The Ocean Gate [POST HERE FIRST]

The small boat is given a good looking-over by guards along the seawall. As far as they can tell, it seems to be simply a small passenger vessel, likely carrying foreign goods and travelers. Nothing about it seems threatening, so it is allowed to pass inward, to the harbor. It is directed by dockhands to a particular pier on the docks, where it would be free to discharge its passengers and cargo.

The Daimyo's impressive flagship, Togawa , cut its way through the water, the flag of Tawakoshi flying above the flag of Quying high on the mast. Her sails had the emblem of Quying sewed into them, a magnificent spectacle as the wind was particularly cooperative today, and the Daimyo himself was at the helm of his ship, demonstrating to his newer samurai how it was done.

Thomas came to Port Silverion as one among several passengers on a perfectly ordinary ship that sailed in and out of the port on a more or less predictable basis. He stood on the deck, out of the way of the crew, and watched the proceedings with the mild interest of a man that occasionally traveled by sea, but not often enough for all the novelty to have worn off.

Port Silverion’s latest visitor is treated with the appropriate amount of caution and respect. The galleon doesn’t come entirely as a surprise, it had spotted long before, but a terse feeling always accompanies the arrival of large, unknown vessels.

The ship clears the chain towers without incident, and flags direct the ship to dock in a particular spot, as per protocol. Those onboard would notice, coming in, many eyes staring back at them and the presence of The Imperial Navy. It remains as just that, a presence, though the understanding ought to be obvious.

[Dock at The Free Docks]

Port Silverion, it was a gorgeous trade city, one which boasted an imposing military to support it. This made it all more favorable to the travelling trader, Isran's waters were mostly pirate free, and they had encountered nothing but a few rough waves on their way from the southern shores of Toragana to Isran's coast. She had hired a good crew this time around, Viktoriya had learned her lesson two years ago on her first venture when she skimped on a qualifications and they spent an extra week at sea. The baidak rocked gently as it coasted across the waters, the sails at rest, the rowers rhythmically stroking as they gently guided the ship along. Viktoriya had climbed up to the deck, standing some few steps back from the signaler assigned to the bow, a small flag in either of his hairy hands.

In truth she was happy to see the shore and the gates of the the port. She was not a daughter of the sea, and though the Free Men had ships, they were not well known as a seafaring people. While she wasn't seasick, the seemingly unending shake of the sea did wear on her resolve. The profits would surely make up for all she'd endured of the sea's incessant churning. It was not as though their voyage had been insufferable, the men were well spirited, and among them she could peel of her refined and courtly facade and relax a moment with crass jokes, an overindulgence in alcohol, and a confrontational spirit. The captain's call could be heard, followed by a grumbling acknowledgment by the oarsmen below deck as he bellowed the call to stop as they listed towards the seawall. This was quickly followed by the affirmation for the deck officer to start signalling the lighthouse.

The stoic merchant looked up to the looming tower with a bemused but curious expression, unfamiliar with semaphore. A single flutter of worry flitted through her heart as she watched the seaman wave the flags about, the nagging thought that they might be turned away, denied entry, or worse, mistaken for pirates and fired upon. Their ship certainly lacked the...refinement of more elegant ships, but they had simply come to deliver foreign furs and medovukha, along with some odd trinkets Viktoriya figured she could pawn off or barter with in the markets. Viktoriya turned to the ladder hatch, cupping a hand over her mouth, hoping to throw her voice down into the bowels of the ship.

"Good work, to all of you. You sure as hell proved me wrong, had no idea a pack of mangy dogs could sail! When we dock I'd better not come back to a line of angry pizdeží crowding the ship, you hear me? I'll have your ass for it, these gentle foreign ladies don't know how to handle themselves, but I'll sure as hell knock some sense into you." She called, a mix of jest teasing and stern warning about conduct once they stepped off the ship. This was met with a cacophony of laughs, scoffs and jabs back at her, mostly concerning comments she was far from a 'lady'. This prompted a smirk from the woman as she tugged the fur shawl resting unevenly across her shoulders back into place before turning to watch for a response from the Isranian gate guards.

Libertalian sunsets were among the best in the world, according to most sailors. How the sun sets over the jungles and forests that surround the city, and cast brilliant colours over the shimmering, deep blue sea, there truly is nothing like it. As the twilight hours creep forward, Captain O’Malley sits on a plush, cushioned lounge with her legs up on the lap of her first mate, Alaris Fontaine.

Johnnie closes her eyes with a smile as she feels the slight warm breeze against her cheeks, offset slightly by the spicy taste of the red tobacco stuffed into the pipe that she cradles in her hand. “What a night,” she coos softly. The tanned-skinned elf smiles and nods in agreement, her hand resting on the captain’s bare leg.

After a long day, neither of the pair were interested in being out in the public eye. Both have rolled up sleeves and pant legs, coats have been discarded, and blouses loosened for comfort, choosing a relaxed, plain evening in private. Nothing would disturb them as they enjoy each other’s presence on such a fine evening.

Until a heavy fist knocks on the study door. Johnnie droops her head back and sighs, her eyes closed and wishing whoever it was would just disappear until the next day. But, she knew that if anyone dared to interrupt her private time, its usually important, and only a few had the balls to do it. Judging by the sound of the knock, she knew exactly who it would be.

“Come in, Dranarum!” she yells out, a small scowl on her face. She looks to her elven beauty and lowers her voice to a mutter. “This better be important.”

The doors to the western study open and a stout, but hugely bearded Dranarum Hammerfist steps in, his coat as impressive as his tri corner hat. The Sea Drake’s quartermaster makes his way through the study, stopping just a moment to look up at the portrait of Francis O’Malley hanging over the fireplace, and out onto the balcony.

