Post by Mr. Moshypocrite McSlowbro on Apr 22, 2014 1:25:27 GMT -5
Those eyebrows of his rose and fell several times during Hanabi's display, for a variety of reasons. First, he was surprised to see that she genuinely did know the 'hold-y' end from the 'bang-y' end (Stock and muzzle of course, but he was sticking to what he believed the woman's vernacular to be). Which in his mind was to be surprised about when referring a person who managed to shoot themselves twice within the span of a few moments. The second change came from was his amusement. After seeing the woman's display in the match he worried she might threaten his records as well, but after observing her repeatedly score hits on the area immediately outside the target itself, Booman no longer felt particularly worried. And third, and last of his realizations was that every shot she took sounded oddly muffed. The rifle he had given her was a mule, and a rookie shooter would let the thing rattle all over the place every time they pulled the trigger. That distinct rattle, however, was absent when she fired. Absent entirely. It was a stability he had not expected. Though the portly man in question had no way of knowing that she had performed the exact same feat earlier in the day, save with cannons.
“Firearms, I imagine, are not one of the more typical armaments employed in an arena setting.” Booman stated, as if he knew it to be a certainty. There was a hint of a gloat in his words, whatever sort of face he wore while speaking them. “Fortunate that you came across alternate forms of combat, is it not? Hitting the target once in twelve shots. You would not have made it past Chore Girl around here with that sort of score.”
“The Steward’s coming along port side!” Shouted a sailor from the level above, who had balanced halfway over the railing to get themselves a better look.
In the time it had taken Hanabi to try out the shooting range, Célestine had already taken care of whatever paperwork the cargo transfer required of her. Exiting her office at just the right moment to catch the proclamation, she nodded as if she had already been expecting it. “Very good. Ensign?”
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, her eyes glided over to the boxer. It seemed that despite being on the wrong end of a most brutal beating, the ten minute intermission had been enough to get Mason back onto his feet, which was either a testament to the man’s unholy endurance or his intense desire to avoid the snarky comments of his peers. Admittedly he was propped up against the mast, but it was impressive regardless. “Right as rain, Cap’n.” He said, holding his arm up in a wobbly salute.
“Good. Let’s show Mr. Han how B-4 carries itself.” She continued past him without slowing her pace. Rather than offer verbal instruction she chose another approach, though it was no less effective. It was the sort of signal you used fairly often when dealing with relatively untrained and undisciplined soldiers, pointer finger twirling around in lazy circles through the air. Round them up.
He was grinning before, not much short of unconsciousness seemed to be able to take that away from him, but that command was one that held a great deal of appeal to him. Breaking away from his wooden prop Mason stomped out onto the deck, intent on gathering as many eyes as he could and a few more on top of that. “You heard her, boys. Fall in and form ranks!” He barked sharply.
Marines were taught to follow drill commands as the foundation of their military training, with the thought that a cohesive unit would always be more effective than a disorganized one. And the men and women aboard this particular battleship had been drilled into the ground as a matter of course. Green as they may be, when they heard that inflection in his voice every soldier present dropped what they were doing and scrambled over top of one another to fall into formation. The Captain was the lynchpin of course; she had stopped in front of the boarding ramp, and the enlisted officers formed up in a horizontal line just behind her, a handful Lieutenants and Ensigns and whatnot whose numbers seemed dreadfully small. Behind them were higher ranked infantrymen that served directly underneath them, mostly the Petty Officers, which were far more numerous. Finally came the recruits, whose numbers made up the bulk of the assembly, having moved into orderly multi-filed lines depending on which officer they reported to. This whole transition was smooth as silk, taking place in less than half a minute in a true feat of military efficiency. “ATTEN-TION!” At that the entire block snapped their legs together in unison, backs straightening and hands moving to their sides until every person there looked very much like the picture of soldierly professionalism.
All the faces that Badhand had met since coming aboard were there, standing with their fellows. Vibrant Redgrave and keen Booman stood alongside three other confident-looking officers that the shield-bearer would not recognize in the second row, though they seemed to have chosen opposite ends of the line. Hard-nosed White stood behind them, accompanied by the eccentric cannoneer Chohokei, who seemed to be in better humor than she saw him last. Surprisingly D’arby was in the middle-ranked row as well, though she had not yet had a chance to exhibit how she had earned that title. The towering form of the Bangira girl was unmistakable among the other recruits. It was odd to think that someone as fresh to the force as she had managed to put up such a fight. And in front of them all was Captain Célestine Galli-Marié. Their captain and commander. Standing there staring outward, with her back towards the men, she looked as fierce a figure as the burning sun. But there was something else to her as well. If one could see her face, they would she was almost radiating with pride. The men may be ragged and half-baked, but they were hers.
As the bow of the ship slowly slide alongside of them, they all got a good look at their sister ship’s intricate wooden figurehead, a voluptuous merwoman parting the waves with her hands. Not exactly the most tasteful of decorations, but some artisan somewhere had obviously spent a great deal of time detailing the piece. A very, very long time. From a distance back in the crowd, there was a bout of loud whispers, which was shortly thereafter silenced by a series of aggressive shushes. “Um. I don’t-I mean, there aren't any-“ It sounded like Lyla, but that was unlikely. She knew you were not supposed to speak when at attention.
