2737/How can we ever thank you...

How can we ever thank you...
Date of Scene:	02 August 2020
Location:	Atlantic Ocean
Synopsis:	Meggan rescues a family from a storm at sea, and receives the best gift they have to offer as thanks.
Cast of Characters:	Meggan Puceanu, Amanda Sefton
Tinyplot:	Zodiac Rising

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Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The Atlantic Ocean dances along the shore of the Eastern Seaboard, pounding into the gently curving shores and eating away at the earth. Here, the city ends with cliffs and wooded slopes, a sharp demarcation described between the bluestone and metamorphic rock and the cold, grey waters surging in their moody clarity on a day beset with storms. While normally tourists and locals might flock to their local beaches on a fine summer afternoon bending towards evening, not so with the bruised clouds and pelting rain that soaks the sand to an unappealing shade somewhere between dun and slate. Waves chop against a bleak, stony breakwater extending like a hook into the sea, connected to the mainland from a thin cape owing some of its colour to the reddish stain naturally found in the stones. Above that sits a Neo-Gothic tower with an accompanying outbuilding, where a young woman ignores the rain to tend her garden. Hardy vegetables and flowers do not care a whit for storms and they certainly must have tomatoes and zucchini pulled before any possible hail does harm. Thus, Meggan is on her knees, a bucket beside her, trying to make certain the components of her dinner aren't completely ruined. The light is poor for the sun smothered by dark clouds, but it's not so late as to keep her from conducting her other duties.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Atlantic storms do have a tendency to blow up fast. Especially in summer. So, it's not long until the rain changes from pelting to lashing. Out on the waves, blown in from further along the coast, a small pleasure vessel finds itself tossed upon the swells, driven in towards the rocky shore. There aren't many aboard the vessel. It's tiny. Maybe half a dozen souls in all. And even with the safety equipment on board, the rocky shore may still be deadly.

There's not much, however, to indicate their distress. Sure, the captain is putting out a mayday, but is there a receiver nearby that might pick it up? Without that...

Well, maybe luck will be with them. Or maybe Tethys will swallow them whole before sunset.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Rumbling thunder and growling winds that shiver their way through oak, beech, and maple add to the noise of gurgling seas reduced to a foamy churn on the rocky backbone that separates the bay in twain. Sounds of a symphony reduced to the elemental chords, a baseline plucked by the booming water torn apart and the ragged foam-flecks. Lightning sure enough will conquer the horizon if the storm-gods have their way.

Soaked already, Meggan isn't in a rush to hasten inside but the stinging blows to her exposed skin hardly prove pleasant. She rises with the bucket on her hip, moving to the door of the keeper's cottage. Solid stone offers protection for a moment, though she hovers by the doorway after setting the bucket inside in the mudroom. A hand to her brow shelters her vision from the water running in channels from damp bangs, the weight of her golden hair sheeting past her hips and clinging to her face. Something barely seen. Something small and swishing about.

She is a daughter of sea and sky and earth, where their confluence lies on the Irish Sea. How hard then not to draw a breath, a worried sound.

The lighthouse has a radio, as a fact. It still operates to save people, partly electrified and automated. But automation doesn't make up for a body. Doesn't make up for a girl who takes a running dash back out into the rain. She has the presence of mind to seize a strong rope wrapped with metal from a holder that normally has a hose attached. Rather than hit the sea, she drives herself into the air with a jump, going aloft on the wind. Not fun: being wet and blown around by the wind is perfectly awful.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
"Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is the Aqua Rose," an Irish voice says, crackling from the old radio. He's giving coordinates, asking for help, reporting there are children on board the ship. They've blown course. They can't see through the storm.

They also don't know that there'll be anyone coming to rescue them.

On the deck, waves sweep over rails and across fine wood planking. In the cabin, a small family huddles -- mother, father, children. An uncle with his hand wrapped around the mic of the shipboard radio, speaking softly, speaking calmly, but desperate all the same.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The bursts of sound are enough to crackle through the air. The Aqua Rose might be ill-named, as she's not a plant that grows on the sea so much as ends up tossed haplessly around in the liquid fists battering her hull. Meggan isn't entirely hard to spot from a distance considering the spilled golden hair flaming behind her, shining like a trail of crackling light. It does tend to stick out on a dark night. She has to fight her way through the wind rather than racing up against it, but the water sleets off her face and body to land back into the briny deep.

But urgency isn't entirely about being cautious. Zipping as fast as she can across the waves, she drops down to roughly fifteen feet above them. High enough not to be hit, low enough they might see. No matter how loud she can shout, being heard in a gale or a thunderous mess is surely not going to work very well. Instead, she waves the arm not holding the rope, trying to lure their attention, trying to gauge just how harmed the craft is. A hole in the side? Just too rough for them to pass through to safety? Partly submerged?