“Fergive me, Cap’n,” he says with a nod of his head. “I wouldn’t be here if t’weren’t of some importance.”

“I trust you, Dran,” Joanne says, crossing her legs at the knee and taking up a more casual position. She takes a moment for a pull on her pipe and nods to him. “Go on, friend. Speak freely.” Her words come with the red smoke of the spiced tobacco.

The dwarf reaches into a satchel at his side and retrieves a sealed note, the seal unmistakably Isran in origin. “A reply from the Isran Empire, Cap. I’ve no’ looked at it, fer obvious reasons, but I’ve got a good feelin’ in me gut, and its no’ from Dezdamona’s recent catch. Yeuch.” He hands it to Alaris, who just happens to be closer, who passes it along.

Captain O’Malley lifts her legs and turns to put her feet on the wooden boards of the balcony, intent to read the letter properly. She lets the pipe hang from her mouth as she looks over the seal. “Well,” she says, turning her eyes to the two most important people in the world to her. “This may be some history right here.”

She opens the letter and reads.

Captain Joanne O’Malley,

If you would like to come to speak with me, please do. I can be found in The Citadel most weekdays, and usually meet with visitors in the afternoon.

Safe voyages,

Signed,

Empress Naoki of The Isran Empire

“Huh,” she mutters after just a few seconds. The two look at her quizzically. “One line. That’s it.”

Alaris raises an eyebrow while Dran nods. “I like it.”

The Captain smiles at the pair. “So do I, quick and to the point without any of that pompous bullshit. She’s a woman after my own heart.” She looks at the letter over again, then frowns in realization. “Stone the crows. Tell the council not to waste my time making my letters more ‘proper’ ot ‘formal’. Gods that makes my skin crawl, especially when we can get away with this,” she says, raising the letter.

The pair just raise an eyebrow each at her. There’s no way they’re saying that. “Fine, I’ll do it. Anyway, Dran, get the Drake ready to sail, and organize an escort. We sail in two days.” The letter is tossed gingerly onto a small table, where two mugs of ale and an ashtray sit, and the Captain resumes her lounging state with her legs up on her lover. “Load them up with gifts, we want to make a good first impression. Wine, food, ale, artifacts, and the haul of the Trade Ship Agatha. Put Ogden in the brig too, that should curry favour.”

“Aye ma’am,” the dwarf barks as he salutes. “He should be more cooperative after a week in the hole.”

“Precisely. I’m sure the Israns would be glad to get their goods back,” she says as she takes a puff on her pipe once more. “And the man that stole them. Make sure to parade him a little too, let the people see what we do with code breakers.”

The dwarf nods and goes on his merry way.

“This is going to be a fun week, Alaris,” Johnnie says as she gets comfy again. “A new chapter of wealth and riches. Exciting.”

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It's a lovely day in Port Silverion, with its hustle and bustle of trade and cargo being hauled around, merchants bellowing their prices, and the distinct yelling of deckhands giving instructions. All is well in the world of commerce at the port, money is being made and goods exchanged.

Massive sails begin to pierce the horizon beyond the port as five ships travel on a heading laid in for the port. The lead ship, the largest of the group, is a massive man o’ war, loaded to bear, followed by two galleons and two brigantines, each moving in precision formation in a well maintained convoy.

As the small fleet draws nearer, more details can be spotted through spy glasses. The sails are immaculate, fresh, and perfectly white against the morning sun, like a noble’s wedding dress on the best day of her life. The flag perched atop those sails though tell a different story, a flag with a pitch black background, contrasted heavily by the pure white silhouette of a beautiful woman with a cutlass in one hand, and a set of scales in the other, the flag of O’Malley’s ship, one that would strike fear into old sailors’ hearts from the days when it roamed their seas, taking what it wanted.

At the front of the ship, among the welded and bolted iron armoured sheets and reinforcement, sits a massive iron dragon head, set at the very front of the ship as its figurehead, the prized possession of the O’Malley family and their crew.

The ship boasts five decks within the hull, all bristling with weapons, mostly of ballista like qualities that launch iron balls, brimstone projectiles, enchanted irons, and bolts. On the upper deck sit six catapults, each with their own armaments and ammunition, and two super heavy ballistae. At the front of the ship is the figurehead, a massive iron-clad dragon head. To some, it's just an overcompensation for something Captain O'Malley lacks, but that would be a mistake to assume.

For those who look closely they would see that the rigging is covered in tattered coloured materials, the remains of the flags flown by those who challenged her and failed.

As the ships approach, the brigantines break off, each splitting from the group and raising their sails, intent to watch from a distance. Soon after, the galleons do the same, leaving the Sea Drake on its own as it approaches the opening of the port, flanked on either side by the massive light houses. By now, over half of its sails have been raised, leaving just enough to coast into the port. The sounds of sea shanties being sung as the ship passes the lighthouses fills the air, songs of merry and voyages and tall tales.

“Prepare to weigh anchor!” a voice yells over the shanty, the voice of a woman as she stands on the deck, wearing quite the impressive coat. “Take ‘er in slow, boys!" The last of the ship's sails raise as the ship coasts into the bay, intent to find a good, open spot for the large ship to drop anchor.

The NTC fleet is given permission to anchor where it does and Dorman’s boat is granted explicit permission to dock.

Upon disembarking, Dorman would find a port officer there to greet him and see to it that he is escorted wherever it is he may need to go. There is some amount of hubbub about seeing another fleet of any sort near Port Silverion, but the educated among them recognize the NTC flags and are unruffled.