#crimsonfleet

“I hope ye’ know what yer’ doin’, Drake.” 

The voice of a pale-faced older man dressed in the crimson garments of a Bloodsail raider broke through the sound of rough waters crashing against the small wooden vessel. His eyes were focused on another gentleman sitting on the other side of the room, comforting a hound pup in his lap with gentle strokes of the index finger against its belly. He was unspoken as of now, attention solely focusing on the mental state of the young hound. The sounds of waves took over the room once again before the older man finally broke the silence, leaning forward slightly as he did; exhausted and broken. “Jordyn and Bern are dead. Westleigh got to ‘em and didn’t even spare ‘em an explanation. Ye’ know... I appreciate what yer’ doin’ for me... for us.” His tone lowered to a harsh whisper, carried by a hoarse tone that sounds as if he had been swallowing gravel his entire life. “I just know they’ll come after us... and when they find us - we’re dead, mate.” 

The pup stirred in it’s slumber as a large wave smacked against the side of the boat, causing the lantern above them to sway dangerously. “We need not worry of what will come to us. As far as I know, their entire ship will be food for the sharks in due time. Don’t worry yourself so much, Colin.” Drake leaned lazily against the chair as the puppy cuddled into his lap, shaking; terrified of the horrors going on outside of the vessel that made his entire world unstable.

Colin lifted a bottle to his lips and took a heavy pull of the amber-colored liquid, releasing a heavy exhale once he had swallowed. His eyes closed shut, flinching as a sharp pain shot up his spine. “Agh ~ Fuck, it hurts somethin’ fierce.” His hand moved from over his stomach, revealing a deep gash into his gut that was still seeping blood. Drake lifted his eyes to rest on him, examining the gash once it was finally visible. “Well, it’s a deep cut, friend. I doubt it would feel good.” 

A heavy wave smacking against the hull of the ship moved the injured man roughly, causing the same pain to rock his body once again. “Gah!” He yelled in pain, causing the puppy to let out a worried yelp in the midst of it’s slumber. Drake didn’t react too much, eyeing him up and down with a light shake of the head. “It doesn’t look good, Colin.” Colin immediately lifted his eyes to rest on him, attempting to change the subject the best he could. “Who is yer’ contact along th’ coast?”

“Braxton Hudson. He is th’ owner of a shipping company in Stormwind, but we will be met by a Mister Baxter. He will take us to him, and he will give all of us shelter away from th’ crimson fleets.” Drake spoke confidently, offering him a reassuring smile.

“He will take care of my daughter?” Colin motioned over his shoulder where more people were sleeping, including a young girl who appeared to be in her late teen years. 

“Do you not believe you will make it, Colin?”

“Not at all. I’ll be lucky if I make it through th’ night. Th’ pain is becomin’ unbearable.”

Drake offered a curt nod in understanding, finger still scratching softly into the base of the pups ear. “Artemis will miss ye’. You know, he always loved ye’ th’ most after his mother died.”

Colin offered a gentle chuckle, lightly shaking his head at the idea of a dog missing him. “I care none for tha’ mutt, and he don’t care for me. However, if ye’ do breed him with a bitch, name one of th’ pups after me, yeah?” He said in a light tone, jesting playfully with a smirk as the blood continued to spill through his fingers.

Drake offered another soft smile, handsome and caring in nature but there was a slight pain in his eyes as he watched the life literally pour out between the fingers of his friend. “I suppose I could do tha’, mate. Enough talk, now - rest yer’ eyes friend. I’ll see you in the morning.”

They both knew it wasn’t true, but Colin took the smile and returned one of his own - aged dry lips curving at the edges into a half-mustered smirk. He relaxed against the chair, head falling against the rest as his eyes drifted shut. A long exhale escaped him before he spoke once more.

“Thank ye’ for everythin’, Lukas.”

“Don’t mention it, mate.”

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((OOC Mentions))

@caterinaprimrose

@braxtonhudson

A loud scream echoed throughout the large estate, pottery and wood crashing with the sound of metal impacting them. It came from Arabella’s room, so Lormeus sprang to his feet and ran down the hallway. Seeing the door to the girl’s room cracked open and Arabella herself sitting on the ground. Still armored, but her now mechanical left leg missing. The fake limb on top of a heap of splintered wood and glasses. The girl’s face was stained with tears and she curled into a ball, pulling her knees to her chest.

