The Ambassador's Son RPG

[Durelin]

Once again, the 'little miss' was to remain on the ship while anything of importance went on elsewhere. This time elsewhere was actually off the ship, but still she was to remain in a small little closet of a cabin till Doran returned, with the Gondorians as prisoners and the island taken. The man was the pinnacle of men and their arrogance, a prime example! He had the nerve to already claim a victory, as well as call her little miss! Whatever had happened to 'Lady Adeline' and being a gentleman of highest esteem? It seemed different rules applied for the gentleman sea captain. He had called her such a horrendous name when giving her the order for her to remain aboard, and under guard, of course.

Adeline tried to study the situation for a possible escape. She wished to take advantage of the fact that any battling would be going on on the island and not on the ship. And there was also the fact that those who guarded her were the least capable of the crew, if they were not wanted on the battlefield. It was easy enough to recognize the advantages found in a situation, but how to use them had rarely been determined by Adeline, particularly never when taking hold of these advantages was of greatest importance. Her brain was resisting her command to think.

Her stomach growled as she sat on the ground, and the guard sitting on a stool, his head nodding, his mind moving in and out of sleep, sat up straight, eyes open. "Is the little miss hungry?" he said with a yellow grin. The dolt had found her disgust at being called that quite amusing. She hoped the amusement would fade soon. She looked up at him, and kept a smile off her face. Her brain had finally acknowledged her command, and what it had come up with was worth a try. "I'm starving, and your Captain told you to keep me alive, didn't he?"

The man mocked her with another grin and a phoney salute, but he actually did leave to get her whatever edible substance could be found on the ship. Adeline did not look forward to what he brought back. But, hopefully, by the time he got back, she would have fully taken advantage of this situation. There was still the guard outside, and others on the ship: most likely a good number patrolling the deck. The cabin the held her in was an inner cabin, and so there was not even a small porthole. Unfortunately, Adeline failed to add all this up and see that the odds were fully against her. Instead, she simply made her way to the small table behind the guard's stool. Upon it were eating utensils, one of which was a knife. Feeling the edge, Adeline was heartened by its sharpness.

Quietly she stepped over the creaking floorboards to the door of the cabin that opened into a small hallway. She turned the knob and slowly pushed it open. The guard on the other side suddenly was visible; he must have rose from his seat in front of the door. The turned to look at Adeline, his eyes wide with surprise and filled with anger. "What'r you do-"

The man stopped short as Adeline's knife ran into his throat, the force crushing it rather than slitting it. Adeline watched in horror as the man's mouth began to turn a deep red, and he fell to the floor, his body still moving, rithing from the pain. She stood with her eyes fixed on the man, no matter how sick it made her stomach feel. And she still stood there when the man came down the ladder with the food she had asked for.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Alone awake by the fire, Callath sat completely immobile, for all the world seeming carved from stone as he stared steadily into the fire. Around him, propped against stones, lying on driftwood or just sprawled across the sand, was what remained of Avershire's crew. He whistled quietly to himself in the silence, a luxury he hadn't had on the ship due to the superstitious sailors, absently tossing a stick between his hands, although rather gingerly in his right.

"Callath?"

The Gondorian youth whirled around, on his feet in a second with the stick in his hand, pointing towards the voice. As the flashes in his vision caused from looking into the fire for so long cleared, he recognised Rilgari, the young sailor looking slightly bemused. "Callath, it's Rilgari," the sailor said softly.

"Just as well, I couldn't see a thing," came the ironical reply as Callath flashed a quick grin at the other. He and Rilgari had become closer on the last few days on the ship, and now on the shore they were easier together, friendship coming quite easily as they were of the same age and background. Rilgari had, he said, joined Avershire's crew two years ago when he was sixteen - now eighteen, he was a year older than Callath, but had also, coincidentally, worked around horses alot when he was younger, tending and training his father's stallions. However, the quiet sailor didn't have the same temperment as the wild stallions he would have broken in - seemed as far from it as possible, really. The ever-affable Callath had taken an instant liking to him.

