(Did my TK Pulse work to de-blanket Dooley?)
"Aye," and again I hop to. I scamper to the aftcastle as quick as I can and stare at the compass, trying to block out the confusion of the storm and focus on getting Donald the information he needs. If I can't make heads or tails of the compass after about a minute, I'll snap open my spyglass and have a look around - redundant information being better than nothing at that point.
I'm assuming that since you are trying to remove the blanket, your pulse is lateral to the man in the hammock; you could pull it toward his feet, but that would not pull it off the hammock; you could pull it straight up, but that would result in it falling down to the same spot. If I've mistook your intent, correct me. The skill works, but does not entirely achieve the objective.
You manage to give the blanket a sideways shift, but it clings to the man beneath it and gets the hammock rocking.
"All right," he says, "I'm getting up. Is it six o'clock already?" You inform him of the situation, and he dresses quickly, catching up to you almost before you get back to the map room.
You easily get your bearings with the compass, at least well enough for practical purposes. The ship is headed west but starting to veer south, as instructed; the storm is toward the northwest.
You grab the spyglass and scan every direction you can see. There is a raised platform which is the point from which sightings are taken. You spot what appears to be an island, southeast of your position, and note the exact heading on the compass. There's nothing else in sight.
Rushing back with that information to Donald, you find that Brian is already there with his heading on the same island, a fraction different from yours. Using the two numbers, Donald says he thinks you're both looking at this particular island, and triangulates a position on the map. "We'll see if Dooley confirms that in a moment, and then we'll take shifts on the forecastle and the crows nest for a while, watching for debris, other ships, and obstacles ahead. If you see anything, of course, you give a course correction to the pilot first so we won't hit it, then report it here."
Dooley's information confirms what you've already got.
The rain is starting to hit the deck above you.
"I'll take first watch in the crows nest," Donald says. "John, you take the forecastle. Oh, and tie yourself to something. Do you know how to tie a stout bowline?"
--M. J. Young
(OOCly I took one of those rope-course things in high school. I can't climb worth a crud because of my acrophobia, so the coach taught me to tie knots and harnesses and belay lines instead. I got to the point where I could tie a complete rope-climbing harness in about a minute flat and belay a man twice my size on it. I'm going to ask for nothing lower than 1@8. I'm no mountain climber, but I can tie every knot in the boyscout handbook.)
It takes me a minute to remember, but I nod. "Is there rope up there already?" In case there's not, I'm already looking around for some. Note to self: take 20 feet of good quality hemp when the time comes to go.
Whether there is or not, I hustle on up there. If there's going to be rope waiting for me, I use it, if not, I grab some on the way - surely on the deck of a ship there will be a few yards of loose rope lying around somewhere! A quick half-harness (it doesn't have to catch me from a freefall, after all) and a bowline tied in the end of a rope post-hitched to ... well... to whatever on the forecastle looks solid. If there's a mast up here, woohoo, otherwise whatever looks big and heavy and bolted down.
It's a fully-rigged sailing ship, square and lateen rigged--there's rope everywhere, and to spare. You can grab something when you're there, and find a way to lash it to something quickly. You then start scanning for anything ahead--and the rain starts coming down on you, coming in almost sideways in the wind across the starboard bow.
Suddenly the bow dips sharply on the current, and a surge pours through the rail, sweeping you off your feet. You are carried to the port side rail and over it. Your harness is solid, but the lashing on the capstan lets go in the swirl.
You make a desperate grab, and catch hold of the rail as the water passes over you. Choking and sputtering, you are dangling over the ocean by one hand on a slippery wooden rail in a storm.
Are we having fun yet?
--M. J. Young
Looks like my first genuine Verse is going to be a brief one. I don't have the strength in my arms to dangle like this for more than a few seconds, and I'm incapable of pullups, so no lifting myself over the rail, either.
