Rain.
It sheeted in on an angle, hiding the Cruelbeast behind a sheen of water glimmering in the dark sky. The crew of seabeasts dove about desperately, fastening and unfastening ropes, slipping occasionally,trying the stabilize the unsteady craft. They were haggard, all, rough and unkempt, well used to the harsh ways of the sea.
"Pull, ye worthless scum! Pull fer all yer worth!"
The shout came from a large figure covered in a cloak of black. The hooded creature strode about the deck as if the water was calm as a sleeping mousebabe, berating and assisting his crew in turns. He was Catchear, captain of the Cruelbeast, and was feared nearly as much as his deadly ruler back on the island fort of New Terramort, Iobar the Wicked. Rumor had it that the fang Catchear wore in his left ear and that he took his name from was actually the toeclaw of an eagle. The battle was whispered about in the barracks and on night watches, how the captain had roped the eagle about the leg and refused to let go until the bird was dead. They say the fight took three days. Most of the crew believed it.
Shouting out one final command, Catchear left the deck in the hands of his capable crew and ducked below deck to the cabin. He sloughed off his saturated cloak and carefully opened the door to his quarters. On a cot in one corner lay his mate, Jilti, and their little son, nearly two seasons old. The young one was awake, peering about brightly with his little button eyes. His mother was not. With her lips parted and eyes closed, she looked as young as as Catchear had found her seasons ago.
"Jilti," Catchear murmured softly. He stroked her cheek, gave the child a fond punch. The searat's wife stirred, with a little moan, and opened her eyes. She smiled softly when she saw her mate standing over her.
"Has the storm calmed?" she asked, sitting up slowly.
Catchear shook his head tenderly. It was just like his wife to keep her mind on the problem at hand; she was sensible and a great asset to the crew. (In addition to being beautiful, he thought.) "Nay, she's rougher than ever, pickin' up even now."
She frowned. "Have we lost anybeast overboard?" she asked, concern shading her face.
"Of course not, lass," Catchear responded, in a jovial tone. He raised his shoulders reassurringly. "Don't worry. The crew an' I have everythin' under control. Don't you worry at all."
"Clodpoles like you, course I'm worried," she countered endearingly. "Great lunks. Now get up there, and make sure the crew's doing what they's supposed to."
Catchear bowed, a moderate jest at his mate's good grammar, and punched the little one lightly on the chin. The bundle of gristled fur bundled against its mother swung back. "I'm'onna killya! Gitcha back 'ere, an' seewhatta Bluthers kin do!"
"'Bloodthirsty' is right," Jilti laughed. "Named well."
Little Bloodthirst was trying his searat best to beat up Catchear, and seemed singularly annoyed that it wasn't working. In fact, the searat captain had the audacity to laugh, infuriating the rat babe. "No laffa' Bluthers! Grrr!" He bared his little fangs in his best grown-up searat manner.
Catchear shared a glance with Jilti. Their son had the makings of a searat in him. A midshipman or mate, certainly. A captain, perhaps. In fact, Jilti thought fleetingly, Emperor Iobar was still lacking an heir. With enough training and a good word in from Catchear --
She shook off the thoughts quickly. Bloodthirst would rise to his own in time. With one more chuckle and a wink at his mate, Catchear slipped out of the cabin and drew on his still-clammy cloak, a meager barrier against the driving rain. He ascended quickly to the deck to hurl orders at the storm-tossed crew in a wild attempt to save their ship -- and their lives.