It was fortunate that the Steward Rosso and the Oiseau Rebel were vessels of similar size, as their decks lined up almost perfectly, which would make travelling back with the goods in tow that much easier. Marié motioned for someone to come lay down the ramp so that she could meet her fellow captain. However, no one would make it far enough to carry that out. When the other ship had pulled up far enough for them to see over its bannisters, what they saw stopped them in place.
Nothing.
What they saw, was nothing. The ship was completely empty, from what they could see. Not a soul on deck, not even anyone at the wheel to pilot the thing. “What the hell?…” Mason wondered aloud, voicing the universal thought shared by the rest of the crewmembers. Was this a prank? If it was, it was a joke in poor taste, especially given how hard they had been rushed to make this meeting in the first place. The ghost ship offered no answers, just an eerie silence. Well that and one other subtle sound, which was rather difficult to pick up over the sound of creaking wood. A low, continuous hiss.
It was Marié who pieced it together first, her eyes shooting wide. By the time even the most observant of veterans beneath her noticed, she was already in motion. “DOWN!” She bellowed, in an unearthly voice that seemed to make the air shudder with its passage. Some of them simply dropped to the ground, but others got to watch as the flesh on woman’s arms seemed to melt away into an odd square-patterned grey. Flinging them outward, the stone colored muck expanded rapidly in all directions, twisting and writhing all the while. It was all she had time to do before the world was consumed by a torrent of light and fire.
The explosion flung their ship backwards as readily as a child might their bath-time toy, viciously slamming anyone who had still been on to their feet to the ground in the span of a heartbeat. Shards of wood and steel tore apart sections of the hull, tearing away portions of the mast with terrifying ease. Perhaps the worst part though was the heat. A blast of scorched air rushed across the deck, hot enough to sizzle unprotected flesh. It was not until that intolerable gale finally receded that anyone dared to open their eyes again, and for many what they saw made them wish that they hadn’t. Their vessel looked like it had sailed through a buster call. Waves from the eruption slammed against their battered hull, a testament to the force of the eruption that it could disturb the tranquility of the Calm Belt. And despite all this, standing unmoved in front of them was their Captain. A great brick wall twice as tall as she was and many times as wide dominated the port side of the ship, its surface blackened by the temperatures it had endured. There were cracks and holes at odd intervals, with the most notable being the spot where a metal pole had been shot through the barrier like a lance, digging its cruel point straight into Marié's chest.
They could only watch in horror as the woman tore herself free of the grievous wound, thick chunks of what one assumed was gore falling to deck below her. But even as she turned towards them the wound had already begun to close, with skin and cloth stitching itself back together in some mad parody of the normal human healing process. After a few seconds passed, she looked as if she had never even been touched. Many of the marines were still too shell-shocked to recover their senses, their hearing dominated by an unpleasant ringing in their ears, so it took most of them several repetitions for them to realize that she was shouting orders at them. “-standing there and move! You hear me? I said, PREPARE TO REPEL BOARDERS!”
“Firearms, I imagine, are not one of the more typical armaments employed in an arena setting.” Booman stated, as if he knew it to be a certainty. There was a hint of a gloat in his words, whatever sort of face he wore while speaking them. “Fortunate that you came across alternate forms of combat, is it not? Hitting the target once in twelve shots. You would not have made it past Chore Girl around here with that sort of score.”
“The Steward’s coming along port side!” Shouted a sailor from the level above, who had balanced halfway over the railing to get themselves a better look.
In the time it had taken Hanabi to try out the shooting range, Célestine had already taken care of whatever paperwork the cargo transfer required of her. Exiting her office at just the right moment to catch the proclamation, she nodded as if she had already been expecting it. “Very good. Ensign?”
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, her eyes glided over to the boxer. It seemed that despite being on the wrong end of a most brutal beating, the ten minute intermission had been enough to get Mason back onto his feet, which was either a testament to the man’s unholy endurance or his intense desire to avoid the snarky comments of his peers. Admittedly he was propped up against the mast, but it was impressive regardless. “Right as rain, Cap’n.” He said, holding his arm up in a wobbly salute.
“Good. Let’s show Mr. Han how B-4 carries itself.” She continued past him without slowing her pace. Rather than offer verbal instruction she chose another approach, though it was no less effective. It was the sort of signal you used fairly often when dealing with relatively untrained and undisciplined soldiers, pointer finger twirling around in lazy circles through the air. Round them up.
He was grinning before, not much short of unconsciousness seemed to be able to take that away from him, but that command was one that held a great deal of appeal to him. Breaking away from his wooden prop Mason stomped out onto the deck, intent on gathering as many eyes as he could and a few more on top of that. “You heard her, boys. Fall in and form ranks!” He barked sharply.