"My watch?" he continued. Rilgari nodded and Callath stretched, shaking his hands to get rid of the cramp then feeding the stick he had been playing with to the fire. As he passed Rilgari, he paused though, turning to look back at the other as he paused. "You...you didn't see anything of...of Luc did you?" he asked, hopefully. The older boy hadn't been seen since they'd come ashore and Callath knew that hope was almost pointless. But he refused to give up: until there was proof that Luc had gone down with the ships, Callath would stubbornly - foolishly - cling onto the hope that he hadn't drowned.

Rilgari paused, then turned slowly. He looked about to say something else, a pained expression flickering like the flames across his pale face, before he shook his head. "No, Callath. No sign of him," he replied, simply.

"Not yet, right?" Callath gave a lopsided smile, before turning away. Behind him he heard Rilgari's pause, then the boy raised his voice to call after Callath. "No, not yet...not yet..."

Shaking his head at his own stupidity, Callath stuck his hands into his pockets and began up the sanddunes to the point Rilgari had been watching from: an isolated perch, hidden from the beach and from the enclave where the crew where sitting. The dunes surrounded the sailors on three sides: this would put them at a disadvantage had Calnan not taken it into account in his stride as well, and placed a watch on all three sides, so they would not be ambushed. Indeed, their newly assumed leader would be coming down from his watch in about half an hour: they weren't taking breaks all at the same time as this would leave all sides unguarded, even just for a few moments, which would be vital in a battle. Marching up the hill briskly to the rhythm of his own humming and breathing, Callath looked out across the beach and the sea beyond it, still amazed at the vastness of it: in the confines of the walls of Minas Tirith there was nothing so vast and empty. Even the plains of Gondor where he rode as often as he could weren't able to compare. Like a huge beast, from where he stood, Callath mused that the sea seemed asleep now, a monster at rest: beautiful and magnificent, but so able, in one swipe, to take lives...

His booted foot snubbed against something solid as he was about halfway up the dunes and he looked down, disturbed from his musing. His eyes widened immediately and he squatted down beside it to make sure, before pulling the obstacle from the ground, amazed, and examining it. But there was no mistaking the object: he very own sword, Gondor's finest, washed up by some freak coincidence. The sheath was gone, but the sword had been buried in some driftwood - what had once been a ship, odd though that now seemed. Grinning, Callath examined the blade fastidiously for extra scratches or nicks...and something else caught his eye. Sick dread made the pit of his stomach suddenly seem to drop through his boots as he lowered the sword slowly, not wanting to believe his eyes.

A hand lay protruding from the dunes. Not any old hand either: with his sharp eyes, Callath spotted immediately the birth ring on the third finger, beaten copper bearing the runes for a name: "Luc."

Callath whispered the word in dread, then knelt forward, pushing aside the tall grasses that obscured the view of his dreaded discovery, before he leant back on his knees, his hand coming to his mouth as he stared upon the face of his dead friend.

Hand across his mouth, Callath turned and heaved emptily away from his friend's body, unashamed but sickened more by this than by all the wounds and dead men he had seen with Sedal. And with Luc... The thought made Callath look back again, and he pulled the body out a little so he could see Luc's face clearly. Pushing aside from his friend's forehead the swathe of damp, salt-stiffened hair, he felt his eyes fill as dead blue eyes stared back at him. Luc had suffered indeed: looking now more closely, Callath saw the long, deep scar that ran through one of the young man's eyes, cutting the side of his face in half; and more horrifically, how his right arm suddenly ended, stopping dead at his shoulder as if there had never been anything there, the only remanent of the arm from this side being the bloody marks on his clothes and the sand. Callath, numb and frozen, felt a tear slide down his face and pushed it away quickly, wiping fiercely at both his eyes like a little boy afraid to cry. Then, with trembling his trembling, injured right hand, he reached forward with two fingers and closed Luc's eyes.

