Across the Atlant
The Skua pressed forward, her sails swollen with the wind, her prow cutting against the rough sea, on this, her maiden voyage across the Atlant.
Seaspray blinded the mighty mate at the bow, squinting out over the endless water. White froth capped each wave like snow atop mountains. Many had lost their lives making the crossing, but many had also made their wealth, braving the great expanse.
New Caledonia, wild and free. Full of riches and land for the taking. The dream of any Njord. A new land to conquer and call their own, promise of adventure and riches untold.
The brave and sure Sea Captain guided the Skua through the waves. He knew her and what she could take, riding down the waves, and slicing her up through them.
The 50-odd passengers set sail a week ago, and some of them looked the worse for it. The first 5 days had been pleasant enough, but these last two had been rough. The stormy skies came over the horizon on that 6th morning, great red clouds in the West fortold what was to come.
With the clouds came the rain, and with the rain came the cold, and with the cold came the wind, and with the wind came the waves. As high as 5 men, the waves tossed the Skua, rocking her back and forth, to and fro. But the Captain was nonplussed. 36 hours, now he had manned the tiller, stoic against the driving rain. Sometimes he would break and let out a laugh with a joyous roar. He treated this storm as a gift from Thor and Njord to test him and his beloved Skua, and he relished it. As much as the Captain loved it, and the crew pressed forward, many of the passengers were less than enthused. The Sax had all turned green with seasickness or blue with cold, it was hard to tell if the Njords were covered in vomit from drink or the same seasickness that afflicted the Sax. Regardless, they stank and were all red-faced and grumbling about being huddled together in such close quarters. Only one of the crew seemed happy with the whole ordeal.
He was a late addition to the voyage. Coming aboard at the last moment, this grizzled old man. Scraggly beard, and unkempt hair, he was almost more beast than man, but his silver was as good as any others, even if the coins were all tarnished and filthy. The old man, sat alone, cross-legged, just above the bilge, eyes closed, with a smile on his face nodding, muttering to himself, “soon, soon, soon, soon, soon, soon…”
