The Journal of Captain Maelstorme Smythe

Forging The Seraph

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 19:20:00 +0000

Another note from the author...

I'm releasing the prologue of the first Seraph book (and later, the first few chapters on the Seraph website) to show you, my appreciated readers, that I am working on the book. It is taking much longer than I thought; the origins of the Seraph and her crew have required a great deal of thought and sketching. I'm not going to try to place a date on the completion of book one yet (I've learned my lesson about that), but I promise I will be in touch when it is finished. And if it takes too long, I'll try to get some short stories up so that folks don't lose interest. ;)

Thanks again for reading. Your interest means more to myself and the other Seraph mates than you'll ever know. Now, without further adieu, the prologue of Forging The Seraph.

Forging The Seraph

Book One of the Flight of the Seraph Series

By Shane McElveen

Prologue:

The fierce, black brine thundered mercilessly against the ancient white stones of the Lancian prison isle, Isle Blanche. Heavenly strands of aetherfire danced a random, twisting dance across the heavens - illuminating the bones-bare island with a soft, steady blue glow – scrawling thin, ominous messages upon an angrily churning sea. At the highest aether cannon turrets, even the hardiest of seasoned guards was ill at ease tonight.

This fact was not lost on Marquis Gerard Arseneaulte, Castellan of Isle Blanche. The castellan peered out from the window of the guard post, staring musingly through the hammering droplets which now bombarded the glass.

“She’s seen worse nights than this, sire,” offered the grizzled head guard, growing awkward in the silence as he and two other guards stood at attention.

“Of course,” started Arseneaulte, turning abruptly away from the window. “My apologies, Captain Barbeau.”

“Not at all, sire. I’m sure you have important things on your mind. New prisoners, perhaps.”

“Indeed. What do you know of the slave in cell 437?”

“Well…we’ve all heard stories from the shipmates that brought him here, sire. Heard that he’s some mad cannibal slave sent here for attacking his mistress. But all three of us were with the battalion that escorted him to his cell earlier, and he was peaceful as a lamb. Giant fellow, black as pitch. Wore that odd hat on the table.”

Barbeau pointed to a tall, worn black leather top hat perched on the round wooden table in the middle of the guard station common area. The tattered hat band consisted of small leather pouches, bones, fangs, and a small monkey skull positioned in the front.

The castellan shivered and turned to go. “Very well then, Captain. If there are no further questions, I shall…”

“One question sire, with all due respect,” interjected a large young guardsman.

“Yes, Lieutenant Bram,” asked the castellan impatiently.

“Why was a feral slave not hanged or otherwise put down, sire? Why go through all the trouble of bringing him here?” asked Bram. Arseneaulte and Barbeau exchanged meaningful glances, both frowning as they turned to Bram.

“The lady owner of the slave was none other than the Emperor’s cousin, Lady Amelie Couvillion. And the lady herself requested that the slave be held here and beaten regularly, but never severely. The lady will send someone from time to time to…check on him. Those are our orders, from Emperor Couvillion himself.”

Bram cleared his throat, torn between the ridiculous order and the ridiculously high level from which the order descended.

“Well then, sire, I shall make the rounds and inform the men guarding him to take special care,” said Barbeau. His glare seemed to dare Bram to ask any more questions. Bram remained quiet.

“Yes,” said Arseneaulte, turning back to the window. “See that you do.” With that, the castellan opened the staircase tower door and disappeared within, his high-heeled boots echoing crisply against the stone steps.

Down the hall, from the guardsmen, Solomon Hungan sat, his massive form cramped within the small stone cell. He crouched over the carefully dissected corpse of a thin grey rat. He poured a small tin cup of water over his left palm ,washing the small assembled bones clean before closing his eyes and muttering low, moaning words. He drank the rest of the water from the dented tin cup, and then dropped the handful of rat bones into the cup. The bones rattled within as he continued to chant, the sounds of forbidden and dangerous words disappearing into the grim walls of the room even as they left the dark man’s lips. He rolled the bones into a drying circle of rat blood, tracing their meaning with red-stained fingertips.

“Nothing,” Solomon growled in his thick Rum Isles accent. “Dat rat won’t do at all. Me got to have me hat. Me need dem bones.”

The thickly-accented words, “Me ned dem bwuns,” echoed in a soft growl from cell 437 - down the hall, to the fourth level guard table - chilling the three guards as they abruptly ended their discussion of perhaps having a friendly game of cards with the creepy top hat as the central prize.

“Hey! Shut up yer hole in there, ye black bugger, before I sew it shut!” shouted Bram.

“You leave that man be, Bram,” warned Barbeau. “We’ve been ordered hands off except for scheduled beatings. You break that one like you did Du Breens, you’ll pay for it proper.”

The third guardsman, Coyer, parted his fingers under his chin and pretended to hang to his death, his face growing purple from exertion. Barbeau smiled and stood to go.

“There’s an aura of darkness about that slave, mark me. Sensed it as we brought him in.

Murdering cannibal. Dabbles in witchcraft, so I heard. It hasn’t been right on this isle since he got here. You leave him be, understand?” The Captain returned to his rounds, attempting to act at ease. “I’ll return in an hour or so with a bit of refreshment. We’ll play for the hat then, Lieutenant.”

“Yes sir,” said Bram half-heartedly, looking with renewed interest at the thick wooden door that stood between himself and the supposed monster. He waited until Barbeau was out of earshot, pouring himself a mug of water as he dropped to the table beside Coyer.

“Superstitious old women, the lot of them,” muttered Bram, rising from the table and draining his mug. “Come on.”

“What are we doing?” asked Coyer hesitantly.

In answer, Bram placed the macabre leather top hat atop his own head and started for cell 437. He moved his aether pistol around to his back, drawing his belt knife and cudgel.

“I suggest you do the same,” Bram said to Coyer. Coyer drew his cudgel as Bram listened intently at the door. Soft, mumbling moans continued to emanate from under the door. Little light could be seen through the door’s edges, as the only window to any cell was a thin light-emitting slit along the top of each cell’s back wall. As Bram listened, he heard only the steady muttering of the cell’s occupant and the distant roar of the aether storm.

Bram threw the door to the room open, striding inside.

“Evening, little soldier boys,” chuckled Solomon. He moved like a snake from the floor of the cell, his sharp silver teeth ripping deep into Bram’s neck before the large guard could lift a weapon in his own defense.

Coyer screamed in high pitched, clarified terror as Bram’s blood sprayed all over his face and chest. Stale warmth soaked his breeches and ran into his high boots. He fled down the hall, screaming frantically as Solomon peered after him, dropping Bram’s limp body unceremoniously into the small cell. Solomon licked his lips.

“You go fetch a mop now, soldier boy,” roared Solomon after the fleeing guard, “An’ you tell dem not to worry about my dinner!” He chuckled merrily, blood dripping from his chin as he slammed the door to his cell closed again. Blood pooled slowly into the hallway, where the screaming Coyer’s exclamations were now only frantic echoes.

Solomon Hungan unbuttoned a satchel of bones from inside of his top hat, then placed the ominous hat back on his thickly dreadlocked head. He spilled the bones within the small satchel into the tin cup, and shook the bones over and over, chanting low.

As he read them, he whispered through his thick island accent, “White mon from da sea…will ride on da winds. Pirate riding on de angel’s back. He will hate dat witch as we hate dat witch. He will be enslaved for a friend. A healer mon, being ridden by a wolf. Pirate mon will kill dat witch. Bomb mon…wounded mon…will set us free.” Solomon smiled a shark-like, red-stained silver smile and laughed to himself. Finally, he had only to wait for that pirate man to arrive.

A Note From The Writer

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 20:32:00 +0000

To those who have followed the journal so far, I'd like to say hello, and thank you so much for your interest in my writing. For those who have been reading the journal over time, thank you for your patience. Please allow me to apologize for the lack of journal entries over the past few months. I felt that you, my readers, deserve an explanation of why you haven't seen a journal post for a while.

The truth is that I was stuck for a bit, and when the gears and cogs started turning again, I realized that the format is what is encumbering me in the story of Mael and his crew. I've never claimed to be an eclectic writer nor a champion wordsmith. This marks my first true attempt at a tale of any length.

What I'm getting at here is that I'm taking a hiatus from this version of the seraph Crew's story in favor of a broader, third-person perspective on things. And I'm going to take the ideas presented here and start on the first of the Seraph novels. I will rework this blog and post the first few chapters of the novel once it is finished, and I will also post links from time to time leading to other blogs where I will be posting my short stories.

I realize I'm leaving this at a cliffhanger, and I realize how much that sucks. Hopefully you can all rest easy in the knowIedge that the account of the island will be covered, in detail, in the novel I'm currently working on. I'm afraid that I just can't agree with the statement that it's better to burn out than fade away. So for now I'm going to fade and reorganize...hopefully emerging with a stronger tale and something worthy of your patience and support.

Thank you all again for your time and interest.

Sincerely,
Shane McElveen

Taleus 8, 1806: Black Skies

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 17:40:00 +0000

From the Journal of M. Maelstorme Smythe
Captain of the Signet Ship "Seraph"
Captain's Log: Official Log, the Thirteenth
Date: Taleus 8, 1806, Year of the Drake

After breakfast this morning, I sent several teams of armed men out in the overcast daylight to collect samples of the aetherie crystals. I stood with Solomon Hungan and two new gunners on the main deck with our aetheric rifles at the ready to protect the teams of men with cover fire. Within a minute of the men's boots leaving the surf, we spotted rapid movement under the sand from the direction of the ocean. Sand rose and split in a long, rapidly accelerating trail. Mr. Hungan called the shot and aimed.

A healthy-sized (8 foot long) tunnel eel burst from the sand, it's jaws crackling with electricity and drawing the aetheric charge from the men's guns as it struck. Mr. Hungan fired on the eel, severing its bottom jaw. The eel's jaw hit the sand, charred and issuing the signature blue smoke of an aetheric energy burn. The rest of the beast flailed madly, and gave Evander Jones a nasty jolt as he met it's top fangs with his saber. Without a full set of jaws, the creature was unable to produce enough electrical charge to either paralyze Mr. Jones or draw the charge from the four-barreled aether pistol he then produced to blast a rather large hole through its sandy skull.

