[center][i]No one escapes the clutches of the dreaded drucchi. Better to die than be caught by their cruel nets.[/i] 
-Bos'un Herbert Fauchman[/center] 

As Emmaline was busy losing the contents of her lunch over the side of the boat, Markus stared at the wooden planks on the rowboat, deep in thought. The churning sea rushed and shoved the craft gingerly, oscillating their position and filling their ears with the dull roars of the surf. The Captain of the [i]Hammer[/i] clutched his sheathed, accursed sword, the scabbard resting over his shoulder. For miles in any direction, they were surrounded by sea. In the distance they could see a faded picture of land, but it would be hours before they reached the shore. The day was overcast and the wind tickled them, but it was not unpleasant. The vague sound of whispers that came with the wind were more unwelcome than the wind itself. Then again, these lands had been perpetually haunted in all the stories. 

Mercifully, the Land of Chill was warmer than the rumors. 

Markus had never been to Naggaroth, though he and his crew had an unfortunate run-in with Dark Elf reavers before. It was how he had acquired his black sword, and it was during that engagement he really started to respect Emmaline as more than a bumbling pair of tits. Unfortunately, he didn't foresee much more in the way of positive benefits when facing the dreaded elves of Malekith. It was almost guaranteed he and his lover would die here, on this strip of bare land on far end of the world. And yet there was nowhere else to go, and Markus was not going to die without spilling as much elf blood as possible. 

The previous day, the Hammer had been sailing up the coast of the Sea of Serpents with all speed. Markus and his crew had been given a map from the Heinrich Kuaffhelm, the greatest loremaster of the New World. It was similar to most maps save one detail: the location of the fabled Tomb of Gold. After having survived the Lizardmen in their golden city, Markus had seen first hand the fabulous wealth the Lizardmen had in their hoards. It took very little to convince his crew and Emmaline to find the Tomb that was rumored to be unguarded by the scaled warriors.

On the ninth day at sea, the black sails appeared. Three dark elf sloops surrounded them and assailed the ship on all sides. Emmaline had been pitched overboard, and Markus could only dive off the ship and leave a rowboat untethered and floating upside-down in order to save himself and the sorceress. With clever magics she had kept them hidden from the sea-dragons that followed the dark elves, or the myriad of monsters that lurked within the 'sea of serpents,' but that left them stranded miles from the coast, idly floating with the wind. 

If his men weren't dead, they would soon wish they were. The Black Ark they had seen in the distance had disappeared, and only by memory did Markus recall a dark elf settlement supposedly on the coast, by way of stories they had heard moored at Skeggi. They would go there and try to get his ship back, and if they failed, they would take the two small vials of poison Markus kept on his person to die swiftly and (relatively) painlessly.  

Even if it came to that, Markus would kill for what they did to him. 

"Your concern is wonderful," Emmaline said, finally bringing her head up and slumping against the side of the boat. She looked miserable. 

"I'm not concerned," He said, aloof with his attention elsewhere. "You've gotten through far worse. We'll be on land soon."