Marines were taught to follow drill commands as the foundation of their military training, with the thought that a cohesive unit would always be more effective than a disorganized one. And the men and women aboard this particular battleship had been drilled into the ground as a matter of course. Green as they may be, when they heard that inflection in his voice every soldier present dropped what they were doing and scrambled over top of one another to fall into formation. The Captain was the lynchpin of course; she had stopped in front of the boarding ramp, and the enlisted officers formed up in a horizontal line just behind her, a handful Lieutenants and Ensigns and whatnot whose numbers seemed dreadfully small. Behind them were higher ranked infantrymen that served directly underneath them, mostly the Petty Officers, which were far more numerous. Finally came the recruits, whose numbers made up the bulk of the assembly, having moved into orderly multi-filed lines depending on which officer they reported to. This whole transition was smooth as silk, taking place in less than half a minute in a true feat of military efficiency. “ATTEN-TION!” At that the entire block snapped their legs together in unison, backs straightening and hands moving to their sides until every person there looked very much like the picture of soldierly professionalism.
All the faces that Badhand had met since coming aboard were there, standing with their fellows. Vibrant Redgrave and keen Booman stood alongside three other confident-looking officers that the shield-bearer would not recognize in the second row, though they seemed to have chosen opposite ends of the line. Hard-nosed White stood behind them, accompanied by the eccentric cannoneer Chohokei, who seemed to be in better humor than she saw him last. Surprisingly D’arby was in the middle-ranked row as well, though she had not yet had a chance to exhibit how she had earned that title. The towering form of the Bangira girl was unmistakable among the other recruits. It was odd to think that someone as fresh to the force as she had managed to put up such a fight. And in front of them all was Captain Célestine Galli-Marié. Their captain and commander. Standing there staring outward, with her back towards the men, she looked as fierce a figure as the burning sun. But there was something else to her as well. If one could see her face, they would she was almost radiating with pride. The men may be ragged and half-baked, but they were hers.
As the bow of the ship slowly slide alongside of them, they all got a good look at their sister ship’s intricate wooden figurehead, a voluptuous merwoman parting the waves with her hands. Not exactly the most tasteful of decorations, but some artisan somewhere had obviously spent a great deal of time detailing the piece. A very, very long time. From a distance back in the crowd, there was a bout of loud whispers, which was shortly thereafter silenced by a series of aggressive shushes. “Um. I don’t-I mean, there aren't any-“ It sounded like Lyla, but that was unlikely. She knew you were not supposed to speak when at attention.
It was fortunate that the Steward Rosso and the Oiseau Rebel were vessels of similar size, as their decks lined up almost perfectly, which would make travelling back with the goods in tow that much easier. Marié motioned for someone to come lay down the ramp so that she could meet her fellow captain. However, no one would make it far enough to carry that out. When the other ship had pulled up far enough for them to see over its bannisters, what they saw stopped them in place.
Nothing.
What they saw, was nothing. The ship was completely empty, from what they could see. Not a soul on deck, not even anyone at the wheel to pilot the thing. “What the hell?…” Mason wondered aloud, voicing the universal thought shared by the rest of the crewmembers. Was this a prank? If it was, it was a joke in poor taste, especially given how hard they had been rushed to make this meeting in the first place. The ghost ship offered no answers, just an eerie silence. Well that and one other subtle sound, which was rather difficult to pick up over the sound of creaking wood. A low, continuous hiss.
It was Marié who pieced it together first, her eyes shooting wide. By the time even the most observant of veterans beneath her noticed, she was already in motion. “DOWN!” She bellowed, in an unearthly voice that seemed to make the air shudder with its passage. Some of them simply dropped to the ground, but others got to watch as the flesh on woman’s arms seemed to melt away into an odd square-patterned grey. Flinging them outward, the stone colored muck expanded rapidly in all directions, twisting and writhing all the while. It was all she had time to do before the world was consumed by a torrent of light and fire.
The explosion flung their ship backwards as readily as a child might their bath-time toy, viciously slamming anyone who had still been on to their feet to the ground in the span of a heartbeat. Shards of wood and steel tore apart sections of the hull, tearing away portions of the mast with terrifying ease. Perhaps the worst part though was the heat. A blast of scorched air rushed across the deck, hot enough to sizzle unprotected flesh. It was not until that intolerable gale finally receded that anyone dared to open their eyes again, and for many what they saw made them wish that they hadn’t. Their vessel looked like it had sailed through a buster call. Waves from the eruption slammed against their battered hull, a testament to the force of the eruption that it could disturb the tranquility of the Calm Belt. And despite all this, standing unmoved in front of them was their Captain. A great brick wall twice as tall as she was and many times as wide dominated the port side of the ship, its surface blackened by the temperatures it had endured. There were cracks and holes at odd intervals, with the most notable being the spot where a metal pole had been shot through the barrier like a lance, digging its cruel point straight into Marié's chest.
They could only watch in horror as the woman tore herself free of the grievous wound, thick chunks of what one assumed was gore falling to deck below her. But even as she turned towards them the wound had already begun to close, with skin and cloth stitching itself back together in some mad parody of the normal human healing process. After a few seconds passed, she looked as if she had never even been touched. Many of the marines were still too shell-shocked to recover their senses, their hearing dominated by an unpleasant ringing in their ears, so it took most of them several repetitions for them to realize that she was shouting orders at them. “-standing there and move! You hear me? I said, PREPARE TO REPEL BOARDERS!”