A second eel was upon them in due course, but was ruthlessly dispatched by the vigilant Doctor Dayafter with his rapier and aether pistol before it broke free of the sand. A third eel surfaced beside Chef Gregoe, immediately striking at the massive Chef. His leather-covered chainmail gauntlet saved him from a nasty burn, and he immediately set upon the giant eel with "Papa's knife", a hulking butcher knife with a wickedly sharp, curving edge (our Chef likes to keep all of his good personal knives on him at all times). Chef and his staff proceeded to gut and skin the creature right there on the beach as a calmly intrigued Dr. Dayafter produced several specimen jars.

The fourth, fifth and sixth tunnel eels exploded from the sand near the fresh pile of eel entrails. Fortunately, Mr. Hungan and I had anticipated this. I shot through the eyes of the fourth eel, while one of our new riflemen (Mr. Thurmond Valder) achieved an impressive shot, catching through the fifth eel's head and into the sixth. The men then quickly dispatched the sixth, slightly flailing, eel in short order while I openly bet Valder that he could not repeat that incredible shot. He grinned and accepted the bet for a later time, as we saw that no more eels were arriving to threaten the crew.

The teams arrived back aboard the Seraph before nightfall; a detail that I had been adamant upon. Chef Gregoe prepared both citrus-braised fillets and a rich, tangy stew from the fallen tunnel eels that evening, claiming that there was enough of the eels left for another two meals for the entire crew. The chef also informed me that he was preparing the officers a "special surprise" for tomorrow morning's breakfast, which will be consumed before I lead most of the crew to venture onto the black isle to enter the island cave system.

I have been watching the beaches every night; smoking spicy clove-laced tobacco from father's pipe, with my long aether rifle in my arms and my journal in my long coat's pocket. I do not lack trust in my men to be lookouts during the night's darkest hours. I have simply done this for as long as I can remember, climbing to the highest point on the ship to think and watch the stars ever since I first began sailing as a lad. Being high above sail or zeppelin - close among the heavens - helps me think, I reckon. In truth, I also find it nigh impossible to remain asleep at night without Morrigan with me, so I await her each night atop the crow's nest. I continue to tell myself that one of these nights, my sweet raven will fly back to my shoulder as I maintain my nightly vigil...Axiom, I do prattle on at times.

In any event, I had been spotting movement on the island's shore ever since the Seraph drew close enough to view the beach in detail. Over the past few nights, my telescope revealed roughly human-sized, crab-like crustaceans with many beady black eyes scavenging the black sands after sunset. The creatures walked upon a multitude of tall, spindly legs. Last night, they converged around the remains of the tunnel eel corpses, their large claws surprisingly nimble as they gorged themselves upon the remains with small, razor-sharp teeth. One creature in particular was extremely large, and obviously dominant, as it claimed a large share of the feast (also, its exoskeleton was more faded and battle worn, and sported larger horny growths than the other creatures' shells).

Every so often, another crustacean would try to nick a bit of the leader's food, at which point something incredibly unnerving happened; the dominant crustacean raised the back of its shell, suddenly producing a scorpion-like tail. Within seconds, the challenger did the same. The chitin-armored tails clashed against each other, each striking for purchase at weak spots underneath the other creature's exoskeleton. Within a few minutes of this duel for dominance, the largest scorpion crab (for I have not a better name for them as of yet) seized the stinging tail of the other creature in its massive claw and severed it in twain. As the other crab shrieked with pain, the largest creature struck its neck (or rather what I assumed was its neck) in a fleshy spot where two pieces of exoskeleton met. Even as the creature collapsed, the others were upon it, ripping its exoskeleton apart and devouring the challenger.

At this point, I opened the pocket communicator that DuBreens claims to have finally perfected. The exterior appears to be an ornate silver pocket watch, until one opens the lid, at which point the strange technology of the aether is revealed. I spoke Dr. Dayafter's name into the device. Doctor Dayafter's face appeared with a shaking blue-tinted glow on the lens as I watched it, incredulous that it actually worked.

"I am here, Captain. I say, are you noticing the charming behavior of the local wildlife?"

"I am indeed, Doctor. Prepare a long boat. We'll be going ashore."

Gus raised an eyebrow. "What exactly are you planning, Captain?"

"If we remain on that island at nightfall tomorrow and that giant stinging crab gets a chance, he shall have us trapped, and I foresee a possible bloodbath."

"How do you know that the creature is, in fact, a male? Perhaps she is an alpha female."

"Hmm...Could be a queen...Gus, does it matter, or are you just being difficult?"

Dayafter chuckled softly. "I am, in fact, being difficult, Captain. Are you certain of this course of action? Your reasoning is sound, but do you wish to directly confront the creature?"

"No."

I narrowed my gaze at the largest creature. I aimed carefully and fired. The shot was well placed, the blue bolt of aetheric energy burning instantly between the creature's front eyes, and ending with a vague blue glow somewhere within the creature. As it's challenger had before it, the largest crustacean toppled upon its spindly legs and collapsed. The other creatures appeared uncertain of what to do now that their leader was destroyed. I decided to give them some incentive. I felled six more of the scorpion crabs before the others quickly scuttled back into the sea. As the creatures scuttled clumsily from the shore into the brine below, I relaxed a bit.

We boarded the long boats soon after. I turned my gaze to the stars as we rowed in two boats toward the shore; Mr. Hungan, Mr. Jones and several other crewmen volunteered to go with us (Hungan said for our protection, at which point Gus and I shared a careful look; we knew the other volunteers to be confidantes of Jones). No breeze cooled my face; there is a leeching, stagnant humidity about this island that seems to invade the bones. Mist began to roll in from the strange interior of the dark, dormant volcano whose walls dominate the skyline, blocking the interior of the island like a great tower keep. The faintest of blue glows emanated just within the rims of the volcano's black spires. The waves shallowly covered the remaining aetherie crystals (of which there were few) among the rocks on the black beach, lending a ghostly, ethereal quality to the waters.

The men hefted the body of the massive scorpion crab into one long boat. Two more of the smaller bodies were loaded into the other long boat. We were just casting off from the shore when a shriek issued from deep inside the island. I recognized the sound from very painful memories. It was the unmistakable shriek of a woman being tormented. One thought overcame me...

"Morrigan?!" I started toward the caverns, drawing my pistol, feeling the heavy weight of upcoming deathly folly before me if I chose this course. Something insidiously malign lingered on this island. A thin-fingered hand closed quickly over my shoulder.

"Captain..." began Dr. Dayafter quietly.

"I know, Gus!" I hissed. "Axiom damn me, I know." I stopped in the sand, slowly holstering my pistol. At that moment, a terrible wailing roar pierced the night, echoing around us. The men began exchanging meaningful looks and cursing. They hastily began casting away toward the Seraph, and I backed away to join them.

"On the morrow, Mael," Gus replied calmly, his eyes on the caves. "On the morrow."

I nodded and returned to the left long boat with Gus, two men behind us.

We rowed slowly toward the Seraph, weighed down considerably by the dead crab creatures. In the boat beside us, I heard Evander Jones grumbling mutinously to the man behind him in low tones.

"This was a stupid risk...all fer some damn crab meat? And that shriek...knew having a woman on board was bad luck. Never should've..." mumbled Jones. I growled, drawing my saber in a smooth motion and slashing a long scar across Jones' face. Jones drew his four-barreled pistol, murder in his eyes.

The smooth click and electric buzz of an aether gun rang out suddenly, and everyone stopped. The barrel of Solomon Hungan's aether pistol nestled against the back of Mr. Jones' neck.

Solomon growled curses in some dark, forbidden language as his right arm draped lazily over the crewman in front of him, one pistol still lodged just above Jones' shoulder blades. The other pistol rested on the other shoulder of the crewman in front of him.

Directly behind me, two more sets of buzzing clicks followed. Dr. Dayafter's pistols pointed at the crewman behind him and the crewman behind Hungan in the other long boat. I watched Jones intently, then took the opportunity to strike, slipping the tip of my blade under his pistol's trigger guard, and flicking it forcefully onto the beach behind us. Jones raised his other hand.

"Wait!" yelled Hullman, the crewman behind Gus. "We can negotiate..."

Two aether shots sizzled and exploded in the night, making a disgusting, burnt framework of Jones' head. His hand dropped a small, hidden knife into the long boat as his body sprawled backward into the sea, splashing hard and disappearing beneath white foam and lapping waves. The barrels of Gus and Solomon's pistols billowed blue smoke.

"Would anyone else like to negotiate?" asked Gus loudly to the other gentlemen. The other men were very pale, and very quiet.

"Good," I replied, sheathing my saber. "If any of you lads chooses to continue Jones' mutiny, I shall cut ye down and leave ye twitching for the giant crabs. Do we have an accord, gentlemen?"

Their replies were all affirmative.

"Very well. Let's get back to the Seraph before those crab creatures get a taste of Jones and decide they want more of what be riding in the longboats."

The boats drew ever closer to the Seraph's engine bay. Aul du Breens stood at the open bay doors, holding a lantern and his short blunderbuss rifle. His spider monkey, Crash, sat upon his shoulder. As we drew alongside, Chef arrived and directed the crewmen to carry the crab carcasses into the walk-in freezer beside the galley (another marvel of aetheric science that resembles a giant metal ice box...I shall have to go into more detail on this at another time, however, for the hour is late). Not a word was spoken as the engine bay door closed. I nodded at the men, gave Solomon and Gus thankful cuffs on the shoulder, and headed for my quarters.

On the morrow, we shall enter that forbidding cave beyond the island shore, and see what we shall see. The scream...the roar...I am not entirely certain what they might mean. I can only pray that the shriek we heard was not my beloved Morrigan. If I did not have my crew to think of, I would be in that cave already. However, I do, and that hour will come all too quickly. I should attempt to sleep, though I know I cannot. Perhaps my next entry shall not be so bleak.

Axiom help us.

