[@Andronicus23]

[center] [h3][color=13A082] The Trappers[/color] [/h3][/center]
[center] [h3][color=DC143C] Chief Liam Carter-Spearshark
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The cabin radio buzzed and came to life as Chief Liam Carter-Spearshark piloted the [i]Felicity[/i] confidently through the murk of the Mount Desert Narrows. For the last couple hours, he had been hoping for it to ease off the fritz. The pilot’s cabin had grown boring. Not for the first time he wished he was sailing in the open breeze with the rest of the fleet. Songs of past and future glories, boasts of hunts, and, above all, excited and grave talk about Far Harbor had all played out beyond everyone’s interest. His Trapper-Kith, those warriors closest to him for various reasons, occupied chairs lining the trawler’s cabin. They were shadowy, quiet shapes under the sticky yellow glow of the two naked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, one of which started blinking an hour ago. Most of them seemed asleep.

The buzzing finally cleared, as the radio belched out a message: "Next, with this year's hockey season in full swing, I want to wish all the *static* good luck, whether you're playing at the Scotiabank Arena or elsewhere. We all *static* our favourite teams, each one gunning for the Cup - however, as a Toronto native, I know the Leafs are going to win. Easy."  A faint chuckle. "I'm kidding, of course - *static* luck to all of you."

"There *static* important matters I want to address, and the reasons why *static* address outside of the usual schedule. First, the Gun-” *static*.

The radio sputtered as the signal gave out again. Liam shook his head about the radio, but also the welling sense of unease he felt. It wasn’t the first signal from far away they had received. The long range radio signals were a sign that other folks outside the people of Maine were getting more powerful. They didn’t seem that different from the Rich Ones of old, or they weren’t immediately eager to prove it. No sense of humility. Still, the woman seemed a decent sort. He wagered that was the Prime Minister of Ronto. Only a fool would pretend they didn’t exist.

All in all, it made his current mission seem small. They were here for personal and Clan honor, and make some good catches. There was… there was also the matter of his older brother Bilge, who mighta been Chief if he hadn’t gone missing. Everyone in his Clan lost, or knew someone who lost, a family member or friend when Bilge led a bunch of Trappers to Far Harbor and never came back. And yet he couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt for leaving the rest of the Trapper Clans behind. That message from Canada was a sign that others, who maybe didn’t chat about hockey like old friends, could turn up any time. There was also Grand Chief Amel’s war against the Iron Giants. By rights he should be there, but… no. Something was funny in Far Harbor, he could feel it. Let the Goldgulls and the Seabats help her. Spearshark had business in Far Harbor.

His stream of thought was broken as the island’s coast came into view. And with it, a ruined dock. A cry of “Land-ho!” went up around the ship that he soon echoed, though his mouth was dry from disuse. It was the ritual that counted, it was a sign of things to come.

[center]......[/center]

Over the next half hour, ships of the Spearshark fleet would straggle into port at dusk. The awkwardness of a fleet mixed in its power source made for that. The [i]Felicity[/i] and the [i]Cormorant[/i], two fairly large gas powered trawlers and flagships of the Spearshark fleet, were there first and at the same time. The remaining four ships powered by sail and oar showed up at various times, scattered by shifting winds. As the Felicity docked, armed Trappers kept a careful eye on the town and their sailors rushing about tying up the ship, but carefully made no move to aim weapons at anyone.

A leader in marine armor with no helmet on, a sign of trust, came to the port side of the Felicity. His armor had the crest of a shark crossed with and impaled by a spear painted on the chest plate in red. He had green eyes, dirty blond hair and a beard, with a scarred, sea-worn face. He was still noticeably young to any watchers, who might estimate him to be in his late 20’s or early 30’s. Around him was an entourage of men and women in what islanders might recognize as Trapper and Coastal Armor, though it was better taken care of than they had ever likely seen on the island’s presumably extinct, insane Trapper population.

The leader called out to those assembling to meet the ship. “Hello. I am Chief Liam Carter-Spearshark, of the Spearshark Trapper clan. I am here to look for my relatives, who travelled here to hunt years ago. I don’t want a fight unless you do, and I would be happy to talk to whatever you folks have as a leader.”