Sun Jan 02, 2011 9:55 am
Haypi Story
Salt was everywhere.
In the water. On the air. Salt was in everything, from the water-rotted planks of the ship, to the rusting sides of the submersible. Salt came to be a sea-dog's close companion.
But it's a small thing, salt. It makes your food taste better and helps when applied to a cut, though painful. To the everyday laborer, it's a small matter. Farmers, cobblers, soldiers...they take no heed of this tiny thing. It's no more important to them then a sheep pellet or a drunkards verse.
To saliors, however, it is everything.
The port is a jewel in an otherwise rough landscape. It sits in an almost perfect setting of white beaches, lush background forrests, and blue blue waters. The frigates come in and out, shouting on dry land their wears.
Zebra skins, spices, silks spun from the finest webs are all traded at a furious pace. The locals crave a small glimpse into lands unseen, the vicarious thrills of life on the open seas. The captains and deckhands crave only gold, strong drink, and food that is fresh, alive.
Amid the furor of new discoveries hawked at and sold to the highest bidder, a curiosity drifts toward the docks. Landlubbers rejoice at even more tales of adventure, or wondrous tapestries woven by foreign hands. But the sailors...they see a different visage.
They see the smoke drifting from the deck. The hull, sitting deeper in the water than a normal ship. They see the crew, or what's left of it, waving towards land.
They see despair. And a threat to their own cargo.
Some of the more precocious captains scramble they're crews. The young and dashing sailors man their stations, preparing for a clandestine rescue attempt. The crowd, once assembled to take part in the frenzied bazaar, now cheer for their young heroes. Go, they cry, save your brothers.
As two fully-manned frigates depart towards the ruin now limping into port, the grizzled commanders smile. The bazaar is theirs now, to hock their wares to the public. To seek the riches they so rightly deserve. The young seek celebrity, honor. The experienced know better.
The Wounded ship continues toward the dock. The name "Valiant" now visible on her side, seems anything but. It is downtrodden, damaged, broken. Still, the sailors signal for assistance. They are frightened, their Injured vessel beyond repair.
As the rescue frigates begin to close upon the Valiant, shouts can be heard. Shouts of despair. The captain of the frigate "Elizeabeth" orders all stop. He requests a telescope.
The second ship, "Pompeiis Runner" continues toward the smoking derelict. Confident in their quality, boarding planks are prepared, cutlasses sheathed, pistols loaded. Never unprepared, they close on the Valiant. There would be
many heroes made today.
As the Runner's men begin boarding the Valiant, an explosion rips through it's hull. Sailors are thrown to the deck as the vessel rears starboard. The concussive force of the boom shales mens ears, and makes their hearts, so stalwart and brave only minutes ago, quail.
The Captain orders men to be steady, man your posts. A second explosion rocks the hull. The ship is taking on water. Sailors are injured, some dead. The engineer begins to reverse course, now terrified of the demon let loose by the sea. But the ship is crippled. It cannot maintain speed.
The Elizeabeth watches this terror from a distance. Both ships are now dead in the water. The Runner is now sinking, all hands abandoning. They look like ants from this distance, desperately boarding life boats and rowing away from the conflagration. The luckiest sailors are now escaping. The unlucky are now returned to the sea. Inundated, surrounded, and soon to become...
...salt.
In the water. On the air. Salt was in everything, from the water-rotted planks of the ship, to the rusting sides of the submersible. Salt came to be a sea-dog's close companion.
But it's a small thing, salt. It makes your food taste better and helps when applied to a cut, though painful. To the everyday laborer, it's a small matter. Farmers, cobblers, soldiers...they take no heed of this tiny thing. It's no more important to them then a sheep pellet or a drunkards verse.
To saliors, however, it is everything.
The port is a jewel in an otherwise rough landscape. It sits in an almost perfect setting of white beaches, lush background forrests, and blue blue waters. The frigates come in and out, shouting on dry land their wears.
Zebra skins, spices, silks spun from the finest webs are all traded at a furious pace. The locals crave a small glimpse into lands unseen, the vicarious thrills of life on the open seas. The captains and deckhands crave only gold, strong drink, and food that is fresh, alive.
Amid the furor of new discoveries hawked at and sold to the highest bidder, a curiosity drifts toward the docks. Landlubbers rejoice at even more tales of adventure, or wondrous tapestries woven by foreign hands. But the sailors...they see a different visage.
They see the smoke drifting from the deck. The hull, sitting deeper in the water than a normal ship. They see the crew, or what's left of it, waving towards land.
They see despair. And a threat to their own cargo.
Some of the more precocious captains scramble they're crews. The young and dashing sailors man their stations, preparing for a clandestine rescue attempt. The crowd, once assembled to take part in the frenzied bazaar, now cheer for their young heroes. Go, they cry, save your brothers.
As two fully-manned frigates depart towards the ruin now limping into port, the grizzled commanders smile. The bazaar is theirs now, to hock their wares to the public. To seek the riches they so rightly deserve. The young seek celebrity, honor. The experienced know better.
The Wounded ship continues toward the dock. The name "Valiant" now visible on her side, seems anything but. It is downtrodden, damaged, broken. Still, the sailors signal for assistance. They are frightened, their Injured vessel beyond repair.
As the rescue frigates begin to close upon the Valiant, shouts can be heard. Shouts of despair. The captain of the frigate "Elizeabeth" orders all stop. He requests a telescope.
The second ship, "Pompeiis Runner" continues toward the smoking derelict. Confident in their quality, boarding planks are prepared, cutlasses sheathed, pistols loaded. Never unprepared, they close on the Valiant. There would be
many heroes made today.
As the Runner's men begin boarding the Valiant, an explosion rips through it's hull. Sailors are thrown to the deck as the vessel rears starboard. The concussive force of the boom shales mens ears, and makes their hearts, so stalwart and brave only minutes ago, quail.
The Captain orders men to be steady, man your posts. A second explosion rocks the hull. The ship is taking on water. Sailors are injured, some dead. The engineer begins to reverse course, now terrified of the demon let loose by the sea. But the ship is crippled. It cannot maintain speed.
The Elizeabeth watches this terror from a distance. Both ships are now dead in the water. The Runner is now sinking, all hands abandoning. They look like ants from this distance, desperately boarding life boats and rowing away from the conflagration. The luckiest sailors are now escaping. The unlucky are now returned to the sea. Inundated, surrounded, and soon to become...
...salt.
Can't stop, won't stop.
