Black Water Cut With Ivory [Lekalis Hugo Volundr]

[rosallora]

The green-gold grouper is no more, slashed and battered until it was red as a bleeding sunset. Its gills flap uselessly for a few seconds longer, the eyes, frantic, darting in all directions, giving some semblance of continued awareness until they still, giving nothing at all.

The purple grouper begins the unfortunate process of getting struck and stuck by the other two, the nimblefooted adventurers putting it off its game, what little of it it had. It screamed at the pain of metal across its eyes, the thing stumbling into Lily's path as she carves a bit out of it. It slashes the air uselessly, searching for a victim, for anything. Rivulets of blood run down its scales from its ruined eyes, the acidic spittle from its mouth still dropping onto the wood. The creature drops to all fours, its spines arching up in anger, another scream emitting from its maw.

There's the scraping of claws and the sound of effort as the dripping wet and slightly bleeding cerulean fishman raises himself once again, tail lashing with anger. He hefts the trident up and spears it towards the adventurers. It streaks through the air, a bolt of lightning that gashes Lekalis' side, coming away bright and red, his blood indiscernable from the grouper's. The man is yanked violently backwards as the tines hit his cloak, pinning him to the deck with a solid thud. The cerulean grouper opens its maw, roaring its rage.

[Bloodtrailkiller]

/Lekalis/

In a way, he should have known something like this would happen; too many dead men on the battlefield told their Love's they'd make it home safe and sound. Though it had been a long while since anything particularly fatal had been steered his way... an overconfidence had certainly grown in his heart, a distant... almost yearning to be blooded for comrades.
To that extent, as the Trident of the Cerulean Fishman sloughed through his abdomen like the vengeance of Poseidon himself, he humbly grunted and spat out the blood that came to rush up his throat as he accepted the blow and inertia with as much grace as one could allow from such a lofty blow.

His head swam in such pain that it didn't really matter; adrenaline kicked hard and he felt himself fall backwards on to the deck with a numbness that made it feel closer to a gelatinous bed.
Lessons sprang back to his mind, distressing and shameful ones, of salt and sand in a rectangular pit surrounded by grooved pillars; jeers and japes hitting hard as the staves and fists. He had to get up; lying on one's back was the quickest way to get fucked.
So he moved, despite the protest of his abdomen, and twisted to push himself up; wrapping his cloak about the Trident as he curled it under his arm and stuck his toe twixt its prongs with a warrior's intuition and pulled up.
"Slay that one!" He hoarsed out, his typical winely guile and grace overwhelmed by a rainy rasp before he cleared his throat as the Trident freed himself of its rooted state.

"... Kindly." He managed with a bit more reclaimed grace as the rush faded and the pain keeled him over to a kneel; though he did move to put himself behind Prescott's beefier form to hide from the Grouper's yet again... though he was quickly rethinking how good the man served as a meatshield as he dropped his spear and the trident to curlup his red cloak and press it against the wound. Its silken fabric hopefully keeping most of the blood from spilling free, he set his focus on keeping pressure to the wound to staunch the bleeding... Though he felt ever woozier, and the deck of the boat seemed to move inconceivably.

[Deleted]

There was barely time to look up from his own handiwork before the flash of the trident whizzing by caught his peripheral vision. The sight of Lekalis getting stuck to the deck wasn't exactly welcoming and neither was the familiar cerulean fish he saw as his gaze followed the tridents path back to where it'd been thrown. Damn that thing made its way back fast. Prescott didn't need to hear the injured man's command before he hastened to close distance to the now weaponless grouper. The other was clearly being taken care of by the other two, and now he had the advantage over this one.

He was just about to take a swing before the sounds of the two fish folk screeching filled the air once more. Something about the noise seemed to scrape the back of his skull causing the hunter to stagger back a step and his aim to waver, missing the mark completely. It wasn't even particularly loud just wrong. Wrong in a way that made him want claw at his own skin and thrash out like a rabid dog. Prescott didn't even realize he barked a threat towards it in his native tongue, his knuckles fading white at how tightly he was gripping his weapon.

[rosallora]

Strangely enough, his own shouting seems to do the trick - at least for the moment. The purple grouper, blinded from the slash across its eyes, does nothing but scream back at the man. As if this was some duel of voices, some strange and overly-violent spat between lovers. The air fills with the sound of their screeching, causing even a few of the deckhands occupied with their own threats to look over in utter confusion.