- Mael

Taleus 7, 1806: Night of the Wolf

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 21:43:00 +0000

From the Journal of M. Maelstorme Smythe
Captain of the Signet Ship "Seraph"
Captain's Log: Official Log, the Twelfth
Date: Taleus 7, 1806, Year of the Drake

We have finally dropped anchor as close to the isle of Salamandrius as possible. I do not say "finally" out of any personal desire, as I was not at all eager to land on these forbidding shores. I have merely looked forward to ending our journey to this place; this has been a costly voyage thus far. I have warned the men to prepare themselves for a most dangerous excursion. The threat of impending mutiny still hangs heavy in the air; I shall be leaving Mr. "Aul" DuBreens and Chef Gregoe Zlatkis aboard the Seraph just in case. I have alerted them to my fears. I believe that all of my men are as prepared as I for the coming journey along this black coast and into its mysterious core. I can only hope that preparation will be enough to keep them all alive.

I have not seen Morrigan since my last entry...I fear for her safety, and pray that she has not undertaken something foolish in her current...state. It is not merely her absence that worries me so...it is the suddenness, and my lack of ability to understand her in her current physical form. I also wonder how much of my Morrigan is left in that raven when she turns...and how long she will be able to remain herself, even when human. Do I have months? Years? Or was that last interrupted visit the last I shall ever see of my beloved as I know her? The thought is maddeningly cruel. It is both ill-timed and difficult to set aside, even with the approach of unknown dangers as we prepare to set foot on these forbidding shores.

The sand of this island is black, matching the overcast, smoke-ridden sky. The only real light comes in the form of an eerie flickering glow that emanates from scattered patches of small , opaque blue aether crystal deposits, or "aetherie", which appear to be growing among the bases of the rocks. These deposits alone are a treasure beyond reckoning (aetheric energy is easily obtainable in this crystal form, which we use to provide the spark for our aether cannons and aetheric engines), and I am beginning to suspect rogue pirates as the reason for the disappearance of this mining colony. Whatever the cause truly is remains to be discovered, but I do not expect our discoveries to be either pleasant or easily palatable (if indeed we find anything at all). Mining or scouting in the wild, uncharted regions of this globe has always been a gamble, and I will be shocked to find any of those miners before we are forced to turn back. Such is the game of mining rare ores (in this case, reselientum) in aether-rich regions.

Mr. DuBreens has had a majority of the men busily making repairs to the ship, along with new spider-legged clockwork drones that he insists on using to improve repair productivity. The men continually look at the drones with distrust. Solomon Hungan, the gunnery officer, lives in unabashed terror of the creepy spider-like automatons; Mr. DuBreens and Mr. Hungan have not spoken since an awful shouting match ensued yesterday between them (Mr. DuBreens apparently found one of his spider drones shot through with aether fire and floating alongside the Seraph).

We were able to retrieve the crow's nest, but the mast that held her aloft still begs replacement. I can only pray for a boon from Axiom that the interior of this isle is more lush than the barren black sand of the beach, and that we may find serviceable lumber. Dr. Dayafter and Mr. Hungan have been keeping busy by checking our weapons and supplies for the journey into the lonely looking cavern that appears to be the only entrance to the island interior from this lonely black beach.

This morning, Mr. DuBreens asked Augustus Dayafter and myself to breakfast with him early in the mess pub, so that he could explain some details about the disturbing events that occurred several nights ago. Chef Gregoe supplied a delicious breakfast of sausages, fried eggs and toasted bread, with a large pot of steaming breakfast tea. We encouraged the chef to breakfast with us; the most we could convince him to indulge in with us, however, was a spot of tea. "Oh, I eat all day, gentlemen," he beamed as he watched Aul and I gobble our breakfasts with unmannerly zeal. Augustus, of course, slowly dissected his sausage and eggs, arranging his plate as he slowly took a bite now and then. As Augustus slowly chewed an egg, Aul drained his tea and headed behind the bar for a pint.

"Coptun? Pint?" asked the engineer in his strange, thickly accented brogue.

"Far too early for me, mate."

"Bah. Poofterrr. Anyvone elshe?"

Chef declined with a slight frown. Dr. Dayafter merely placed a leather bag on the table, and began removing an absinthe bottle, an ornate glass, a small pouch of sugar cubes, and a golden absinthe spoon. Mr. DuBreens returned to the table and began his account of the "Night of da Volf".

As the engineer began his account, I could not help noticing that his voice would lapse within sentences from his normally dense Scythian accent (laced with the deep rolling brogue of Kellsian speech). Suddenly the thick Scythian accent would be gone, and he would be speaking the blazingly fast, difficult to understand, pure accent of the Kellsian highlands. I had noticed this on countless occasions, but I could not suppress the question this time.

"Aul, why do you do that?"

"Due whah, Coptun?"

"Ye switch accents as ye speak, mate. I'd think ye a fine actor if I thought ye meant to do it."

"Ach, Coptun, esn't et orbvious? Me moother was frrrom Kells, unt mine fadda vush frrrrom Scythia!"

His reasoning completely eluding me, I decided to drop any further questions. Dr. Dayafter appeared thoroughly amused, while Chef Gregoe looked offended at Dr. Dayafter's apparent dismissal of the remainder of his delicious breakfast. The good doctor absently stirred his absinthe.

During his first pint of ale, Aul went on to explain that the Dayafter werewolf had indeed been securely locked inside of the flying cage at the beginning of the fiasco. Upon devouring the livestock that was placed in the cage with him, the wolf spilled the unfortunate beast's blood and entrails into the sea, possibly summoning the first of the hellsquid, which Mr. DuBreens and Mr. Thorne concur must have been lurking very close beneath the waves already. Thus, the hellsquid began to attack, greatly distracting the crew from their watch of the lycanthrope. DuBreens halted his account, returning to the bar for another pint. I shrugged and added a bit of apple brandy pick me up to mine and the Chef's teacups. The Chef accepted gratefully, now enthralled with the terrible tale of the doctor's awful secret other life.

"DuBreens, old bean, could you please stop referring to my alter ego as `the fuzzy moon doctor?' It's really quite inappropriate."

"Aye", I agreed. "Sounds like yer tryin' to make the nasty beastie who could tear any of us in twain...well....maybe not Chef Gregoe here..." (Chef nodded his agreement, motioning for more apple brandy), "...into a wee pet or summat."

"Vell it'sh a verrry scarrry storrry, innit?!" abashed DuBreens, drinking heavily of his Pint and refilling it before returning to the table. We all sighed and sipped our drinks.

Upon the hellsquid attack, the wolf began kicking at the body of the slain cow whilst gripping onto the blood-slicked bars of the cage. At this point, Aul removed his repeating aetheric blunderbuss, dealing a few nasty wounds to the creature's torso. However, too quickly, the beast was up and jumping again, his wounds healing, testing the durability of his prison. In time, the combined weight of the bovine carcass and the strength of the wolf's thundering blows forced the floor of the cage to collapse, sending the carcass plummeting into the sea. The werewolf, slipping down the bars, began advancing hand over hand along the bottom of the cage, hanging like a monkey beneath it. He began swinging the cage, finally launching himself at the front and flipping himself onto the side of the cage. He slowly advanced to the top of the cage as Aul began shooting the chains that connected the cage to the Seraph. As Aul looked up from his work, the last chain flying away from the now-plummeting loose cage. He watched with dismay as the wolf leapt and snatched the chain with one hand. The wolf slammed into the engine bay door as it began to close, and Mr. DuBreens shot it squarely in the chest with the aetheric blunderbuss. The door closed tight, and Aul raced out of the engine room to the top deck.

At this point, Aul returned for yet another pint, leaving Chef Gregoe greatly agitated. The chef had cleared the plates and brought out a steaming silver coffee service, coffee cups, and plates brimming with sugary, delicate dessert pastries before Aul returned.

By the time Aul arrived on the main deck, the wolf had nimbly climbed the side of the Seraph, then the mast rigging as sailor after distracted sailor took shots at him with their aether rifles. He climbed until he reached the crow's nest, whereupon the frightened lookout dove out of the crow's nest and back into the rigging. The werewolf stayed there for several minutes as Aul began to toll the emergency bell for the Captain. Mr. Deckwalkre climbed the rigging in pursuit of the creature, and there entered into the bloody conflict that ended his life as one of the attacking hellsquid began hovering overhead to attack the Seraph's topsails.

We all sat silently at the end of the tale. Chef Gregoe silently patted a morose Augustus Dayafter on the back.

"Maybe we will have those pints after all, mate," I said.

Taleus 4, 1806: The Fangs of Salamandrius

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 19:32:00 +0000

From the Journal of M. Maelstorme Smythe
Captain of the Signet Ship "Seraph"
Captain's Log: Official Log, the Eleventh
Date: Taleus 4, 1806, Year of the Drake

We are mere days away from Salamandrius. The concerted hellsquid attack has crippled the Seraph's flying abilities temporarily. However, even with the current sailing state of the Seraph, the wind has been extremely favorable (thanks to our navigator), and we are only a few days behind schedule. Mr. DuBreens has been hard at work with a team of men, racing along the vessel and fixing what is broken - improving on structural weaknesses. The engineer seems to have taken it as a personal insult that the hellsquid were capable of the vast amount of damage that their attack wreaked upon "his ship".

The crew has been quiet...morale is low. I really can't blame them. Even from this distance, plumes of thick black smoke from the great isle of Salamandrius' thin volcano spires are visible on the horizon. Even this far out from the island, we are forced to carefully navigate through the treacherous "Fangs of Salamandrius", tall, sharp deposits of yellow rock that jut from the sea floor like ancient, weathered talons. It seems that both the sun and hope itself have abandoned this place.

The men avoid the doctor, who takes his meals privately now. I have pleaded with him (indeed, I even admit to commanding him) to at least dine with the officers, but he always finds an excuse of late to have his meals brought to his lab, where he has spent every waking hour preparing the ingredients that he has for the wolfsbane potion, as well as sending carrier hawks out to the Signet and acquaintances from past adventures who might be able to provide either the preventative potion's missing ingredients, or their whereabouts. He attempts to mask it around me, but it is apparent that he has settled into a severe malaise after the incident with the wolf several nights ago. I am concerned about his state of mind, especially as we near an unknown and almost certainly dangerous situation once we arrive at Salamandrius.

What concerns me more is why the hellsquid are suddenly attacking in packs, when they have previously acted only as solitary creatures. Most curious, indeed. I was made aware of this fact as I sat upright in bed, restlessly recuperating from my injuries. Dr. Dayafter was mauling me with clinical detachment in a game of chess as we discussed how best to approach the mysteries of Salamandrius.

"Check mate, Captain," said the doctor solemnly, cleaning his multi-lensed glasses.

