Post by RhiaBlack on Dec 2, 2013 16:35:02 GMT -5
{desc=Czervon}((OOC: If this thread goes more than a month or so without replies, it will be changed to a Closed thread. I understand this type of char is hard to interact with, but given the nature of the thread and where Czervon is, it didn't make sense to make it closed right off the bat. He's big enough people would hear him fall / the sounds he made. Also - there is a reason for "Her Majesty's Graces". Yes, I am aware there is no nobility/royalty on Pern. RP with him to find out what it is >.>.))
Sleep. Finally, a substantial amount of it; Czervon had spent the last few sevendays since his arrival waging a war against his nightmares and repeated attempts to sway him not into socialization, but into close, physical contact with other Candidates. People wanting to shake hands, people wanting to nudge him or pat him on the shoulder or shove him - good-naturedly, they said, but he didn't see it that way.
He disdained being touched. Always had, and his grandfather had said it stemmed from when he had been born. No warm holding from his mother, no comfort on the ship home. He was fed, burped, changed, and left to cry. His grandfather hadn't been much for physical contact, either; he did well enough, but by the time the idea had registered that perhaps he should have shown some affection towards the wayward boy, Czervon was already reclusive and content to be left unhanded.
His shipmates had understood it, and he was never touched without either prior warning, or unless it was a life-or-death situation. Several times, he'd been pushed or pulled out of the way of a swinging hook or chain, or caught when the ship had pitched violently in one storm or another. Things like that, he didn't mind. He was grateful for those, of course.
Czervon hated the bunk beds in the Barracks. Loathed them, to the point he had purposefully avoided sleep until his body couldn't handle the lack of it anymore, and he simply passed out. They were flat and hard to him, and they lacked the sway of the sea. He found it nearly impossible to sleep on them unless he was so exhausted he couldn't hold his eyes open. It was too cold and wet out to sleep outside, and he couldn't hear any sort of water running. It made him miserable to deal with, and even more miserable to talk to.
He had done a pretty good job of keeping himself from being overly social with most of those who were Candidates, like him. He was quiet, didn't talk almost at all unless he had to, and generally gave off the aura of precisely what he wanted to. 'I have no interest in hearing about your minuscule thoughts and concerns. You are nothing to me until you get a Dragon or a Wher and get on my level. Don't talk to me.' Riders, Weyrfolk, and Wherhandlers were shown the level of respect he had for them - quite a bit. He talked more readily to them, with more conviction and less snide or biting venom, and seemed much more agreeable and amicable with them than he had been when he had first arrived here. Der and Desk were credited with that, he suspected. The conversation with the Grayhandler had served to enlighten him on a lot of things. The most of which was that anyone who had bonded to something here, or had a craft, was worth the effort to sometimes be more than civil with.
He had been helping fill firestone sacks in the last several candlemarks. Threadfall was predicted, and being watched for, which meant that Riders and their bonded, as well as Wherhandlers, were preparing for the work that came with fighting Thread. At least it hadn't been him stuck in a lower cavern workroom stacking crates and sacks of supplies like it seemed he ended up doing most of the time. At least it was useful work. Strong work. Mindless, but still useful and strong.
Working himself to exhaustion was always a two-sided sword. It let him sleep the longest, but it also heralded some of his most vicious nightmares, and the daylight hours served to see him have to explain away his fear to the Candidatemaster twice now. He was a large man. It was childish and weak to cry as he had been pushed to, and he had tried to mask it as pain.
The fact that the fear was still there, the wounds still raw and as fresh as the day he'd cut the tooth from the driftwood that had washed up on shore, spoke volumes for just how much he should be dealing with his grief. Somehow aside from shoving it down somewhere dark where he felt he could ignore it. Drown it like the rest of his crew had been. But the dam between his resolve and his mind when he slept was thin. Thin enough that it broke more than he cared to admit, and with enough strength that he struggled to patch it.
HITCH THE FORWARD SAILS! She's going to be a rough one!
Captain Higeron shouted across the deck from his place at the wheel, and Czervon's fingers worked against the knots, before the rope was jerked from his hands. He looked down, saw the blood from where it had burned away at his skin. There was no time to see the pain. No time to acknowledge it, they were at war.