The cerulean grouper jumps down from its perch, landing on its feet after kneeling for a moment, anger shining in its eyes. Without its trident, its options were limited. A growl sounds low in its throat, but it falters back at Prescott's yell and the effect of the two voices combining, the grouper managing the very human-looking expression of a grimace of pain at it. Its fins flutter in displeasure, its attention fully focused on the strangeness of the sound, legs bent in some defensive position as it stares at the former and now-again sailor. There is a dissonance in the voices, in the tones that they hit, and there is something strange and metallic in the air at it, as if someone had hi too many church-bells at once. It fits the smell of blood, now consuming the ship as other groups of sailors wound or are wounded.

"THRALL!" The call is heard from the mid-deck, and Jonah is seen running towards a grey, hulking figure standing upon the boards.

"Tavi, rope!" The first-mate calls up, and the roperat throws one down. The mate grabs it and wraps it once, twice, thrice about his hand, jumping and swinging for a few lofty seconds. His legs crash into the torso of what looks like a bloated corpse, forcing it towards the port side of the boat.

[Deleted]

"Hold kjeft! Drit og dra!" This was incredibly stupid and coming to terms over that was sobering, if not a bit frustrating. As clarity about the situation kicked in Prescott noticed his real target falter, clearly as unnerved over the ordeal about as much as he was. Not wanting to miss the opportunity the hunter sprung forward with a sharp growl, tackling the cerulean menace. The blade of his axe connected into it's forearm as it braced sinking well into flesh and bone.
He gripped the back end of his weapon and leaned more of his weight into his strike. Even with his clearer head Prescott kept up his intensity. "I'll chum the fucking waters with you."

[rosallora]

There was the sound of feet stumbling around on the deck, flippers that were only just adjusted enough to land to keep it upright. The grouper's vocalizations sounded more guttural, more desperate, more human, in a way. It sounded less like some inhuman create and more like someone lost in the dark, trapped in a tunnel that they know is dark at either end. Its needle-like teeth are still bared, fins and gills flaring with anger and frustration. The two bloody spots where its eyes once were ooze with red. It seemed at the end of its rope, blinded as it was. It puts its hands on the railing, and turns its back to the group, attempting to at least escape with its measly life.

Another sound came from the cerulean grouper - one of determination. Its eyes were sharp on the man, looking from him to the other that had gotten the trident out of the wood. The grouper dashes forward with strange speed, its claws raking across Prescott's shoulder and glancing over his chest. It yells in some obscene and terrible language back at him, more words than sounds, something with meaning and substance. It is obviously unkind. The grouper brings the claw up to its mouth, a gray tongue lapping up the bit of viscera as a smile forms at the corners of its mouth. Then it takes a defensive stand again, waiting for the inevitable attack.

[Deleted]

Prescott had stopped paying much attention to the poor purple bastard trying to flee. He had us own threat to deal with right now. The swipe across his shoulder made him wince as more of his own blood began to trickle down his arm. It's not like his other wound had stopped its bleeding either, leaving droplets scattered across the deck with each of his movements.

"Oh so the cod can speak now, huh?" It's very very possible that it's trying to get him worked up again, and it was working to some degree. There wasn't much to do other then keep up the pressure though. Once again he swung his axe, the blade slicing just barely into the scales of the the creature's belly.

[Kidney]

'Zis was all going very wrong. 

There was a slight ripping from a distant side of the ship, though, who would've cared? Sitting behind a set of crates strapped to the deck floor, a man sat draped in sea-salt-smelling cloths, an old tunic, burlap shorts and rotting shoes. The man seemed disgruntled. Stuffing two fingers into a cut eye hole all apart of a sack tied around his head, the sailor(?) teared it wider. Staring from the newly expanded point of view, he once more peeked over the stack, staring at the valiant effort made by the heroes ahead. 

It was his time. 

As if cued by a standing maestro, the masked man drew forth a heavy hammer from his belt, and ran from behind the crates. Careening towards the cerulean fishman like a arrow from a bow, he jettisoned himself through the air. Landing like a heavy boulder upon the fishperson's skull, the hammer cracked the mighty creature open between his eyes like the beginnings of a cavern, blood oozing as the masked person continued on his own terrible trajectory. 

