Camelot: A Space Odyssey

[Lady Alainn]

Not So Very Long Ago In A Galaxy Much Too Close For Comfort...


Slipping out of light speed like a bullet from a gun barrel, a lone, oblong starship shimmered and shuddered into focus as it approached a large, red orb hanging in the darkness of space. Slowly, the emerald vessel descended into an orbiting pattern barely within the atmosphere of the newly discovered planet where it powered off unnecessary systems and hovered in wait for further commands from the sleeping humans inside.

Within the small ship, Captain Gavina "White Hawk" Fyfe stirred to life as the effects of the stasis drug wore off. Rotating her head and shoulders in a stretch, her chainmail armour groaned and clanked in protest at the stiff movements. A black veil covered her vision until several blinks scattered the tiny dots and let light into her steely blue pupils. Gloved fingers clumsy with non-use reached down to the leather strip strapped around her waist and worked at the knots which had kept her body tied firmly to the captain's chair on the bridge of the starship Conspirator. Eventually, the leather bindings fell away and she leaned forward to grip the arms of the chair for support.

Buttons glowed and symbols flashed on the panel in front of her, displaying rudimentary charts of engine health, life support systems, and food levels. Fyfe grunted. Everything seemed to be in order-- for the most part. It would be some time yet before her crew could be considered fully functional.

Stumbling only once as she stood to her feet, Captain Fyfe took a quick jaunt across the short bridge to get the blood flowing freely throughout her body. Arms and legs pumping, her nerves pulsed and throbbed as they reawakened after the decade-long slumber. Her lungs burned and wheezed as she gasped for oxygen. Good, limbs were cooperating and nothing seemed to be damaged internally. She slowed her jog to a casual walk and braced her hands on the arm of her captain's chair to catch her breath. It was time to wake the rest of the crew.

Fyfe bent over the control panel on her captain's chair and typed in the code to release her fellow explorers from their sleep. She had been the only one programed to awaken when the ship's light speed cut off, in case of strenuous circumstances, just as she was the only one on the bridge now. All of the other members were locked snugly inside hibernation tubes to preserve their life as long as the ship continued to function.

Having begun the revival process, Captain Fyfe turned her attention to the Captain's log tape and recorded a brief update to send back to their sponsors MacDougal & Co. The firm would be thrilled to hear of the uneventful journey here, if they were still around after ten years, just as her entire home world of Celtica would rejoice to know they were the first to arrive on New Camelot. For once, the Celts had staked a new planet before any of the other hungry powerhouses, but just because they had dibs did not mean this would go smoothly. Quite the opposite actually, especially if they discovered gold.

Fyfe blew out her breath and drummed her fingers on the chair arm, her blood itching to get things moving. Soon enough they would know if the atmosphere was sustainable for life. Soon enough they would be the first to step foot on this rock. Soon enough. Even now, the groans multiplied throughout the single-level vessel and armour sets clanked as the rest of the knights emerged from their hibernation pods.

Her work done for the present, Captain Fyfe straightened, clasped her hands behind her back, and marched with heavy footfalls to the Court where her crew would meet for further instruction.

 

[Oniaxis]

Space...The wide blackness in the sky...She had always dreamed of going there as a girl...

Alexandria woke up, immediately hacking up some mucus, she groaned, and slipped herself out of the static pod, the familiar sound of her armor clanking together, a bit comforting to her. She stood up straight and stretched her bones out, then looked down at her sword, nodding at the fact that it was still there. She slowly walked over to the cockpit of the Conspirator, and looked at Sir Fergus

 

[Cloudburst]

Heavy collections of metal scraped and groaned, arguably stiffer than the men who wore them. Praetos was one such exception. The juggernaut once more consciously drew breath, reinvigorated by the life-granting fluid. His pulse quickened, eyelids fluttered, muscles twitched. He was awake. Two tree trunk like arms firmly pressed against the glass of his claustrophobia-inducing hibernation chamber. A mighty heave lead to the disgruntled realization that the door in front of him didn't feel like moving. A few moments of groggy tinkering lead to the discovery that he'd neglected to turn a handle.

A dull clack preceded the violent screeching of rusting iron, the metal framework to his pod having oxidized considerably since going to 'sleep'. Oh, right, about that exception; Praetos was one thing all of his comrades were not: naked. The bare bottoms of his feet slid across the ground, the holy knight awake, but nowhere near conscious.

"Ugh."

He had been the only one of his fellow knights to reject the idea of sleeping for ten years in that hot, stuffy, heavy-as-hell furnace known as plate armor. Yeah, no way in hell. It was needless to say his thoughts were on subject matters far more important than clothes. Namely: food. That stuff was imperative! Slouched over, it was apparent his brain was still processing everything after a ten-year hiatus from duty.

Grumbling unintelligibly, he yanked open the door that most likely would lead to the ship's bridge. "Food," the only word to leave his mouth. To hell with any and everything else.

---Break---

Their wake-up was uncoordinated at best, each respective member of the crew entering the waking world at different times. An engineer for the ship was the next to follow Praetos. He was much shorter; scrawny, too. He seemed to be of the snobbishly intellectual variety. While not the first to wake up, his transition from sleeping to conscious was without a doubt the fastest among the crew. Rowan was his name. Concise and methodical, he took care to assess the state of the tube he'd been subjected to sleep in for, what was it, a decade now?