GET THOSE HOOKS TIED DOWN! I won't lose any men today! I won't lose any men any day to anything but Her Majesty's Graces, gentleman!
ROGUE WAVE STARBOARD! ROGUE--
Panic. Czervon snatched hold of his lost rope, just as the crest of the some sixty-foot swell came into view. Men scattered, grabbed for the ship's railings, anything attached to hold them down and keep themselves from being swept overboard. Captain Higeron turned the ship as quickly as he could - given the direction they were already facing, having the wave hit the back end of the Windward Fury was the only option. The wave crashed over the starboard side, washed across the deck, and the force of the water nearly broke Czervon's legs as it collided with him. Pinned between it and the railing, his hand wrapped twice around the rope to keep him on the deck.
He could hear Higeron laughing. The maniacal laugh of a man who had been born to captain a vessel of this size, and bred to survive anything the sea, in her great recklessness, threw at him. Shouted orders that Czervon struggled against the remaining water to hear, spitting the salted mess out of his mouth and fighting to keep the sting of it out of his nose and his eyes.
The large-bodied Fisher pulled himself out of his position, trapped between the rail and a crate that had washed across and pinned him, one large foot setting against the mesh and shoving it backwards and away from him. He threw his weight into standing, both hands wrapping in the rope to hold the sail against the riggings in the howling wind and rain. They were scared. He could see it. Men he had trained with, men he had built this ship alongside. Higeron's laughter silenced, suddenly; Czervon felt the ship stop, suddenly, and then the screaming, groaning sound of a vessel run aground. The wave had pushed them into the reef. Higeron had thought they were further out than they were, and the Captain's last move to try and save them from capsizing had doomed them anyway.
This was their ship. Theirs. They had built her, they had sailed her, they had rallied around her for turns now, and now...she was failing. She was sinking.
Just like the hope of survival in the guts of her crew.
The sea was violent, thrashing and pitching in the storm that caught them in the midst of it. Even against the reef, which had ripped a hole nearly a half dragonlength in her hull, the Fury was pitching so violently that half of those not unseated into the darkness of the water upon impact had been displaced within several minutes of the first shift in her positioning. Czervon looked up towards the wheel, to see Higeron's eyes staring back at him. The look of a man who knew he was doomed to death. Czervon imagined his long-time friend saw the mirror in his own grey-green expression.
Another wave took him off his feet, and when Czervon looked back, he could see the wheel empty. No sign of his Captain. The Fury pitched sideways, groaned like a dying herdbeast, and submerged her deck beneath the surface; Czervon was dragged by the pressure and suction below, and had the good sense to hold his breath until the recoil from a chain caught him in the gut. Losing his lungful of air, he struggled not to inhale. Don't inhale. There's no air, it's all water, don't--
The roll of the ship as the air inside her hull stabilized interrupted him, and he felt the jerk of the rope against his hand. Let go, Czervon. Let go, or you're dead. He looked upwards, to see the lightning play off the surface of the roiling water, scattered with supplies, cages, crates. Driftwood. Bodies. Dark shapes passed him in the water. Massive bodies, flashes of white. He tasted blood, when his lungs finally protested and he sucked in a breath of seawater; then saw one of the corpses vanish from sight when the dark and enormous frame passed into the dark beyond his vision. Czervon's hand let go of the rope, grabbed hold of the gaping hole in the hull as it rolled. Pulled him up closer to the surface, and in agonizing pain and fear he fought the riptide to drag himself through the water and towards the shallows. Towards salvation, away from the terrors of the deep, dark sea. Away from the death and the sure and certain demise that awaited for him below.
There was only silence. He couldn't forget how silent it was. There was no sound, not even when the big, heavy body collided with his thigh. Brushed his form, and Czervon could feel every muscle scream in prayer. His hand. His hand was bleeding, they would find him. They would smell his blood, they would--
The collision with the floor from the top bunk knocked every ounce of breath from his lungs, and Czervon struggled to suck in a breath. His eyes were wide, wet from tears and panic, his entire body shaking as the limit of his palm howled in painful memory.
Breathe. Just a nightmare, you sharding dimglow, you're not dead. You're not dead. BREATHE.
