The caravel, with its nimbleness owing to its lighter build, proved a boon to mariners. In its early incarnations, it boasted two or three masts sporting lateen sails, though later variants featured four masts. These early models, like the caravela tilhlda of the 16th century, typically measured between 12 and 18 meters in length, with a cargo capacity averaging 50 to 60 tons. Their elongated hulls, with a length-to-beam ratio of around 3.5 to 1, and slender ellipsoidal frame—unlike the rounder frame of the nau—rendered them swift and manoeuvrable, albeit with limited cargo space. Their shallower keels enabled navigation in coastal shallows and even upriver.
With their lateen sails, providing speed and windward sailing capability, affixed, caravels excelled in coastal navigation, able to approach nearer to shore. Conversely, when equipped with square oceanic-type sails, they exhibited remarkable speed on open seas. Their blend of economy, swiftness, agility, and power earned them renown as the premier vessels of their era. Despite their limited cargo and crew capacity, these drawbacks did not impede their success.
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Excerpt from Milburga Leah's Speculum universale - 'The Voltulian Philosophica', located on the coordinates 00.00.45.21.05; Udoris/Udoris/Ships/Caravel.?
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Ricos, 3rd Moon, 12th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos
Johan stood by the quayside, his polished armor glinting in the dying light of the sun. The warm hues of evening played upon the tranquil waters of the Strega, a river so still it seemed to slumber beneath the gentle breeze. In the distance, a lone fishing boat drifted lazily, its sails swelling softly, and the faint cries of waterfowl echoed over the river. The air was rich with the scent of freshly caught fish, mingled with the tang of brine and the earthy musk left by last night’s rain. Along the docks, the world buzzed with the restless energy of merchants and townsfolk, their voices raised in barter and banter. Prices soared as the influx of conscripts and mercenaries swelled demand, every transaction a chance to wring more coin from the growing chaos.
A group of children played nearby, their shrill laughter piercing through the din of haggling and hammering. Johan’s gaze lingered on them for a moment, their carefree joy standing in sharp contrast to the grim purpose that had brought him here. For a fleeting moment, their laughter softened something within him.
The breeze shifted, carrying the faint perfume of wildflowers blooming near the riverbank. Johan closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, savouring the blend of sweetness and damp earth. A fleeting peace, stolen from the gathering storm.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” came a voice at his side. Johan turned, his hand reflexively brushing the hilt of his sword. The speaker was a man clad in armor less pristine than Johan’s—functional, but unadorned by sigil or standard. A mercenary, by the look of him.
“It is,” Johan replied, his voice tinged with a wistfulness he hadn’t intended to show. His eyes returned to the river. “Are you local?”
“Nay,” the man said, settling onto a crate near the edge of the quay. “Khule-born, though it’s been some time since I last called it home. You?”
“Passing through,” Johan answered. “Came up from Wirborough.”
“Not here to join the Lion’s war?” the man asked, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “A wandering knight, then?”
Johan laughed softly, shaking his head. “No knight, though the armor might deceive you. Just a sellsword, seeking coin, not glory.”
“Coin, not glory,” the man echoed with a chuckle. “A man after my own heart. Tom’s the name.” He extended a hand, his grin broad and friendly.
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“Tyronne,” Johan replied, grasping the man’s hand briefly. He offered a small smile before his gaze drifted back to the water. A caravel appeared in the distance, its silhouette sharp against the darkening horizon. The ship’s hull rode low, burdened by its heavy cargo, and a crimson X was painted boldly on its bow. Johan’s expression darkened at the sight of it, his brief smile vanishing.
The vessel stirred a bitter memory—an image of the Bloody Gryphon, naming it the Cherry Bomb with a smirk on his lips. Johan turned away from the river, his jaw tight, his fingers brushing against the pommel of his blade.
“At least I’ve seen the place as it stands,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low with bitterness. “Before we reduce it all to ash.”