"Corrosion, potential compromisation of the chamber's ability to adequately support life, shoddy bed sheets..." The man trailed off, becoming lost in his own thoughts. Needless to say, he would be occupied for some time before rearing his head to the others, performing calibrations, fixes and adjustments for quite some time. There was, after all, more than just his own chamber to deal with. Good thing he wouldn't be alone, what with a second engineer aboard. If there were a more clever way to distract one's self from taut muscles, sore back and the general irritability associated with having woken up from a many-years-long nap than close scrutinization of the devices that were responsible for keeping the entire crew alive, not even Rowan knew. Grumble. Okay, maybe there was one thing.

 

[Lady Alainn]

The Court, despite its name, was not a grand room. In fact, one could say it was the exact opposite as it only held the bare essentials necessary for conferences, briefing sessions, and any other such "pep talk" that would require the whole team to be present. An oval, richly ornamented table sat in the middle of the rectangular room with a row of high back, wooden armchairs on either side. At the end of the table furthest from the door stood a regal looking throne. The Captain's throne. On the wall behind it, the viewing screen roared to life as the captain stepped into the room and flicked the switch next to the doorway to light the brass lanterns located above the massive table. Once the pulsing, illuminating substance in the lanterns began casting shadows along the walls, Fyfe crossed the room to the table and pressed the button for the ship's intercom.

"Good morning, this is your captain speaking. I trust everyone had a pleasant nap," she said with a wry smile before her tone grew serious, "but sleep time is over and work is about to begin. I'd like the Exploration Squadron to meet me in Court in ten minutes' time for a briefing. Thank you."

Her message discharged and echoing through the ship's corridors, Fyfe meandered over to the viewing screen and began fiddling with it to make sure the presentation would be all set to go when the exploration team arrived. Ah, there. Everything seemed to be in order for going over their quest. Running her fingers through her blonde bob, Captain Fyfe sighed heavily and practically collapsed onto the throne. Her stomach growled. Food would have to wait, though. First, they needed to make sure everyone was still... functional... and that would quickly be determined in their meeting. Fyfe let her eyes roam the oxidized nameplates in front of each armchair.

All hand-picked by the firm through impersonal applications, Fyfe was not exactly sure what to expect of her team except what had been relayed to her through the short biographies in the crew member files. There were seven members, excluding herself, and all of them seemed very qualified on paper. She'd met them briefly when they'd boarded the ship, but after ten years of hibernation she could hardly even remember her own face let alone those of strangers.

Dierdre, a mercenary. The weathered woman had been taken on for any shady work forbidden to the knights by the Knight's Oath. One never knew when rules needed to be broken for survival and no one knew that quite as well as a mercenary. Fyfe would have to keep her eye out on that one, though. Mercenaries seldom lived by loyalty first and if anyone put a bug in her ear worth more than the pretty penny MacDougal & Co had laid out for her, Fyfe would have her hands full. However, those were conjectures that may not even come to pass. Hopefully, they never would.

Rowan and Rorimac, the engineers. Opposites in everything except for profession and their initials from what she'd seen on their files. One a pessimist, the other an optimist. One a loner, the other a socialite. One a Celt, the other a Burgundian. Their presence was vital on her team, though, for they would be the ones setting up camps, keeping defense mechanism software up-to-date, and their equipment functioning while away from the ship.

Morgiana, the alchemist cleric. Science was her forte, her church work in the realm of healing merely a way to earn a title to her name. She would be in charge of cataloging plant life, interpreting planet readings, and looking after the spiritual and physical health of the crew. Fyfe only hoped she wouldn't succumb to the temptation to put scientific discoveries over the lives and spiritual needs of her crew members.

Then there were the other three knights-- Sir Praetos, Sir Brom, and Sir Lionel-- whose simple duty was to support the captain, protect the base, and scout the area. Each knight had to have an exceptional amount of stamina and ability to traverse long distances without needing to stop for frequent food or rest periods. They needed to be able to haul weight around, practice diplomacy if meeting with an alien species, and at all times carry themselves with dignity and honour for they were the representatives of the Divine King...

 

[Cloudburst]

Dignity. That was a pretty word. Tall, stout, strong of will as Praetos might be; dignity did not aptly describe him. Long since abandoned in search of sustenance, hygiene and clothing, the hibernation chamber slowly roused with subtle signs of life. Praetos was certain Conspirator now harbored other conscious inhabitants. The dull clank of wrenches twisting and writhing against rusted steel, coupled with the abrupt and violent hiss of life-supporting hibernation chambers becoming depressurized meekly echoed throughout many far reaching areas of the ship.

Cold, grated steel floor gave way to sleek, white tile as Praetos crossed through the ship's Courtyard into something tentatively akin to a Roman bath house. With the bright, mellow and noticeably warmer atmosphere in contrast to the rest of the ship, it was a wonderful place to congregate and make conversation with other crew members. Whether to his virtue or detriment, Praetos found himself bereft of company. Needless to say, socialization had not a good sitting on the man's long list of priorities. Especially so, given the drunken stupor his body and mind were still struggling to recover from.

Sparsely scattered throughout the hygienic facility's tiled floor lay several in-ground baths, each capable of comfortably supporting up to around five members a piece. Sprawled out in a cacophonic fashion about the fringe of each tub were a myriad of shampoos, soaps and oils. Needless to say, crew members were encouraged to make use of them; sailing through space like a pirate didn't mean you had to smell like one, too. Chilly and plagued by the pang in the gut brought on by hunger, Praetos wordlessly descended into one such blessedly warm tub of water. Relief.

