Gruenberg
05-05-2006, 04:21
The wind, cool and crisp, blew up from the south east, hop-skipping over the flashing white lips of a smooth, steady sea of dark, unrelenting blue. It frosted Captain Olban’s lips with dashes of salt, and picked gently through his thick, unkempt hair. He ran his tongue along the ridge of two crooked teeth, and turned in for a moment. The deck was a mess, still drying from the previous night’s storm, and spattered with blood in a dark red array, brightening out towards the fringes of the fan as the lashes grew stronger, dug deeper. Another crack howled out, and the chained prisoner wailed pathetically, his lungs no longer able to draw out the frenzied screams of earlier. A smile hovered on Olban’s heavy-set face as he took in the horrified glances of the colonists, gathered towards the front of ship. The master ran his hand across his brow, and cocked his wrist again for another strike.
“That’s enough. Take him down.”
The master nodded, and two sturdy sailors loosed the manacles from the quivering slivers of torn flesh masquerading as arms. The prisoner fell to the floor, fitting and shivering, gargling nauseatingly as a bucket of salt water rained down on him. It’d do him good, of course – seal the wounds – but as he writhed in locked, fiery agony, he can hardly have felt such. Olban turned back.
There was no real need for his presence – the master looked after discipline, and with today’s wind, the ship steered itself. But then, there was little else to do on board. The lower decks were packed with racks of fabric, pots of spice, and two gilded caskets of precious stones. There were no slaves to taunt, not yet at any rate, and the colonists – mostly the first products of the new mercantile classes – were no fun, all sea-sick and reserved, gabbling in strange tongues. The girl was asleep, the tobacco set aside for the evening, the meal not for some hours – prowling the deck, regarding the still, dull sea to the symphony of creaking masts and randomly flapping sails was the greatest excitement on offer.
He shuffled up, further towards the stern, and sighed deeply as he rested his elbow on the thick side. For the first time in his life, Kerran Olban longed for land, to stand once more on its shores. A new age had taken hold, a new family come to power, a new empire was to be born. And, much as he felt himself proud to be chosen to lead out the first tendrils of that imperial awakening, part of him evermore wished to be back at home, in the taverns and by the docks, to see as his new nation formed.
He spat heartily. Pah, boredom talking, that was all. The sun hung low, and heavy, and he squinted up at the circling birds. No, he belonged here: he’d find out what had changed when he returned. This was where he belonged. This was his home.
The cry came, snapping him from his bored reverie. The colonists swayed to one side, and men ran and slid across the deck. He stepped cautiously forward, kicking aside a fish head. The cry came again, and it was true. The sails creaked in ominous accord. And out to the west, pin-pricked on the horizon, but rising and spreading, came a black shape, a bat, a bird, a beast. On the horizon, a sail unfurled.
“That’s enough. Take him down.”
The master nodded, and two sturdy sailors loosed the manacles from the quivering slivers of torn flesh masquerading as arms. The prisoner fell to the floor, fitting and shivering, gargling nauseatingly as a bucket of salt water rained down on him. It’d do him good, of course – seal the wounds – but as he writhed in locked, fiery agony, he can hardly have felt such. Olban turned back.
There was no real need for his presence – the master looked after discipline, and with today’s wind, the ship steered itself. But then, there was little else to do on board. The lower decks were packed with racks of fabric, pots of spice, and two gilded caskets of precious stones. There were no slaves to taunt, not yet at any rate, and the colonists – mostly the first products of the new mercantile classes – were no fun, all sea-sick and reserved, gabbling in strange tongues. The girl was asleep, the tobacco set aside for the evening, the meal not for some hours – prowling the deck, regarding the still, dull sea to the symphony of creaking masts and randomly flapping sails was the greatest excitement on offer.
He shuffled up, further towards the stern, and sighed deeply as he rested his elbow on the thick side. For the first time in his life, Kerran Olban longed for land, to stand once more on its shores. A new age had taken hold, a new family come to power, a new empire was to be born. And, much as he felt himself proud to be chosen to lead out the first tendrils of that imperial awakening, part of him evermore wished to be back at home, in the taverns and by the docks, to see as his new nation formed.
He spat heartily. Pah, boredom talking, that was all. The sun hung low, and heavy, and he squinted up at the circling birds. No, he belonged here: he’d find out what had changed when he returned. This was where he belonged. This was his home.
The cry came, snapping him from his bored reverie. The colonists swayed to one side, and men ran and slid across the deck. He stepped cautiously forward, kicking aside a fish head. The cry came again, and it was true. The sails creaked in ominous accord. And out to the west, pin-pricked on the horizon, but rising and spreading, came a black shape, a bat, a bird, a beast. On the horizon, a sail unfurled.