[center][h3][color=black]Long Dhubh ar na Spéire[/color][/h3][/center]

The rousing waves of midmorning slapped against the black hull of [i]Nathair[/i] with the a roughness that seemed almost playful after the deep calm of dawn. The air was clear, every cloud in the sky gave deference to the sun, and the wind filled[i] Nathair[/i]'s dark sails with a driving, lustful vigor. Despite these good omens, the black ship cutting through the glittering green sea was a solemn and morbid sight. A harrowing dirge sounded from the ship's decks, strained and broken voices joining together to sing of sorrows from before the birth of the nations they hailed from, or the bloodlines that bore them.

The ship's captain served as the shantyman for their song, calling out the verses of his ancient Elvish ballad for his crew to echo. They knew nothing of the content of the lyrics they sang, and butchered the subtle beauty of his native tongue with their coarse human accents and mouths ruined by deformity and scurvy. After a hearing a particularly sour note, the Elvish captain fingered the handle of the lash hung at his hip, but decided against using it for the time being. Rather, he strode back to his seat on the quarterdeck, calling out beginning of the next verse all the while.

It was an elegant, if mournful shanty in its original Elvish. The lamentations of a long-forgotten crew of a dragon ship much like [i]Nathair[/i], as they sail away from their ancient home, abandoning their lives and loves in the pursuit of war. Their only hope was to rejoin their families in death, as those that departed the Elvish home were forbidden to ever return. It was a song that lingered on Emel's mind frequently, and out of all the old shanties it was the one he remembered best. Rather than settle down into his throne on the quarterdeck, he stood atop it, peering over the horizon with his ruby eyes, his Elvish vision a match for any spyglass. From there he spotted the masts, trees, and towers of their destination, tucked just behind the horizon. He hopped down from atop the chair and unspooled his lash from his belt. Emel whipped the lash in the air to gain the attention of the crew, and rather than crack as most whips did, the noise it made was more like the snarling and rattling of some strange beast. The tool had been called [i]Yongje[/i], meaning "Agonizer," by the man Emel had won it from in a game of chance years ago in a far-flung port.

"[color=f6f3e7]Portus Cruor, nine leagues off the bow![/color]" The Dark Elf called to his crew.

A smattering of calls resembling "Aye" went up, and the crew set about making preparations for landfall. Emel watched them, carefully observing his misbegotten crew as they went about their duties. The seemed unusually sluggish for sailing in such good weather, and he was curious about the reason. His gaze wandered to where his First Mate was barking out more specific instructions to the helmsman and other crewmates, and Emel could practically smell the contempt they had for their superior officer. The First Mate was a burly half-orc, and had joined [i]Nathair[/i]'s crew decades ago, and had been valuable to it. That said, Orcs were not a long-lived people, and their halfbreeds even less so, and the First Mate wore his years heavily. His hair was grey and milky blindness had begun to cloud his eyes. The rest of the crew could sense his weakness, and felt little need to obey him. Emel would need to correct this before it became an issue.

First, the more pressing matter. [i]Yongje[/i] lashed out across the deck, its barbed tails catching the flesh of the belligerent crewman shirking his superior's orders. The man screamed in surprise and agony, his legs immediately giving out from under him as he hit the deck with a heavy thud. He continued to roll around on the deck, moaning deliriously as the rest of the crew looked to Emel warily. He whipped the Agonizer back and forth in the air twice more for effect, giving the audible impression that there was some vicious and exotic beast prowling the ship. In a metaphorical sense, there absolutely was. Cowed by this display, the crew snapped back to their duties, and the First Mate gave his captain a lingering look, knowing he was failing in his duties.

Emel paid him little mind, returning to his throne as he let his gaze and thoughts wander. Here was was, back in this gods-forsaken land after a span of time that he personally regarded as being too brief. To what end, not even he knew. He had not come here of his own accord, not truly. He had been driven like a beast of burden, and the lash that drove him hung on the hip opposite to his own. The Black Sword had a sudden change in mood and character a few months prior, and had begun pressuring him to journey to this place. It assailed him incessantly during the day, and bombarded his restless dreams. He felt ashamed to have given in to its demands, but part of him was curious what about this place had made it so desperate to journey there. The blade had been eerily silent since the night before, as they approached Outremer, and so he wondered what it was currently plotting.

[color=f6f3e7]We've returned to this damned backwater,[/color] Emel offered this thought to the Black Sword, trying to provoke a response.

[color=black]Not a moment too soon[/color], answered the blade, [color=black]Your acquiescence gives me renewed hope for the fruitful bounty of our partnership.[/color]

Emel sighed, not sure if he was relieved or annoyed by the blade's return to its usual demeanor. At least he knew generally how to deal with it when it acted like this. Never the less, they would soon be ashore, and Emel could finally put this mystery to rest.