#anzacspirits

"There's just one thing that grieves my mind!  Heave away, haul away!  That's leavin' Nancy Blair behind!  We're bound for South Australia! 

Haul Away you rollin' kings!  Heave away, haul away!  All the way you'll hear me sing  We're bound for South Australia!" 

The Admiral’s eye twitched as he stared into space, yet again fighting down the urge to leap overboard from the small patrol boat that was keeping pace with his ebullient escort. Now he knew why Batavia had refused to accompany them to the meeting with the newly rehabilitated Fort Drum. Paris had been singing shanties since the moment they left, interweaving one into the next as if they were a single, endless seafarer’s ditty. While Jones knew they could not have been traveling more than a few hours, it felt like an eternity. Mercifully, something finally caught Paris’ attention enough to bring about an end to her seemingly ceaseless singing: Corregidor.

The pirate covered her mouth upon finally seeing the spread on Corregidor, one of her fairies taking up the lead in her voice's absence. In the rising sun, Fort Drum looked truly magnificent; almost enough to bring a tear to her eye. 

"Vraiment magnifique... aussi radieuse que le soleil lui-même. Corregidor awaits, Monsieur Admiral. I shall guide us in." 

Jones nodded, straightening his cap as he took in the sight of their destination. Bathed as it was in the shimmering light of dawn, it truly was something to behold. He just hoped that their imminent meeting with the former Manila Princess would be as serene and peaceful as the vista laid out before him. He had no reason to doubt Paris, but that did not stop him from preparing for the worst... even as he hoped for the best.

The attacks in the Tasman Sea were swift and painful, the cleanup and counterstrikes took what felt like an eternity. Sealion came in to take an advisory role and then found himself on the front lines until more submarines could arrive to make up a proper squadron. Not since Scapa had he come so close to dealing with the Abyssal, and he sure as hell didn’t miss it. However when the announcement came that the menace was finally cleared, the populace were so elated it made VJ Day in Time Square look like a middle school dance.

@anzacspirits

It had been five years. Five long years since DD-602, UNSC Volokolamsk N.Z.C. had been decommissioned, once and for all. She had since done some exploring, seeing much of the world through her own eyes, before settling down on a farm in the village of her former namesake and finding a name and a purpose of her own. A purpose besides war. A purpose besides space.

Luba Illyovich looked out on her freshly-reaped fields for a long moment before breathing a hefty lungful of frozen morning air, zipping up her tracksuit, and getting into her car, setting off for Moscow. She had a very important task.

It had been five years since Luba had seen any of her former comrades as well, and though the spirit of the ship she once was had passed on, the bonds she crafted did not. After five long years, she finally got back in contact with her closest shipmate from the old days and invited her over for a stay to catch up and bask in the rewards of a good harvest.

It was there, waiting for the former frigate Trench Café in Vnukovo International Airport, that the short, rugged Russian girl spotted a very interesting character. A silver-haired woman, clearly out of her element, stood nearby, sporting a military surplus coat with New Zealand patches on the sleeves; by God was she tall, too. Seeing as she hadn’t heard word from Café yet on an arrival, how better to burn some time than by stretching her social legs again and flirting. Walking over casually and giving the as of yet oblivious woman an eye-over, Luba cleared her throat, broaching conversation in English, just in case this was an honest-to-god kiwi.

Another day, another meal, another bout of bullshit in the kitchen. Volokolamsk hardly had the energy to yell at her kitchen staff, simply making forceful corrections wherever necessary. Lunch was soon upon the Philomel, and it was the destroyer’s turn on the serving line.

“Sorry, lad. No pelmeni today. Ask logistics why we’re out of minced meat, not me.” A truly shameful state of affairs; no slav worth their kvass would be out of pelmen, yet there simply wasn’t enough left and no ground meat to make more. Next serving was a girl smaller than even Café and looking just about as in the dumps as Volley was.

Only to find that something mortifyingly hilarious had happened. Everest and Kirkwall both went to do joint hand gestures, but completely different ones without communicating or noticing the difference.

That made it absolutely imperative to send.

“Hey Café, thinking about you. Ev and Kirkwall took off today; apparently Mom’s bringing her girlfriend to space. Snapped a picture of them before they left, and you HAVE to see this.”

Attached: Photo_26.jpg

@anzacspirits

On a foggy morning out beyond Manila bay, as the first rays of the sun peeked beyond the horizon, a peculiar sound could be heard off in the distance by the PT boat squadron holding the line at the mouth. As it grew louder, it grew more familiar, the lovely tones of song only one pirate could produce recognizable in a shanty only one pirate would know.

@anzacspirits

It had been a long sail from Toya back south to Auckland. Part of Everest hoped that Kirkwall was still milling about before her departure back to the Isles. If not, it was no major devastation, but if so... she might be able to fulfill a little favor for the destroyer. Volokolamsk had been uncharacteristically silent the entire steam back, either adjusting the sling of the Springfield to sit more comfortably or openly examining the musket, running across its wood furniture with her hands, contemplating. Ev let it be, knowing that she likely just needed time.