(♩♫) (ambience for sailing in a storm) -⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽⛵︎⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻- The eerie creaking and buckling of the hull wouldn't cease as violent waves crash against it from bow to port. A storm blew up north from Hadarian waters and made itself well known to the warden aboard his vessel. What was supposed to be a trip to clear his mind after recent events on warm waters became a fight to keep from capsizing past midnight. Heavy crashes of salt and brine soaked waters splashed aboard one after another till the snapping of rope sent kegs of supplies tumbling off the starboard side. Coren, in a hopeless effort reeled in, one tight grip upon some rigging of the main mast as it bowed to gale winds. Scaled fingers clenched painfully around the bristly sea-weathered rope to keep it from coming loose as the sails were stretched further and further out like a bat spreading its wings. It was a monsoon, a gift from Hadar no doubt. Some supernatural wake maybe, or an ill omen of the news he'd received about the souls that were lost there. He clenched his teeth as he wrestled the rigging back into control as he’s beaten by another harsh wave, hard enough to send him headfirst in the swaying sail’s beam as it swung around at him. Knocking him to the deck - white static and a searing hot pain gave way to memories. -⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⛵︎⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻- Effortlessly, with a snap of the fingers the rain stopped. It was a somber summer evening aboard a red-terracotta abode which he dreamt of feverishly. An island of rock drifting precariously in the air like some cloud in the sky. A gleaming tower of glass resting just shy besides the island. So many times has he visited this tiny quiet place, and what a quaint little home it was given for the personality behind its conception. Perhaps this memory of the place came from some degree of envy he held. It was stunning just how small of a feat it seemed for the man behind the tale. But then again, many things sound so small whenever he heard him speak about something. Rain was but an instrument that can be stopped and started as if it were he tilting the watering can over the garden. To make islands float. To raise towers from nothing. His head was spinning by all the things he'd begun to recall, things he felt showed true power. But also, what possibilities could come from them. Rhaakhr could end this storm as he had so many other times before so leisurely for himself. Just so that the rain wouldn’t ruin his day. All the warden dreamt of in that moment, was how badly he wished for that help, he didn't want to drown. But then along came the penetrating thought that's wormed its way through him of late, the words of others about the dragon - Rhaakhr has never been there for him. And then he came to. -⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻⛵︎__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻- The storm wrecked the ship’s upper deck, it looked like a battle had gone on aboard. It's soul survivor nearly all together and well, laid out upon the slick surface as he stared up to a delicate, deep indigo sky. Dark black violent clouds were only just beginning to drift away, the rain lightening up, but still persistent. The storm was finally waning, fortune for holding through the roughest patch, but even so the Voltalar's luck hadn't returned to him just quite yet. Though his ship drifted freely, something seemed to be on the approach in the distance. Before the azure glittering waters upon the morning horizon it was hard to miss. A foreboding silhouette of three masts and dropped sails in the eastern sunlight. Hoisted colors of no nation, nor company. The wind at its back as it made way ahead towards him. The Volatalar pulled himself up to stand with little energy to get the rigging going. He simple chose to lean against the gunwale, just to watch the encroaching blotch, bracing for the next storm to come. In that finite amount of time the Warden selfishly tidied himself up, two twists of his fingers and a harsh draconic litany manipulated the gift he was bestowed to help others to mend himself instead. The process took enough time for the vessel to slip in as smooth as butter alongside the sailboat anyways. Close enough now to cast it's shadow over him. It was of a size nearly double that of his own ship, their galleon armed to the teeth whereas his vessel could barely ram its way through a reef. Boarding hooks of worn cast iron from years at sea dug in along his ship like an eagle’s talons around its lunch. Swinging across ropes were a crew dressed in an attire of blues and blacks. -⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⛵︎-⎻⎺⎺⎻- A thought crossed Coren's mind, a short phrase his past-self imparted upon a Yanar that had pissed off his friends, which ended up being some of the last words Buckwheat had received. "Eventually our luck runs out. The choices we make both give and take away from that pool. Either you're better, or they're better. But without your own power, you got nothing." And now look at me, the Warden thought of himself - practically a wet dog, with no hope of fending off whomever was coming aboard. Needless to say there were too many to fight back and thus it was a quick and decisive victory. They rung him out in a heartbeat as if he were a damp towel. Each blow he suffered reminded him of who he was dealing with - these invaders of his were coming from the get-go. Or rather, coming for Fortune's Favor. He wasn’t the problem, just some unfortunate sap in their eyes, as the one they wanted, that being Kel’drocos wasn’t there aboard. Tipped off supposedly by some eyes they had in the capital of a similar ship moving in and out from time to time in the Empire. He'd stolen this ship a long time ago, when he needed an escape from owning up to his deeds. But one way or another, the past of Kel’drocos seemed to always catch up to the Warden. No matter what skin he wore, or duty he upheld, and good deeds he tried to commit. He just couldn't escape himself. No fresh coat of paint could hide the truth - neither of Fortune’s Favor, nor Coren himself. With nothing left at his disposal he simply began to lie through his teeth - preaching of some red skinned horned demon which sold the ship off dirt cheap. He pleaded to the proper owners, even if they were theoretically criminals themselves. His gut twisted in knots for at any point they could just do away with him. In a way, perhaps it was the last bit of luck he had left. A sufficient beating for ignorance was all there was felt the captain of the ship's collectors - mercy was a gift he didn't deserve, but it'd seem his lies got through. After some sobering time spent in their brig, eventually they swung through the Archipelago's waters to offload the Voltalar. Once he made it back home and finally rest his head in his own bed did he truly feel that his own luck had run dry. Powerless, and perhaps even a bit regrettable of all that has come to pass. And then a rage started to build. -⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻- (OOC) Thank you for taking the time to read. I don't normally post lore stories but I wanted to push some development through my character with this little lesson he's paying for for previous actions. Anyone's characters which know Coren, and know of his ship in RP would have common knowledge of this terrible trip having occurred which lost the Fortune's Favor, but not the details of what had gone on.
