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Chapter 2. Perfect Storm

by Wazzock

I like a proper storm. One with winds that clear out the snout and leave the taste of salt on the tongue for days afterwards. Adds flavor to whatever is served in the mess hall. It would be nice if one could put a storm on and off so it would be stormy at just the right times. Of course, some beasts don't think there's ever a good time for a storm, but are just crabbyguts.

"Captain!"

Wazzock's ears perked and he turned to a dappled gray rat scampering towards him. He placed the mop in the bucket, or rather, placed it where the bucket used to be. He looked across the deck, now shrouded with a wave of foam and chaos, mentally taking note he should have placed more rocks in the bottom to keep it from being carried off by the storm.

"Captain Zock! We need you at the bridge!" the rat called.

"Ah, our esteemed bosun. So, Kriley, are we still on course?"

"I don't know, you see…"

Wazzock let himself give a chiding smile. "We are needed in Bully Harbor, and to get there as quickly as possible we must keep a solid course through the storm and so…"

"Harper went overboard."

In the lightning, icicles sparkled off Kriley's whiskers and the slick deck. Thunder, along with the frothing waves, tumbled over the wind and crackling of sleet. Wazzock gazed out at the ocean's mountainous terrain, wondering what gorge Harper might lost down. "Our navigator, eh? No need to worry. Let's just get to the bridge and get this little situation under paw and we'll be fine." Wazzock slapped Kriley on the back and lifted the door down to the hold. He beckoned the rat to follow him down the ladder.

"That's not the way to the bridge, captain."

"Of course not. Need to get something to warm the muzzles before I began calling orders, you know. I'm certain whomever is on the wheel will keep it steady," Wazzock said, as another wave bashed across the ship's starboard, causing the wood to creak and shutter. Kriley shrugged and quickly followed the rat down, shutting the door, but not before an icy cascade of water doused him.

Mop over his shoulder, Captain Wazzock stepped with a certain skip over the threshold of the mess hall, into the kitchen, where he was met by steam and strange remnants of what could be called food stuffs scattered on the counters. In the midst of it all, a monitor loomed over a stove. It glared at Wazzock and Kriley as they entered.

"Soriss! Matey! We need a few dashes of what you got, to be taken on the go, please."
The scaly mug brightened when he recognized Wazzock. "Right away, ssir!" Soriss ducked under the counter and scrabbled around until his claws came in contact with the soft texture of biscuits. He produced two of them, dusting them off, then dipped a brush in a bowl of vegetable oil and painted them. "Any herbsss, ssir?"

Wazzock rubbed his whiskers free of ice. "That sounds fun. Eh, Krill? And some good spice if you got it."

Kriley finished wiping the condensation from his glasses with his scarf. "I don't think …" he began. The clattering of various pots and pans from the unusual angle of the ship interrupted him.

"One can't have a proper adventure without something scamperin' down the gullet to warm the guts." Wazzock put in.

Soriss set the biscuits on a warming stone before catching a pinch of tarragon between two claws. His eyes continually darted from Wazzock's face to Krill's and back again as he sprinkled the herb on and pushed the stone into the oven for a moment. "Ssorry, ssir, it'll be jusst a minute."

Wazzock cheerfully watched the proceedings. He always found it interesting to see a master at work, swooping into task with a dynamic flair, the ebb and flow of inspiration at their claws. Kriley's claws rapped a jittery tattoo on the hilt of his saber, his eyes flashing periodically to the icy water dribbling through many cracks in the ceiling.

Soriss finally tore his eyes away from the intruders to his kitchen long enough to watch the edges of the biscuits brown. He withdrew the warming stone, opened his nostrils, and breathed deeply. Perfect. He swiveled so that the warming stone was in front of the officers and put on a winning smile. "Do enjoy, ssirsss."

"Shall do, Soriss. See you when at dinner." Wazzock tipped his hat, picked up the biscuits and pawed one over to Kriley, who sniffed at it distractedly. "Now, let's get to this little problem. Pity about Harper. Nice ferret, I believe. Nice sense of direction, hence his navigator position. Wazzock stuffed the biscuit into his cheek as they made it to the ladder. Slightly muffled, he continued, "Always wondered why ferrets have those odd masks about their eyes, haven't you, Krill?" He threw open the door into the storm, the vicious jaws of hail had begun falling . Wazzock lowered his hat to protect his eyes. He made his way across the deck, up another layer, to the helm, where he found his fox steerbeast strapped upon the wheel.

"Good morning, Ripper, what is the status? Oh, and where is the first mate, I'd like to see what he thinks of this issue."

"W-w-w-we d-d-d-d-on't know where we are!" the fox chattered.

"Ah, well, we can see what we can do about that. The Imperium is depending on us, you see. I don't believe we ought to let them down. Duty and all that. Is the compass workin'?"

"H-h-h-harper 'ad it."

"Ah, pity. Did his say anything about directions before he went?"

"H-h-h-h-e said s-s-s-s-something like aaaaaaaaaargh, sir."

"You need something to warm you, matey. Krill, I see you haven't even nibbled your biscuit. Allow me to give it to the frosted chap. There you go. And let me take a look through my spyglass." He squinted through the spyglass, its view obscured by water and frost on the lens. However, he did see something solid through the icy gloom. He lowered the glass. He wondered about the proper nautical terms he should use. He didn't even quite know what starboard was and the poop deck just made him snigger. He had some sense of riggings and the mainstaff ("the big tree thing in the middle"). If he were going to be yelling orders, he ought to do them right.

"What is the nautical term for iceberg, Krill."

"I don't believe there is one, captain."

"You're certain?"

Krill nodded stiffly, claws deep into the rail, teeth now chattering notably. Wazzock shook his head. Krill should have eaten the biscuit. Case in point: the steerbeast's teeth were no longer chattering with the biscuit between them.

"Ah. Well, I think we ought to yank the wheel to the right then because there we're coming in on a rogue iceberg over that ways," Captain Wazzock said pointing out at massive white crag coming out of the hail-ridden gloom, its peak rising from under a falling wave. "Batten down the hatches!" he added for good measure.