"You cheated, you quack", I said, nicking the glasses and carefully examining the board. The doctor swiftly retrieved his glasses, barely containing a smile.

"Drink your rum, Captain. Then you can cry into the glass."

I was examining the devastation of my small wooden platoon (and, indeed, imbibing a healthy dose of rum) when the navigator, Mr. Thorne, knocked at the door. He entered tentatively, looking sweaty and distraught. This did not overly alarm me, as Mr. Thorne often appears sweaty and distraught. Mr. Thorne is quite an accomplished naturalist; an avid student of nature. He has been studying the hellsquid since his first encounter with them, and has never, on any vessel, experienced a group attack of hellsquid.

"It was almost as if..." the navigator began, then dismissed the thought, but I coaxed the rest of the thought from him, "...as if something were controlling them."

"Is that possible?" Dr. Dayafter asked, waking momentarily from his malaise.

"We've seen stranger things, gentlemen," Mr. Thorne replied, looking a bit peaked.

"Aye, and I'll wager we see even worse on this accursed isle," I groaned, laying back on my pillow. "I wonder if there's a connection between the hellsquid pack and Salamandrius."

We discussed a strategy, and continued the conversation with the other ship's officers at supper. It was the first night I was allowed to walk the decks again, and I dare say the men were actually glad to see me. I visited the Seraph's on-board tavern which serves as the crew's mess and recreational hall after a savory meal which seemed to contain all of my favorites (Chef Gregoe admitted later that this was no accident). After a bit of carousing, the officers and I (sans the doctor, of course) seemed to have gained the crew's good graces once again, at least for tonight. Several of the crewman retired as I arrived, apparently led by the surly Mr. Evander Jones. I'll be keeping both eyes on that one, just in case.

I retired to my chambers and picked up Morrigan's letter, smelling her perfume upon it. Even as I did, she was upon my shoulder, ruffling her feathers and nipping at my ear. I smiled at her. Cold black raven's eyes stared back, and she cawed. I can only suppose that my smile disappeared, as she immediately blinked and flew out of the nearest window. I looked back down at the letter and finished reading, a tear falling and transforming the careful, precise pen strokes into a small blot of grey. I folded the letter, placing it in a drawer with several others.

I retired then, extinguishing the lanterns. I know not where Morrigan goes during these times when we both grieve over her raven state and the separation that occurs between us, or what problems these fugues may bring in the future. I wonder sometimes if this was a mistake...this "star-crossed romance", as the bards say. If it merely appealed to the pirate in me and the courtier in her as a romantic literary notion...or if, perhaps, this is something more genuine.

It is not easy for a man like me to recognize love...to distinguish it from the countless random encounters and flings that I have had. For Axiom's sake, I used to bed foreign officials' wives merely to retrieve national secrets. Perhaps we're both merely tired of being a sexual novelty. Perhaps we'll never know.

I'm done waxing poetic for now. Perhaps I'll continue tomorrow (more likely, perhaps not). Either way, more later.

- Mael

Taleus 1, 1806: Chaos In The Skies, Tertiary Tale

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 19:56:00 +0000

From the Journal of M. Maelstorme Smythe
Captain of the Signet Ship "Seraph"
Captain's Log: Official Log, the Tenth
Date: Taleus 1, 1806, Year of the Drake

I briefly regained consciousness on the 28th, just after dawn. My head was pounding from dull pain. A crowd of people was gathered in the infirmary; several men armed and standing directly beside the unconscious body of Dr. Dayafter. He was under a white sheet, bound by rope and chain to a metal surgical table. His eyelids flickered, and then opened, focusing on me. Within seconds his awakened mind registered what I assume was my hastily bandaged form lying on a surgical table beside him. I can only assume from his aghast expression that I looked as dapper and hardy as I felt.

His throat dry, he silently mouthed, "Mael...I'm so sorry..." Then the room slowly faded to black, and I was unconscious once more.

Upon my second waking, I arose at 10 of the morning on the 29th, groaning with incredible soreness as I attempted to sit up in the thin infirmary bed, tossing the white sheets away from me. My chest and stomach were heavily bandaged, as was my left arm. Suddenly but with a gentle pressure, Augustus' hand appeared and pushed me back to the bed.

"Not yet, oh fearless leader. It took far too much effort stitching you up to have you destroying all of my work in one brash sitting," the doctor chided with a friendly - if forced - smirk. I focused on his face; a thin, pale scar ran a short, vertical line down the bridge of his nose. Another identical scar resided under his chin.

"I thank you for besting my feral alter ego, Captain. I am..." his eyes dropped, and he coughed roughly - a sound etched with growling, whining undertones - into a white handkerchief, visibly out of sorts.

"I vowed to you that I would see the wolf stopped if ever we met again," I interrupted, painfully lifting my hand to his shoulder. "Never was your fault what that blasted beast sets his mind to do...won't hear of you blaming yourself for it. We've been through this before. Just need to get more ingredients so you can make that preventative potion before another month passes. Have to be more prepared next time is all," I whispered hoarsely through gritted teeth. Even speaking was painful.

"Of course, Captain," Augustus replied, still looking down. "...but Mr. Deckwalkre..."

"...is dead. I shut his eyes and prayed him onward," I offered. "T'weren't your curse that killed Deckwalkre...t'was my own."

"Surely you don't still believe in that silly old `Death of All First Mates' curse, Mael?" We stared at each other.

"How many of my first mates have died since Diabolique dropped that jealous hoodoo on my head, Doctor?"

Augustus sighed, "All of them, Captain."

"See no reason I shouldn't believe in it, then."

"Captain, the men. I can't transform again in front of these men. They already seem terrified of me..."

"I said we'll take care of it, Doctor. So far, the men are adjusting. We're finding and taking on an alchemist next civilized port we find after that gods cursed island, so either you or Aul need to start making a place for him." Again we both stared stubbornly at each other. Finally, he nodded and cleared his throat. I nodded and lowered my head to the pillow again, exhaling in relief.

"So, Doctor, will I live?"

"Sadly, yes. I should tell you 'No' after this ghastly scar you've given me...however, I must insist that you remain in bed until tomorrow. After that..."

I opened my mouth to protest, but he seemed adamant on this point, so I nodded agreement. I reckoned that winning two of three verbal bouts with the good doctor was a fine track record for one sitting.

"...after that, I want you resting in your cabin for a full two days unless you are called on deck for an emergency. Until then, Mr. Thorne, Mr. Hungan and Mr. DuBreens will run the ship for you."

"How's Morrigan?"

"As well as can be expected. She left a note for you in your chambers." With that, the doctor was upon me with a tray full of potives to administer. Within a few minutes, I was higher than the Seraph herself, all of my cares vanishing to the salty sea winds...and once again, I gave in to the spreading darkness, and flew on waves of chemically induced ecstasy.

"I am glad that I entrusted you with the dagger, Mael," said the doctor's voice through the swirling darkness.

Here ends of the "Chaos in The Skies" Tales (at least the account by my pen).

- Mael

Genvieve 31, 1806: Chaos In The Skies, Secondary Entry

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Tue, 05 Feb 2008 21:24:00 +0000

From the Journal of M. Maelstorme Smythe
Captain of the Signet Ship "Seraph"
Captain's Log: Official Log, the Nineth
Date: Genvieve 31, 1806, Year of the Drake

At half past ten (still on the 27th, this was), I was roused by the tolling of the ship's emergency bell. This both startled me to action and angered me, as I did not wish for the entire ship to be alerted to the werewolf's escape. Even as my newly awakened senses began to clear, the ship lurched to the left as if struck by a gargantuan force. My head snapped around to Morrigan with what I thought was concerned apology in my eyes...but I was standing by the time she nodded resignedly for me to go, the warmth of Morrigan and the blankets a fading memory.

I stumbled into my clothes and rapidly exited my quarters in my trousers, weapons belts and unbuttoned shirtsleeves, an aetheric long rifle across my back. Even as I exited my quarters, hot blue bursts of aetheric cannon fire exploded on the port side, filling the darkness with the terrible shrieking of hellsquid. A vague smell of cooked squidflesh - infused with the pungent brine of the sea - wafted along in the cold, crisp night air.

Men ran and fell on either side of me, scrambling to one station or another. All were filled with terror. Suddenly, a painful scream issued from the crow's nest. As I looked upward, I gazed for a moment upon the unmistakable forms of the werewolf and the first mate locked in combat upon the crow's nest. The wolf bit heavily upon Mr. Deckwalkre's arm, and his screams issued forth to join the squids' shrieking.

Suddenly, something small and hard slapped against my face painfully. I drew my pistol, touching my cheek where the object had hit. My fingers came away red with the tell-tale metallic tang of blood. My eyes wandered down to my feet, and there discovered the severed right hand of my first mate. The hand appeared to have been torn away. Minute bits of bottle glass were imbedded in the calloused, wet palm (I could only deduce that these were the remnants of a failed attempt to administer a sleeping draught to the beast). A thick coat of drool dripped from the torn hand. I cursed in anger and horror, immediately aiming and firing a shot at the wolf in the crow's nest. A low, mournful whine replied.

Even as the wolf doubled over, the screaming first officer was plucked from the crow's nest - skewered by a barbed tentacle. With a wild slicing motion, Mr. Deckwalkre severed the foul appendage, and began to plummet to the deck. The writhing mass of man and ghastly limb immediately slammed into the deck in front of me, flopping and writhing about like a huge, injured jungle serpent. Black ichor oozed from the severed tentacle. Impaled upon the talon was the body of Mr. Deckwalkre, his eyes wide with fear and pain.

Claw marks crossed his ruined face. His remaining hand still clutched his cavalry saber, it's blade dark with mingling stains of crimson blood and black squid ichor. The stink of squid flesh pervaded the scene around me; I prayed hastily over his remains and closed his eyes. Saluting him, I began to march toward the crow's nest mast to confront Dayafter's wolf.

The ship lurched violently to the right, tossing me about like a rag doll to the wooden deck. I rolled and crouched for several minutes, merely looking and listening. To my horror, a hellsquid thundered overhead, splintering the mast that held the crow's nest. I watched with intent rage as the sail became caught up in the writhing tentacles and began to slowly catch fire. The squid was ascending again, but slowly and jerkily; the very mast it had attacked had broken off into the creature's soft underbelly, and was now covered in the squid's oozing black blood.