There was no time for an epitath though. As he sniffed quietly, Callath heard another sound simultaneously and looked up guiltily, remembering his duty. Legging it silently to the top of the dune, he saw with horror what he had most been dreading: the corsairs had arrived.

Swearing repeatedly under his breath, Callath ran back down as quickly as possible, sparing Luc's dead body a last, lingering look as he ran past. "Sorry mate...I'll make it up later, I swear to you..." he muttered regretfully as he passed.

Reaching the camp, he stopped, breathless, to find Calnan with Rilgari, having come down early or something. They both spun around to look at the stable boy, along with Orda, also now awake.

"Corsairs!" Callath panted urgently. "Corsairs on the beach!"

[Himaran]

Graring watched the Gondorian encampment from the shelter of the dense woods. He was the lone survivor of the battle, assuming that the prisoner had died overnight. Where was Doran? He had to arrive soon, or Graring would either die of starvation or be forced to surrender.

______________________________________

Jurex and the other corsairs moved their way up the beach. The jungle night was hot and stuffy, unlike the fresh breeze of the sea. The corsair was already hot and tired, but kept his eyes and ears open. A reward could easily be in his grasp, one that would turn his leaders favor in his direction.

Then he saw the shape. Jurex quickly wispered in Doran's ear, "Sir, look at that tree over to the right slowly. Don't make a sudden move." Jythralo followed his instructions, and a grin spread over his face. It disappeared however, when the shape bolted out of cover and dashed down the beach; away from its adversaries.

"After him," Doran yelled. And the corsairs broke into a hot pursuit.

[Nuranar]

Relieved early by a wide-awake Rakein, Calnan had stumbled back to the fire. Lying down in its grateful warmth – the wind was off the sea tonight – he was instantly more than half asleep.

"Corsairs! Corsairs on the beach!"

Calnan’s eyes popped open. Doran! He leapt to his feet as Callath dashed up to the fire. "Everybody up!"

The quiet camp burst into activity as the others were jerked from sleep and readied themselves. Meri Loliway, sword in hand, materialized from the darkness where she'd been lookout, even as Rakein came sliding back down the slope. Calnan grasped Orda by the shoulder. "Do you remember what I told you?"

"Aye aye, sir!" He hurriedly concealed himself in a nest of rocks. Behind him lay Sedal, screened by the boulders and a convenient tangle of brush. Stay in front of Mr. Sedal, but stay hidden, Calnan had charged him after the first attack. If any corsairs come towards him, yell first to let us know, then try to stop them. But yell first!

The battle cries and noise of the corsairs came near, although they still hidden in the tangle of tall bushes that backed the dunes. Dirk in hand, Devon called, "Come on, let's get 'em!"

"No, wait!" Calnan urged. "Wait til they have the light in their eyes." Even as he spoke, the first corsairs burst out, only to pause in the sudden brightness of the campfire. Grasping this tiny advantage of the surprise, the Gondorians met them with a rush.

Calnan found himself up against a wiry little man with a heavy cutlass. As the blade came down, Calnan swung his staff up under the blow, shoving the man’s arm away and breaking his elbow in the process. As the corsair staggered, the other end of the staff caught him alongside the head and he completed his fall. Dropping the staff, Calnan snatched the cutlass from his limp grasp.

Avershire was dueling furiously with Doran himself. Callath was wielding his sword with an enthusiasm his opponent found most alarming. Wait – sword? Where – A tattooed corsair with a scimitar sprang upon Avershire, double-teaming with Doran. Gold teeth gleaming, he shouted in derision as the doughty Gondorian was forced to give ground.

Calnan lunged forward, catching the scimitar’s blow on his cutlass. Instantly the man wheeled on him. “Well, well - it’s the politician!” he sneered.

The man was vaguely familiar, but Calnan had no time for taunts; this corsair handled his heavy blade with breath-taking speed. Immediately on the defensive, Calnan barely evaded his brutal slashes.