---Break---

Click, hisssss, groan, went a duo of chambers as they opened at the same time. As the large metal doors swung ajar, two men of stature comparable to Praetos were revealed. Primary difference: armor and an ongoing, overly conspicuous rivalry with one another.

Brom & Lionel: "I woke up first! No, I did! You didn't, I did! Shut y'er yap already!"

Immediately, and to the ever-increasing dismay of the crew's specialized engineers, the duo began brawling with one another on the spot. Despite their apparent tendencies for childish behavior involving one another, both men were exceptionally qualified combatants. So much so in fact, that MacDougel & Co. allowed both into the position of Knightly Bodyguard in conjunction with Praetos, despite the initial two vacancies for the job.

"I'm stronger!"

"Say that to my fist!"

Unfortunately, what the duo had in sheer brawn, they sorely lacked in the intellectual department. Outside of combat or feats of sheer strength, they were seldom more than bickering and oddly lovable dolts. As abruptly as their tussle had begun, Fergus and Lionel ceased their rough housing just long enough to realize hunger existed. Faster than Rorimac could say metallurgy, both had vanished in a puff of smoke in the direction of the Tavern.

---Break---

The planet that lie in wait beneath churned and brewed with ominous weather, irrefutably hazardous to the safe decent of Conspirator from its state of self-sustained free fall several hundreds of miles above the surface. "Babylon", as it was colloquially referred to by Praetos, was ubiquitously blanketed in dark storm clouds. The planet was a host of volatile weather, often switching between sunny and torrential rainfall with the flick of a metaphorical switch. There was no way the crew had any chance of descent until the storm let up enough to reveal a sizable area fit for landing. It could take anywhere from a few hours to a few days. Truly, nature was a fickle mistress.

 

[Lady Alainn]

Captain Fyfe slouched further in her chair as she waited for the first squadron member to appear, her fingers drumming on the arm of the throne while the heel of her steel-toed boot clicked impatiently against the hardwood floor. Her icy gaze travelled to the timer she'd flipped after her announcement, watching the sand trickle through the narrow waist of the glass figurine. Ten minutes had been graciously long, perhaps too much so, to allow her team time to regain their senses and trudge their way to Court. If they knew what was good for them, they'd make it in five. Fyfe could feel herself growing cranky and a cranky captain never did anyone any good.

Before half the sand in the hourglass had sifted through, the oaken door swung open to admit a rather small of stature girl with an unusually angular face. Fyfe immediately straightened and cleared her throat, drawing the girl's gaze to herself. "Well, I suppose I should congratulate you for being the first to heed my orders," Fyfe said carefully, evaluating the heavy armour covering the girl from top to bottom. The mercenary. Well, well, well, she knew how to make a good first impression.

Clanking over to her seat, Dierdre shifted her sword out of the way of the chair leg and sat down with a quick bob of her head in recognition of the captain. "Your words are noted, captain, and appreciated," she said quietly but could say nothing more as the door flew open again, this time admitting two men of differing statures.

In fact everything was as opposite as day and night with these two-- one tall and thick-boned, black haired and jutting under-bite, while the other stood barely out of the way of the first man's armpit and as thin as a candlestick with blonde hair and a weak chin. They both wore the hunter green robes of engineers. One of them even sported a rosary dangling from his wrist. Fyfe noted this with amusement. Presumably then, the other must not be very religious for these two men must be Rowan and Rorimac, though which was which was lost on her until they sat at their respective places. Both of them had long faces, unfortunately, and so Tragedy and Comedy would have to be sorted out during introductions.

Fyfe had even less time to greet them as a hag waltzed through the doorway, instantly putting her on her guard enough to lower her hand to her sword hilt. The hag was a crooked old woman with wrinkles, a swollen eye, a long, hooked nose and a wart the size of a radish dangling off the end of it. Her grey, frizzy hair hung in a loose braid to the floor and trailed behind her like a wedding veil-- twigs, leaves, and tiny skeletons tucked and poking out from various strands of hair.

"My God, did the hibernating chamber not work for you?" Rorimac, the black-haired Celt, exclaimed in horror.

"Oh, did I forget to drink my potion? Silly me!" the hag cackled. Her claw-like fingers pushed and prodded at the folds of skin around her neck for the hidden vial, smirking at the obvious displeasure and grimaces some of the other members couldn't conceal. "Here it is, here it is," she continued in a sing-song voice, swinging the little vial back and forth on its silver chain for a few revolutions before she uncorked it.

Fyfe frowned at this obvious display of unprofessionalism and tapped the table with a stern forefinger. "Science Officer Morgiana, drink your potion and sit down, please. I won't have disturbances or inappropriate behaviour exhibited this early in our mission, thank you very much." She glanced at the feminine-shaped hourglass and her frown deepened. By now the sand had almost run out. "Has anyone seen our knights? Do we know if they actually revived?"

Rowan held up a hesitant hand. "I believe... I believe they were last seen running for the Tavern, Captain. At least, I witnessed two of them heading off that way. The third I'm not sure of, but he must have revived as well. They were all on the same circuit."

"Unless there is an inhibitor lurking between the pods," Rorimac added, "which is quite likely. This is the longest hibernation these pods have ever been put through and there are bound to be glitches and bugs in the system."

"He was naked," the hag contributed with a sly smile. Although, she wasn't a nasty old hag anymore. After sipping her potion, the vile woman grew at least six inches, trimmed down to a size two robe of purple hues, and gained a vibrant red shade to her hair. And freckles and large, violet eyes and it was all Rowan could do not to let his jaw drop at the transformation. Rorimac simply looked away.

