Pilgrim's Trench

"Mercy's not a shipmate among
that heartless horde..."

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The sound of crates and boxes woke the young Breton from her late slumber. Everyone was already on deck, carrying out their duties on the ship. The line of beds were empty, blankets folded and pillows flattened, not a soul to be seen from inside. She glimpsed into the porthole. The morning sun shone brightly over the waves and icebergs slowly float in the water. Realising she was the only one in the forecastle, the adolescent sailor propped out of bed, neatly tucked in her furs, and dashed onto the deck to handle the cargo.

"You slept like a baby," Balgron said once she rushed outside, hauling a crate towards the stowage. The giant Orc towering the rest of the crew was the quartermaster, strict and intimidating, carrying out orders from the captain. The Breton grunted as the crate fell into her arms, and she stacked the box onto another barrel.

"You could've woke me," she answered groggily, dizzy from the sudden motions of darting out of the berth. She inhaled the fresh scent of the sea, as she was accustomed to the mould and stagnant bilge water that seeped through the hull.

The Orc chuckled for a moment. "Yeah, we let you slide since you was seasick last night."

"Captain," a voice whined from below the deck. Out came the carpenter, Macken. Seeing the captain wasn't on prow, they instead glanced at the quartermaster for guidance. "'ave a look in 'ere, sumfink is wrong." Another head popped up from the ladder. His brother, the boatswain, nodded in agreement. The elves glanced at Balagron for help, sweat and dirt sticking to their faces. "You was a carpenter before, I fink it's fine though," said Nug, Macken's twin.

As soon as she finished heaving the rest of the cargo, she followed Balagron below the deck. They inspected the bulkheads, only to see fresh water leaking into the soggy wood. "Have Amélie take a look at that. Next time, don't bother me with those trifles."

Nug and Macken nodded in sync. "Naaaah, told you Mack, I ain't stupid. It's no problem," said Nug to his brother, scanning the water seeping into the wood. "Nope, nevermind. That's a problem." The twins obligatorily swivel their heads to Amélie, parting their lips to remorselessly nag her. Before they could do so, she hurried up the slanted ladder to the deck and examined the firkins, barrels that held mainly fish.

Amélie's the cooper of the ship, breaks down barrels and repairs them if they're ever in need of repairing, such as this occasion. As an extra job, she handles and transports cargo: food, drink, furs, fish, loot, all organised in crates and barrels. The fourteen-year-old Breton has sailed with the crew all her life, since she was an urchin.

Perching onto a chair to take apart the barrel staves, she sat beside Swim-in-Ice, the navigator. He's useful to making sure the anchor isn't stuck on a trench, which happens way too often. He usually spends his time in the crow's nest with Hazu'u, a Khajiit, or tending the hawser. The main ship hauls other boats smaller than the craft, mainly for storage and emergency.

A loud clink of metal is heard from the galley, then jingles of utensils. The members don't mind the noise, the clumsy Imperial in the kitchen always makes a racket. It's basically a daily routine in the morning.

"Breakfast is ready," bellowed Bard from the galley. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, potato peels sticking to his chef uniform. Everyone pauses their duty to take a break, all gathering in the saloon. Amélie neatly sets the wooden staves beside the partially-cut up barrel, following Swim-in-Ice into the lounge.

Bowls of potato soup and meat are scattered onto the table, loaves of bread lining up in the centre, along with a mortar of butter. Bottles of ale and mead stand beside tankards and pewter mugs, one for each person.