I'll try my best to fling my feet under the rail up onto the deck. I'll try to time it so I move when the ship is low, letting the rising of the ship on the next wave boost me over the edge. If it works, I'll try again to hold onto those ropes. If it doesn't... my Flexibility is in the first post. In full outfit, cloak, swordbelt, and boots, I won't be able to swim worth a damn if I fall in.
You attempt to swing up onto the rail, but with the rain pouring over you and the slippery surfaces everywhere, you lose your grip.
You are plunging toward the stormy seas.
I don't actually have a swimming skill listed for you; what should it be? I realize the odds are against you, but there's always a chance.
Also, although it's only a few seconds, are you doing anything while you are falling?
--M. J. Young
(Swimming... If I'm being nice to myself I'll give me 1@8 - I'm good, but I was never on a team or anything. I can hold my breath for two minutes.)
While I'm falling... It occurs to me in a perverse sort of way that if I were to TK Pulse the ocean itself up a couple of inches right now, it wouldn't affect me at all, but it might make the planet explode. But I like this planet. Even if it is about to kill me. *plunk*
You hit the water and start struggling to stay afloat. The seas are incredibly rough, and the rain coming down hard enough that it's not always clear whether you are above the water or not. The ship is moving past you.
Suddenly there's a splash near you; a black man tied to a stout rope has hit the water, and is swimming your direction. He reaches out a hand for you to grasp, and yells something that is lost in the noise.
--M. J. Young
I try my best to paddle back to him, but I'm wearing a cloak, boots, sword-belt, and I've never swam (swum? swimmed? whatever...) in the ocean before, so here goes...
He grabs your one wrist, and reaches for the other. "Grab. My. Wrists," he shouts.
Suddenly he is jerked from you, and you feel yourself being pulled out of the water, soon dangling above the ocean, swinging near and sometimes banging into the hull.
Half a dozen hands grab you and pull you back aboard. Someone takes hold of the rope still around your waist.
"Looks like you did a good job on that end, but the storm was too much for this end," he says. The men are all lashed together.
"You all right?" the black man says. "We can get you to medical, if you need it."
You're winded, and have taken on some water, but you are breathing.
--M. J. Young
I shake my head and cough, trying to focus past how much that hurts.
"I'm fine," cough cough, "Save medical for men who are hurt." I shake the hand of the crewman who rescued me with both of mine, and - if it holds similar weight for them that it would for a sailor in our world - promise him my ration of rum for the night.
Of course, I think I'll just sit here on the deck for a couple of minutes. Get my breath. Think things out a little...
I will mention that you're still trailing the rope that did not hold to the beam to which it was tied. One of the deckhands wraps the end around a nearby post.
"Just doing my job," the man says. "You'll need some of that rum after that, I'd say. Walters, Security. I didn't get your name?"
--M. J. Young
"John Sevenwind, Navigation. Seems our security is in good hands." I really probably could use some rum after that, now he mentions it. Alas, I am tied to a post. Speaking of which, I should probably double-check that knot, and make sure it's more solid than my first one was.
"Maybe when we get a break from this storm, I'll join you for a drink," he says, and returns to help with the sails.
The knot is quite professionally tied, in a way that would make it simple to untie from the right direction but would only make it tighter if you pull on the end that leads to you.
You've lost your telescope, of course, so you can't see far; you're also on the main deck, which is lower than the forecastle or aftcastle, so you can't see past them, either. What's your next move?
--M. J. Young
After a week of working with it and it being with me when I was near to death, I want to see if I have an equipment vector pointing me at my telescope - I would've brought it with me had I drowned, after all. If I do, I want to use that to sight-in and try to TK Pulse it back into my hand - a sort of psionic 'Accio' if you'll pardon the reference (at this rate the first time I hit a high-magic work I might as well buy glasses and a cat).
If that works, I dry off my telescope and have a look around.
If it doesn't, I want to try another psionic ability - I want to try to use my Heightened Awareness to simulate the effect of a telescope by casting a very small area of my normal vision into very high resolution, entirely within my own mind. (yeah I'm weird enough to actually try this - if I'm telekinetic, why not?)