For good measure, I aimed my long rifle at the large hole that the squid's awful tentacles were now tearing into the cotton sail, it's writhing inner maw and throat now revealed. I braced myself and fired three times in succession, each shot landing true. The squid shrieked horribly as thick grey smoke and black gore erupted from it's open mouth. It began to plummet toward the deck, vomiting black bilge.

Men were running in every direction, screaming, arming themselves, reloading, repositioning...suddenly, Solomon Hungan spun me around to face him, breathing heavily, an artillery-sized drake rifle in his massive arms.

"Cap'n, dere's two mo hellsquid off de port bow!" he screamed over the commotion, pumping endless rounds into the falling hellsquid, causing it to writhe away from its previous destructive course toward the deck.

"Why are you not firing the cannons?" I screamed back, tossing us both down to the deck even as the piece of mast protruding from the hellsquid's gory underbelly crashed into the port railing, tearing off a section and sending a screaming man overboard. Tentacles flashed up, and the man was snatched into a squid's maw. More tentacles began slamming onto the deck, clumsily seeking prey. The men on deck fought competently, slicing with sabers and firing shots into the searching talons.

"Got me best gunnas on dat, Cap'n! T'ree more a dese t'ings already been blown de hell away!"

"Lord'a thunder! Why in the thirteen hells are these things attacking?" On the port side, cannon fire exploded, and the tentacles flailed and retreated.

"Dunno, Mael, six bloody squid just jumped up outta de waves from nowhere...maybe dey smell de cow blood, mon. Maybe dey hungry fo' de death. Ida way, I gots to go kill me a squid!" Solomon proclaimed, disappearing amongst the chaos.

Suddenly, another jolt lurched the ship to the right; I stumbled and supported myself. The port side blimp exploded, the force pushing the entire vessel sideways in the air. I flew several feet above the deck, then connected face-first into the deck, breaking my nose and blurring my vision. Sharp pain flooded my senses, and my jaws creaked as my teeth clenched furiously.

More screams filled the air, including the wailing of the final hellsquid as it plummeted - entirely covered in aetheric flame - toward the ocean below. The thick, acrid smoke billowing from the burning hulk carried the pungent smell of sizzling squidflesh (I am told that the beast had stopped shrieking long before it finally hit the waves, but that the impact with the ocean shattered the hellsquid's burnt corpse into sizzling black chunks and clouds of grey ash).

It was only then that my mind refocused on the werewolf. Amongst the chaos and the hellsquids everything ran together...my vision immediately focused upon the broken mast, the sharp ache still filling my nose and forehead, and pervading my vision. Upon the broken mast, drunken but conscious, perched the werewolf, his yellow eyes staring back at me coldly. We breathed as one, thick grey smoke blocking our sight for a moment, then disappearing to reveal cold stares. We stood that way for seconds, then I lowered my rifle.

He howled defiantly and stared, somehow seeming to know that I would not destroy him.I fired one shot, blowing off his kneecap. Then my eyes were watering from the pain of my broken nose.

A painful howl resonated through the night as the werewolf plummeted drunkenly from the broken mast, slowing its descent several times by clawing frantically at the mast. One of its claws broke off, imbedding itself in the mast wood. The werewolf's howls ended abruptly as it crashed heavily to the deck, bones snapping, moaning and whimpering as it attempted to recover from the fall. Already, the knee was beginning to heal itself. The shot I had inflicted earlier upon the creature, wherever it had been, was now completely healed, as were any saber wounds that Mr. Deckwalkre had struggled to inflict upon the werewolf.

I wasted no time, dropping the rifle and advancing toward the wolf. Taking my pistol's barrel in one hand and a sleeping draught in the other, I descended on the writhing beast to club him solidly on the temple before his eyes could focus. His arm flew up to meet me, slicing long, spreading gashes into my chest and stomach, then slashing my left arm. As I fell to one knee, he began to rise from the deck, growling and supporting himself with one arm, rising ever closer into a biting position.

I knew that a bite from the fell wolf would spread the dreaded disease to me as well...and I had far too many reasons not to become a werewolf. I drew the silver dagger as he lunged and plunged it up and through his muzzle, pinning the snarling jaws together. A howl of pain issued from the closed jaws even as I too howled in pain, his claws tearing into my back. As we glared into each others eyes, I withdrew the dagger and rammed my forehead into the area between the beast's eyes, howling again as hot, sharp pain flooded through my broken nose and forehead.
The werewolf's head dropped to the deck, his eyes rolling back in their sockets.

Dizzily searching my pouches, I knew that my time was short before he would be awake and upon me, tearing at my throat...I opened a small packet of smelling salts under my nose and wiped my tearing eyes. I searched frantically again, locating the sleeping draught and biting out the cork. I drained the sleeping draught into the wolf's groaning mouth and quickly dropped my knee into his stomach, forcing him to gasp and swallow, and held his jaws closed by tucking them under my right arm in a vice grip.

I lay there, gripping the bloody silver dagger in my left hand and the wolf's jaws gripped under my right arm, waiting. After bucking and snarling several times, the wolf finally passed out. My eyes blinked involuntarily, and I began to call out to anyone on the ship who would listen as I slowly began to slip into unconsciousness. All decks were thundering with noise and footfalls. I knew that the draught would last a few hours, and that the wolf must be chained down and administered more of the draught to insure the prevention of another episode before dawn.

I called out again, this time a bit louder, and attempted to stand. Forthwith, I collapsed to the deck beside the sleeping werewolf, my eyelids slowly, dreamily succumbing to the relentlessly encroaching darkness...

I shall conclude my tale on the morrow. For now, however, Morrigan insistently pecks for me to retire my pen, for the hour grows late. Until next I write... -

- Mael

Genvieve 30, 1806: Chaos In The Skies, Primary Entry

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 17:27:00 +0000

From the Journal of M. Maelstorme Smythe
Captain of the Signet Ship "Seraph"
Captain's Log: Official Log, the Eighth
Date: Genvieve 30, 1806, Year of the Drake

We have suffered greatly these last few days, losing several crewmen...one of them being my first mate. I have been unable to write on these events until now - my presence has been required to perform other captain's duties as well as time spent in the ship's infirmary.

It began on the 27th, at roughly three of the evening. Augustus approached me, telling me that the change would be upon him soon. I knew already; I have been Gus's friend so long now that I can almost feel the change coming over him myself. Augustus stepped into the "flying brig," where the well-fed cow had already been placed. The animal shrank from the doctor immediately, lowing pitifully and trying in vain to step through the corners of the solid iron bars. The doctor sighed, sitting calmly upon the small wooden chair that Aul set inside the iron cage. I handed the doctor an older medical journal to read during the wait, and he accepted with a gracious smile. Even on the verge of monstrous transformation, Dr. Augustus Dayafter is the very soul of a gentleman.

I ordered a pot of tea brought to the doctor before his launch in hopes of calming him a bit; there are times that his final temper as a man will effect a calmness upon the wolf as it overcomes him. The tea was brought by Chef Gregoe himself; a true honor, as the good chef rarely leaves his galley. The officers joined us, including Aul (and the irrepressible Morrigan, flapping in through the open cargo bay and perching upon my shoulder). We were given small chairs and a large round table, where we had both tea and our supper as we all sat boasting, laughing and talking of many things; anything really to draw our friend's mind away from his upcoming fate. And for that brief time, he seemed to genuinely enjoy our company.

But how well do all of us know how quickly time passes during those incidents of purest pleasure? At half past five, the sun began to set, and Augustus began to sweat. He kindly thanked us all for our company, asking all but the engineer and myself to leave. The officers all offered encouragement and returned to their duties. Morrigan remained perched upon my shoulder. Augustus looked to her, saying, "Please, m'lady." She nodded and flew off.

Augustus told me to go to her, and that he would be fine. I refused, reminding him that she and I had the rest of the night, but my time with him was important at that moment. We clasped hands, and we both smiled a bit, repeating our old adage, "This too shall pass." Then, with a gallant composure that I shall never possess, Augustus carefully removed and neatly folded all of his clothes, handing the stack carefully to me. We both nodded, and he held the cage bars as it began to rise from the floor and float slowly past the doors of the cargo bay. I watched calmly as the chain grew taught, and he began traversing the cage, peering out at the sky and the sea, smiling contentedly. The cow lowed loudly, staying as far away from Augustus as possible.

Soon, Aul was beside me, chewing on a turkey leg, watching the cage and trying, in engineer mathematics, to assure me of the success of the operation. I smiled and told him to brace himself. The sun began to set, and Augustus gripped the bars of the cage tightly. He was sweating profusely now, breathing heavily. His eyes glowed yellow in the dusk as he gazed up at the moon. The cow's eyes rolled with fright. I was inclined to shoot the poor animal, but I knew the wolf would want fresh meat. Living meat. Between the bovine and my crew, my crew won. Or so I thought.

The doctor's teeth began to grow as he rattled the bars of his flying prison. His hair began to grow long and thick, new hair covering his body. He screamed in torturous pain as the sounds of his body changing form echoed through the calm night. He fell to the floor of the cage, tears of pain falling from his bulging eyes. Bones twisted and cracked, lengthening and taking new positions within his flesh. Muscles grew and tightened, and he yelped. Aul cursed in Scythian as the doctor's face began to lengthen hideously, and Augustus' agonized screams slowly, chillingly became the howling of a predator...

The werewolf rose from the floor of the cage slowly, its head brushing the ceiling of the steel cage. All was silent as it breathed rapidly, snarling clouds of white vapor even as drool dripped from its maw. The creature and I calmly regarded each other as equals, as we have on past occasions. For even as Augustus Dayafter is my brother, so will this black beast that ushers from him always be a bitter, if respected, enemy.

"Schrauben Sie mich seitlich! I'll neva get used to zat!" Aul whispered. Immediately, the wolf began slavering, roaring and snapping its jaws. Its hairy arms tore at the air, trying in vain to reach us through the bars. Aul shivered. The cow began lowing dumbly, struggling desperately against the confining cage.

The wolf rounded on the cow slowly, enjoying the fear that radiated from the terrified bovine. Before the poor animal could low again, the wolf sprang, his jaws lifting the cow by its throat even as his savage claws tore into the defenseless beast's underbelly, strewing innards and organs all over the cage. Blood soaked the cage floor, pouring in windblown rivulets into the ocean far below. Aul shook his head and ripped off another bite of turkey.