"I beg your pardon?" Fyfe inquired with raised brow, completely unaffected by the goddess now sitting in her presence.

"Naked," Morgiana purred. "The third knight went into the pod naked. Perhaps he froze himself to death."

 

[Cloudburst]

Speaking of naked: Praetos sat in the calming solitude of an empty bath's hot water, slowly rejuvenating. His weary eyelids slowly found the strength to remain open without gratuitous amounts of effort. His chilled skin once more became warm; tense knots and stiff joints slowly unwound with the application of soothing heat. From the looks of this, the ventilation system for this particular knight's pod must have malfunctioned somewhere down the line: what was presumably dust; comprised of dead skin, insects of near microscopic proportions and other such unpleasant things had caked over his flesh sporadically in dark splotches of grime. Needless to say, he made short work of the ten year's worth of filth so bold as to dare accumulate upon his body.

Meanwhile, the rowdy pair that was Brom and Lionel had already made their way to the Tavern. And to the food. Of course, they were both eating with the idea to fuel their rapidly increased metabolisms. Of course, it had devolved into a fierce competition fueled by rivalry. Aggressive was likely the best way to describe the duo: having happily helped themselves to some dehydrated "just add water!" food packets from the ship's reserve. In this scenario, helping equated to shoveling needless amounts of sustenance into their gaping maws. It was only halfway through their coordinated, tag-team assault of the ship's food storage that Lionel piped up suddenly. With a look of abject terror, he exclaimed: "By the King! Weren' we suppos'to hold a conference with Cap'n Fyfe when we woke up, Lionel?!" For but the briefest of moments, the pair sat silent, staring at one another. And then, they were off! Faces still half-stuffed with food, of course.

---Break---

If pressed for how long he'd bathed, Praetos wouldn't be able to give an accurate answer. Since his emergence from the pod, many of his memories had to be retrieved one by one through the thick veil of fog clouding most of the man's mind; he had spent a good amount of time recollecting what lead up to him becoming a crew member of this gallant ship. It was after some time of reflection that things became clearer: why he was here, what he intended to do, the many dangers that very well may lurk upon the planet far below. And his first... formal meeting... with Captain Fyfe. Oh, bother.

Skin once wet now became dry, bereft by clothing no longer as a wool tunic came to tightly hug the goliath's muscle-bound torso. Bare legs were swiftly enveloped by fabric of the same variety, a leather belt tossed on shortly thereafter with intent to make everything stayed in place. Even outside of a hefty suit of plate armor, he was a man of impressive stature; graced by many a thing such as broad shoulders, sharp cheek bones and a sizable frame bound by combat-hardened muscle. It went without saying so that while he had no intentions of wearing armor left it prove vital to survival. However, Praetos had no issue lugging the several kilograms worth of steel and leather around with him until such a situation arose.

--Break--

Abruptly, the massive wooden door so often used to enter the Court was nearly blown off of its hinges by two equally massive men. "Cap'n! W--*swallow*we aren't late, are we?" Brom exclaimed midway through swallowing the last bite of his 'meal'. Lionel, however, was silent. He was hunched over, trying to simultaneously finish the food in his mouth and gasp for air after having sprinted across the ship. If there was anything they were better at than every single person on the ship, it was causing a ruckus.

"What's with the hurry?" came a timely voice from behind Brom and Lionel. It was deep, carrying with it a soothing sort of quality one might liken to leather. "It's as if you were trying to outrun a pyromancer's fireball," the man behind the two continued, which was shortly thereafter followed by some mild laughter. Stepping out from behind the duo was Praetos, fully clothed in stark contrast to the claims of a certain science officer. The man's eyes briefly came to rest upon Fyfe's, "my apologies for arriving later than you would have liked, Captain." Suddenly, his attention shifted from the woman in charge to everyone in the specialist division of the crew. "Hello, everyone." Praetos' demeanor was anything but serious. In fact, he wore a warm grin and seemed to radiate a sort of calm joviality. Better to have arrived late than never at all?

 

[Lady Alainn]

She'd just given up on hearing anything from the three stooges and turned the others' attention to proper introductions when the door almost wrenched from its hinges. Shock lowered the captain's jaw until dignity clenched it shut again as the duo stumbled into the room. Fyfe studied the miscreants with a hard eye, her mind already brewing thoughts into words, words into sentences, and sentences into speech. Wait, were those... crumbs? They'd been eating?!? Her stomach growled in protest but it took nothing more than a firm hand to her belly to shush it.

Was no one in her team a sensible human being? Had quirkiness been a requirement by the firm in order to join her? Was someone seeking to discredit her on her first voyage out of the solar system? Fyfe narrowed her eyes. Paranoia was the second sign of a cranky captain, the first being a growling stomach. She would not allow herself to lash out in frustration. Yet. Sarcasm would hide any leaks of frustration, maybe not very well but it was a start. The third knight popped his head in just in time to be included in her speech.

"I'm honoured you three took the time to show up, it was very thoughtful of you." Captain Fyfe immediately stood up and began pacing behind the throne, her hands locked behind her back as she gave each of her three knights a stern look. "Now take your seats before we waste any more time. I know most of you are hungry and would like to freshen yourselves so we will dispense with the pleasantries and get straight to the point."

