Ironwood Musings Page 7

The loudness of Delair was surprisingly bold on this cold, dour morning, deckhands scurrying to provide the docked ships with all sorts of supplies would dot the soundscape with grunts of efforts and warning calls. Storms rocked this area for longer than anyone had ever inhabited and would probably continue long after everyone was gone, the pitter patter of the rain a near constant in this area felt increasingly oppressive with the tension in the air. This pirate claimed island comprised of mostly dense stone had been for decades built upon using any material at hand. Shipwrecks, cargo from hauls and even a few imposing but disabled weapons would line this island creating a network of rickety boards and solid ground upon which the pirates of Delair secretly thrived.  Peeking in through the cracks and listening in on conversations, one could surmise the reason for all of this excitement and activity implicated every single buccaneer living on this rock. 

An invasion, that's what errant lips whispered and warned about all across the isolated community. Large barrels rolled across the wooden surface of the dock meeting a well placed plank just right to be thrust onto one of the many battle hardened ships lined up for resupply.  Contrary to what the speed and efficiency of the operation must have looked like, the deckhands were grabbing what their own ship needed and got it there without much in terms of organization, the sheer habit of refueling these ships kicking in as familiar motions and fear of their captain motivating the men replace typical organized discipline without sacrificing time.  One of the smaller bars along the lower echelons of Delair happened to catch fire earlier that morning but was ultimately ignored when a handful of captains agreed that it would not spread much past its own territory. While the owner of this boozy establishment was at a loss to put the flames out, many Delair men passed by him bravely to plunge into the flames only to return covered in burns clutching some of the finer bottles they could find in the inferno and while the rain from the storm eventually did put out the fire, the plundering of the owner's stock was much too great a loss, forcing him to up with one of the ship's captains looking for deckhands.

Loading the mighty weapons onto the ships was not easy feat either. Though most ship owners never took down their arsenal, many others had to refit newer, mayhap stolen, ships to take on old artillery for the purposes of this sudden fight on the horizon. Pirates would be lined across the rickety surface of the docks to pull as hard as they could, loud grunts and boorish yells being heard in encouragement as they hauled heavy artillery by hand onto the ships, the landing of this particular one lowering the vessel by half a dozen feet before it corrected itself and came back straight. It is increasingly clear that in all of this kerfuffle there is no place for a scribe.

I sit hidden in the so called rafters, protected from the wind and rain by thoughtfully set up blankets and covers, from this area I can see everything that happens in Delair and will continue to jot down what I see for continuity. These pirates are irresponsible with history after all, it is up to me to record for posterity the lives and happenings of these Delairians. One day I can only hope that my pen name "The Ironwood Mouse" can be known far and wide as he who documented and researched the unique phenomena that is the island of Delair, until then I will keep up my watch and be vigilant as pirates are not kind to my kind of inquisitive nature.