There is a deafening explosion of thunder that sounds like the booming fist of a god hammering the very earth, and at the same instant a burst of lightning lights up the black night, so bright it makes the whole world white for an instant. The wind howls and shrieks, like the tormented cries of a deranged man, as sheets of torrential rain blanket the Coral Queen. The two-masted scow lurches on its side dangerously as it plummets down another mountainous wave into a valley of churning chaos that the sea has become.
Even before the echoes of the last thunder rolls away, the next bellows its presence onto the panicked crew, and in the same instant a web of ungodly bolts tears the sky asunder. The crew shouts directions at each other as they grapple with the scow to keep her righted. The captain’s voice, deep and calm, orders them into the fray as he struggles mightily against the ship’s wheel. And heard, above all this cacophony, is the lone voice of Gerrick Greystone, screaming in abject terror.
“Not like this Moradin!” his voice is hoarse, “I beg of you, don’t let it end like this!” The dwarf is huddled amidst cargo that is piled on the deck, and he is gripping some of the crates so tightly, that his fingernails have left gouges in the soft wood. Beside him, leaning into the wind, Dunbar grimaces, and attempts to shield his eyes from the constant spray of rain, as he pats the dwarf’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure his frightened companion.
“Do you think Asturean was swept over?” the half-orc asks Ulaanbaatar, the other half-orc who is sitting calmly with his eyes closed and his back to a mast.
“Doubtful.” The monk says, as his face remains a mask of serenity, “He’s much luckier than he should be.”
“By the All-Father!” Gerrick laments, “How did I end up here?!?!”