For a few brief seconds only the clip of her heels on the polished wooden panels could be heard in the room as she turned her attention to the viewing screen on the end wall. Pulling up an image of New Camelot, Fyfe proceeded to relay information about the inconsistent weather patterns, where they would start their exploration upon the planet surface, what each crew member was responsible for in relation to working together as a team, and lastly that they must be ready at any given moment to evacuate the ship with all of their necessary belongings as the storm below could clear up at any time. When she had finished her short lecture, she turned back to her recruits and dismissed them to eat, bathe, and rest until they heard the bell to depart. All of them, that is, except the three knights and the hag-turned-goddess. For some reason, no one budged. Oh well, she dove into her short lecture anyway.

"Sir Lionel, Sir Brom, you two are sentenced to kitchen detail until further notice, and believe me, Cook will know if anything goes missing from her pantry so please don't try sneaking food again. Science Officer Morgiana, you are hereby restricted to the female quarters until we disembark, the only exception being if I personally escort you to the bridge. If I can't trust you to stay out of the men's corridor, I certainly shall not trust you with the rest of the ship. Now, Sir Praetos..." Fyfe paused for breath and to deepen her frown lest his cheery attitude rub off on her whilst in the middle of pronouncing punishment. "Sir Praetos, I expect you five minutes early for the next two meetings to atone for arriving late."

Fyfe began switching off the presentation system while she added, "If any of you feel your consequences outweigh your crime, please take it up with the officer of conduct, not me. Now, if there are no other concerns, you may be dismissed."

 

[Cloudburst]

While they remained wordless for a number of moments, subtle signs of understanding and resentment towards their punishment slithered its way across the duo's expressions. Both Brom and Lionel grumbled in unison upon being dealt a punishment akin to Tantalus. Horrifying. "Yes, Cap'n," In tandem, a good round of snickering reluctantly spread throughout the room, many seated at the table struggling to suppress their amusement lest they be reprimanded themselves. Whatever attention that had come to lay on two crestfallen knights was, however, short-lived as the third knight once more spoke.

"If you wanted to get to know me better, you could have just said so," cooed Praetos to Fyfe in a bout of good-natured teasing. "Five minutes seems rather paltry for conversation, though. How does 15 sound?" His grin remained charismatic as ever, and with any luck would dash the captain's ludicrous attempts at retaining her forced scowl. Of course, playing a round of conversational dice wasn't always in his best interests. Even if the situations given form were undeniably more fluid, full or life and most importantly, interesting.

Two beady eyes belonging to the disproportionately husky Rorimac came to glare daggers at Praetos. At a glance, chances were it was due to some strange amalgamation of hunger, distaste for the jolly knights professionalism--or lack thereof--, and maybe because the engineer wasn't perhaps quite so sociable. Clearly, a bright and cheeky future was in store for the two should they ever find the time to socialize.

Several moments of reprieve from being the focus of the entire room gave Brom and Lionel the time they needed to adequately recover and chime right back into the conversation. Alas, if only they had enough brain between the two of them to make a whole one, tact would do them an infinite world of good: "Din't'cha say somethin' about skippin' formalities, Cap'n?"

"Yeah, does that mean the meetin's over now? I really want to get some more foo--er... want t'get my duties helping the chef over with. Yeah."

Funny enough, just as the two mindlessly blathered their thoughts, Fyfe was already in the middle of proclaiming a better part of the specialized crew mates as dismissed. To see how fast both knights upped and sprinted out of the door would put The Flash to shame. Enraging perhaps to a certain woman in charge, an infinite well of laughter and entertainment to... well, everyone else.

---Break---

On the side of the planet opposite the local star, the Conspirator lay in the pitch black void of space. Every so often, an exception was made: bright talons emerged from the malevolent storm clouds below in desperate and feral attempts to swipe the cruiser right out of the lower thermosphere. Despite how fickle nature so often is, even an know-nothing could tell that things wouldn't be clearing up any time soon. Whether or not it would prove to be a disservice to allow the crew time enough to mingle and adequately come to know one another was something bound to be discovered.

 

[Lady Alainn]

The full, red lips of the red-headed goddess, which had risen in amusement at the bumbling knight duo, now turned downwards scornfully as the captain handed her the horrifying sentence. Stay within the female chambers permanently unless on the Captain's leash? What a degrading, awful, no good... Why, it wasn't like she would seduce every single officer on this ship! Just the handsome ones, the delectable ones, the ones who were healthy enough to undergo secret lab experiments. And oh, such lovely experiments she'd planned to keep herself occupied while stuck on this boring ship! Muscle enhancers, cures for bad breath, hair growth, and other equally fascinating projects.

Morgiana's frown now morphed into a pout, her bottom lip protruding in a most desirable way that begged for a kiss. It just wasn't fair! Besides, she reasoned, it hadn't been her intention to stumble across the male's quarters earlier. It'd been a pleasant mistake, but it hadn't been on purpose. Well, if she wasn't allowed to have fun with the men... violet eyes sparked and roved over the female captain's curves... perhaps the ladies would do just as well. Morgiana twirled a red lock around her fingers in a display of innocence while awaiting for her escort service to finish feeling superior. Captain Fyfe really needed someone to loosen her up...

Sir Praetos' cheeky response caught Fyfe completely off guard, as was testified to by the brief lowering of her jaw and bemused widening of her stern gaze. An outright flirt was the absolute last reply she'd expected from any of her subordinates! Fyfe went to clear her throat and only then realized that her mouth hung open like a panting dog's. Faster than the troublesome duo of knights could scamper off to the Tavern, she snapped it shut. This time her attempt at throat clearing was successful and she fought to keep the redness from her pale cheeks [which could never colour subtly] as she met the jolly dark giant's gaze. Well, if he was so eager for her to get to know him better, who was she to deprive him?