As he backed up, he had to step lightly and carefully over the uneven ground. His hand and arm ached as blow after blow jarred on his cutlass. Blood tickled as it ran down his side. Funny that he hadn’t felt yesterday’s wound tear open.

Bare feet balancing him on the side of a small boulder, Calnan saw his chance. Leaping back off the rock, he half turned as if to flee.. The corsair sprang forward triumphantly, his booted foot landing on the boulder. Immediately it slid from under him as the leather sole found no purchase on the slick granite. Even as he stumbled Calnan was on him. One hard blow, a rapid feint, then a cut over his guard, and the corsair fell with his face masked in blood.

Breath coming in painful gasps, Calnan stumbled out of the boulders - and froze, stricken by the scene before him.

[Earendil Halfelven]

Doran charged in like a rampaging cave troll. Nobody stood in his way. The Gondorians met them fiercely but Doran had plenty of men to lose without losing the battle. Looking around, he saw a man that he decided needed to die. He had the distinct feeling that he had seen this man before and that this man was responsible for the loss of his two ships. Finally, Doran was able to place the man's face with a name-Captain Avershire, the famed Gondorian sea captain.
"Well, well, well," Doran said as he advanced. "If it isn't the famous Captain Avershire."

"And if it isn't the notorious Jythralo Doran," Avershire replied. "I've heard of you."

"And I of you," Jythralo replied. "Sorry, but I'm one of little talk," he said as he lunged forward to kill Avershire.

Avershire blocked and then dodged to the left, swinging his sword to the side. Doran parried the swing and kicked forward, forcing Avershire to give ground. But the Gondorian captain fought back fiercely and Doran started to notice that it was now he that was giving away ground. Doran frowned and began to match Avershire's speed and ferocity. The firelight made their swords glow in the dim night. All around Doran, men fought eachother and died. He could hear the cries of the wounded and the cries of those fighting-his men and the enemy, but all of his attention was focused on Avershire.

Suddenly, another corsair joined in the fight and began to doubleteam with Doran. Avershire struggled to match both men, but he was unable to keep up and to prevent himself from being killed, he was forced to give back more and more ground. The corsair was wild and had no style or technique; he just thrust and stabbed randomly. It was no wonder that finally, when Doran stepped back for another attack, he was able to counter the corsair. Quickly, Avershire kicked his foot out and tripped the corsair, and as the man fell to the ground, Avershire's sword hilt caught up with him and smashed into the man's knocking him down onto the sand. The man coughed and sputtered and blood drizzled out of his mouth where he was hit.

Doran advanced and swing his sword at Avershire's head. Avershire was quick enough to pull the sword out and block but he stepped too close to the dying corsair. The corsair, with a murderous look in his eye, reached out and grabbed Avershire's leg, tripping him. Avershire fell forwards but he twisted around and landed on his back. Doran stepped on Avershire's sword arm, pinning it to the ground; Avershire was defenseless. He lay still as the point of Doran's weapon lay at his throat.

Avershire breathed hard. "It seems as if I'm beat."

Doran smiled. "Yes, it does."
__________________________________________________ ______________

"NO!"
Doran looked up from his victory in time to see Devon jump forward at him with weapon in hand.

"Avershire!" Devon yelled.

Doran's smile grew even wider. "Now this is the boy I've been looking for. Come on, kid. Let's finish this."

Doran advanced. His sword gleamed red with the blood of Avershire as he went to face the ambassador's son.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath was overtaken by the battle, in a state where he saw, heard, felt everything so keenly, everything so bright and clear, like a drug, clarifying everything but allowing him to feel no pain. And such battle fury is indeed a dangerous drug.