Czervon sucked in a lungful of air that made him more grateful than he ever had been in his life. For a moment, he just laid there; half crooked on the floor, one leg propped up under the bottom bunk. Thank Faranth he didn't have a roommate. He was pretty sure he'd screamed. Given how bad his throat hurt, there had probably been growls or something in there, too. Rolling on his side towards the bottom bunk, he curled into a ball and wept.
Sleep. Finally, a substantial amount of it; Czervon had spent the last few sevendays since his arrival waging a war against his nightmares and repeated attempts to sway him not into socialization, but into close, physical contact with other Candidates. People wanting to shake hands, people wanting to nudge him or pat him on the shoulder or shove him - good-naturedly, they said, but he didn't see it that way.
He disdained being touched. Always had, and his grandfather had said it stemmed from when he had been born. No warm holding from his mother, no comfort on the ship home. He was fed, burped, changed, and left to cry. His grandfather hadn't been much for physical contact, either; he did well enough, but by the time the idea had registered that perhaps he should have shown some affection towards the wayward boy, Czervon was already reclusive and content to be left unhanded.
His shipmates had understood it, and he was never touched without either prior warning, or unless it was a life-or-death situation. Several times, he'd been pushed or pulled out of the way of a swinging hook or chain, or caught when the ship had pitched violently in one storm or another. Things like that, he didn't mind. He was grateful for those, of course.
Czervon hated the bunk beds in the Barracks. Loathed them, to the point he had purposefully avoided sleep until his body couldn't handle the lack of it anymore, and he simply passed out. They were flat and hard to him, and they lacked the sway of the sea. He found it nearly impossible to sleep on them unless he was so exhausted he couldn't hold his eyes open. It was too cold and wet out to sleep outside, and he couldn't hear any sort of water running. It made him miserable to deal with, and even more miserable to talk to.
He had done a pretty good job of keeping himself from being overly social with most of those who were Candidates, like him. He was quiet, didn't talk almost at all unless he had to, and generally gave off the aura of precisely what he wanted to. 'I have no interest in hearing about your minuscule thoughts and concerns. You are nothing to me until you get a Dragon or a Wher and get on my level. Don't talk to me.' Riders, Weyrfolk, and Wherhandlers were shown the level of respect he had for them - quite a bit. He talked more readily to them, with more conviction and less snide or biting venom, and seemed much more agreeable and amicable with them than he had been when he had first arrived here. Der and Desk were credited with that, he suspected. The conversation with the Grayhandler had served to enlighten him on a lot of things. The most of which was that anyone who had bonded to something here, or had a craft, was worth the effort to sometimes be more than civil with.
He had been helping fill firestone sacks in the last several candlemarks. Threadfall was predicted, and being watched for, which meant that Riders and their bonded, as well as Wherhandlers, were preparing for the work that came with fighting Thread. At least it hadn't been him stuck in a lower cavern workroom stacking crates and sacks of supplies like it seemed he ended up doing most of the time. At least it was useful work. Strong work. Mindless, but still useful and strong.
Working himself to exhaustion was always a two-sided sword. It let him sleep the longest, but it also heralded some of his most vicious nightmares, and the daylight hours served to see him have to explain away his fear to the Candidatemaster twice now. He was a large man. It was childish and weak to cry as he had been pushed to, and he had tried to mask it as pain.
The fact that the fear was still there, the wounds still raw and as fresh as the day he'd cut the tooth from the driftwood that had washed up on shore, spoke volumes for just how much he should be dealing with his grief. Somehow aside from shoving it down somewhere dark where he felt he could ignore it. Drown it like the rest of his crew had been. But the dam between his resolve and his mind when he slept was thin. Thin enough that it broke more than he cared to admit, and with enough strength that he struggled to patch it.
HITCH THE FORWARD SAILS! She's going to be a rough one!
Captain Higeron shouted across the deck from his place at the wheel, and Czervon's fingers worked against the knots, before the rope was jerked from his hands. He looked down, saw the blood from where it had burned away at his skin. There was no time to see the pain. No time to acknowledge it, they were at war.
GET THOSE HOOKS TIED DOWN! I won't lose any men today! I won't lose any men any day to anything but Her Majesty's Graces, gentleman!
