[piosenniel]

Child of the 7th Age’s post

At each churning motion of the Bay, the waves swelled and then crashed against the ship’s bow, with water flying up so high that it came flooding over the deck. Despite the run off into the drains and over the side of the hull, Luindal still found himself standing ankle deep in water. Rushing from one end of the ship to the other, he barked out orders to his crew to strike the mainsail, hoist the storm sail in its stead, and drop the sea anchor over the side to provide needed weight.

Despite the heaving of the sea, the ship was managing to stay upright as they struggled forward into the Ice Bay. At least the Phalás was carrying a heavy ballast, a special precaution he’d taken knowing that they’d likely encounter poor weather on the trip. Things had gone well for first week on the open seas, but once he crossed into the Bay the heavens had opened with torrential rains and wind. It almost seemed that the Bay itself was unwilling to open its treasures to these curious outlanders, however well intentioned they might be.

The plain fact was that Luindal did not know too much about the local territory or conditions. He was used to living close to the land or water, and it bothered him that he had so little understanding of this strange place that he was in. He hoped Rôg was right in his assessment that a number of the most trustworthy Lossoth would be helping them in this endeavor. Their chances for success would be much greater if they could only get the local people to aid them. For the hundredth time in the past week, he reminded himself of the fact that, if the Elves and Men had simply accepted the counsel of the Snowmen who had warned them not to try and sail, many lives would have been spared, to say nothing of the Stones themselves.

He glanced around at his crew to make sure that they were holding up in the storm; they were all brave hearted Elves but only a few had real experience on sailing ships. This was apparently true of Rôg as well. The greenish tinge on Rôg’s face suggested that his friend would rather not be on this heaving ship.

A ferocious blast of wind came scudding down from the north, hitting the vessel broadside. The ship lurched sidewise but thankfully recovered, and after swinging around halfway, continued inching into the harbor. Luindal cast a wary eye up to the mainmast. He hoped that the lines would hold and that the mast would stand tall and firm. The last thing he needed was a cracked spar.

As the winds pulled back and the ship sailed into shallow waters, Luindal instructed the helmsman to take care not to bring them to close to the banks of ice, which lined the shore and already projected out into the Bay. In just a few more weeks, the Bay would freeze over even more, making it very difficult to navigate at all.

Out of the corner of his eye, on the far side of the Bay, Luindal caught sight of another large sailing vessel, this one very different in appearance than his own. She bore a strange black flag above her mast, with what looked like a exotic heraldic device imprinted on the material. He spied a number of men and a woman or two wearing thick fur coats, probably members of the Corsair crew; most of them had dark hair and brown or olive skin. He was too far away to pick out the expressions on their faces. But he had a feeling that they did not look too happy at the moment.