If neither one works, I sit there and try not to be in the way. If I didn't drop my compass in the sea, too, then I'll keep an eye on it and try to keep track of the ship's current heading relative to where we were going before.
You do not have a vector toward the telescope, at least that you can identify; you have vectors to your possessions aboard the ship, but only those that came here with you.
Quick verification: I still have this note on my spreadsheet that reads
- 1@7 Psychometry (This is listed on my sheet as Mag 7@5 but I wonder if it's more Psionic)
- 1@10 Heightened Awareness of Surroundings P3@1 enables user to know general layout of buildings or other structures, locations of entrances and exits, and other information, without searching.
The next part of this post assumes that that assumption is correct; if it is not correct, I might have to rewrite something.
You attempt to give yourself telescopic vision but adjusting the image within your mind in a sort of digital zoom/enhancement pattern, but fail to do so. However, you do have the sense that this is the sort of thing you might be able to do, it's just very difficult to do right now. It might be the storm--difficult to concentrate on anything right at the moment.
--M. J. Young
(I only saw it listed as "Heightened Awareness P3@1" with no other qualifiers, and the auto-layout function the only thing I've used it for so far - not necessarily the only thing it /can/ be used for.)
My telescope is gone, my hat and cloak are soggy (and my feather is drooping), and my compass is probably full of water, too. This sucks. As soon as it's stable enough to untie myself without falling in again, I'm going below. I'm useless up here without my equipment, and I need some rum. And some time to practice that telescopic vision thing.
You are actually close enough to a hatch that you could walk to the hatch and then untie the bowline from around your waist (a bit tight, given the combination of salt water and pulling on it, but it can be loosened) and leave the rope topside.
In any case, the storm doesn't look like it's letting up any time soon.
--M. J. Young
Then I will indeed go below, just the way you described. I'm kinda useless on deck without functioning equipment, and I don't want anyone tripping over me.
Once I am below, I will sit cross-legged on one end of my hammock and lay out one of my journals open on the other end, far enough away that I can't read it clearly. Then I will proceed to spend the rest of the night, until I am able to sleep, trying that telescopic vision trick again every five to ten minutes, over and over again, until it works and I can read the journal clearly from that distance, or until I botch catastrophically enough to force me to stop, whichever comes first.
You spend about half an hour trying to accomplish this.
Suddenly as you make yet another attempt, your view changes; you no longer see the page, or the print, but the fiber structure of the paper.
Anything more than about ten feet away is completely out of focus, but anything closer than that you see blown up beyond recognition.
--M. J. Young
Interesting. It seems like it worked, but it worked a bit too well. I spend some time looking at things, examining things with this microscopic vision. Right now this is just a bit weird, but I'm sure this will come in extremely handy later. I peer at my own hands, examining them to see if I can see my own cellular structure as if I were using a microscope, then I peer at the blankets to see if I can pick out individual dust-mites. I'll pass the time like this, examining things, until I can figure out how to turn it off, but it would be very nice if I could remember how to do this again. It's not anything like what I was going for, but my mind is reeling with the possible uses of this - possibly the coolest mistake ever.
Yes, you can see a significant degree of cellular detail, and dust mites quite clearly. It certainly would be a useful ability under the right circumstances.
It is still persisting.
--M. J. Young
After about a half hour this is becoming annoying, but it's still not as bad as it could be. After all, it's not like I have anything else to do. I'll wait it out till it ends, or till the storm blows over. If the storm ends before the weirdness, I'll just go to bed and hope to sleep it off. Of course, I also hope I'll be able to turn it back on again later. Ah, well. More random experimentations tomorrow. (Yes, I'm going back to brute forcing the original Telescopic Vision technique in the morning, provided this has cleared up. I don't imagine Donald will be calling a navigator without his equipment in to work.)
After about an hour your vision problem still has not corrected itself; someone enters the room and asks whether you're all right, but it's not a terribly familiar voice and the blurred image tells you nothing.