Thrashing his whole left arm holding the blade out in a wide arc of steel, he sliced clean through a corsair's neck, but barely looked at the man as he fell to the ground. He saw every detail, but somehow it barely seemed to matter... he didn't register it, didn't properly look... Turning, he duelled sharply, agilely for a few seconds with another corsair, an older man of about forty. Such a duel was flashy, a mockey of real fighting, and Callath played up to it, grinning openly as he fought. But it didn't last - finding an opening point, Callath jabbed straight forward at the man's prone chest, darting in then pulling back in the blink of an eye, just as he would when fencing Devon. The man fell, a look of surprise on his face as he died at the boy's feet. Let your guard down, lost some points there... Callath thought giddly as he danced away, his eyes glittering brightly, predatorialy, leaping up to the top of a boulder like a fictional character, dashing. His thoughts were disjointed, barely matching up with what he was seeing and doing, as if a game and deadly real life had converged and he was having trouble working out which was which...but that was just another game...

They killed Luc, the fairground mantra went around and around, over and over, in Callath's head, driving him on, distracted and desperate. They killed Luc, they killed Luc, theykilledluc, theykilledluctheykilledluc...

"Calnan!"

A desperate cry brought Callath back to his senses properly although he did not instantly recognise the voice. A young boy...who was that...

"Calnan! Callath! Devon!" The voice cried again, a desperate cry, then a cry of pain followed. Callath's mind crashed back suddenly into stark reality, out of the strangeness of his mind, and he gasped, whirling around and squinting against the sun as he stomach plunged downwards suddenly and he saw Orda standing against another man, standing awkwardly over Sedal, whose disguise had been ripped away. The stable boy didn't waste a second - the sand was shelfed to the other side of the rock and the drop was about a metre, but the boy didn't even think about it: leaping down, he hit the ground running, darting fluidly around one of his victims, who he now could see in more detail. The sight nearly turned his stomach as he noted the man's head several feet from his body, but there was no time now to worry about what had happened when the fury was upon him. Sprinting towards Orda and Sedal, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword, he gave a fieresome yell in the hopes of putting off their attacker, a burly, dark man who glistened with gold earrings, built like a brick wall and towering over the thirteen-year-old boy and the prone surgeon. But the man was not to be diverted, and, obviously enjoying himself immensely, he raised the axe - axe?! - he was holding above his head, his tattooed body tensed to bring it down crushingly upon little Orda.

The distance between them was less than three seconds run for Callath, but it might as well have been a million miles for all the difference it would make.

He wouldn't get there in time.

The clear, blunt truth hit Callath like a ton of bricks, but he battled through it, transfering his blade to his right hand, which had ever been the stronger for throwing. Although it was wounded, it wouldn't let him down now. He ran for a second, then, turning sidewards like a spear throwing, his sword lightly balanced in his palm with two fingers behind the cross-section, he did a step-together-step, and released the sword with all the power he possessed.

It spiralled through the air, too fast to be seen, all the power and desperation Callath possessed in it making it more deadly than any other weapon on the beach in that second. Well, almost any other.... As it struck the corsair, he was actually knocked backwards by about a foot by the sheer force, a startled, messy cry emerging from his lips as the sword hit him in the throat. But at the same second, another cry came from over the side of the beach and, recognising it for all the time at sea he had spent in it's company, Callath spun around the see the owner of the voice...on his knees in front of Doran...

[Durelin]

"They're here," Rakein muttered under his breath. He often spoke to himself, especially when distressed, and this was a very distressing moment. He gripped his knife tightly, knowing that this was his only protection. He did not let how scary that was affect him. All that would give him the chance for revenge was a dagger, a belt-knife for cutting lines, which he had thanks to a corsair. Dead though he was, he had been kind enough to wash up on the beach in a convenient place. Rakein smirked at the thought of a dead corsair being convenient, and it helped. A smile always helped. He could make them bleed a little with what he had.

Rakein cut quickly away from the makeshift Gondorian camp, taking cover in the darkness, so that any passing eye would not notice him. Waiting, perfectly still, he looked for a man that drew near enough for Rakein to strike out with greatest effect. But bad luck foiled Rakein's plan, and a man happened to look closely at all his surroundings, his eyes stopping on the figure in the dark. Cursing, Rakein wasted no time, but ran swiftly, dodging around a corsair charging at another Gondorian, and flung the knife as he went. The corsair was caught off-guard by this speed, and though the knife did not aim true, hitting the man in the shoulder, he stood frozen. His eyes were ever widening as Rakein came racing at him.

