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Midshipman Maramu Taramu stood on the deck of the good ship Reliant, dressed his parade best as the warship's captain read the eulogy for the poor bastard who'd died of a fever the night before. No one was particularly sad to see the man buried at sea; this sort of thing happened, and the victim hadn't been among their compliment long enough to have made many friends. Most of the attendees were more worried if the disease that had claimed the bugger was catching. The Reliant's chirurgeon had said it wasn't, or maybe that it shouldn't, but Maramu had been at sea long enough to know not to trust a man of medicine's opinion.
There was, however, one other concern that bounced around in the hearts of every midshipman aboard the third-rate as it made its patrol north. The dead man, now being blessed by the chaplain of Llymlain, had been a lieutenant, and his position was now up for grabs. It would be a race to earn the captain's favor, and Captain H'alabali Quohn was a very exacting woman.
To Maramu's left leaned over a hyuran boy two summers his junior, his face marred by acne and the scars left by it, but still bearing the same grade as him. "May th' best man win, eh?" Midshipman Abraham Little - "Abe," universally - muttered with a leering grin.
"Then yer not even in th' running." Maramu replied with a hiss, not so much as turning to face his opponent.
The game was on.
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Captain Quohn worked them hard, as she did every day - though it certainly at least felt like she was asking even more of her junior officers after the funeral. If she was testing them, she would never say it, but those beneath her certainly assumed that she was. Raising up from Midshipman was a difficult career move, even within the historically extremely fast-and-loose Lominsan Armada, and it could take summers baring an act of the Navigator or simply knowing the right person. Death or glory, as it ever was, remained the best way to find ascension through the ranks - and Maramu was not going to let this opportunity pass.
As the most junior of junior officers, a Midshipman was mostly expected to act as assistant and intermediary for the upper ranks, interfacing with the poor bastards who worked and sweat and bled in the belowdecks. The enlisted men were rough and tumble, desperate in a different way to Maramu, but not so differently that he could not relate. Everyone aboard the Reliant knew the reward for completing enough tours of service with the Armada, and for a commoner spending their youth inside of the third-rate, the promise of several square malms of land could hardly be turned down. That did not necessarily make the men eager to jump to attention, but it at least meant that they were reliable enough sorts.
As the warship continued north, trailing ever-closer to Sahagin-filled waters, Maramu oversaw the endless drills to keep all hands in fighting shape. The chance of a night-time raid, of encountering a Reaver vessel cutting south… it was enough to put the fear of Llymlain into every man aboard. Grumble as they might, no one - much less Maramu himself - wanted to have their throat slit.
Or worse: The nightmare of Drowning.
It was during one such drill that Maramu felt himself beginning to all but melt under the midday sun, sweat beading underneath his hat and trailing down his face in veritable rivers. "Load!" He shouted for the fifteenth time in half as many minutes. Before him, dozens of sailors scrambled to push in the black powder packets, followed by the cannonballs, which were swiftly pushed into the base of the barrel by men wielding ramrods.
From behind Maramu, a lieutenant held a stopwatch. "Ready, Mister Taramu," he said drolly, also sweating up a storm but maintaining that frustratingly stoic façade that higher ranks wore like a uniform.
"Ready!" Maramu repeated for him. The gun crews rolled the cannons to their positions, tips of the barrels sticking out through their gunports. Below, on the lower deck, Maramu could hear the same command being echoed by Abe… though the bastard was putting a bit more emphasis on things, probably to sound all the more, well, commanding.
Maramu waited for the order to fire, as did his men, but instead the lieutenant at his back fell eerily quiet. For a moment, Maramu simply stayed where he was, unsure if the delay was some kind of test. Maybe he had already failed by not independently giving the order to fire - but that wasn't his responsibility, wasn't it? He was just a Midshipman, not the commander of the gunline.
"Oh, bloody hells." The lieutenant suddenly muttered, and a flash of cold despite the heat ran down Maramu's spine as he heard the real fear in the man's voice. Maramu couldn't resist turning around, and saw the lieutenant gazing far out to starboard, into the haze that shadowed the vaguest outline of Vylbrand's shores.
There, cutting out towards them, was the unmistakable shape of a Reaver vessel. Smaller in most respects that mattered to the Reliant, but protected by all sorts of magics and crewed by fanatics - and closing at a dangerous speed.
From behind them both, Captain Quohn cleared her throat. "Mister Goode, Mister Taramu! Call t' battle stations, if ye please!"
"Aye aye, ma'am, battle stations!" The lieutenant repeated.
"Battle stations!" Maramu screamed as loud as he could. The men already knew the incoming danger, they'd had the time to look, but his voice shook them back into line. Below the deck, he could hear Abe belt out the same, snapping into the emergency as he'd been trained. Maramu took the small liberty of looking back at Lieutenant Goode and offering a weak smile. "I suppose th' competition'll be off fer today."
"If we aren't bloody lucky, I think it'll be off forever." Goode replied tersely.
Maramu turned his head back forwards, readying to repeat the commands. Death or glory, he thought to himself over and over again. He hadn't expected for both.