Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
From: djb6@ellis.uchicago.edu (Dennis Brennan)
Subject: Re: [R] Karl [_Arcas_] Are we there yet?
Message-ID: <1992Nov5.213253.10411@midway.uchicago.edu>
References: <1992Nov5.144656.3080@kakwa.ucs.ualberta.ca>
Date: Thu, 5 Nov 1992 21:32:53 GMT

Smoke from the _Cote_D'Azur_ billowed high like some unlimited column
of mist.  The breeze began to push some of the smoke back over the _Arcas_,
stinging Karl's eyes as he continued to peer out of the porthole.  Through
the mist, he could make out a melee on the deck of the other ship.  Was that
Shade, that dark madman, who had engaged one of the pirates?  Whoever it
was jumped off of the pirate vessel.  The _Cote_D'Azur_ was visibly leaning
to its port side and did not look capable of withdrawing from the engagement.
Most of its felonious crew had boarded the _Arcas_, where they awaited
their brig assignments.  Other pirates appeared to be abandoning the ship
in droves like wharf rats.  Many jumped overboard and attempted to swim
to the _Arcas_, preferring incarceration to drowning.  Others clutched
bits of bouyant flotsam, hoping (presumably) to drift to the coast.

The _Arcas_, Karl noticed, seemed to be lazily circling around in a 
counter-clockwise direction.  He wondered what damn fool would pilot
the boat in such a manner until he remembered that he had been standing
on the wheel in order to see out of the porthole.  Releasing it, it began
to spin of its own accord, finally resting when the boom pointed away
from the wind.  One of the more alert crewmembers of the _Arcas_ tied
the boom to a post on the deck to stop its wild swinging.  Raising the
sail to resume the journey would be another matter...

Clutching his throbbing head, Karl's first thoughts were of dousing his
confusion and frustration (as usual) with strong rotgut.  Perhaps a bottle
of the pirates' inevitable stash might float within arm's reach?  He
spat bitterly, disgusted by his own impulse.  Mustering his resolve as only
an old veteran can, Karl committed himself to never touching another drop
of the foul spirit.  It would be hard, Karl thought, but "not nearly as
hard as trudging for thirty days through the salty mud of the Southern
Marshes," recalling a former campaign in which he served.

Puzzled by the gaps in his memory, Karl sat on the floor and tried to sort
out the events of the day.  He had spoken with a pleasant gentleman on the
sun-deck, then somehow found himself on a bench with Hazy Drifter.  No,
back up.  He remembered being locked in a box or chest.  There was smelly
laundry in the box.  Who... he remembered.  Amaan.  That execrable Rameshander
mage had locked him in his laundry chest.  Why?  He was certainly stronger
than the southerner.  How had he let him?  And why was he wearing the 
scabbard of his ceremonial sword?  Hmm.  The few disjointed images which
he recalled gave him no clues.

Stumbling towards the door (and indelicately stepping over bleeding bodies),
he attempted to seek out any members of his traveling party to ask them
a number of questions...



-- 
Dennis Brennan
djb6@midway.uchicago.edu