Finally the man found his ability to move, and he began to reach for the knife in his shoulder, but Rakein sped up in earnest need, and ran his shoulder into the one that contained the knife. The man screamed with pain and fell to the ground, Rakein's body falling on top of him. Again he wasted not a moment, and the Gondorian's hand reached for the knife and pulled it out, then brought it down to the nearest vital region: the head. Rakein could feel the man's body move slightly underneath him for a few moments longer, but it soon stopped. The screaming had been the first thing to stop.

Rakein pulled the knife out of the man's forehead with some difficulty, and found himself exposed to an enemy sword, as his movement had alerted the wielder that Rakein was not dead. Without a second to think, he threw up his knife in a clumsy block of the much larger and stronger sword. A loud crack rang in his ears, and the knife was on the ground. A fire shot up his arm, and his wrist burned cold. Looking down at it, he saw misshapen bone coming from out of his arm. The shock of this made him freeze just as his last enemy had, even though he knew it was a costly mistake. He had never believed that a wrist could brake in such an extreme way. Luckily, neither had his enemy, it seemed.

The two men both looked at each other, their eyes rising from Rakein's wrist. It was Rakein who moved first, once again, and with the pain in his wrist and his desire for revenge driving him, he tossed away all reason and ran his head into the man's stomach and lower chest. His aching head told him that he had hit rib cage. The loud groan escaped from the man's lips, and his mouth and lips were becoming a shining red, but he picked up the sword he had dropped from the blow. Rakein tried to quickly move in on the man again, hopefully dealing the man another hard blow whilst bring him closer to his own knife still on the ground. But the corsair had come to judge his opponent's speed, and though Rakein did his best to dodge the blade, it sliced down his arm, shaving skin off.

The pain caused Rakein to fall forward, but he had managed to get close enough that he knocked the man over in the process. In the few moments while the corsair was tumbling over and recovering from the fall, Rakein groped for his knife, but all he found was warm sand. Then he felt something heavy hit his back in a heavy blow, and the corsair was on top of him. Rakein struggled to roll over, but when he found that the man had him pinned, he positioned his leg so that when brought up it would hit a rather vital spot...

Rakein heard the man yell and felt the body removed from on top of him. He quickly jumped on the corsair, who had let his pain steal away his attention. Rakein found it incredibly easy to grab at the man's throat, but he was not very efficient with one hand, and the corsair gripped both Rakein's hands to bring them away from his throat. The man was very strong, and too strong for Rakein, so before the man could pry off his hand, Rakein jerked them away quickly, ignoring the pain that shot up again from his wrist. The corsair lost his grip in surprise, and the Gondorian's one useful fist was free to strike the man. He fired a blow at the man's face and another at his chest. When Rakein drew back his hands, he found his knuckles covered in blood from the man's nose, which he ignored. Another blow to the face, and another to the side of the corsair's head. The man had blood coming from his nose, mouth, and ears, and yet a roar rose from his mouth and his strong arms pushed Rakein off of him.

Sprawled on the ground, with a throbbing head from a hard blow that had been dealt while he was being thrown off the corsair, Rakein watched as the man rose, quickly for one so large and wounded. Only now did Rakein realize the man's size. He turned his head from side to side, but there was still no sign of his knife. Luckily, there was also no sign of the corsair's sword. The man came rushing at the Gondorian on the ground, obviously trying to use his much greater bulk to do damage to as much of Rakein's body as possible. But Rakein new that he still had an advantage over this man, and so he quickly picked his body up enough with his one hand and his legs to launch himself forward at the man's legs. He grabbed the corsair's ankle, attempting to use both hands, and pulled it up from underneath him. The man tumbled sideways, and a sickening crunch came from the crushing of his head on a large rock.

