei. He seems to have no particular difficulty in ignoring Forge as a potential source of food. "Get started on catching them."

"Aye," Forge says automatically, having heard the response multiple times from the crew. He heads for the side of the ship and begins to set up again as before.

Roper isn't gone long. He returns to Forge with a dark barrel that looks as though it came straight out of Acherus — it has skulls all over it as though to indicate poison. Inside, however, there appears to be nothing at all, and it's both unclear why Roper had it or what might have been in there.

It's not fully watertight, however, and will leak slightly. But, it's a barrel, and fish can go into it. Roper sets it down by Forge in a way that makes it seem light. It's not. The barrel has metal banding that puts it around 100lbs. It's not going anywhere anytime soon, despite the slight roll and pitch of the ship.

Syarra shivers faintly at Roper's pain, but manages to stay still during all of this, attacking neither Forge nor Roper.

From his previous supplies/setup, Forge ties rope around the barrel so that it can be lowered into the sea, and then does so, filling it with icy seawater and hauling it back aboard with the help of a pulley and his brawny arms. He immediately finds a couple of leaky points and lays hands on them, patching them temporarily with ice. Unlikely to melt quickly in this climate.

That sorted, he resumes catching fish.

Syarra nods at Forge, her eyes a little wistful at the thought of new living fish. Then her expression grows angry, maybe showing a little bit of self-awareness at the low of being excited by the thought of hurting fish. Then her face goes blank again, and she looks up at Roper with red-rimmed, hollow eyes. "Need another person. Statue at the prow, maybe?"

Roper doesn't answer for a moment, the expression lifting off his face as though he simply cannot hold it there, the mask falling away to reveal something that looks pained, as though someone is dangling the illusion of salvation in his face and he knows he cannot touch it — it's damnation and some part of him still knows it. "Anyone. Just need. Someone who will follow an order for as long as fucking possible." He swallows and almost unwillingly takes a step forward closer, his voice dropping lower. "How bad is it getting for you?"

Syarra tenses at the proximity, and for a moment there's a dangerous, feral look in her eyes, then it's locked away behind blankness. "I can still follow orders. And give them. And if he won't help…"

She glances toward the figure of Eckart, gripping the rail.

Roper reaches out automatically, his hand going for hers before he halts it like he's frozen it in place, a bitter look of something like agony crossing his features as he pulls it back so he won't touch her. "If he won't help, we leave him alone. And you…" He moves his head in a shake of negation. "You can't," he says with a low, soft voice that makes the echoes more uncomfortable, referring back to an earlier conversation. "And right now, if anyone starts anything up here, it's going to turn into a real fucking food fight." It's almost a joke, a hint of Roper in it.

Syarra tries to smile at the joke. "I don't think I need to ask how bad it is for you. I'll talk to him. No killing. Promise." She heads toward the Eckart statue with purpose.

The statue speaks, when she stops next to him. "What." Less a question than a flat demand.

Roper watches her go, for as long as he can, before there's another order barked out, one that should be done by a crewman who is currently immersed in a riveting conversation of some variety with a length of rope, and Roper forces his attention to the task.

"We're short sailors, need you to do something," Syarra says, keeping just enough focus to communicate. She stares at Eckart like she's waiting for him to try something. Maybe hoping. "Can you?"

"Yes." He takes a moment before he turns toward her, shedding another thin layer of frozen sea spray. At a solid 6'4" and heavily muscled, he towers and he doesn't bother to hide the fact. "We should consider hurting each other. While we can still stop." Before she can answer that, he asks, "Help where, with what?"

"Moving rope when ordered, I think," Syarra says. She looks up at him with a vaguely measuring air, but doesn't seem intimidated. "Keeping us on track." As if it is the same topic, she continues, "Could you stop, now? There are some I think who already could not. We open that, we may lose people."

His lip lifts. "Maybe yon fish-eaters could. Like yer lad, there. He watches. You hurt me. I hurt him. He hurts you. Then there will be three to help others stop." His head turns as he looks at the ropes, assessing. "Aye, I'll haul ropes." He strides off down the deck, searching out the captain. If there even is one now.