"Fazinatink," Aul mumbled.

"Watch'im close, Aul. Call me if there's a change," I said, clapping Aul on the shoulder and turning to go. I quickly made my way to my cabin, stopping to bark orders along the way. Every officer was posted at a different station, all with their eyes fixed upon the cage. All of them also knew that the small phial of sleeping potion he held could only be administered orally.

I stopped for a moment outside my cabin, examining an ornate silver dagger that Augustus gave me long ago. If the wolf is Augustus' burden in that curse, then this dagger is surely mine. I sheathed the blade and took a deep breath, stepping into the warmth of my cabin; the idea of Morrigan in her true form never ceases to transform me into a blundering, nervous schoolboy...even now. The small fireplace was burning, and the lamps were doused. Candles were lit across the room, centering on a lovely meal set upon my dining table, completely with a bottle of fine wine and two glasses. I can only assume that Morrigan has found a way to communicate with Chef Gregoe. I called out to Morrigan, my heart quickening within my chest.

Morrigan stepped from the shadows, smiling sheepishly. One of my thinner white tunics covered most of her, leaving just enough to my imagination - exposing only slight color changes and curves beneath the soft, loose fabric. Her skin was radiantly pale against her shining black hair. I imagine that I grinned like a fool as I gazed upon her for that first time in a month; her pale brown eyes caught mine in a stare that nearly buckled my knees. In that stare we became one again, as we always do. Love, lust, pain, sadness, anger, frustration, joy, madness, realization, relief, contentment - all levels of the human condition filtered into one longing gaze - and then she was in my arms. No drug nor naturally induced condition has or will ever compare to the feeling of holding her. Time became meaningless.

I watched her dine, picking at my own plate and continuously offering it to her. I watched as she slowly savored each bite of food and each sip of wine. It is humbling to witness one who truly enjoys, holds and treasures what it is to be human...all the things that I take for granted daily. In this, her true form, she is the definition of all that makes a man love a woman...a portrait of divine femininity.

The wine long gone and the candles low, we sat conversing in front of the fireplace...the long, whispered, timeless conversations that only lovers have and treasure. She held my left hand, running her soft, thin fingers over the terrain of my skin. Scars, burns, and callouses met her perfect touch, then she was turning the silver ring with the talon-gripped onyx stone setting. She smiled sadly and asked where her ring was, whereupon I produced a long, thin silver chain from beneath my tunic, removing it and sliding off a small silver ring with a talon-gripped pearl setting. As I placed it upon her finger, she cried. I held her and watched the fire...

...and the rest, ladies and gentlemen, must remain a cherished memory between myself and Morrigan...and that alone. There is much that I am willing to share in these pages, but only so much to remain within the bounds of decency and honor.

I am exhausted, and require rest so that my body may continue to properly heal itself. Besides, Morrigan is currently pecking at my hand, and apparently refuses to stop lest I finish up my writings for the evening. I shall resume my tragic tale on the morrow.

- Mael

Genvieve 27, 1806: The Flying Brig

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 15:34:00 +0000

From the Journal of M. Maelstorme Smythe
Captain of the Signet Ship "Seraph"
Captain's Log: Official Log, the Seventh
Date: Genvieve 27, 1806, Year of the Drake

Tomorrow night, the phase of the full moon begins, and one of my most trusted friends and colleagues will become something entirely different for one terrible night...while another becomes the vision of a perfect lady.

I am torn. Part of me wishes to spend the evening in the company of Morrigan in my cabin, but my duty to Augustus as his friend and swordbrother compels me to watch over him. I must keep Morrigan in my cabin during her change, and I must secret Augustus away somewhere (but where?!) I fear the reaction that the crew might have; morale is low after the hellsquid attack yesterday. A mutiny is the last thing we need aboard this vessel; especially amid current cicumstances.

I visited the engine bay earlier; Mr. DuBreens has apparently been hard at work. Several massive black slateboards cover one of the walls - upon these slates were scribbles of white chalk - a series of arithmetical equations and scientific theorems, complete with three-dimensional diagrams and measurements. In the middle of the bay stood a begoggled Mr. DuBreens, nodding with approval at his equally begoggled spider monkey, Crash. Crash was, to my great dismay, masterfully wielding Mr. DuBreens' aetheric torch on an eight foot iron cube. The top and bottom were panels of solid iron, while the sides consisted of iron bars. A long chain ran from the front middle bar of the cage, its other end connecting to a large square magnet.

Mr. DuBreens explained that an identical magnet will run from the cargo bay of the ship (a massive loading bay connected to the engineering bay by a wide ramp and two short flights of stairs) on another thick chain, connecting the flying cage to the ship, but preventing the creature, if he were to escape, from climbing the chain all the way to the ship. Apparently the wolf's weight upon the magnet will cause the magnets to pull apart, sending the wolf dangling upon the chain until we rescue him (or toppling into the sea...in which case we would still rescue him...hopefully in time.)

By tomorrow morning, Mr. DuBreens will have a blimp attached to the top of the cage. He showed me the cage's only entrance - a door on the bottom which will be bolted securely shut. A live cow from the Seraph's livestock provisions stood roped to one the cargo bay walls, its calm lowing echoing across the metallic walls as it calmly chewed on a potted plant. I did not mention it, but i know the unfortunate end the cow will come to; if the wolf does not find fresh meat in the cage, he will be more likely to pursue it on the ship.

Mr. DuBreens informed me that the "flying brig" will be cast behind the ship, where, in the chance of escape, Doctor Dayafter's grisly counterpart will have no way of harming the crew. I congratulated Mr. Dubreens, as this appears to be a workable plan...I only pray that it works.

- Mael

Genvieve 26, 1806: A Savage Truth

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 20:00:00 +0000

From the Journal of M. Maelstorme Smythe
Captain of the Signet Ship "Seraph"
Captain's Log: Official Log, the Sixth
Date: Genvieve 26, 1806, Year of the Drake

I keep telling myself that today's events must be recorded, despite what the telling might reveal. I knew this would occur eventually. May the Black Signet forgive me if this falls into the wrong hands...

Early this morning, as the steady Seraph sailed ever closer to the charred continent of Salamandrius, Doctor Dayafter approached me in my chambers as I was conversing with Morrigan. I have rarely seen Augustus so pale and out of sorts, and had an idea of the terrible news that was likely to come.

Augustus admitted to being gravely upset. Last night, during the attack of that damnable hellsquid, the doctor was in his quarters. He had just poured himself a dose of his necessary preventive potion when the ship was violently tossed by the hellsquid. This rocking threw the doctor sprawling over his bunk, spilling the dose of potion, and accidentally tossing the large bottle of potion against the wall, shattering it. This bottle contained enough potion to supply the doctor for up to two years.

The doctor is right to be upset. The potion, which Dayafter referred to as "Bane," was his sole prevention against the forces the upcoming phase of the moon has upon his physiology, and moreover, his psychology. This change from gentile man to savage beast occurs during every full moon. Augustus tells me that modern scientific journals have labeled the disease as "lycanthropy." We were saddened that the disease has spread so much since the Black Crusades as to have been addressed in a mainstream scientific publication.

During our time in the Black Crusades, Augustus and Morrigan were captured and exposed to terrible concoctions by the Cult of Chulgrathon's alchemists. Augustus was tested with a strain of the disease that forces his body to become a massive, ravening abomination of a wolf for several days every cycle of the moon, while Morrigan's strain forces her to live as a raven her entire life, save for those few precious days every full moon - the same days that Augustus becomes "the wolf."

I recommended that Augustus allow me to lock him in the brig under guard during the duration of his change. He refused, claiming that he was sure "the wolf" would tear its way out and murder crewmen. I did not disagree on any particular point. I have approached Aul with this entire situation, and he took it fairly well, only breaking into Scythian cursing as he left my quarters. He has vowed to develop a plan that separates "ze nasty blighta" from the ship while still keeping "ze human docta" safe and secure and not forcing the Seraph to come to a complete stop.

As a side note, Mr. Hungan has now stabbed the spider tattoo on his hand three times upon waking and finding the illustrated spider upon his belly. At this point, considering the size of the jungle knives he carries, I am content that he has not gutted himself.

I shall update regularly as the situation with Dr. Dayafter progresses; the phase of the full moon begins in two nights. May Axiom help us all.

- Mael

Genvieve 25, 1806: The Hellsquid

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 15:43:00 +0000

From the Journal of M. Maelstorme Smythe
Captain of the Signet Ship "Seraph"
Captain's Log: Official Log, the Fifth
Date:Genvieve 25, 1806, Year of the Drake

It would appear that my ill omened feelings about this mission have not been in vain. If I was not disturbed before...But I get ahead of myself. There is no better way to go about this horrid entry but to write it.

Tonight, the ship was rocked violently as if battered by storm winds or a tidal wave high enough to strike us. However, there was no storm, and the seas were as calm as a sleeping babe. I climbed to the crow's nest and spotted a hellsquid diving below us toward the ocean surface. A massive creature, it was easily three quarters as large as the Seraph herself. Large, membranous gliding wings extended above, below, and to each side of the creature. It's tail, instead of ending in the usual squidlike arrow point, ended in some sort of open, pulsing cylinder which burned the air to distortion with internal gases which apparently propel the squid. The front of the beast appeared to hold many tentacles; it was difficult to tell at that point how many.

As the hellsquid approached the water, it folded its wings into itself. The chimney-like tail closed flat horizontally, and the beast splashed down into the waves...and rapidly disappeared.

Something felt wrong. Unsure, I was concerned about the integrity of my ship's hull after contact with the squid. I had the ship's aether cannons readied, and had my own aetheric longrifle brought to me in the crow's nest. I then sent word for Mister DuBreens to fly out alongside in one of the Cherub class longboats to assess the damage.

As I lurked up in the crow's nest, Mister DuBreens took two riflemen out in one of the flying longboats. As I feared, the abomination picked that point to launch itself from the waters a second time. This time, however, it's mass of thick tentacles parted from its mouth, and it launched a fireball from its maw. The fireball pierced one of our sails, forming a hole the size of a cannon shot. The hole fizzled and did not burn much, as the sails are prototype "solar sails," meshed with a fire-resistant cloth along with very small, thin links of metal to provide durability during battle (they also store the energy of the sun to be converted to aetheric energy for the ship's use.)