"//I'm a friend//!" she calls, for all the good that does.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
The Aqua Rose sported a tall, proud mast this morning. It's missing, now, though a stump and tangled ropes and cloth remain. Railings are broken. It hasn't hit rocks, yet, but the jagged tops of the nearest ones are close. One big swell could break them. And there are plenty of rising swells.

Nevertheless, one of the kids -- a teenager, braver than her smaller siblings, looks out the window at the pounding rain. She tugs on her father's arm. "Look!" she raises her arm and points at the glowing gold streak that is their potential rescuer above the waves. "What is it?"

At the radio, the uncle raises his red-haired head, peering out into the darkness. He's smaller than the teenager in stature, but burly for his size. His blue eyes glitter as he sees the fae woman through the storm.

"I don't know," he tells the girl, speaking in place of her father. "Let's hope it's not more trouble."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The churning water heaves up to consume Meggan to the knees as she hangs in the air, skidding over the more exuberant wavetops and careening to a halt by circling around the boat. It probably frightens them reasonably enough if she were not so careful, but her concern for the passengers is equal to keeping herself between them and the rocks marked out as a reason to have a lighthouse anyway. The wind whips around her hair, all ten feet or so of it, though when she comes to a halt, the length is as it always is: just past her hips or so.

So much for that, but in the dark, it's not entirely impossible to spot her or she them unless the boat ceases to have any lights at all. In that case, entirely trickier. A concerned look follows her skidding in closer, unloosening the rope to wind it around her hands. The wire makes it stiff, cables braided into the hemp to reinforce it. Probably not ever intended to reel in a sailboat, but if tugs can use it, so be it. "'Ey!" she calls out again, louder this time now that she is closer. "I need to tie this to your boat!"

A bit of a wider arc of her arm desperately hopes they aren't about to be afraid of a girl about to loop the rope around the anchor hook or anywhere that honestly looks like it might just hold.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
The red-haired man pushes away from the conn. "C'mon," he says, helping the taller man up. "Mara, stay with the children. We need to see what that is." And the other man is much taller, given the red-haired man stands maybe four-and-a-half feet tall, while the other man is average height. Nevermind that the taller man seems reluctant to follow. Perhaps it's understandable, given the weather and the fact he's not much of a sailor. Still, he follows the other man, the two of them putting hands up to block the rain from their eyes as they struggle out of the cabin onto the deck, not sure how they'll help or what they'll do.

The red-haired man grabs a still intact railing and starts hauling himself hand over hand towards the stern, where Meggan struggles to find a place to hook the rope.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Who the hell are you?"

Not that he's not grateful, if she's here to help, mind.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
For a second or two, Meggan is too mildly stunned by the question from the red-haired man to much answer. She first has to loop the rope through the hook on the end of the bow, forcing it through while the waves wash over the deck and, conversely, her. Though she can fly perfectly well under her own power, remaining stationary with the damaged craft rolling around and the waves pouring over her is certainly a challenge. Once the foamy crests smash over her shoulders, she regathers the rope and continues the attempt to thread it through, one hand clamped to the hull itself.

Her resistance actually might act more like an anchor than the rope does, pulling back with a considerable amount of strength. More than meets the eye. "Meg," she replies. Maybe they won't link her to her country-sized social media profile. Maybe they won't connect her to the affair in Gotham with a mayor she asked several questions of. "See the lighthouse? Safe harbour past that. I can get you there. Can you still steer her or am I pulling you all along for the ride? You'll want to keep to the bow as best you can if that's the case."

Amanda Sefton has posed:
The men might not. The teenager? Oh, she will. Once she figures out just who rescued them, anyway. She cant's see well from the cabin, between the lashing rain and the fact that her mother keeps pulling her back to help her encircle the children.

The short man glances to the taller and then to Meggan. "How can we help?" He scrambles to at least attempt to help her with the rope, though it's probably a moot point by now. "Go," he tells his brother. "Try the wheel again."

Frankly, their rudder is only partially operational and there are no engines. This was a sailing ship at one point. Now, it's just so much flotsam waiting to happen.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The boat still has planks keeping the water out, it counts as a boat. Not a ship of the line, but better than a watery coffin and Meggan can work better with that craft intact than hauling people with spars. A few more tries and the rope slides through the windlass awkwardly, but sufficiently workable. "Far forward as you can get will keep you out of the water." She says this and halfway through, water rushes over her head and she disappears behind the side of the Aqua Rose.

All that seawater soaks her shirt and her shorts, giving little testament to what she has in mind. Spluttering a bit, her grin is fierce. "I'm going to pull the boat, that simple. The line should hold, we won't get to speeds like on a motorway." Her English accent, muddled by Welsh, Irish and Scots Gaelic, gives her away plenty well. "So they hold on, hunker down, and that's you too. I've got this."