Impacting the creature with heavy thud, the man lept from it like it were a perch, and he, the peacock. Rolling as he landed, the man stopped himself, ending his leap on his back, of which he rolled through after a brief pause, standing with a look of determination, and a single very loud "Ta-da!" 

[EloHim]

/Volundr/
"Oh me poor head..."- northman groaned, waking up. He could barely remember how much he drank last night... And with who? Some sailors...and where the Hel he was now? Some warehouse? Boxes, bags? And everything was spinning...shaking... He attempts to rise from his position, but the floor felt wobbly under his feet. He falls onto another box, hitting his side on the edge. The sudden nudge to his insides(already giving into hours of sailing) forces all of yesterday’s undigested food and drink to spew out of his belly.
(here’s what a 2 gets me)
It wasn't a pleasant process, but once his insides cleaned themselves, he felt...better? Somewhat? Too thirsty, mayhaps. His head was still a little wooden but the spinning stopped, and the ringing too.at least provided some clarity. The rocking of the warehouse and its shape...
“Odin’s beard...How the Hel i ended up on a ship? Gargan fretr…”- he pushes himself off the box, getting back on his feet. He checks himself. No top clothes or armor, shield on his back, hammer in place, nails...check. Not bad...not good either.

[Bloodtrailkiller]

/Lekalis/

Taking his time to recouperate and reorient, it seemed a fair retinue of fresh bodies surfaced from the bilge of the ship to join the fray; while one lost his stomach, the other, in a vanglorious way, saw fit to clobber the Grouper assaulting Prescott. Quips came to mind about reinforcements being a mite late, but his breath had yet to catch up to him, and the fight still seemed to burn.
With the trident still in his hand, he rose and let go of his cloak to wield the trident properly in both hands as he stepped with livid grace towards the retreating Violet grouper; dancing a quick pirhouette around Prescott and past the Cereulean fishman, he closed the distance with a speed which bespoke practice and luck.
The flourish had only just come to a close when the Trident lashed out to skewer the creature from behind as it tried to clamber over the edge; for a moment, as it writhed against the posts of the boat's railing, it seemed veritably human... In a way it was settling for the Lord. He was far more accustomed to slaying men than monsters.

With a sigh, he pulled the Trident out of the Grouper and watched it cling to the railing and slip back onto the boat, bleeding from three grizzly holes in its back. It coughed and sputtered and bled like any man.
Lekalis set his attentions to Prescott and the Theatric, and the dead fishling; he motioned to Prescott,
"You alright..?" He asked with an amused smirk, before wincing as the pain from the trident's graze flared up again. Though he didn't fall, he did turn and raise the Trident up to dislodge the grapples set unto the railing... Though he did keep one still latched on as he waited for his comrades to form up again...

[rosallora]

It was a quick death. The purple grouper's body convulsed against the railing for a moment, its ill-fitting lungs filling with blood. It tries, in its last throes, to switch back to its other breathing system, and spurts of blood leak from its gills, communicating much the same. Its eyes glass and its body falls, heavy and thudding to the deck of the ship. Already the smell from the gold grouper was something to contend with, its scaled body already baking in the sun's sharp heat.

At the impact of the Fool, the cerulean grouper made a sound like surprise and affront, its perfectly round, too-small pupils contracting at the sight of him. Blood ran down its forehead, and a claw reaches up to grab, to feel, but it was cut short in its motion thanks to the wound the bounty hunter had laid upon it. Its breathing was labored, its footing unsure, and it seemed that it knew its fate as much as the others did.

Despite the inevitable, it did not go down easy. Unarmed, it was left with teeth and arm alone, the other rendered useless at the shoulder. It stumbled towards the man more than it did advance, its attack foolhardy, untrained, animalistic and pure in its rage. With its last breath, the blue beast rammed itself into the jester, howling its dissent at its fate, at the world, bringing the man's ears to ringing and the world to some standstill within his sight. They're knocked to the deck by its weigth and strength, the foul stench of its breath on Hugo's cheek. Teeth sink into his shoulder, but only just so, the beast shuddering through its last, desperate heartbeats. When it stills, it's still attached to him; unseeing eyes look ever forward.