--M. J. Young
"Something's the matter with my eyes. Must've been the salt water. It doesn't hurt, but I can't see worth a damn either." I shrug helplessly and remain in my hammock. "Mostly I'm hoping it clears up by morning. Otherwise I'll have to admit to the infirmary that I'm just a mere mortal."
I offer a hand into the blur, trying to at least point myself at the man. "Name's John, anyway."
"O.K., John. Could be the shock, or the cold; and you're right--best hope is that it clears up by morning. Get some rest. I'm Pieter, by the way--newest member of medical, so I get to do the running around. Stop by in the morning anyway, if you can find your way, and Doc Evan will have a look to make sure there's nothing seriously wrong, or if there is whether he can fix it."
He shakes your hand.
"I'll let Donald and the captain know, so they don't wonder where you are. Do you want some food brought up, whenever we get a chance to make some?"
If there's nothing else, he'll leave you to the sounds of the storm raging outside, and the swaying of the hammock in the gloom.
--M. J. Young
"I'll be sure to come by. Good to meet a fellow new guy..." I flop back down in my hammock.
(It probably goes without saying, but I'll make a point of saying, I've changed into dry clothes and am wrapped in whatever blankets I had by now, not still wearing my cloak and sodden clothing.)
"If you get a chance to make anything, something hot would be nice. Get the chill out of my bones. You, eh, keep safe, meantime..." I'll lay there. And sway. In the dark. And try not to look too hard at whatever is crawling around on my pillow. I swear I'm never sleeping on anything I haven't washed first again...
As is my usual bedtime ritual (this really ought to count as practice) I will spend ten minutes each using my Influence Luck ability to put a positive spin on the Captain's and Donald's luck.
As I have often said to John 2, if results matter it is not practice. I can certainly say that Harry practices his influence luck ability each night, and sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't, but if you want to know whether it works tonight or not, I have to roll for it, and it's not practice.
Let me know which way you want to go on that.
Exhausted from the cold and the strain, you fall asleep.
It is light again, and the seas are calm, when you awaken. Your eyesight is not quite normal--everything looks big, and things as far away as twenty feet are blurry--but it is much better than it was. Someone is by your hammock.
"How are the eyes?" It's an older man, whom you've seen in the mess before now, probably Doc Evan. "We've got some hot cereal, and I think you should eat some. Are you well enough to make it to the galley, or should I have it brought to you?"
--M. J. Young
(OOC: Whichever one earns me points towards improving it. The idea is that I want to use my Influence Luck and my TK Pulse as often as humanly feasible, with an eye toward improving both abilities as quickly as the rules of the game allow. I've basically wanted to be doing this all along, I just don't feel like I've said it enough - it is my nightly ritual to spin their luck, and a habit - again as often as humanly feasible - to try TK Pulsing things into my hands, out of my hands, onto tables, and so on, preferably but not strictly when no one is looking.)
I try to focus on him. Weird. I hope I don't need glasses. I squint a little and hope that resolves it.
"Better. It still doesn't hurt, but I still can't see very clearly. At least I can tell which color smear you are. That's an improvement." I get out of bed - I did sleep dressed, but my boots are probably still full of saltwater, so heck with it, I'll go barefoot.
"I can walk, but I can't see, so I can get there, but I'll be slow." I'll make a sort of after-you motion, as having a familiar color-smear to focus on will make walking easier. At least the ship isn't pitching hither and yon while I'm schlepping about. This microscopic vision would be much handier if I could turn it off...
You make it easily enough to the galley; medical is adjacent, but the doctor has suggested you eat some of the hot cereal before he examines you.
By the time you've finished eating, your vision is nearly normal, with only some slight distortions.
The elderly man, who is indeed Evan, the doctor, head of medical, says you'd better report to Donald--he needs all the help he can get about now.
--M. J. Young
I tell Evan about how my vision has improved and thank him for the cereal and all of his help.