"Fifteen minutes," her stomach growled, "and if you accompany me to the Tavern, you have yourself a deal." Fyfe flicked the falling bangs of her platinum blonde hair from her eyes and strode towards the door with a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She couldn't help herself-- the man's whole aura was contagious and she was too hungry to try to do anything about it.

 

[Cloudburst]

Always the pessimist, Rorimac put perhaps a little too much oomf into a sigh of exasperation. Woefully, he muttered a multitude of petty grievances beneath his breath. Rowan remained silent, rather content and bemused by the entire situation in contrast. They really were like two sides of a coin. "Those two should really have a better handle on themselves," he'd finally managed to muster after a while of brooding. If anyone was impervious to Praetos' infectious good mood, it was without a doubt Rorimac. Poor fellow.

Praetos had yet to take a seat, given how soon they all were to depart to the tavern for food anyhow. Instead, the better part of his weight had come to rest upon the sizable conference table around which everyone else was sitting. "I like the way you think, food sounds wonderful. I'm sure everyone here is starving after their naps." Before having the chance to continue, a set of fingers gave a dull rattle as they beat and battered the table beneath without reprieve. Once again: Rorimac. Someone certainly wasn't the most sociable, were they? "Yes, it does. But as it so happens, walking and talking at the same time is a miraculous new invention I came up with just recently. I'd say we'd save time by following the Captain before continuing our riveting discussion." His tone reeked of sarcasm and crankiness, poor man must have still been waking up from his abruptly disturbed slumber. Hopefully the chap would loosen up given a stomach full of food and time to relax.

"It wasn't my intention to postpone the adjournment of our meeting, I apologize... hrmm." Praetos scratched his chin, gaze coming to rest and subsequently narrow on Rorimac. "Rowan?" Oh no. "Rorimac," growled the impatient mechanic, more than likely pissed off in every which possible way to an extent that might rival the wrath of Zeus himself. Meanwhile, Rowan quietly shared a chuckle with himself while getting up and taking up an impressive stride behind Fyfe. Almost immediately(in sync with Rowan, conveniently enough!), Praetos rebounded with a hearty laugh. "Please, pardon my forgetfulness. I haven't quite matched everyone's name with a face yet. It can be hard to remember, too, after 'sleeping' so long." His voice eventually died down, though not for too long.

Hopefully, someone would find something to say so the conversation could keep up it's pace. It might even retain its bright and airy tone despite Rorimac blatantly trying to kill and dismember it. In fact, the only knight left in the group was giving a subtle, expectant glance at a certain Captain. Of course, chances were her attention was elsewhere, far more focused on the idea of food rather than such trivialities as a still-unfamiliar crew mate's eyes. Though, perhaps the conversation would indeed die down until the party had made way to the ships dining area.

 

[Lady Alainn]

With all due deference-- despite the lack of coordination the team members seemed to possess at the moment-- the cunning, snarky, good-natured, soft-spoken, and even bashful little ducklings waddled dutifully in behind the mother of all mothers: Captain Gavina Fyfe. All she missed were the two miscreants and they already must be stuffing their mouths again despite her orders. Seven little children to watch over with her hawk-like gaze. Seven little troublemakers all set up to be the ruin of her and this mission by the looks of things. If she'd been properly hydrated, nutritioned, and sitting down in the comfort of her captain's chair, the captain with skin paler than snow and hair lighter than the reflection of sun through an icicle may have simply raised a hand to her forehead and shaken her head at her misfortunes.

Instead, a sudden, awful, horrifying thought birthed by the familiarity of her situation struck her. Seven! With a woman of fair complexion to lead them. Oh no, no, no, no. Was it her fate to bite the poisoned apple as well? If it was possible for her to blanche, Fyfe did so now. Even as her brisk pace kept her heels clicking towards the direction of the Tavern, her mind whirled putting names and faces with distinct dwarven personalities. Dierdre, the clear-headed one. Praetos, the jovial one. Rowan, the bashful one. Rorimac, the cranky one. Morgiana, the resourceful, manipulative one. Then there were Brom and Lionel, the thick-witted one and the delusional one, though which was which eluded her for the present. And then there was her, Gavina, the pale-skinned one to lead them.

Why did these things happen to her? Her focus drifted back to the conversation at hand just in time to overhear Morgiana chime in.

"Having problems with your memory, handsome?" the witch/hag/cleric/science officer teased in a low, throaty purr. "I have just the potion to help with that if you would care to stop by my quarters after--"

"Morgiana, this is not the place to peddle your questionable wares."

"Why, Captain! It is only an innocent little drug and I only mean to help my fellow man in any way I can!" Morgiana pouted in feigned innocence. "I myself use it regularly and have as of yet no adverse side effects. My memory is impeccable. Praetos, and indeed all the members of our little family here, would benefit greatly from it. Even you, Captain."

From his position clipping on the heels of the captain, Rowan shook his head of luscious blonde curls in disbelief as he muttered, "Drugs that can improve memory, indeed! Whoever heard of such a thing? I do hope it is not witchcraft, no I am sure it is not! A member of the clergy involved in dark practices, surely not!"

Fyfe turned her head just enough to raise a brow in the science officer's direction. No side effects and yet her natural form was that of an ill-kept hag? Not bloody likely.

