[[OOC: 4th Bloomingtide, morning, somewhere in the Waking Sea]] Celeste Monroe
It was good to be alive.
It was a thought that Isabela had entertained at least once a day since she had finally managed to procure a ship worth of living up to the name of Siren’s Call, and even more frequently since she had started to develop the fleet. It had started with capturing one ship that was just too pretty to sink after they had relieved it of its wares, and with the crew of it mightily sick of not getting a decent share of pay, it hadn’t taken much to make them swear to her command. And with two ships it was even easier to capture a third, and easier still to capture a fourth. When they’d got number six, Isabela had filched the captain’s hat and coat after a pitched battle that had left the former owner only fit for shark chum. After she’d got the blood out of both, it had been quite pretty, and sat on her well.
She was a Maker-damn admiral now, and when the odd dark thought floated across her head – what Hawke might be up to these days, was Varric okay, memories of ten long sodding years in Kirkwall with only the odd sniff of the sea – it was easy to beat back just by standing up at the helm and gazing out over the splendid deck to the horizon beyond.
The fleet didn’t always travel close together, as that would draw too much attention, and today even the nearest one had disappeared over the horizon a few hours previously. Likely they had spotted a ripe prize somewhere and gone haring after it. Isabela was happy to allow her sailors that leniency, as long as they brought back a juicy portion of the spoils. For the moment she was considering a course towards Wycombe, to offload some of the bounty from the last haul, but they were still running a little light, and it wouldn’t go amiss if they ran into something else on the way.
So the call from the crow’s nest, that a ship had been spotted to the east, was welcome. Isabela pulled a small but powerful brass telescope (another gift from a surrendering captain) from her pocket, and scanned the horizon.
When she saw the shape of the ship in question, she grinned.
“Are we going after her, Admiral?” Her bo’sun, a dwarf with a voice that seemed to have burbled up from a bog, was hovering by her elbow. As wide as he was tall, he was also an astonishing acrobat on the rigging and more than one attacking sailor’s last sight had been Rukhor descending on them.
“She’s a friend.” It was the Wicked Grace, all right; no mistaking those lines. Rukhor shrugged and turned away, when Isabela pinched his jacket. “So we’re going to have some fun.”
Most of her crew had a sense of humour, and even those who didn’t weren’t going to speak out against Isabela playing a prank on a friend. She directed the Siren’s Call towards the Grace, and then went up in the rigging, positioned so the sails hid her from view. “Here we go!”
It was good to be alive.
It was a thought that Isabela had entertained at least once a day since she had finally managed to procure a ship worth of living up to the name of Siren’s Call, and even more frequently since she had started to develop the fleet. It had started with capturing one ship that was just too pretty to sink after they had relieved it of its wares, and with the crew of it mightily sick of not getting a decent share of pay, it hadn’t taken much to make them swear to her command. And with two ships it was even easier to capture a third, and easier still to capture a fourth. When they’d got number six, Isabela had filched the captain’s hat and coat after a pitched battle that had left the former owner only fit for shark chum. After she’d got the blood out of both, it had been quite pretty, and sat on her well.
She was a Maker-damn admiral now, and when the odd dark thought floated across her head – what Hawke might be up to these days, was Varric okay, memories of ten long sodding years in Kirkwall with only the odd sniff of the sea – it was easy to beat back just by standing up at the helm and gazing out over the splendid deck to the horizon beyond.
The fleet didn’t always travel close together, as that would draw too much attention, and today even the nearest one had disappeared over the horizon a few hours previously. Likely they had spotted a ripe prize somewhere and gone haring after it. Isabela was happy to allow her sailors that leniency, as long as they brought back a juicy portion of the spoils. For the moment she was considering a course towards Wycombe, to offload some of the bounty from the last haul, but they were still running a little light, and it wouldn’t go amiss if they ran into something else on the way.
So the call from the crow’s nest, that a ship had been spotted to the east, was welcome. Isabela pulled a small but powerful brass telescope (another gift from a surrendering captain) from her pocket, and scanned the horizon.
When she saw the shape of the ship in question, she grinned.
“Are we going after her, Admiral?” Her bo’sun, a dwarf with a voice that seemed to have burbled up from a bog, was hovering by her elbow. As wide as he was tall, he was also an astonishing acrobat on the rigging and more than one attacking sailor’s last sight had been Rukhor descending on them.
“She’s a friend.” It was the Wicked Grace, all right; no mistaking those lines. Rukhor shrugged and turned away, when Isabela pinched his jacket. “So we’re going to have some fun.”
Most of her crew had a sense of humour, and even those who didn’t weren’t going to speak out against Isabela playing a prank on a friend. She directed the Siren’s Call towards the Grace, and then went up in the rigging, positioned so the sails hid her from view. “Here we go!”