Once I'm done eating, I will indeed go up on deck - still barefoot, but I did sleep dressed - and see what Donald needs. Of course, I'm making a point of walking carefully and not going any nearer the edge of the deck than is absolutely necessary while my vision is still a bit swimmy. As I approach Donald's position I'll take out my compass and see if it's in working order, having been left out to dry the previous night.
The compass works.
"It's good to see you up and about, John. How are your eyes? That storm has knocked us quite a bit off course, and we're going to have to work at establishing our position. I've got Brian and Dooley working on sun sightings, to get us a latitude, but there have been no landmarks. Of course, charts of the Syndic Ocean are notoriously limited, so even if we saw something it might not be on the charts, or it might be charted in the wrong place, but at least it would be something.
"In short, we'll need to spend the better part of the day looking for anything that might hint of our location. I've got us headed west, and we're a long way east of Durnmist no matter where we are, but we'll need to get on course quickly if we can."
Engineers are bustling about with deck hands, making repairs to masts and sails and yardarms and just about everything else on the ship.
"Glad we didn't lose you," Donalds adds. "Grab another telescope from the chart room."
--M. J. Young
I nod, listening to his description of the situation. It's no surprise that a world without satellites also lacks reliable maps - anything done by hand can only ever be so good, after all.
"I'm much better today. I feel like I'm still looking through bad glass, but it's better than last night. I'm just sorry I lost a perfectly good telescope..." Especially because I didn't know we had spares. Maybe I wouldn't have given myself a brain freeze if I'd known there were more to go around. But then, the lack of that knowledge has inspired a few more cool ideas, so it's just as well.
I'll make my way down to the chart room, snag that extra telescope, and go back on deck. I check the fore- and aftcasltes, and whichever one doesn't already have a man with a telescope on it is the one I take, and begin looking around.
If this lasts a while - long enough for my vision to clear up all the way and I'm still standing on one or the other -castle - then I will attempt my Enhanced Awareness: Telescopic Vision again, once every twenty minutes or so, until it works or until I botch again or until Donald gives me something entirely else to do.
I also wonder absently what would happen if I used both psionic Telescopic Vision and an actual telescope at the same time. I imagine it would depend upon which I used first. In the meanwhile, I'm looking for... well... anything worth looking for that isn't the water.
You are busily scanning the open water for a couple of hours; since your vision seems to clear, you also try periodically to get that telescopic view with your eyes--and on the sixth try, after about two hours, you succeed. You can see fairly clearly to a great distance.
You attempt to use it with the telescope, but cannot get a focused image. It doesn't seem as if it would be impossible to do, only that it's going to take some practice and control over your new telescopic view.
The telescopic view lasts five minutes and then returns to normal.
The day wears on; it is your fifteenth day aboard.
--M. J. Young
In fifteen days I would have been keeping journal entries - I did bring along a handful of notebooks for that purpose - and you can bet this is going in it! Combined with last night's bizarreness and my budding telekinetic ability, I'm beginning to like this business of "Versing." Plus, life at sea! It's like all my RenFair and sci-fi geek dreams come true. And if I keep at it, maybe I won't need a telescope at all by the time of my second cruise. Look at me, fifteen days at sea and already planning a career of it...
Of course, after two weeks I'm beginning to miss home. I wonder what will become of Melinda, who must be worried sick about me, and Pete, who will probably be pissed at me for going and getting myself killed just in time to miss his wedding. I wonder if my cats are okay - but of course, they have my mother and Melinda to take care of them. *sniff!*
I keep scanning the horizon, using the telescope most of the time, switiching to my Telescopic Vision whenever I can get it to work, mostly trying to remember what it feels like each time it actually does work, and practicing by trying to call that feeling back up. As long as the weather is clear, I'll continue to just look around, not worrying terribly about tying myself down. I wonder absently - and look around - if there is a cabin boy I might convince to bring up my hat, cloak, and boots. An afternoon in the sun would do wonders towards drying them out, sea spray not withstanding.