The night was black as pitch, the moon hidden behind a veil of clouds, casting the world into shadow. Johan found solace in the darkness as he crept toward The Codfather, the grandest brig docked in the harbor. This was no mere vessel—it was the pride of Karl Pers, the Lord of Ricos. Behind Johan, five knights moved in his wake, their chainmail muffled by thick cloaks and their presence concealed by the night’s embrace. The harbour guards, some in the throes of drink and others lulled by tedium, slumbered at their posts, oblivious to the danger creeping past them.
The Codfather rested proudly amidst the harbour’s bustle, her masts towering over the surrounding ships. Nearby, the Cherry Bomb floated innocently in the still waters, her sister ship, the Jessica Rabbit, nestled on the opposite dock among seven other vessels. Both brigs, like so many others moored in the harbor, sat low in the water, their holds seemingly laden with war materiel bound for Faywyn. Johan’s lips twisted in a grimace as he considered the ingenuity—and cruelty—of the plan unfolding before him. It was a scheme born of a mind unburdened by mercy, a mind that might well be touched by the foul whispers of Puhbeer himself.
Shaking away the thought, Johan approached The Codfather’s mooring lines, his companions already boarding the vessel. He drew his blade, its steel catching a fleeting glimmer of starlight, and set to work severing the thick ropes that tethered the ship to the dock. The brig swayed with the current, the motion stirring muffled sounds of confusion from aboard. Voices rose, growing louder with each cut Johan made. Sweat beaded his brow as he moved quickly, slashing through the stern lines and turning to the breast ropes.
The guards stirred. One man rubbed his eyes, peering into the gloom, and Johan’s pulse quickened. He slashed at the final lines, his movements quick and desperate. The ropes gave with a snap, and with a groaning lurch, The Codfather came free.
Shouts erupted from the guards as the brig drifted into the river’s current, its helm unmanned. Johan sheathed his blade and sprinted along the dock, his boots pounding against the wooden planks. Behind him, two of his men emerged from the Cherry Bomb and her sister ship, their urgency palpable as they raced to follow.
The Codfather pitched and careened in the water, her sails catching the faint breeze. But soon enough, Johan spotted movement aboard as his fellow men-at-arms wrestled the helm into submission. The brig steadied, the river’s pull guiding her downstream. Johan pressed on, his breath sharp and ragged, until he reached the line of moored fishing boats. He paused only long enough to murmur an apology to their absent owners before cutting one free and leaping aboard. Gripping a weathered paddle, he pushed the small vessel into the current, gliding away from the piers.
Behind him, the other knights commandeered a second fishing boat, their strokes quick and determined as they paddled into the Strega’s embrace. On the docks, the harbour stirred to life. The harbormaster’s alarm rang out, a shrill cry that summoned knights, guards, and mercenaries to the scene. Torches flared, casting chaotic light over the waters, as shouts filled the air.
And then came the fire.
The Cherry Bomb erupted in a fiery blaze, the black powder in her hold igniting with a force that shattered the night. The blast rocked the harbour, immediately sending nearby ships to their watery graves as debris rained down like fire-lit ash. Johan’s ears rang from the deafening explosion, and his stolen boat shuddered beneath him. Moments later, the Jessica Rabbit followed suit, a second eruption lighting the sky in brilliant hues of red and orange. The shockwaves rippled across the water, and Johan steadied himself as the echoes of destruction rang out.
Smoke billowed, thick and choking, as flames devoured what remained of the brigs. The harbor was chaos incarnate—guards bellowed orders, and sailors scrambled to save what they could, but it was too late. The heart of the fleet had been gutted.
Johan’s jaw tightened as he paddled further from the scene, his gaze lingering on the carnage they had wrought. He felt no triumph, only grim resolve. Lord Tristan would need new ships if he hoped to cross the Strega now. Whether Lord Levi would allow such a venture to take root was another matter entirely.
