Dark Arts and Fleshcrafts

The derelict ship slammed unceremoniously into the sandy shore with a loud crack and a uniform cry of “SON OF A BITCH” from a chorus of various voices. High up in the crow’s nest, something cackled loudly. 

“Gah dammit! I THOUGHT I TOLD YE TA SLOW IT DOWN!” shouted the stout, heavily armored figure as he picked himself up off the deck, leaning heavily upon the wheel for support. A dark black beard stiff and scratchy from the salty air, and laden with various bits and baubles woven throughout puffed out from beneath the grinning skull shaped helmet. 

From a brass tube near the wheel came a high pitched retort, “We did! Or, rather, we were in the process of doing so. YOU didn’t give an advanced enough warning. It takes time for the engine to–”

“SHUT UP!” The armored figure shouted back into the tube, nearly crushing the opening with his fist. “I want a damage report ASAP so we can get back on the water.” He slammed the little wooden plate back over the tube with a curse and looked out over the railing to see how his crew was doing. 

The men and women of the Dourfist Crew were scattered about the deck of the Maiden’s Sorrow like so many dead leaves. Of course, it would take a lot more than a sudden beaching to do any real damage to them, but their captain - Strumnar Rotbeard, a long (un)dead Dark Iron Dwarf - couldn’t help himself. 

The half-Vyrkul first mate, Eddie Magnusson, lurched to his feet and looked up to Strumnar. With a bit of a grin and a thumbs up he let the cap’n know all was well. This made Strumnar feel a bit better. His ship could mend itself, given time, but every single member of his crew was irreplaceable. Decades of sailing together had made them more of a family than a ragtag bunch of murderers and pillagers. 

A second dwarf, (un)dead like all the rest, but distinctively different than his captain, sidled up to the railing and leaned upon it as well. Olan Ironbeard was normally the wheelman, but it had been Strumnar in control just moments before. 

“Wonder where we ended up this time…?” the Hill Dwarf mused aloud. “Least it looks some kinda normal.” “Aye,” Strumnar grunted, throwing open the faceplate of his helmet. “Fer once.” For quite some time, the Dourfist Crew had been wandering in their ship through what could only be described as an “interdimensional miasma” with only their instincts to guide them (normally they had quite a bit of warning before coming across dry land). 

Using strange technology developed from even stranger realms of existence, the Dourfist had left their homeland of Azeroth in search of new adventures and challenges to overcome. And they had found both, time and time again. Hunting horrific monsters, finding all kinds of distinctly odd and interesting loot… it was all they ever wanted to do, really.  The winds of Fate had once again brought them crashing violently onto a new shore. At the same time, however, Strumnar felt a hard knot form in the pit of his stomach. There was something awfully familiar about this stretch of beach, about the cries of the seabirds and the sloshing of the waves.