[Deleted]

The Jester's sudden appearance startled him somewhat, very quickly dousing the fire of fury that had begun to cloud the rest of the world in a tunnel vision set around his opponent. His ears rang as he took a minor step back, eyeing the new possible ally a bit incredulously partially due to his theatrics. Prescott's attention was pulled some by Lekalis coming back to the fray to take out the fleeing grouper however.

He grunted a bit in response to the Lord's question, attempting to wipe sweat from his eye and leaving a small smear of blood where his hand touched. The hunter's own cuts continued to bleed as if they were just made but he wasn't the one who'd been impaled prior. "Should be askin that of you." At least the man seemed alive enough to make quips. His chat was cut short as the cerulean grouper made its final stand and rammed itself against the jester who dealt the last blow. With a loud exacerbated growl, Prescott moved to pull the damned thing off the clown. "Pain in my fucking ass." His words were low and growly but not really loud enough to really be heard.

[Kidney]

"~Oh no! 'Ze fish is going to get m- AHA- Wai- No! Nono! NO!"


The fish was faster than Hugo thought. In one quick motion, Hugo attempted to leap from the charge of the mighty thing, but in its own quick motion, Hugo was struck down like a tree slammed with a carriage. In true acrobatic (and dramatic) fashion, Hugo's bag-head turned towards those around him in one final feminine scream before he was struck to the deck underneath him, knocking the very air from his chest. He thrashed, the teeth sinking deeply into a shoulder, face twisting into a soundless screech that came through as the creature finally passed, a hoarse growl that left the jester with no air.

"Please...somebody...help me..." He mewled, hand outstretched dramatically before the fish was slowly pulled up by the Mighty Prescott. The fish wasn't certainly easy to move, but Hugo began to crawl out slowly from underneath it. "Oh! I am free from fishy clutches! Please! Someone! Give me the kiss of life, for I..." He rolled to his back, arms outstretched to the sky, "...am not long for 'zis earth." 

[EloHim]

/Volundr/
As the blacksmith shakily walks to the stairs that would allow him to leave the sodden cargo deck a misplaced step on a bottle - left there after yesterday's bouts of drinking - sent the viking right into the barrel full of apples. Alas the barrel was not the sturdiest one and was already opened when a hefty viking fell on it. A loud crash and the barrel's wood cracks, caving in. Apples fly and roll away, whilst Viking gets stuck sitting in a half broken barrel.
(That's what a 1 in trying to get up the damn stairs will get me. Not quite the suicide, but the day is still young.)

"Aiaiai...I swear to the Gods, one of these days I'm ought to fokin kill myself. And Hela will die of laughter right after, Mimir's wrinkly ass."- he said picking up one apple and taking a bite, all whilst sitting down in a throne made of broken barrel of apples. The sour taste was a welcome change after the taste of his own bile and all that.

[rosallora]

Their interpersonal drama is only recognized by the couple of sailors nearby, they themselves disposing of an emerald fishman, its scales gleaming as it's forced overboard with the skilled tip of a spear. One sailor calls out "Oi... I think they're half capable after all! Imagine that."

Another laughs, though he's cut off as the thrall Jonah was attempting to herd stumbled too close. He cracks it across the head with a billy-club, the small brown bat smacking against the thing's bulbous skull. He looks again at the raven-haired viking stumbling about the deck like he was still drunk, and howls again with a bit of laughter.

"Keep on it!" The captain's voice was tight and sharp against the hot air. Two sailors at the stern grapple with a strange creature holding a stone shield, the two of them struggling to get around it and to the flesh susceptible to their swords. The deck was starting to smell more fully of viscera and the stench of blood, the waves rocking the boat from side the side as the sounds of the fighting dwindled.

Finally, the creatures are banished back to the pits from which they came. Jonah is soaked with sweat, sword-tip coated in the black blood of a thrall. The Captain looks over the efforts and says, nodding, "Get CLEANING, you bottom feeders! I don't know what I pay you for!"

There's a few groans, a few chuckles. A sailor close to the mercenaries, blonde of hair and beard, nods. "...Good on you... I saw a bit of it. Good uh. Good form." Someone thrusts a bucket into his hands, and another tosses a bucket on a rope overboard, most likely to collect fresh seawater to clean the deck. The captain is upon them before they realize, her eyes wandering through the group, her gaze evaluatory. It lands eventually upon the stowaway, her lip curling in distaste.

"And what in all the hells in the world is this."