There are no cabin boys aboard; there are deck hands, but they're usually busy with the lines and sails. However, there's no particular reason you can't bring your gear up. Donald has put everyone back on regular shifts, so you're working eight hours a day, currently noon to night so that you overlap his shift and that of Brian, who works until midnight (and is relieved by Dooley).
A week passes during which all anyone sees is water and stars, and the occasional bird flying the wrong direction. Donald is pretty certain of the latitude but concerned about the longitude; you're farther south than you usually travel but working your way back north at an angle so as to lose as little time as possible.
You continue practicing your vision as well as your navigator skills.
--M. J. Young
Ahh... regular work, regular practice, and the company of good workmates and friends. After nearly losing this Verse, it's all a man needs. And look, my clothes aren't waterlogged any more! Yay.
I spend my shifts working, practicing my Telescopic Vision as aggressively as I dare. Every time it works, I use it until it runs out, then go back to using my actual telescope. Maybe twice or thrice a day I'll try using it in combination with the telescope, but only if I see something interesting enough to be worth looking at double-closely, otherwise, heck with it.
The next week continues much the same, with little certainty of your precise position but a reasonable confidence of your direction.
On your twenty-seventh day in this world, you come topside around noon after getting some lunch, and see Donald in the crow's nest with a spyglass. He abruptly sets it down and comes down the lines almost as fast as if he had leapt from the top of the mast. Hitting his feet hard, he looks at you and says, "I need you up--oh, right, no. Run. Find Brian and Dooley, and get one of them in the crow's nest while I alert piloting and deck. I think it's a whirlpool."
He runs toward the aftcastle where the pilot wheel is.
--M. J. Young
If I've seen either of them awake lately - Brian should be decently rested, so I'll look for him first - I'll find them and get them topside. Dooley just got off duty - I am his relief - so I won't keep him from his bed if I can find Brian in less than ten minutes.
Once I have Brian (or Dooley, who's probably cursing my name for keeping him from his sleep) in tow and have explained the situation to him, I'll lead him topside. While he climbs, I'll head to the forecastle (since Donald is aft) and try to trigger my Telescopic Vision, which I have been practicing these past 12 days since I learned it, this time with an eye for seeing how long I can keep it up.
Actually, Dooley works midnight to eight; you're on an overlap shift, noon to eight. Thus Brian is the one who is probably getting some food somewhere, and Dooley has managed to get three or four hours of sleep. It doesn't much matter, as Donald wants all hands--it's only a matter of who can get to the crow's nest first (and you can't, because you're afraid of heights). Brian is easily found and sent that direction (and the word "whirlpool" has him running).
When you get back to Donald, the deck is bustling.
Your telescopic vision comes in for an instant, and then you lose it; you close your eyes, refocus your mind, and try again, and you've got the vision.
You can see the spot where the water seems to fall away, and the current beyond that moving swiftly in the opposite direction; you can't actually see well enough to identify it as a whirlpool from here, because you're not high enough to see down into it. However, it is close enough that the ship is already in the pull of the current.
Donald is looking through the spyglass, and then looking up at Brian (whom you can see remarkably well when you glance that direction), and waving his arms for the pilot to see.
"The objective," he says, "is to plot a course that will get us past the whirlpool. We're already in its current, and if we turn too sharply away from it it will suck us in; but if we get too close, we'll wind up going down it. Thus we need to get full sail and take advantage of the current to drive us past it, and hope we have enough velocity on the other side to continue beyond it. The best choice is to go around it to the point that we have the wind directly behind us and let it drive us forward.
"Watch the angles; notice the force of the current and the direction of the wind. You can watch and learn for the moment--but if they yell for help on the lines, you'll have to get down there and pull."
The sails are all full open, the lateen sails catching the wind at a bit of an angle.
Your telescopc vision lasts five minutes and then returns to normal; you realize that you are a lot closer to the hole in the water than you were five minutes ago.
--M. J. Young