Lormeus slowly raised a hand to the door, but stopped just short of opening it. He chewed worriedly on the inside of his cheek as he debated what to do. While he tarried, the girl got up and grabbed the leg, then hopped to her bed. She threw the mechanism to the ground again, speaking as she cried. “I hate this thing, and I hate those who took the real one from me.” A loud bang and the sound of plaster being cracked under the force of a fist greeted his ears next. For once, Lormeus genuinely did not know what to do. He could be a nurturing father, and lover even. But, helping his daughter with such a life changing loss was beyond him.

Whether or not it was the right call to make, he turned and walked away from the door. Leaving her to work through it on her own. He walked back down the steps of the grand entryway and went to his armory to get suited up. He had a role to play in the fight to come, so that people like his daughter might not suffer more.

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Two days later

The bite of cold sea air and the spray of saltwater bracketed the ships and their crews. The Crimson Fleet, the naval arm of the Warband was sailing around Tol Barad, intending on getting all the way to the coast of Hillsbrad. Seven ships, two of them being Third Rate Ships of the Line, four being escort class, Brigs and Djongs, and a First Rate Ship of the Line. The First Rate’s name was the King Anasterian’s Revenge, often referred to as a dreadnaught for its size and firepower alone. The Revenge, as it was referred to colloquially, was the flagship of the Crimson Fleet.

At the helm was the Captain of the ship, Altiel Crimsonheart. A man most known for his skills with the shadows and a blade, but trusted with the captaining of the flagship by Lormeus. At his right was the same man who trusted him, the Warlord and Admiral himself. White hair tied back into a tight bun and tucked under an Admiral’s hat. His attire was standard for a naval officer, ribbons and medals lined the red coat he wore. A pair of thick black leather boots leading up to a pair of bright white trousers.

Rain began to pour down from the sky as the ships came into sight of Tol Barad at midnight. Their ships would not be seen, not until they were right up on the smile little isle. For tonight was a new moon. This was not explicitly planned with the rushed action that this was, but the coincidence was very much welcomed.

As the ships came round the isle, the small Alliance fortress on the other side seemed to not notice. However, in the path of the fleet were four Alliance warships anchored off the coast. Lormeus smirked as he saw the lights from within the enemy warships, having been smart enough to order his own into darkness. Accepting the casualties that might come from it. In a low tone he called over the First Mate and relayed his orders. “Signal the fleet into line formation, third rates on the front and rear, the Revenge in the middle with escorts filling the gaps.”

The First Mate nodded. “Aye, Admiral.” And then went about the complicated process that was signalling the other ships under blackout orders.

Thankfully, with pre-planning they had worked out a system with small brief flashes of light off the stern of the ship. Length and number conveying a set of simple orders. Within twenty minutes they were formed up and sailing a quarter of a standard league from the Alliance warships. Everyone on the ships were waiting eagerly at their stations. Cannons were readied as were the mortars. Those not manning weaponry were prepared for anti-boarding actions or repairs just in case.

When the line formed a devastating crossfire, Lormeus raised his hand and chopped the air. Yelling. “Fire! Show them the might of the Horde!”

And so the maw of hell was opened. Fuse sticks were lit by arcane or elemental means, then lit the cannons. Fire, slag, and the sound of thunder erupted from all seven ships. A broadside of one hundred and eighty three guns slammed into the four unsuspecting Alliance ships. Tearing through hull, glass, masts and sail. Two of the ships exploded into a firestorm, their magazines being hit. The third began taking on water and its mast snapped and fell to the stern, crushing the helmsman. The fourth began lurching to the side and sailed forward into the shore, its anchor having been blown off the prow from the volley.

“Sail on!” Lormeus bellowed over the cheers of the crewmen of the fleet. “Lights on, they won’t be following us anytime soon!” The sounds of dying men and women on the enemy ships slowly became apparent as the celebrations died down.

“Admiral.” Altiel said sternly. “We’re reloaded, do we finish them?”

He shook his head without delay. “Even if they wanted to come after us, it would take them at least a month in drydock for the remaining two. There is no point in doing so.” He did not give further reasoning, and the captain did not question further. The Fleet sailed on towards Hillsbrad once more.