 

[Cloudburst]

The distinct clink-clack of heels hitting the ground of metal grate slowly transitioned to the dull thud of wood. Spaceship or non, that sure didn't stop interior decoration from emulating life back in not-new-Camelot. Otherwise referred to as Camelot! Eccentric starship swiftly turned into something closely resembling a medieval tavern, complete with an enormous fireplace, what very well may have been bearskin rugs, sturdy oak tables and a vast, sprawling bar countertop. Oh, and trophies positively littered all of the walls. Heads of beasts slain in times past, mythological entities and otherwise resting amongst them. Whether or not they were authentic was perhaps up for debate. The group seemed to stay together for a short while as everyone scouted out a potential place to perch; alas, a consensus appeared to be elusive. Rowan wished to sit at a table large enough to accommodate everyone, whereas Rorimac wanted a seat at the bar.

In the midst of a swiftly developing divide between Ganiva's little dwarves, Praetos found the time to respond to the ever mischievous Morgiana. While he was by no means naive, it was difficult to tell just what ulterior motives drove their 'doctor'.

"While I sincerely appreciate your... offer, Morgiana, I do believe my memory is fine. I'm still putting names to faces is all. Thank you, though." While Morgiana was proving to be very disconcerting with what seemed to either be excessive sarcasm or blatant lying, the thought of them all being a great, big, dysfunctional family tugged at the corners of Praetos' mouth. It was nice to have a sense of belonging.

"Medical science can do many things indeed, Rowan," snapped Rorimac, arms crossed defensively. Chipper as always. What was once a filthy glare directed at Morgiana quickly became one aimed at Rorimac. If there were ever a candidate for 'most likely to kill someone with an intense gaze,' Rowan was it.

In the interest of preventing an outbreak of needless bickering and quarrels, Praetos addressed Fyfe over what was quickly devolving into a dull cacophony of charged words: "So, where ought we sit, Captain?" Almost instantaneously, nearly a dozen eyes settled onto the proud captain expectantly.

"Say, yeah. Where do you think we should sit, Cap'n?" Inquired Rorimac hastily, idly fingering his pocket in covert frustration from his brief exchange with Rowan not a minute before.

With all of the commotion the group was making, it probably wouldn't be very long before Brom and Lionel caught wind of the groups arrival and completely disregarded their kitchen duties to come and join in on the conversation. A crass and reckless move like that would certainly fit their personality to a T.

 

[Lady Alainn]

Children! They were all children! Half her team couldn't tell time and now most of them couldn't even make a relatively simple decision like where to sit in a tavern. It wasn't even that hard to choose. A few of the ship's crew members were taking up one of the two long tables and two of the servants were busy at the bar. Ye gads! How many of her "special team" had still been living at home before signing on for this mission? Gavina contemplated throwing her hands in the air and shrieking at the top of her lungs, but unfortunately one cannot do that while covering one's eyes and crying. Not that the captain would ever be caught dead crying in front of anybody, least of all her subordinates. Dead people do not cry. Ah, to be a dead person...

Calm, she had to remain calm. If she lost her head now, how could she ever regain her respect back? Maybe they were testing her. Yes, that had to be it. This whole charade had been to test her nerves to see what her limits were. A childish game of charades and she was cranky, groggy, and hungry after ten years of hibernating. Ye gads, ten years without food! No wonder her hands were shaking and lips were quivering at the slightest idiotic phrase.

"I think the Captain has what I like to call it, Low Blood Sugar," came a poorly whispered diagnosis from Morgiana to the rest of the group. "When the blood isn't sweet, it makes its host very volatile and often causes them to collapse in a heap of tears. I've seen it happen on a few occasions. Right now she is struggling to keep her emotions bottled up. Watch her hands, she'll start balling them into fists any second and eventually she will fall over in a dead faint."

"Great, just great. A captain with a fainting record."

"Is there any cure?"

"I've observed that there are ways to treat the symptoms. The trick is to notice when it is happening before the faint--"

"QUIET!" Gavina screeched. She looked down at her hands. Why not? Everyone else probably was. Eight fingers and two thumbs clamped inwards towards her palms. Her knuckles whitened and strained with the action. During prayer time later that day she would definitely be calling down damnation on her hag of a cleric.

"Captain, I do have a pill that will--"

Pivoting on the very tip of her heel, Captain Fyfe faced her annoying little dwarves with her hands on her hips. "Let's get one thing clear: I am NOT your ma! I give the orders, you obey. If I do not give orders on a matter, that means you get to make your own decisions, got it? Now, I am hungry. I am sore. And I am not in the mood for childish, idiotic bickering! Nor do I want to hear about your damned pills!"

"But...but Captain, where do we sit?" Rowan almost whimpered.

"Ye gads! In a chair. You should sit in a chair," Fyfe whirled around again and stormed off for the bar. A thought hit her four steps in. If this wasn't a test, if they were really this dull... "Preferably in an unoccupied chair!" The captain then yanked out a bar stool, sat down with her heels hooked on the rungs, threw her arms over her head and cried.

"Drama Queen, much?" Dierdre muttered. Gripping the hilt of her sword, the mercenary strode through the crowd towards an empty four-seater table by the fireplace.

 

[Cloudburst]

From a tepid calm to fierce boil, dear Fyfe's patience, or lack thereof in this case, was becoming most apparent. Alas her ragtag team of adventure seekers and go-getters only wound up even more eager on to test their limits. Not a smart move. Praetos hadn't a death wish, and thusly remained in silence alongside Dierdre. But Morgiana--oh, Morgiana. She knew how to push all of the wrong buttons. Bad turned into worse into worst as their mischievous medic looked on with glee towards a woefully frustrated captain. Yelled at, lectured, treated like a child. She couldn't care less from the look of things. Stirring up trouble was something of a specialty of Morgiana's, and watching things fall into place so perfectly made hiding her delight impossible.

