Sailing

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You call out "Fire!" and release the mechanism on an onager.
A mass of sharp pieces of metal and wood fly out from "TLS Inexorable" and rain destruction on "The
Summerstorm Wings".
You have slain Akuji.

Distressing images from the Eusian Ocean override your senses as they depict
the narrow escape from death at sea of the crew of The Summerstorm Wings.

The crew of "The Summerstorm Wings" has been captured by the Eighth Legion
of Scyros, and has been shipped off to the Cnidian Gates.

A wounded Scyrian war citadel limps in from the north.

A darkly cloaked figure says, "Attempting to board, landwalker?"

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You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Indeed so, stranger."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "I noticed a wounded citadel of yours."

A darkly cloaked figure raises an eyebrow questioningly.

You have emoted: Ruth gestures westwards, tilting her head curiously to one side.

A darkly cloaked figure looks westward.

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Do my eyes deceive me, earlier?"

A darkly cloaked figure says, "The land? The village?"

A darkly cloaked figure says, "The wounded citadel?"

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Indeed."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "You are near Tasur'ke, landwalker."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Indeed, I am."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "Most of the active citadels are wounded to some degree, around these parts."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "I find myself most curious. I have not seen much citadels around a harbour before."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "It did pique my curiosity."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "This is Tasur'ke."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "Ponder that, if you call yourself navarch."

You allow a wry smile to grace your lips.

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Simply curious."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "A Scyrian title if I ever heard one."

A darkly cloaked figure purses his lips, deep in thought as he contemplates you.

A darkly cloaked figure says, "The Cnidian Gates are near to here. A battlefront of fury the likes that few can understand."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Perhaps, in time, I can bear witness to such a battlefront."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "Lord Hyrtakos, General of the Eighth, holds this northern wall."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "Tasur'ke belongs to him. He has but to reach out and pluck it."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "I see, I see."

A darkly cloaked figure purses his lips, deep in thought as he contemplates you.

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "This General of yours seem quite successful in his skirmishes against your foes."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "The furious fighting forces of Scyros under his command must indeed be something to behold."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "They are."

You have emoted: Ruth clasps her hands in front of her, her gaze that of politeness, but a great degree of interest behind them.

A darkly cloaked figure tilts his head and listens intently to you.

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Would a landwalker like me ever be given the privilege of boarding a citadel, perhaps? I am most eager to see how the Scyrians function."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "Your victory entitles you to some answers, perhaps. Entertainment is difficult to come by."

A darkly cloaked figure's eyes sparkle with amusement.

You lick your lips.

A darkly cloaked figure says, "That would require orders from high command."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "I could not resist."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "There have been few such precedents."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "Only one in my own lifetime."

You have emoted: Ruth tilts her head to the side slowly.

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "I see."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Do you remember who had such an honor?"

A darkly cloaked figure purses his lips, deep in thought.

A darkly cloaked figure says, "Asara of the Nerai was escorted to Scyros once. I was a boy at the time."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Ah. Asara. Tis' a name I remember quite vividly."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "You wish for such an honour?"

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Then, perhaps you can bring a note to your superior, whoever he is. I do, indeed, look for such an honour."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "I will do so. Your entertainment is likely not sufficient, but perhaps in time, should you prove your service to the empire."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "Do you desire to prove your service to the empire?"

A darkly cloaked figure tilts his head and listens intently to you.

You have emoted: Ruth's ears twitches slightly as she gazes at the citadel floating behind you.

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "To a large extent, I suppose I do. Tis' a Scyrian title I hold, after all."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "I had best make sure it lives up to such, no?"

A darkly cloaked figure says, "A navarch is the title taken by a citadel commander. Perhaps you have earned such a title."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "A type of phylarch, usually."

You have emoted: Ruth's eyebrows briefly rise. "Interesting."

This figure is cloaked in heavy folds of black. A hood completely obscures its face, though faint, rasping breaths can be heard from within. The sleeves are long, and the hem drags along the ground. The edges of the cloak are lined with a flowing silver script of some indescribable language, and the entire garment seems to glisten with beads of moisture. The faint scent of salt lingers around this being.
A darkly cloaked figure looks to be crushingly strong.
He weighs about 150 pounds.
He is loyal to General Hyrtakos, Strategos of the Eighth Legion (a denizen).
You see nothing in it.

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "But let me not keep you longer from the battles you have to win. As a last parting note, stranger, perhaps I could know who I speak with."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "And you? Why are you here?"

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Me?"

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Sea prey."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "It is said that Ruth of the Isle of the Black Walls haunts the west."

You have emoted: Ruth chuckles quietly, amethyst eyes glittering.

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Tis' what I am known as, now?"

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "There are not many ships that linger in the West. The juiciest, more arrogant ones sail upon this side of the oceans."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "And affairs of the land can be a tad.. dull at times."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "Such has been my experience. Odd, considering how dangerous it is for them here."

A darkly cloaked figure purses his lips, deep in thought as he contemplates you.

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Perhaps they have not learnt."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "Not many do."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "As for my name. Perhaps another day."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "As you say, then."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "I am of the Guild of Shadows, and an adjutant to the Eighth Legion, Citadel Nikaeos."

A darkly cloaked figure purses his lips, deep in thought as he contemplates you.

You have emoted: Ruth's tail wanders around behind her as she shifts her posture. "Another of the Guild of Shadows," she idly comments.

A darkly cloaked figure says, "I expect we will meet again, should you continue to sail waters held by the Eighth."

A darkly cloaked figure says, "Yes. We are more widespread than many believe."

You say in a quiet, speculative voice, "I certainly hope we will meet once more."

A darkly cloaked figure taps his nose knowingly.

Melting into the shadows, a hooded figure disappears.