Date: Twenty Fifth of March, year 810 Post Seminal War (810 PSW)

Job Arseoth cracked the hatch and walked back out onto the open deck of the Red Oak. The wind pulled strongly across the deck, tugging at his short hair and making his shirt blow tight against his skin and his grey-green mageweave cloak stream out in his wake. The few sailors still on deck clung tightly to the lifelines tied about their waists and chests, leaning hard into the wind. The *Red Oak* had nearly cleared Trebor’s harbor, but that course took her directly into the teeth of the oncoming typhoon. Waves crashed against her bows, sending the deck bucking and experienced seamen stumbling.

Job felt the pull of the wind and threw back his head.

""

The hood of his cloak was pulled back by the wind, and Job rejoiced in the feel of the rain pounding on his upturned face. Thunder crashed all about the Red Oak, the storm clouds had turned the sky blacker then night, and Job had never felt more alive. Mr Nibbles poked his nose out of Job's pocket, felt the weather, and dove back in with a terrified squeak. Crewmen staggered past into the hatch and the relative safety of the superstructure. Job strode in to opposite direction, out onto the heaving deck towards the pitching bows. He ignored the lifelines lased to the cranes, planting his feet surely despite the ankle-high water washing the deck.

The Red Oak rode up the side of a wave as the seas grew rougher. For one fleeting moment, as she crested the top of a rogue wave, her bow was closer to the clouds then her superstructure. Job, standing right at the bow, took in the sight of the sea and sky. All was the slate-black of a stormy night, whipped by wind, lashed by rain, shaking with thunder, split by lightning. Job stretched his left hand too the sky, grasping at the air.

“< I an Job, Son of Arseoth, born of The Storm! The Blood of Dragons runs in my veins and the Mark of the Storm is etched upon my soul! On this day, I embrace that which I am, and I am no longer Afraid! >”

An almighty light blinded Job's senses. What felt like a seven-ton sledge of molten metal slammed into his upthrust hand and dripped into his chest. Heat-pain sunk under skin and wrapped itself about bones. Muscles begin to twitch and spasm. Job's feet came up off the deck and he was hurled back and downwards, falling down the length of Red Oak towards her superstructure. Job felt each cooling raindrop kiss his skin and realized that his clothing was in tatters, torn apart and blown away by whatever had happened.

Then Job impacted upon the superstructure of the Red Oak and blackness claimed his senses.

. . . - - - . . .

Date: ???

A flat expanse of Black Glass stretched out as far as Job could see. Two titanic figures stood, fists on hips, world-weary eyes locked unblinking.

“+ Did you really need to hit him that hard? +”

“< Yes. >”

“+ To leave a mark, or to leave a Mark? +”

“< Yes. You know that he will survive it. >”

“+ Ehh, technically, no. +”

“< What!? >”

“< As of now? His heart is stopped, his lungs have burst, his spine is shattered, and he has third or fourth degree burns over forty seven point seven two six percent of his body. And unlike with The Index, I have no materiel to work with. Much of the skin and muscle in the affected areas is just gone. +”

“< Perhaps I did use just a bit too much force... ?”

“+ You think? But what has happened is past. +”

“< You want my aid to fix your Champion? >”

“+ His task is complete. +”

“< Thus he is a Champion no longer... >”

“+ And thus the capital r Rules about interfering with the Champions of others no longer apply. If they even applied in the first case, given my Nature. +”

“< As writ, no. As intended, yes. >”

“+ As you and I both well know. +”

“< You play The Game well for a once-mortal. >”

“+ Thank you. Now, about healing your victim here... +”

Job faded back out, unable to stay awake on the Black Glass Plane.

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. . . - - - . . .

Date: ???, year 810 Post Seminal War (810 PSW)

The Crack-Thoom of cannon fire dragged Job awake. He had only ever heard the sound before in naval salutes, never in combat, but it was unforgettable. Job dragged his eyelids open and stared at the deckhead with one working eye. The press of a bandage across the left side of his face let him know which of his eyes was.. not working. Job pushed his arms against his bed to lever himself up and collapsed, howling in agony. His right arm was fine, but his left felt like it was dipped in molten lead from the elbow downwards. Twitching his legs revealed the same pattern of pain: is right leg was fine, his left was decidedly not. Forcing himself to move, Job clawed his way to a sitting position and fell out of bed from the agony. His entire left side was a sea of pain.

Gritting his teeth, Job pulled himself across the deck to his pack. He still had one of the healing potions from the ruins of Mevada. Pulling it free from the pack, he broke the glass neck of the bottle off and poured the contents down his throat. Broken glass cut his lips, and was promptly healed over. The pain numbed over, but did not fade entirely.

Job dragged himself back to the edge of the bed and used its post to pull himself upright. A quick Gust cantrip knocked his staff lose from its perch along the bulkhead, and a few more applications brought it close enough to pick up and use to lean against. Job grasped it in his left hand, forcing himself to ignore the distant howls of abused joints and burned muscles.

