The Free Docks

Faelar seemed to be rather surprised by Gothmog’s move, stepping back a few steps at the violent stomp.

“Well Captain, I wanted to attack you where it would be harder for you to block with your arms. I was hoping to catch you off guard and maybe knock you off balance. I didn’t expect you to break it with your boot, though.”

Glancing around, Faelar considers what a better option would have been, he wasn’t quite sure at the moment.

Hmm, more flexibility. Faelar would have to work on that, but not now.

“Yes, Captain, I understand. I haven’t used those weapons before, but I’ll try to aim for the center of mass now instead of the legs.”

Faelar would look around for a new pole as the previous one had been broken by Gothmog.

“Do you want me to continue with another pole or should I try attacking you unarmed?”

He was quite alert to the Captain's movements as he asked this question. He half expected him to attack him while speaking considering the previous experiences.

Faelar didn’t have a very good feeling about this, but he would have to try and fail to get anywhere in this training. Steeling himself for the worst, he would dart towards Gothmog.

Being prepared to dodge any counter attacks and back off if Gothmog appeared to make a preemptive strike, Faelar would feint a punch with his right hand at Gothmog’s stomach. If Gothmog appeared to react in a way that would leave himself open, he’d throw a kick at him. If he didn’t fall for it, Faelar would quickly back off.

Gothmog seemed to disapprove of heroic moves, so better to run and avoid being hit if he could help it.

Docks Eight and Nine stand ready for the arrival of Leif Havikson and his fleet of Varan longships. As is protocol, dock workers are on standby to assist with mooring, and a few token guards stand at the base of the docks in the spirit of preventing disputes. Additionally, one man, dressed well in some manner of uniform, stands at the end of the dock, another guard at his left side. Some manner of official, perhaps. He will continue to stand there, observing, unless approached.

Faelar let out a grunt as he punched Gothmog’s shockingly strong stomach. He would wince and shake his hand slightly, attempting to alleviate the pain. He knew orcs were strong but hadn’t expected their muscles to be that hard.

“Point taken, Captain. I will definitely work on being able to take my hit, I’m definitely too frail in my current state. Where should I have aimed for instead of your stomach if I was going for an unarmed attack if I might ask?”

“Of course, I would never try to do something like that against you Captain. I’m not sure exactly what it means, but it doesn’t sound like something I’d want to happen to me…”

Faelar looked around at the ships as Gothmog gestured, examining them. Although the Captain had been mentioning a punishment involving them it seemed, it had brought Faelar’s attention once more to how well made they were.

“Do you have any tips on fighting people much larger than yourself Captain? Although I know taking a fight you can’t win is bad, sometimes one will be forced into these situations.”

Faelar would continue training with Gothmog for several months, constantly asking various questions to glean some of the orcs combat experience. Receiving countless bruises and bumps from the rather intense training sessions, Faelar kept showing up, undeterred by the stress put on his body. He focused on whatever weapons Gothmog would urge him to learn, which meant much of the time none as unarmed training was fairly important. Finally, his time training would come to an end. He was extremely grateful to Gothmog, and would look to pay back the favor in the future.

The Depravity was a truly magnificent specimen of a ship. Damn near 10,000 tonnes of iron, wood, and beauty. A culmination of Stark's mental genius, with inputs from Gothmog and Valerian, had made the flagship of the Isran Navy truly an awe-inspiring sight. Her complement of nearly eight hundred sailors and marines stood arrayed on the docks beneath him, minus the hundred or so he needed just to move the magically-powered sailing vessel next to this dock. Although he could not see it, the figurehead, depicting a version of Empress Naoki as a flaming angel of justice, was mounted prominently on the bow. The vessel came to a smooth stop next to the dock, and he stepped out from behind the wheel.

"Lower the gangplank!"

The gangplank landed on the dock with a resounding clang . Gothmog quickly made his way down it to stand on the dock and before the figure of the High Lady of Isra herself. He saluted as he took the last step onto the dock, probably the first and last one he would ever give.

Standing there toward the end of the dock, Lady Naoki, clad in her recently acquired armor, watches, silent and largely impassive. However, a slight smirk is present, as things tend to be with her. Truthfully, there are also some non-zero amounts of pride and excitement present. Months ago, she hired the leadership of Isra’s navy and told them that she wanted to rule the seas. Now, this behemoth of a ship stands before her. Large, in charge, and all but ready to firmly establish Isra as the naval superpower of the world.

As Gothmog approaches, Naoki removes the smirk and nods somberly in response to his salute. She considers asking if the ship is ready, just to hear him say that it is, but decides not to bother. Figuring that all of these sailors milling about are supposed to be the crew, Naoki figures that they’ll probably have to board the ship before it is prepared to depart. With this in mind, she steps off to the side, to the right of the gangplank, and holds her hands behind her back. Internally, she remarks that it would probably be awfully difficult to swim in this armor, despite it being enchanted so, and as such, is careful not to stand too close to the edge.

Though she doesn’t offer any commands to Gothmog, trusting him to proceed about things in the best way, it doesn’t seem like Lady Naoki intends on doing much more unless suggested to until it is time to board. It doesn’t seem like Naoki has noticed any varieties of furry beasts or Celandine women yet through the crowd of sailors.

Further away from the ship, out of the way, a mixed collection of Sun Marshals and Citadel Honor Guards seem to be standing around a pile of crates and assorted suitcases, responsible for Naoki’s luggage and the physical International Accord of Universal Rights and Protections, respectively. They also seem content to stand by until it is time to board.