[I]Hunding Bay, South of Hammerfell, 18 Rains Hand…[/I]

The harsh truth about sailing was that you were at the mercy of the gods whenever you set out. Harding and her crew, seasoned sailors one and all, knew the storm was coming the morning before. The slight change of air pressure, the slightly sharper winds belied an impending peril despite the clear blue skies. More weight was shifted into the lowest deck as ballast to help keep the schooner balanced in the coming storm. Harding suspected even then it was not going to be enough, and consulting with her helmsmen, a sea artist who was perhaps one of the most accomplished sailors in the West, informed the Captain of the grim news; there was no way they’d find a safe cove within two days. They were at the mercy of the divines, it seemed.

She had instructed her passengers, particularly the ones in heavy armour, to store it all in a large airtight barrel that would be fastened to the central mast in case the worst was to happen, which would be the ship capsizing. Anyone caught in heavy armour, regardless of their prowess at swimming, would quickly be sunk and drowned without a hope in Oblivion of rescue. The Breton woman had seen that one happen far too many times to treat it lightly; it was a damned horrific way for a man to die.

The first of the rains hit an hour after sunrise. The sky was blackened like a soot and it thrashed the hull and the masts like a wave, the near horizontal rains threatening to push the crew to the starboard side and overboard, were they not careful. Many of Harding’s crew in fixed positions secured themselves with lengths of rope, as maintaining one’s perch up high was a perilous thing when there was little blocking the fury of the storm. The sea was picking up as well; waves crashed into the hull, spilling sea water over the deck in a powerful flood. Several crewmembers lost their footing and fell onto their backs, scrambling to grab a hold of anything as they slid. The captain cursed and ordered her helmsmen to take them further in land. A crack of thunder filled the air and a blinding bolt of lightning crossed the sky as if it were a chilling omen. Despite the rain, Harding could tell she was sweating. 

It was not a good place to be. 

Although the crew could not see it, within 40 minutes the shoreline was fast approaching according to the sea artist, and Harding was struggling to keep her balance on the wet deck. Some of her passengers, including Marassa, had chosen to sit anchored near the center of the deck, not daring stand or get in the seasoned crew’s way. Harding paid them little mind when she heard the helmsman shout in alarm, and she turned in time to see a water spout bearing down on the schooner, perhaps two kilometers out. 
Ordering the helmsmen to make it straight for the shore, the man complied, turning the wheel with every bit of strength he could muster, the sails fighting against his wishes every degree of turn he earned for his efforts. The ship was now racing a storm; if they were to be hit directly by the water spout, they’d surely flounder and perish. Several tense minutes passed as the ship raced, rocking violently as the waves picked up in ferocity. Harding herself gripped the bannister so hard her knuckles threatened to burst forth from her flesh. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, as if willing her ship to outpace the storm. A cry came from foredeck, “She’s missed us! Thank Akatosh…”

The relief was immediately lost by a chilling, shrill cry. “[I]ROGUE WAVE![/I] BRACE FOR IMPACT!” 

Harding turned swiftly, trying to ascertain where the threat was coming from and immediately wished she hadn’t. She scarcely had a moment to scream before the monstrous, towering wave overcame the ship and the world went dark.

Eventually after some time, the sky cleared and Marassa came to as she lay prone on the deck of the ship, the blinding light of the day burning her eyes, forcing her to cover her eyes with a forearm weakly. Her abdomen killed, the rope harness that had been fastened to secure her had dug in deep during the storm and felt like it had almost ripped her in half. Pulling a dagger free from her belt, which had miraculously stayed on her, she cut the rope free and breathed a sigh of relief as she mustered enough energy to summon a restoration spell that slowly eroded the pain. The khajiit wasn’t sure how long she laid still after that, but she eventually found it in herself to sit upright and struggle to her feet. 

The ship had run aground on either a large island or the mainland, and if Marassa’s memory served her well, there were no islands near where they were sailing when the storm hit. The crew lay dazed around her, some walking uneasily from place to place, trying diligently to do their work, although it immediately became clear that they would not be going anywhere; the mast had a large stress fracture that threatened to splinter the wood in two. It was unsettling enough that the khajiit took a few steps away from the pillar with its ragged, torn sails. She found Harding sitting outside of her cabin, mending her broken arm with her own restoration spell. She looked miserable.

The Breton looked up and spoke before she was greeted. “I hate to admit it, but this isn’t the first time this happened to me ship.” She muttered anxiously, helping herself gingerly to her feet with no small amount of effort. Marassa moved to help the woman by throwing her arm over her shoulders. The khajiit suspected the captain would not have accepted the offer had she been more herself. The Breton looked devastated as she looked about the ship, shaking her head. “Twelve hands lost, either by virtue of being dead aboard or taken out to sea. Your friends all made it.” She said, answering Marassa’s unspoken question. The woman walked with a pronounced limp and looked up at the sky. “It’s going to be dark in a few short hours. We’ll make camp on the beach and figure out if we can salvage the ship or if we have to scuttle her. It breaks me fucking heart.” She said, pulling away from Marassa with an appreciative nod as she started to bark orders to the survivors to mobilize them. It was going to be hard labour.
One of the virtues of a beached, damaged ship was the fact that firewood was not hard to come by, as various shattered and splintered planks gave more than enough for several beach fires that would last throughout the night. Marassa and her companions had their own fires and Harding was nowhere to be seen, likely making use of her largely untouched cabin. She’d likely be the only one sleeping well this night. 

While people made small talk around their respective fires, the mood was understandably subdued and Marassa in particular was frustrated. She had no idea how far away they were from Hegathe, and while she knew that she was lucky to be alive and was spared a grueling journey overland, this was an unfortunate setback that did nothing but try her patience. She had found a whetstone in the hull and was tending to her sword that was laid across her armoured lap, her items obtained in the time after she had awoken and the crew got to work. She helped set up a perimeter of spikes and various light items were strung across lengths of rope as an early warning sign against predators or bandits. Who would attack a sizable and armed ship crew was either brave or suicidal. 

Before Marassa could turn in for the night, her ears detected the unmistakable sound of the line being tripped by something. She was immediately on her feet, scanning the horizon for the intruder, her khajiit eyes penetrating the dark handily. She immediately regretted what she saw.

“SCORPIANS!” she bellowed, standing to and moving towards the line. The pirates who were asleep stumbled awake with a startle and those who were still awake scrambled for their weapons. Those closest to the line weren’t close enough and were set upon by the massive armoured arachnids, many easily six feet in length or more. Powerful stings punctured bodies and claws tore flesh asunder and three men and a women were immediately overcome by the creatures, disappearing screaming under a writhing mass of far too many legs. 

“How many?!” an alarmed voice yelled from Marassa’s left. 

“Dozens, at least!” She called back as she quartered off against the first of the beasts, hoping her armour would be strong enough to withstand the blow.

Casting feather upon herself, Marassa moved quickly and dodged a sting from the scorpion, which immediately had its tail severed and the point of her greatsword driven into its head, her support hand on the grip partway up the blade, giving the weapon a function not unlike a spear. The victory was shallow, as the writhing tide in front of her was far from depleted. Quickly casting a magelight into the sand before her, the horror she was witnessing was now visible to the others.

A part of her wishes she drowned, but Marassa had endured worse, and she was not going to die to several dull-witted creatures, not this close to hear goal.

Bellowing out a feral feline warcry, Marassa charged forward to meet her foe.