It would seem that the Captain thought of the only Elf on the sinking vessel last, giving a quick hammer on the door of his cabin – the place becoming slowly more damp by the second – and yelling off something about wanting you on deck; the Man seems flustered enough that Listec did not bother arguing, gathering his armour and slipping it on as he went, the practised and perfected movements of a seasoned warrior moving toward a tense and potentially dangerous situation.

By the time he emerged into the whipping wind and the pouring rain, sailors already scurrying across the decks and crying out to one another in their blunt tongue, the other adventurers were just as busy – apparently the younger Bretonnian had launched himself over the side after someone, the ranger Brokk grasping the boys rope and bracing himself even as the rest of the ship listed in the water. 

A couple of the other mercenaries were visible through the wet, each placing themselves at one side of the ship, and the tattooed Slayer letting loose with his Dwarf powder weapon – how he had managed to keep the powder dry was anyone’s guess, and the Asur was not about to question it if it helped to save their lives.

Eyes narrowed against the rain, his usually perfect hair now plastered to his face and the rest of his head, the Shadow Warrior moved over to where the larger – and uglier – knight now stood, shouting something at the resident wizard and even threatening him with her unsheathed blade. This was not his fight though, and Listec moved gracefully across the sodden planks of the ships deck, as level and fluid as if he were taking a stroll along a country road.

Moving at a half-crouch over to the railing, his eyes narrowing even further against the sickly green glow of the mast, he could make out the slender long-ship of the Norscans and hear their grunted oaths to their dire deities as they prepared to board the [i]Wellenbrecher[/i].

With limber fingers and two swift movements of his hand, an arrow with fletching of white was nocked to the string of his longbow, the slender figure rising far enough to get a bearing on the vessel and its living cargo, pulling the string and arrow back to his ear and holding for but a millisecond; with an expulsion of air the arrow was released, the missile disappearing into the darkness with a slight hiss and the satisfying sound of an outcry of pain from the intended target.

Not an instant later and another arrow was already there and ready to loose.