Job drew in a breath, let it out, and looked at his left hand. It was wrapped in bandages from the fingers to the elbow, the clean white stained in places by the reddish brown of seeping blood. More bandages across his chest and down around his left leg were the same. Aside from the bandages, he wasn't wearing a single thread of clothing. Using the bulkhead and his quarterstaff for balance, Job went back to his pack and drew out his dark purple robe from the royal wedding. He shrugged it on with considerable discomfort and belted it roughly into place. Stumbling barefoot to the hatch, he emerged into the passage way to see a young boy run past with a small keg, followed by another hefting a clanking bag. Job turned and followed them, emerging out onto the deck in time to choke on a cloud of dense brown smoke.

“Job! What in the Ancestor's and the Grey's names are you doing out of your bunk?”

Job dragged himself clear of the hatchway to avoid being trampled down.

“While I cand stand, I can fight, Makan.”

“You really shouldn't be standing at all.”

“The wolves are firing steadily, which means some damn fool pirate is keeping pace with the Red Oak. Which means you need my spellpower.”

“Alright, just keep your damn fool head down out here. Incoming fire has the absolute right-of-way and is no respecter of persons.”

“Right. I need to get close. Which side are they on?”

“Port. This way.”

Makan led the way to the left side of the ship, running in a hunched crouch to stay below the level of the incoming fire. Job followed as fast as his crippled leg would let him move. The Red Oak's gunners were disicplined, pulling their heavy wolves back down into cover while the loaded them from the muzzle, relocating to a new place, and heaving them back up to take another shot. Each pull of the trigger and flash of flint against steel sent eighteen lead balls hurling towards the unseen foe.

Job slumped against the shot-dimpled steel of the gunwale with a grunt of discomfort. He levered himself into a crouch and peaked over the edge of the Red Oak to get a good look at the pirates.

The pirate ship was a small, fast cutter, her flat sails pulled taught by wind and magic alike. Three stubby cannons protruded from her side as she heeled into the wind, their muzzles pointed upwards to try and rake the deck of the Red Oak. It was obvious that they couldn't penetrate her hull, despite the absurdly short range. But in equal measure, Red Oak's wolves were far too light to do any real damage to her foe.

Job ducked back down behind the gunwale.

“How far away do you think they are?”

“Fifty yards or so.”

“Damn. They're playing it canny then. I've only a forty yard range.”

“You think they suspect a spell caster?”

“They'd be fools not to. Could we get closer to them? The hull of the Red Oak is steel, theirs is wooden...”

“Ram them you mean?”

“Close the range at least.”

“Stay here. I'll talk to the Nob. If the range does close, take your shot. Go for their sails or mast. Anything to slow them down.”

“Their ship is made of wood, stuffed with tar and gunpowder. It's a tinderbox waiting for a spark...”

Makan winced, “grim fate, but effective. Just be aware that wind-mage of theirs will probably take a shot at you as soon as you open up...”

“Got it.”

Makan hurried off into the gunsmoke and Job sat down to wait and plan. Idly, he called up one of his few non-fire spells in his mind, Silent Image. It wasn't much more then a distraction, but if the pirates were waiting for a spellcaster to appear before making their move... Job grinned. It just might work. He waited a bit longer, timing the rate of fire of the pirate's guns. One shot every twenty seconds, so each gun was firing once a minute.

With that information in hand, Job eased his eyes and one good arm above the gunwale. The Pirates were still to far away, but he needed to draw their attention, so he tossed out a firebolt into the sea short of their ship.

As expected, the pirates promptly swerved away as the helmsman jerked on the wheel. The pirate gunner's next spray of grapeshot ripped through where Job had fired from. Grinning, job scuttled a few feet down the deck and popped off another ineffectual Firebolt. This time, he set up a Silent Image of himself, standing up and hobbling away down the deck in full view. The prate gunner's didn't miss their change, and Job took their shot as his cue to have the silent image Fall to the deck in 'bloody chunks' before dissipating into nothingness.

The Pirates turned to close the rage at the same time that Captain Haputman put his helm over to run them down. The Pirates promptly tried to turn away again, but they left it just a few minutes too late. Job popped up, Firebolt in hand, and put it right in the middle of the pirate ship's sail. The sailcloth tore with a ripping screech of escaping air and burning scraps rained on the deck of the pirate ship.

The pirate mage threw a Lightning Bolt at Job and almost missed.

Almost, but not quite.

Job went back down as his left arm was burnt off at the shoulder. Only the fact that the wound was cauterized closed as it was made prevented him from bleeding out on the deck of the Red Oak. As he lay their in agony, he could feel the deck buck and hear the snap of wooden timbers shattering as the Red Oak ran the little pirate ship over; a juggernaut of steel smashing a wooden toy beneath its boot. Job let the returning agony of his wounds take him and fell unconscious.