We were all barking orders at this point, Mr. DuBreens refusing to come back aboard until he had repaired a small section of metal panels on the ship's hull that had been knocked loose. As Mr. DuBreens fired up a small blue-flamed aetheric torch and began fixing the damage, the monster was nearly upon the exposed longboat. Many tentacles hurled themselves from the hellsquid's furnace-like maw, each tipped with a long, nastily barbed talon, flanked for several feet down by a series of small, fanglike projections.

One taloned tentacle pierced the first of the riflemen even as he blasted it to uselessless, whereupon a second tentacle speared him and drew him viciously from the longboat, into the beast's waiting jaws. The second longboat rifleman crippled at least six tentacles before another tentacle exposed the use of the small fang-like projections. The main talon folded in on the small fangs on the tentacle, crushing the rifleman's head like a grape just before a rifle shot blew the tentacle away. As the body fell, the squid chased it toward the waves, scooping it up before it hit.

Now for those of us who have sailed in an airship, there is a prevalent shared opinion that the most important crewman is the engineer. So the following series of events were not surprising. There were multiple shouts from the main deck for the idiot engineer to get his stupid arse back on deck. I continued firing my rifle madly at the returning hellsquid, sending a bolt of white-hot aether fire into the hellsquid's infernal eye. It screeched like a demon banshee; the most terrible shrieking wail I've ever heard. It retreated, the next rifle bolts only charring and pitting it's damnable thick hide. The cannons then launched a volley, appearing to wound it's massive side.

Then it folded itself up and hit the waves with a crashing roar.

I watched as I reloaded. It was happening blindingly fast, as battles and death always do. The hellish thing leaped from the waves again, shrieking and extending its tentacles away from its terrible mouth. I grabbed a rope and prepared to swing myself at the creature with a bomb. Little did I know, Mr. DuBreens had the same idea.

As I began to swing, I watched the engineer pull his trusted repeating blunderbuss from his side, peering over the side of the longboat and taunting the creature while taking long drinks of one of his undoubtedly horribly toxic homebrew liquors. He then tossed the half-full bottle at the frightening close creature, the bottle flying into the maw just as Mr. DuBreens began cursing and firing the huge blunderbuss at the bottle.

One shot finally connected, exploding the bottle of liquor...and with it, the hellsquid's head, sending a spray of disgusting, charred squidflesh all over the longboat...and Mr. DuBreens. Cursing in Scythian, Mr. DuBreens casually flicked his cigar butt at the rapidly falling, flailing body of the deceased creature. He then finished repairing the ship, and piloted the longboat back into the Seraph's landing bay.

Mr. DuBreens still stinks of hellsquid.

We held a candlelight memorial abovedecks for our fallen brothers (Mr. Thaddeus Pridgen and Mr. Gunter Von Castle) tonight. They will be missed. Several crewmen spoke of them...of their deads. I said my captainly piece and the spoke the words of the priests for the resting of their souls as well. Two gold coins were nailed to the main mast in their honor.

We all have a dark appreciation of a hellsquid's abilities now...hopefully upon our next encounter with one of the bastards, we'll be more prepared. I foresee a very long dark, mission if this is any indication of what is to come.

Genvieve 18, 1806: Breaking Mister DuBreens

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Mon, 14 Jan 2008 20:12:00 +0000

From the Journal of M. Maelstorme Smythe
Captain of the Signet Ship "Seraph"
Captain's Log: Official Log, the Fourth
Date: Genvieve 18, 1806, Year of the Drake

We have been underway for the sun-scorched polar continent of Salamandrius for twelve days now. Eighteen days remain until we reach the shore of the non-communicative mining colony. I remain at great unease about this endeavor for the sake of my crew. I feel a battle coming. I sense a gathering darkness...I smell blood. I'd say that this feeling is only my imagination - that I'm being paranoid - but over the years I've learned to trust my instincts. The truth is that it is not merely a gassy glob of undigested mustard. I have learned too many hard lessons by not trusting them. That, and I hate mustard. In any event, onward to today's happenings...

I received an urgent call from Doctor Dayafter just before noon. The doctor asked me to report to the medical bay. I strode into the ship's infirmary to find my mauled and broken chief engineer, Scott Aul DuBreens, strapped down to the doctor's surgical table, red-faced, black-eyed and shouting Scythian obscenities with his tell-tale lisp. If you have ever attempted to decipher Scythian-accented words of ill repute as they were being yelled by a man with a lisp, you might now understand the difficult time I was having with translation at this juncture.

After settling Mister DuBreens' nerves a bit with a pretty nurse and enough sedatives to slay a herd of buffalo, Doctor Dayafter was able to set Aul's broken limbs and actually decipher the story behind said fractures. Apparently, Mister DuBreens had gone to the mess pub (a really spectacular, huge area of the ship, designated for the crew to eat and socialize in, and designed to look and feel exactly like a familiar old town pub. We all feel at home there - even the officers and I frequent the mess pub often, although we are aware of our fine, well-appointed officer's mess hall...there I go again...I digress...where was I? Oh yes...)

At the mess pub, Mister DuBreens had flirted with one of Chef Gregoe's female cooks and then consumed an ill-gotten breakfast of sauerkraut, poached eggs, bratwurst, bacon, smoked ham, porridge, blood pudding and mead (I have since had Mister DuBreens checked for some form of parasite - he is tapeworm free.) After this massive breakfast (which might have also felled a herd of plains creatures,) Mr. DuBreens made his usual post-breakfast visit to the privy, or "porcelain confessional" as he calls it. Half an hour later, cleansed and refreshed, Aul marched into the engineering bay, only to slip on a bright, shiny, newly-swabbed floor...thereby breaking and burning his lower right leg on a large steam pipe.

Mr. DuBreens went on to explain, still red-faced, that he was determined to catch the (insert lisp-delivered Scythian foul language here) who had mopped his engineering bay without being asked. I informed Mr. DuBreens at this point that when I order the ship to be swabbed, that means the whole ship...including the engineering bay. With a grunt and a resounding fart as his answer to my dictate, he continued with his tale as the nurse opened a port hole in the hospital bay and the doctor muttered something about permanently closing the Scythian's anal sphincter.

Mr. DuBreens demanded that his one-eyed spider monkey, Patch, assist him in his quest to track down the dirty (Scythian curse) who mopped his floor. While Aul hauled himself to a spider-legged walking chair, Patch scuttled through the ship to the week's main list of chores nailed to a mast, tore it down, and delivered it to his master. Minutes later, Aul came upon the name of Mr. Solomon Hungan, gunnery officer.

Well, Mr. DuBreens hastily decided (through a haze of pain-relieving potives and some sort of disgusting alcoholic invention that he calls "brass schlager") to chase down and scold Mr. Solomon before getting his unfortunate leg set. Still inside the spider-legged chair, the red-faced, yelling Mr. DuBreens burst upon Mr. Hungan, who had just begun swabbing the poop deck. In DuBreens' defense, he had no idea at the time that the massive Solomon Hungan is deathly afraid of spiders.

One must understand that Solomon is a hulking man, standing nearly 8 feet high. He is covered with thickly tattooed muscles, save for a large, barrel-like stomach. He was born to a Haitian voodoo priestess and Samoan sailor. He is a master of weapons and melee combat...and his one and only paranoid fear is of spiders.

Solomon, I am told, shrieked like a young girl and began screaming, "...spi-dah de-mon!" over and over as he thrashed at the chair-bound Aul. Solomon swung wildly, and was finally pinned to the deck by the metallic spider legs. This, apparently, only served to frighten and strengthen Solomon the more as he completely rent the walking chair apart piece by piece, flailing and breaking the "demon" wildly - until he finally came to and recognized the broken, moaning form of the engineer lying among the spider chair's ruins.

To Solomon's credit, he reached into the depths of the "spider carcass" to retrieve the mangled body of Mr. DuBreens and carry him (still half-dazed) to the ship's infirmary. The full diagnosis of Mr. DuBreens included: one broken left arm, one broken right leg, one bruised jaw, stitches in skull, two black eyes, stitches in lip, and three bruised ribs.

Doctor Dayafter informed Mr. Hungan that he was a physician, and not an examiner of random violent psychoses. He then prescribed a nerve powder and a sleeping draught, and sent to his bunk. I have informed Mr. Hungan that, as punishment, he will have a spider tattooed upon one of his hands on the morrow to break him of this paranoid behavior. He inquired as to my reaction if he simply removed said appendage instead. I retorted that his face would then be sufficient for the tattoo's placement.

I would dare say that Mr. DuBreens will never be building another spider-like contraption again...but I know him better. The truth is that the spider-walker chair contraption worked exceedingly well...that means, undoubtedly, that Mr. DuBreens will be creating another eventually. I can only pray that he has learned enough to keep it safely away from Mr. Hungan...

- Mael

Genvieve 8, 1806: A Disturbing Message

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Wed, 09 Jan 2008 16:35:00 +0000

From the Journal of M. Maelstorme Smythe
Captain of the Signet Ship "Seraph"
Captain's Log: Official Log, the Second
Date: Genvieve 8, 1806, Year of the Drake

The Seraph has been underway for a full week now. Smooth sailing thus far, but a thick black ball of worry has settled firmly in my gut. I find it impossible to ignore, and see bad omens all around me. Nonetheless, the lack of serious problems has allowed me to spend time with the crew, getting to know them all a bit better, and reacquainting myself with my officers.

The ship consists of 28 men and women in total, excluding myself and my raven familiar, Morrigan. Yes, I list her as a person...I do this for reasons I shall reveal in my own time. My four officers are: Commander Harris Deckwalkre, first mate; Mister Solomon Hungan, gunnery officer; Doctor Augustus Dayafter, ship's doctor; Mister Christholm Thorne, navigator. Mister Gregoe Zlatkis is ship's chef, and I've mentioned our chief engineer, Mister Scott Aul (pronounced "all") DuBreens...his name alone is quite the boast, but his parents were rather eccentric. The remaining crew includes many fine men and several women who I will undoubtedly single out in later writings.

