On the deck of the Second Shank...
The ship grows somewhat restless - it is quite clear that everybody wants to move along, but they don't seem to be able to for whatever reason. Scott in particular seems antsy.
"So...We ready to go now or what? I'm pretty sure the local guard will not put up with us much longer."
Sigmund has a good answer to that one, as usual.
"The Artiste is asleep, so we would need to wait until later to figure what to do. Meanwhile, I think that we should investigate on which thing exactly we may find," he says, and Morton agrees readily.
"As sir Sigmund said, I don't believe we can rightfully cast off without Master Artiste's say-so."
Scott would sigh, but he doesn't have the energy for it, really. These fools have no initiative. As the others move on to their own not entirely fruitful conversations. After a moment, he realizes that perhaps he had best listen. Boring though their dialogues probably are, they may contain ample opportunities to act upon. He looks at Morton, who is engrossed in a chat with Erin.
"-you know of someone I could ask about enchantments? It's rather peculiar that someone would enchant a tree, much less with hatred. Also, would you perhaps know where I might find something to clean this mess with? I'd rather detest it being left to mar the ship so. If no, I think I'll try good Tailor Craig."
"Art's pretty good with enchantments. He's kinda obsessed that way. Loved magic theory, the weirdo. As for something to clean with..."
[Erin's magic roll: 5]
The air above Erin distorts quite a lot as she outstretches one hand, a rather striking-looking mop falling out of the sky and landing in her hand. Simultaneously there is a rush of air as a bucket of water suddenly appears at her feet. She hands the former to Morton. "Do these work?"
Okay, that was fun to look at, Scott thinks, but not really a scintillating example of dialogue. He looks over to Sigmund, but the bastard's gone by the time he turns his head. Really, you can't let people out of your sight here.
For you see, while Scott wasn't looking, Sigmund has already concluded his business on deck and gone to find the captain, who he runs into in the hallway, moving toward the cargo hold with Art. As he draws closer, the two turn to him.
"Ah! Very nice ARM you have there! LOVE THE TATTOO!"
Art just giggles a little. Sigmund begins to answer, but then Mark rushes past them, holding Evelyn in his hands. Oh dear.
"Oh DEAR! He looked EXCITED!"
And indeed he was, for the skeleton rapidly descends toward the cargo hold, whereupon he sets the four-legged pumpkin down next to the barrel, grabs his surgical tools and commences a procedure that promises to be quite fun indeed.
[Mark's "medicine" roll: 6+1]
He pulls the corpse right out of the barrel. It's a rather limited piece of meat. Quite flabby and distasteful. Such a thing will not do. There will be alterations needed. Mark begins the process by skinning the fellow entirely - he was almost too hideous to look at otherwise! He does pretty well, too. The skin is nicely removed, without any obvious cuts aside from the bit where Mark himself tore off the guy's head and cut off the arm.
First of all, he carefully dissects the sole remaining arm, as he requires to alter it to a notable degree. Grabbing the drunkard's severed head, he takes it apart piece by piece, paying special attention the mouth and throat - reconstructing that is a bit more difficult than one might imagine, what with all the entirely necessary crushing that happened to it. Nevertheless, Mark perseveres and gets what he believes is a fairly close resemblance to how it should operate, complete with a set of lungs and diaphragm to power the entire setup. However, when he's done this, he realizes he's gotten a little ahead of himself - he probably needs to make something to put this inside of. Yeah, probably. He puts the stitched piece of meat aside for a bit, then disassembles the rest of the torso - quite a lot of unneeded organs there, he finds. Can do with a lot of improvement, certainly.
After removing the ribcage and whatever else he felt like removing at the moment, Mark points the exposed spine of the drunkard at the pumpkin, which seems to catch the idea and grabs on, placing itself where the intestines used to be. Glad at having such a cooperative patient, Mark sews the pumpkin tightly into the abdomen, then seals the entire thing. After the entire torso twitches when he pokes it, Mark claps his bloodstained metal hands with satisfaction. It's working! He then opens up a spot for the pumpkin's legs, which he allows to touch the ground. Right, that's a nice foundation.
The good pseudodoctor then works his previously-created breathing and vocalization apparatus into the arm, which he then attaches to where the neck would be. Step two is thus completed - now for the final touches! He removes the fingers from the hand, as they are not needed, and adds the ribs in their stead, creating a rather interesting-looking thing that he can't quite compare to only one thing. Perhaps a flower, if an altogether asymmetrical one. Or maybe an unusually toothy bear trap. Or maybe both! At any rate, he's made a pretty neat-looking thing. Now, what to do with the other remains?
Ah, he's got it. With the drunkard's skin and the legs that are left behind, he creates a pair of wings - he's not sure if they'll work right, if at all, but he supposes that's why he's a doctor and not some kind of aeronautical engineer. He attaches these to the torso, producing on the whole something not unlike a skinless, slightly strange-looking swan. Ooh, that's the thing it was missing! Eyes! He adds those as well near the mouth, adding a rather funny-looking ornament made of splintered bone that gives them an atypically kindly quality - one that the owner of the eyes itself will be unable to change. And now that he's begun that, he takes the rest of the bones he removed, crushes those as well, and produces to lay out mosaics over the creature - they remind one of an amateur arts and crafts project, a lot of love put into the labor, but certainly lacking in grace. He even puts a mosaic of a smiling face right on the back of thing.
Drawing back from his creation, Mark gives it a long look. Hm. He's not so sure he's got the swan look quite down here. Maybe... hm. He points at the creature, which looks at him curiously (or at least he assumes it does - it, like Mark, is wholly unable to emote with its features), then makes a quacking motion with his hand.
"Khrrkhhsssss," the creature, standing in the middle of a neat patch of blood where a lot of meat once had lain, replies inarticulately. Nope, definitely a swan. That's okay, he supposes. He looks over at the pile of internal organs lying about. A thought strikes him - that stuff would make pretty good bait. No fish can resist a good bit of liver, as is common knowledge.
Meanwhile, back on deck, the atmosphere quickly descends into mild boredom.
"Uh, where's Niklas?" Kevin, who has been ignored for quite a while now, asks. Justine, now also alone, quickly answers.
"Currently being accosted by and reciprocally accosting a Mr. Terrance Barrymore, a Mr. Siegfried Kirche and a Mr. Shamus Sedgwicke about two and a half kilometers to the east - said three individuals wish to pick him up and sell him off for a nice sum to the Brotherhood of Fine Furniture and Other Odds and Ends, an unorthodox furniture dealer that makes its home nearby."
Oh.
Two and a half kilometers to the east...
Niklas, faced with unrepentant ruffians, lets the individuals know what they're in for.
"Prepare to meet a disapproving Northman!"
The three dudes are interrupted by the remark, looking at Niklas approaching them. He stares at the fellows and walks toward them. He is somewhat put off when the fellows don't seem to mind at all.
[Coordinated Attack: 6, 3, 6, average 5 = +1]
[Grab: Terry, Ziggy and Shamus vs. Niklas: 5+1 vs. 6]
The three fellows immediately grab for Niklas, who jumps back, not quite ready for such a step in their burgeoning master-slave relationship.
"Dammit, guys, can't you do anything right?" one of the guys, a graying, bearded man, says, smacking a younger, clean-shaven one.
"There goes the chair-grabbing strategy, I guess," a short individual with an uncharacteristically huge mustache, the third of the group, says sadly. "We need a better plan. How about we try to get him separately?"
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Topic: Life Begins At Death - Epilogue: We Live And Live Again (Read 562563 times)