Why Werewolves make the best sailors

Why Werewolves make The Best Sailors
A Nautical Tale

By Bob Liddil

"Werewolves make the best sailors," said Jack, after which, we stared at him as though he had two heads. He could not see us until he peeked over the top of the book he seemed to be studying intently. Only then did the shock on our faces register with him.

"That's not in the rules," I blurted in protest. "You made that up."

Jack smiled crookedly and replied, "Of course I did. I am the Game Master."

"Are you sure about this, Damian?" Prince Val, the sturdy hadn't been too keen on coming to Oceania in the first place and was even less enthusiastic after having spent his seventh consecutive hour in the place. "Werewolves," he added, "give me the creeps."

Damian the dangerous corrected his friend, amused by his squeamishness. "The actual term is 'Nautical.' " He said this loftily, with pride at being in possession of a grain of truth his Royal friend lacked.

"Werewolf. Nautical. Fangs, claws and a hairy face." Val shuddered at the mental image. "Notmen in any case. How do we know we can trust them to get us to the island."

"Because, my friend, we are your only means of getting out to the islands." A hearty voice boomed from behind Val, causing him to jump as he spun around.

The newcomer was a tall sea dog, uncommonly so, with long strong fingers sporting neatly manicured claws. All visible parts of his body were furry save for that covered elegantly by an impeccable uniform bearing the gold stripes of a Captain of Ships.

"Without Nauticals," the officer said, more gently, "humans and other notmen would very quickly perish upon the open sea, of the nausea, the seasickness brought about by the magic that charms the waters. Only we may conduct traffic on the wave, following the wind."

"Jack," I said impatiently. "You are going to have to do a lot better than that. You have to support these variations with lore. There needs to be myth and legend, not just you saying that it is so."

Jack spun the dice wheel against D-30 and said, "One legend coming up." He smiled that exasperating smile that said, "You know I can do this."

Grrrr. I will get him someday.

Seated in a pub not thirty paces from their meeting place, the handsome Nautical said, "I can explain all this. It's almost always necessary."

Val gripped his pint pot as though it might suddenly fly away. Damien was already signaling the human barmaid for a second. "Do go on." He said.

"Nauticals weren't always werewolves." The Captain began. "We were once men as are you, until a Wizard, Blackheart Firethrower, hatched a scheme to enslave every sailor into his service."

He drew a deep quaff from his own pint pot and continued. "It seemed that we would be doomed to servitude, save for the quick action of a White Wizard, who used all his powers to break the enchantment." The Captain sighed wistfully. "Alas, he was not as powerful as his opponent so he was only able to block the slavery spell, not break it. As long as we are within 5,000 paces of a body of water, we are safe. Further than that, without human escort, we become enthralled, and are compelled to seek out the Master, Firethrower. Conversely, no human may travel unaccompanied away from shore by more than the same distance. If he does so, he will die."

Val just stared, and Damien chuckled. "It seems we are your charges, Captain." He raised his glass to toast.

Jack smirked. "It's all perfectly logical, wouldn't you agree?"

Grudgingly, we did. The non-player characters seemed benign enough.

Jack spun the dice wheel against D-100. He mumbled something and then wrote and then wrote it down.

"Jeeze! I knew it. You're up to something!" I yelled. But he just grinned crookedly and said, "Dude. The dice don't lie."

Standing on the quarterdeck of the stout sailing ship, Half Moon, Val and Damien admired the discipline of the crew as they scurried about their tasks. They were headed toward the Isle of Known, looking forward to adventure, gold and possibly the hand of a buxom maiden.

Suddenly, a shadow crossed the sun. A great flapping sound filled the air, coming, seemingly from all sides at once. Then a great roar issued from toward the bow of the ship. Both adventurers scurried down the quarterdeck steps in a heartbeat, to get a better view and prepare for combat.

What came into their view simply was more formidable than either or both could hope to defeat. Giant wings offset a demon's body and it gripped a Firesword, a virtually unmatchable weapon.

"Relax, boys." Called out the First Mate. He's our navigator.

"The dice don't lie, boys." Said Jack. "They just don't lie."

I was furious. "I swear to god!" I shouted, "Dungeonmaster or not, if you kill my character this way, I will call you a cheater until your dying day."

To which Jack replied, " Roll the dice to see who speaks balrog."

I grabbed the D-30 and rolled a 2 and swore. "Not me." I said morosely, seeing my character's life flash before my eyes. The kid rolled next.

Val stood rooted to the deck, paralyzed with fear, as Damien called out to the creature, "Welcome. We are peaceful," in its own tongue.

"W-where did you learn to speak balrog?" Val stammered.

"Yeah." The first mate was impressed. "How'd you do that?"

"Must have been the beer." Damien mused. "Magic's where you find it."

And that's how two adventurers sailed on sea quest of more than a game year in length, creating a legend as they traveled during the blizzard of 1978.