Rakein rose from the ground, staring at the sand turning red around the bottom of the boulder. Looking around him, he saw that the area was clear for a good distance, and so he took the time to search more for his knife, as well as the corsair's sword. The latter was easy enough to find. It lay a good ways behind the corsair's body. The two men must have landed on it countless times. But Rakein would not give up on his knife. He searched the area behind the man, but only when he drew near to the dead corsair did his eye catch a glint of steel. Looking more closely, he saw that the steel shown through the blood, blood from the dead man's leg, which it now stuck half way out of. Again, Rakein smiled.

Rising with the sword in his hand and the knife tucked away in his ragged pants, the smile helped him gather the strength to move quickly along the beach, to find a familiar face, he hoped. Soon he had his wish, as he stared into the dead eyes of a Gondorian. He did not know the man well, but he had known his name, and that was enough. Luc was his name. Something would not allow him to take his eyes away from the dead man's. They seemed to plead with him, beg him to take revenge. But Rakein had only ever thought of his own revenge. It had never came to his mind that the other prisoners would want the same revenge, would be fighting on the same side as he. Both the men he had killed he had bled for himself. He had felt alone every moment since he realized that it was time to take his revenge. It seemed that, in this case, he had realized that he was not alone much too late.

A sword came down and pierced him in the back of his neck. Rakein screamed in agony as he felt nothing but pain in his entire body. His head wished to burst, as he could not scream loud enough. The pain would not escape through his mouth, and would not cease. It persisted and grew worse, and then, all of a sudden, through the screams and the blood and the sweat, Rakein felt blissfully calm, frozen in an icy world of growing darkness. In that calm, he let the darkness consume him, to protect him from the pain.

~

Adeline let the screams continuously escape from her horrified soul as the man, the man who had just seen her kill his comrade, came nearer, holding up a knife blade. She was not sure whether or not she screamed at the thought of her own death, or the death of the man she had just killed. The man's eyes shined with tears of anger and the hatred in them made her look away. Her eyes came upon the knife point, and the fear choked her. Her scream was cut short. The moment stretched out as she watched the man's steps draw him nearer, and there was complete silence. Then she heard distance shouts. So did the corsair, and he stopped short.

"Avershire!" She discerned the cry as a name. It was not one she recognized, but the voice... All her fears of her own death and her dealing of death faded. Only the thought of Devon filled her mind with frantic fear. The franticness caused her to charge past the man with the knife, too fast for him to react, and up the stairs onto the deck. She ran to the side, and ignored the men on guard that shouted at her. Climbing up on the railing, she took one deep breath and jumped.

She splashed into the cold water, and soon found the bottom beneath her. It was too far down for her to keep her head above the water, but she was able to use it to bring herself up. Hearing the shouts grow louder as she bobbed to the surface once again, she decided to toss away all dignity. She struggled for a moment before she was able to find a seam in her dress, but Adeline was able to tear it off. Being only her underdress, though heavy this was, was considerably lighter, and she found herself swimming toward the shore. She heard a loud splash behind her just as she found that she could stand up, and she redoubled her efforts. Soon she was climbing onto dry land, thankful that it had taken the men on the ship time to decide on a plan of action.

As soon as her ankles were free, she felt a heavy weight lifted from her feet, and she was able to run quickly across the sand on her bare feet, as she had long since lost her shoes. Soon her feet slowed once again, though, as her eyes saw what was before her, a ways off, but clearly visible. Doran stood over someone - she would recognize that man's flaunting arrogance from a mile away. And the man that knelt before him she would never fail to know in a hundred years from a hundred miles away. "Devon!" she cried out in both desperation at seeing him in such a position, and in joy. It was a joy to see anyone she knew again, no matter where, in what position. But even as the cry escaped her mouth, she realized how big of a mistake she had made. But for now, Adeline did not care, as long as Devon was alive and she knew that she had escaped from that ship, her long time prison.