I have realized in the last few days that I shall be forced to reveal certain things about myself and my crew through this journal - things that I would have preferred to safeguard. I suppose nothing is safe forever...even secrets. Chief of these is the history behind myself, Morrigan, and the good doctor. None of us is exactly what we appear to be, and only the crew of my former ship, the Rasputin, know this. I simply wish to quell any possible situation that might lead to misunderstanding, or worse, mutiny.

I must confess to being most troubled of late. A Black Signet message hawk delivered an important message several nights ago. It appears that they have lost contact with our mining colony on the far southern continent of Salamandrius. The mine on this continent is critically important to the Black Signet due to the rare metallic ore that is found only on this continent.

This mildly pearlescent, silvery ore is called resilientum, and, when combined with iron, produces the strongest and lightest metal on Aerthe, as well as the best conductor of aether. The Seraph herself is the first airship to be armored with resilientum, mainly due to our status as the flagship of the Black Signet organization. Many nations secretly rely on us to be there to uphold justice when their efforts fail, so at the very least, this ship must be powerful.

The large island of Salamandrius there is barren and forbidding; only the hardiest of folk have dared brave the mountain mines. The Black Signet purchased the mine from the Salamandrian dwarves several years ago after they abandoned the land for reasons they refused to share with us. Later intelligence revealed that they had been frightened out of the mine. By what, we know not. Sailors have spoken of large krakens sighted in the area - both under and above the waves. They have been described as "propelled by some sort of internally generated flame." These "flying hellsquid" are also said to attack frequently, and without apparent motive.

I must admit to being a disturbing mixture of excited and loathe to meet one of these beasts. Our current orders are to set a course for Salamandrius and investigate their lack of communication with the Black Signet, so an encounter with these hellsquid is likely inevitable. The society needs more of the resilientum for further construction, armor testing, engines, etc. If my worst fears are confirmed - and those colonists have been harmed by the natural inhabitants of that area - a low supply of resilientum may be the least of our worries.

- Mael

Genvieve 1, 1806: The Seraph Takes Flight

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Fri, 04 Jan 2008 16:31:00 +0000

From the Journal of M. Maelstorme Smythe
Captain of the Signet Ship "Seraph"
Captain's Log: Official Log the First
Date: Genvieve 1, 1806, Year of the Drake

We are finally underway after an extensive celebration commemorating the christening & launch of the S.S. Seraph, as well as the New Year. Though I am not normally an enthusiastic party goer, I accompanied Augustus following his solemn promise that our stay would be politely brief, and as painless as humanly possible.

We ended up staying for the majority of the celebration (much to my antisocial surprise - I shall endeavor in the future to count how many "dark & stormy" drinks the good doctor hands me during parties) at which point I announced that the crew should begin to make ready to board the Seraph, lest the finale of the party be delayed for the good people who had gathered to see us off. As a note, It was nice to see the crew of the Seraph celebrating together. They seem to all genuinely enjoy each other's company; this is likely due to the fact that a decent percentage of this crew was chosen from my previous crew, and the rest were hand-picked by myself and my ship's officers.

One glowing example of both carousing and a fine crewman is my ship's engineer, Mister Scott "Aul" DuBreens. Aul is a brilliant engineer, following in the footsteps of his father, the infamous Scythian inventor, Dr. James DuBreens, and an equally brilliant Kellsian aetheric physicist, Dr. Edith Oryl. Aul has been briefing me daily on some new gadget or other that amazes me; truly, this ship will be an adventure to serve on. The new technologies alone make the Seraph an adventurer's (and engineer's) dream.

We are currently sailing at an altitude of 3,000 feet and a calm, steady blimp-propelled speed of 20 knots. The Seraph is a magnificent ship; powered by the very aether that makes up the waters spanning Axiom's formed universe. Now even aether needs a bit of encouragement, so we are equipped with a wide variety of sails, "sailwings", blimps and propellant devices which feed upon the aether as a base fuel.

The Seraph can sail upon the sea, dive under the sea, and fly through air - a true S.V.T. ("Ship of Varying Terrain".) She is large, but not gargantuan in size like the "Archon" class ships which make up a floating fortress of the Black Signet protectorate.

The Seraph is the seventh of the formidable "Archangel" class S.V.T. exploratory/battle vessels, measuring roughly 125 feet in length from bow to stern. She is equipped with hydraulic harpoon crossbows, rail guns, aether cannons...if I didn't know something of the dangers that await us on our adventures, I would feel a twinge of pity for our enemies. However, having experienced some of these horrors, I feel neither pity nor remorse for anything that would attack us.

In any event, the skies are calm tonight, and it has been a safe, if busy, day for all of us. I dare not call it uneventful, however. We launched without fail and felt the sailwings catch smoothly; the champagne smashed against the rear hull as we separated from the cluster of Archons and sailed off on our first exploratory mission. The aetheric generators whirred to life - emitting a soft, ghostly moan that seems like a soothing sea nymph at this point (the men have already begun calling them "The Sirens".) The blimps remain steady. We were all busy the entire day; forcing the bugs and kinks out of the Seraph's inner workings, with endless checking here and there all day long. I dare say that the crew shall welcome their beds tonight.

As for myself, I sit in the crow's nest and watch the stars, my raven familiar Morrigan perched upon my shoulder. At some point - perhaps in my lifetime - we shall be sailing among them. I find it peaceful here, perched among the heights of the Seraph's sails. Perhaps even spiritual. In any event, I think that this shall be a regular place of contemplation for myself and Morrigan in the future.

There I go again, rambling on...I shall write more on another day. I must say that I look forward to some adventure, as long as my crew is not harmed in the process. I do miss a good battle. Fighting certainly beats spending two hours reviewing and approving Chef Gregoe's meal plans and Augustus' daily medical schedule for the next six months, anyway...not that I'm complaining. Merely observing. Until next I pen, I remain...

- Mael

Callustine 31, 1805: A Brief Introductory History

noreply@blogger.com (Captain Maelstorme Smythe) — Fri, 28 Dec 2007 17:29:00 +0000

From the Journal of M. Maelstorme Smythe
Captain of the Signet Ship "Seraph"
Captain's Log: Introductory Entry
Callustine 31, 1805, Year of the Hare

My full name is Lord Captain Mortgan Maelstorme Smythe. I am informally known as "Mael". This log shall be the first of many journal entries detailing my "official" account of the journeys and discoveries made by the S.S. Seraph and her crew, as well as my own personal journal.

I have never before taken up a journal, or any sort of chronicle of my life's adventures. To be truthful, mine is an uncommonly long and strange existence. I have seen much of history unravel before these eyes...so much has been lost. For this reason, I feel that I must endeavor to begin some record of what goes on in this new age of Æarthe's history.

I was born in Ryverpoole, a grey, industrialized city on a worlde we, her inhabitants, called Æarthe. I was the bastard son of a brutal, infamous pirate captain named Captain James Reid "Red James" Maelstorme. My mother, Ms. Seraphina Mortgan, was an exceptionally lovely prostitute who fell prey to what she referred to as the "Maelstorme charm". Mother was kind and sweet, and did the best she could for me. Had me learning basic reading and arithmetic at a very early age. However, she grew very ill from tuberculosis, and became unable to support us. I learned the ways of the street urchin, steal food, medicine and whatever else was needed.

At the age of 7, I was orphaned and alone; my mother in a pauper's grave. At the age of 9, I was the leader of a gang of urchin thieves on the streets of Ryverpoole. I dreamed and told my fellow urchins stories of the untamed sea and foreign lands that I fully believed in and expected to explore one day. One day, I reckon I picked the wrong pocket. I found myself hoisted into the air with a sabre at my throat. That sabre belonged to a wizened privateer for the Anglian navy, Lord Captain Everett P. Smythe II. Lord Smythe and I got on very well, and he was very kind to me. In truth, he was the dad that my own father never cared to be. A confirmed bachelor and unable to produce children, he adopted me as his son, stating that, "A child of the mind is far preferrable to a child of the flesh."

Thus was I raised at sea by Lord Smythe, his First Mate, Mr. Duranjaya, and the rest of the crew of the H.M.S. Archangel. I took the name Mortgan Maelstorme Smythe, and left that unfortunate childhood behind me in favor of the life of adventure that I'd been dreaming of.

As a young man, I fought for queen and country against the Lansian Empire. I've been called "infamous"...to be truthful, I was a treasure-hunting privateer and general swashbuckling "thorn in the side" to the morally repugnant (and...being Anglian...by morally repugnant I plainly mean the Lansian Empire, may Axiom spit in their eyes). I suppose I still am, as well as an explorer/naturalist, and overall gentleman of fortune.

I have made more than my fair share of enemies and friends. Eventually my lone wolf days began to dwindle as, one by one, I began to take on crewmen. Soon those crewmen became my friends and brothers in arms. I suppose it was inevitable, but some days I miss the freedom of singularity...courting loneliness is a bittersweet pursuit indeed.

My apologies...I find myself rambling...ah, yes. I began to build a small crew during my misadventures. Over time, I ran into a friend and swordbrother from my privateer days; a skilled physician by the name of Dr. Augustus Dayafter. He joined my crew as ship's doctor.

Through a family legacy established by Lord Frederick Smythe III, I became knighted as a member of the secretive Black Signet, now a small flying nation of secluded societal protectors, composed of a fleet of advanced battleships.

Tomorrow the Archangel Class S.S. (Signet Ship) Seraph will launch, it's fledgling sailwings tasting the cold winds of AEarthe's infinite skies - and beyond (The Seraph is rumored to later be equipped to explore the blackness of the universe itself) - for the first time, with myself as Captain. It is both frightening and intoxicating to think that I have been elected Captain of this incredible ship; add to that the fact that I am also the leader of these men and their very home...this ship shall be more than merely a concourse to us. She is our castle - our home. The more I think on this vast responsibility, the more oppressive this weight upon my shoulders becomes.

Regardless, I shall do my duty. I have not the time to question either my ability or my determination to see this grand experiment through. These men and women are not only my crew, they are my friends. My brothers and sisters. If my betters among the brotherhood say that I can perform these duties adequately, then I not only can...I must. The nations are split now to fragments; the world forever changed. Let no man ever again think to be our master lest he be the Son of Axiom returned for final war with Chulgrathon. The Seraph is my ship, my island and my home. Axiom help man, beast or devil who tries to sink her, harm her, or take her away.

- Mael