The captain remains where he is, unchanged from the moment he stepped aboard. He has not said a single word outside of orders, nor acknowledged a single being aboard the ship, his hands clasped behind his back, hunched over as he stares into the horizon with blank eyes, the dark tattoos on his face even starker than before on the bone white face. How he's getting the information he needs from the navigator nearby him is a bit of a mystery, but they are nevertheless moving the ship in the correct direction.

Roper watches Eckart walking away from Syarra, and flicks his eyes to her in question, securing the rope of the main mast stay in his hands to its proper place.

Syarra gives one brief nod. She stands there lost in thought for a long moment. Then she heads back to her own sailor duties. For now.

Roper holds out a hand near Eckart when he gets in range. "Hey. Here."

Forge relentlessly catches fish and places them in the barrel. He does not take it upon himself to distribute them at this point, since the barrel is too large to take to people. They can come and get a snacc themselves. He does, after a while, reach in and do something to one of the fish himself before tossing its mangled corpse overboard for some lucky orca.

Eckart stops. He stares at the captain, or at least in the man's direction. Without looking over at Roper, he says, "What."

"You know what you're doing with the mains?" Roper asks, not moving his eyes off Eckart.

"No."

Roper mutters a curse, but gestures to the rope with a hand. "Can you stand in one place, listen for an order, and pull on one of two ropes?" He sounds just shy of mocking, as if he's either expecting Eckart to say no, or that he's expressing that maybe Eckart can't.

Eckart's head angles slightly toward Roper. He knows exactly what he can do with a piece of rope, if they're going begging. But for all the anticipatory gleam in his eyes, for all the silent snarling he does, he simply says, "Yes."

"Then watch." Roper demonstrates what to do, with virtually no verbal instruction, barely moving at a reduced enough speed for someone to pick it up as a motion. "When you hear the order," Roper gives the one the captain has been giving, "You do this."

The moment Roper finishes it, the captain, very helpfully, yells another. "You hear that. You do this." Roper demonstrates again, with absolutely no additional instruction. "Got it?" He starts walking away without waiting for confirmation. He might not be taking any questions at this time.

Eckart eyes one spot on Roper's neck. Right there. Just there. Then he turns and grabs the rope as though strangling it.

Eckart wouldn't be the first one, and it wouldn't be Roper's first noose. But the former spy ignores it, as he makes his way to the bow sprint in a rapid pace, as the captain repeats a command he's already given that is clearly one of Roper's cues to adjust the foresails.

Day Seven

The day continues, and the mood of the death knights worsen. Day fades into night, and on the morning of the next day, the monotony of shipboard life is broken in a very unexpected way.

The death knights are going through the motions of keeping the ship on course, taking occasional Forge-provided fish breaks, when the ship rocks, though there is no longer any storm. A dark and ominous shape is visible under the surface of the water, beneath the ship. When it breaks the surface with a spray of water and a bone-chilling cry, the death knights see it is a SEA MONSTER, suctioned tentacle arms flailing to grab its chosen victim ship.

The death knights rally quickly and eagerly to this new threat. Fighters pressed reluctantly into the business of sailing immediately leap to organizing the elite undead force. For once, this disparate group of pain-starved people pull together and coordinate, and maybe it is an echo of what they will be able to bring against the Lich King.

The sea monster soon realizes it has attacked the wrong ship, but by then it is far too late. These death knights don't kill the creature, oh no. They go for subduing and trapping it, using a system of ropes and harpoons. No death knight goes hungry.

Eventually, one has an idea…why not let the creature swim, drive it toward Northrend? Adjustments are made, and it isn't long at all until The Revenge sails into the port in the Borean Tundra, towed by a deadly creature of the deep!

---

Song Credits:

• "Hoist The Colours" Lyrics by Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio

Music by Hans Zimmer and Gore Verbinski, performed by Voiceplay.

• "The Doom Bar" lyrics by Tony Lobb, performed by Loveridge and The Longest Johns.