ROGUE WAVE STARBOARD! ROGUE--
Panic. Czervon snatched hold of his lost rope, just as the crest of the some sixty-foot swell came into view. Men scattered, grabbed for the ship's railings, anything attached to hold them down and keep themselves from being swept overboard. Captain Higeron turned the ship as quickly as he could - given the direction they were already facing, having the wave hit the back end of the Windward Fury was the only option. The wave crashed over the starboard side, washed across the deck, and the force of the water nearly broke Czervon's legs as it collided with him. Pinned between it and the railing, his hand wrapped twice around the rope to keep him on the deck.
He could hear Higeron laughing. The maniacal laugh of a man who had been born to captain a vessel of this size, and bred to survive anything the sea, in her great recklessness, threw at him. Shouted orders that Czervon struggled against the remaining water to hear, spitting the salted mess out of his mouth and fighting to keep the sting of it out of his nose and his eyes.
The large-bodied Fisher pulled himself out of his position, trapped between the rail and a crate that had washed across and pinned him, one large foot setting against the mesh and shoving it backwards and away from him. He threw his weight into standing, both hands wrapping in the rope to hold the sail against the riggings in the howling wind and rain. They were scared. He could see it. Men he had trained with, men he had built this ship alongside. Higeron's laughter silenced, suddenly; Czervon felt the ship stop, suddenly, and then the screaming, groaning sound of a vessel run aground. The wave had pushed them into the reef. Higeron had thought they were further out than they were, and the Captain's last move to try and save them from capsizing had doomed them anyway.
This was their ship. Theirs. They had built her, they had sailed her, they had rallied around her for turns now, and now...she was failing. She was sinking.
Just like the hope of survival in the guts of her crew.
The sea was violent, thrashing and pitching in the storm that caught them in the midst of it. Even against the reef, which had ripped a hole nearly a half dragonlength in her hull, the Fury was pitching so violently that half of those not unseated into the darkness of the water upon impact had been displaced within several minutes of the first shift in her positioning. Czervon looked up towards the wheel, to see Higeron's eyes staring back at him. The look of a man who knew he was doomed to death. Czervon imagined his long-time friend saw the mirror in his own grey-green expression.
Another wave took him off his feet, and when Czervon looked back, he could see the wheel empty. No sign of his Captain. The Fury pitched sideways, groaned like a dying herdbeast, and submerged her deck beneath the surface; Czervon was dragged by the pressure and suction below, and had the good sense to hold his breath until the recoil from a chain caught him in the gut. Losing his lungful of air, he struggled not to inhale. Don't inhale. There's no air, it's all water, don't--
The roll of the ship as the air inside her hull stabilized interrupted him, and he felt the jerk of the rope against his hand. Let go, Czervon. Let go, or you're dead. He looked upwards, to see the lightning play off the surface of the roiling water, scattered with supplies, cages, crates. Driftwood. Bodies. Dark shapes passed him in the water. Massive bodies, flashes of white. He tasted blood, when his lungs finally protested and he sucked in a breath of seawater; then saw one of the corpses vanish from sight when the dark and enormous frame passed into the dark beyond his vision. Czervon's hand let go of the rope, grabbed hold of the gaping hole in the hull as it rolled. Pulled him up closer to the surface, and in agonizing pain and fear he fought the riptide to drag himself through the water and towards the shallows. Towards salvation, away from the terrors of the deep, dark sea. Away from the death and the sure and certain demise that awaited for him below.
There was only silence. He couldn't forget how silent it was. There was no sound, not even when the big, heavy body collided with his thigh. Brushed his form, and Czervon could feel every muscle scream in prayer. His hand. His hand was bleeding, they would find him. They would smell his blood, they would--
The collision with the floor from the top bunk knocked every ounce of breath from his lungs, and Czervon struggled to suck in a breath. His eyes were wide, wet from tears and panic, his entire body shaking as the limit of his palm howled in painful memory.
Breathe. Just a nightmare, you sharding dimglow, you're not dead. You're not dead. BREATHE.
Czervon sucked in a lungful of air that made him more grateful than he ever had been in his life. For a moment, he just laid there; half crooked on the floor, one leg propped up under the bottom bunk. Thank Faranth he didn't have a roommate. He was pretty sure he'd screamed. Given how bad his throat hurt, there had probably been growls or something in there, too. Rolling on his side towards the bottom bunk, he curled into a ball and wept.