As if losing a vital thread, the group fell to tatters with the disappearance of captain Gavina Fyfe. Diedre moved to seclusion, Morgiana gave a giddy giggle and scampered off to... who knows where with her newfound freedom from the captain's watchful eye, Praetos made haste to catch up with poor, disgruntled Fyfe to offer moral support, Rorimac and Rowan had already found something entirely new to argue about and had yet to move from where they stood together.

"My fault?!"

"Yes, your fault you oaf!"

"'Twas Morgiana who pushed her over the edge, she did, not I!"

"You most certainly contributed!"

Away from the origin of their commotion, things had once more settled down into a more or less pleasant atmosphere. Silently, a hand flagged down the almost-sleeping bartender, who quickly readied a pair of drinks. For better or for worse, Gavina received a ginger tap of the shoulder.

"Captain?"

It was Praetos, bold and arguably crass as ever. Inviting himself to take a seat beside her, he leaned forward against the bar for a few scant moments before deciding upon what to say next.

"What sounds good to you?" Food, of course. They'd all gone long enough without eating, and doing so was probably the best first step towards remedying everyone's sullen, easily spoiled moods. Especially the captain's. Off to the side, the barkeep was listening carefully so that the ship's cook could get to work on their meals with all due haste. And for good reason. He expected something quick, witty, dry and more than likely sarcastic; but he was just as equally prepared. Better for her to vent now than bottle it up and explode later on the entire crew. Again.

An pair of audible thuds sounded out as two glasses filled with sweet, frothy mead were placed before the duo. The deep auburn fluid nearly spilled out of the tops, a sight for sore eyes, especially those of the crew.

 

[Lady Alainn]

Should Gavina Fyfe have been in her right mind instead of bawling her eyes out upon the freshly polished wood of the counter, the large knight's hand would have been completely out of line and subject to a sharp shrug. However, the poor captain was in no control of her faculties at the present moment and the subtle movement on her shoulder only succeeded in quieting her to a few sniffles of embarrassment. Two puffy oceans of red-tinted blue peeked out from underneath her crossed gauntlets at Praetos' soft inquiry. Fyfe was hungry, very much so. So hungry, in fact, that her stomach had ceased feeling hungry and only made her feel ill. But still, food would be good... and tasty... and she really was so very hungry...

"Um... a steak," she mumbled, not caring in the least that she was behaving just as childishly, if not more so, than her crew. Sniff. "A pink steak. With a boiled potato." Thinking about food was the first step for her recovery and the thud of the tankard in front of her only boosted her spirits with a promise of fulfillment. Her head poked up now, her arms falling to rest on the counter in front of her instead of sheltering her head from the possibility of falling roof tiles. "And... cauliflower?" she added hopefully. Sniff, sniff.

The barkeep instantly whisked off the order to the kitchens. Unfortunately, the cauliflower had not been properly stored for a ten year voyage, the grocer hearing the words ten hour tourage instead, and was even now stinking up the place with fungi of every colour and texture. Whoever heard of displaying cauliflower, anyway? And why in anyone's right mind would they think to display the vegetables in glass pails filled with sweet vinegar and relish? As the door swung open, a strong stench of rotten cauliflower escaped as well as a snippet of a quarrel in which one of the parties sounded suspiciously like her knights:

"My land, when I told you to dispose of it, I didn't mean in your mouth!"

"Mah-va-o-vay-toh-may-naw-te-ayth-foo."

"Ahm-tho-ungee!"

"Spit it out! Spit it out! How can you even stand the slimy--"

Fyfe wrinkled her nose and tugged the frothy pint of mead close to drown out the revolting smell. It only helped a little bit. On second thought, maybe she wasn't very hungry after all. The barkeep hurried back to his customers after barking a few orders to those not fretting over the proper disposal of rotten cauliflower and placed two plates of stale bread in front of them.

"We seem to be having issues with our stock and I am not sure when your food will be ready. Can I interest you in dehydrated instant meal packages in the meantime?"

"No, thanks," she muttered into her mead. Dehydrated meals. Ugh. Even she would never, ever be desperate enough to stomach one of those. Eating those things had been the only part of the CSEOE [Celtica Space Exploration Officer Examination] that she'd failed, simply because she had refused to even open the package. Fyfe tore off a piece of bread and plopped it onto her tongue. As her saliva softened the crust enough to chew it, she regarded the knight beside her in a casual interest. Apart from their biographies, which had prepared her in no way for their personalities, Fyfe knew very little about her crew. She swallowed the chunk and instantly she swore she could feel colour start to reappear on her cheeks.

"So, Sir Praetos, what kind of background do you have? What made you choose space exploration?"

---

Now, what did happen to that sneaky little Morgiana? Nothing, really. Despite the common perception of her little family of guinea pigs, she hadn't actually left the tavern. She, too, was famished and wanted to be eating as soon as possible, but first she desired to take advantage of the captain's lowered guard to collect a few samples. The hag had a knack for slinking in shadows and was doing so now, sneaking up to an unsuspecting lesser crew member with a needle in her hand. If one was quick enough, agile enough, and sneaky enough, one could draw a good number of milliliters of blood from its host with no one being the wiser.

After all, first thing was first. She needed to label blood types for all the members of this crew, even those not on the exploration team. Especially those, for they were probably the ones she could get away with experimenting on.