How, exactly, involves literally tying the loose ends of the rope together in a bow-line, and then a figure-eight loop around herself. Point of most resistance, and all.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
The red-haired man stares up at the fae woman for a moment. But, finally, he nods and hauls himself back towards the cabin, where his brother is clinging to the wheel. "C'mon!" he yells in at them. "John! Mara! Get the kids. We need to move forward. To the bow! Hurry!"

He holds tightly to the door, against the wind and the lurching waves.

The storm is getting much worse, now. The sky has darkened to conditions reminiscent of dusk. Lightning strafes the clouds.

Together, the two men and Mara herd the teen and her siblings forward, in the rain, lashing the smallest of them to their parents with life jackets and bouys.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Meggan reaches down to the sea and through it, to the bedrock. It might be easier to stay to the sky, but too dangerous for the boat. So she drops to the level of the waves, her body shifting in size and mass, getting slightly taller and sleeker as she channels raw strength of the earth. It's already her birthright, but the amplification won't hurt til morning. So with a wordless salute, she waits until they seem to vanish.

She waits until they all gather where they will, at least as long as it seems to take. Then one silly girl sets herself against a whole storm for possession of a boat. She can fly faster, throw harder, but the rope and the steel are her limits. So like a draft-horse with a wagon, she steers away from the shore and pulls, testing her lead, holding the rope wrapped around her on both sides. If the boat comes, then she pours on the speed, dragging away from the rocks at an angle to guide that craft safely from the gnashing teeth of peril.

At points it's just blind faith, her eyes half-closed against the surge, skipping and hopping forward, praying that the ship doesn't snap or founder. In the event of that, she will darn well haul the thing bodily to shore, but this at least might give the sailors an idea they had a hand in it. Doesn't that count?

Amanda Sefton has posed:
The waves give way to the power of earth, though the storm rages on. Still, the boat is guided through the cutting swells. The small family huddles, tied to the front rail with scraps of rope from the fallen mast. There's little they can do. The red-haired man watches the fae woman through the lashing rain. He's too small, himself, to protect the children, though he can hold on to the teen. They make quite the pair, those two.

"I know her!" the girl calls over the storm. "I know her! I've see her on youtube!" If they survive this, she'll have one helluva story to tell back at school for those inevitable 'What I did on my summer vacation' essays...

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Rope burns can be dealt with later. Some inconvenient bruising, things to worry about later looking in the mirror. Meggan is too busy calculating a way forward, driving the boat forward with a fairly steady pace. She isn't inclined to rush too much until getting close to the shore under the lighthouse's steady bright light.

Smooth, pale stone and glistening glass embody a special principle of hope. Perhaps the crew can see it, perhaps the family knows a beam shines to get there. She keeps tugging, hoping there's no proof of anything breaking behind her. Once she reaches shore, if she reaches shore, it's not enough.

Just a few extra meters of drag until the keel drags in the sand?

Amanda Sefton has posed:
There is nothing the family can do to help. This is all on Meggan, now. But, when the ship reaches the resistance of shore, the men begin trying to move the others to where they can disembark into the shallower water and make their way to shore despite the lashing waves and blinding, driving rain. It is difficult not to become disoriented... but that's what lighthouse beams are for. The light guides them towards the drenched shore.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
That's home. Of course, they can crawl and walk and stumble away from the water and up the beach until they hit the low cliffs with their somewhat steep rise, trees wet and aromatic a scramble up. Not for Meggan, her borrowed endurance carrying on. She walks barefoot over the shingle, pebbles biting into her soles, familiar and hard and welcome after being soaked to the bone.

The ropes around her waist are bound by water-swollen knots, and it takes her a good deal of fighting with it to loosen up the cording long enough for the stiff cables to drop to the ground. By then they are probably ashore, teen and children and adults. She can help wander that way, offering an arm or a weary smile. Just a little further.

Up to a thick-walled cottage with a stove and proper blankets, all kinds of dry towels. It is, after all, a place of refuge even if she lives there modestly on behalf of the university. But it's a walk still, and her encouragement is still bright in the dark: "You're almost there, friends. Keep your feet moving, then you can rest."

Amanda Sefton has posed:
When they finally reach safety, there are tears and hugs and a generally weary collaspe on stone floors in out of the wet and the cold. The red-haired man is the first to regain his feet, when their rescuer joins them within. "I don't know how we can ever thank you," he says.

His neice, taller than him, pushes forward. "You're Meggan, aren't you?" she says, drawing closer to her. "I see you on youtube all the time. You're... you're awesome!"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Her hair is a wild rope down her back, she drips water on the ground, and she's barefoot. The last is standard for Meggan, but she hardly looks her best. Sand between her toes and staining her soles grits on the ground. One by one they are admitted to find a space, the kitchen large and equipped with a positively enormous table they can't all fill out. Her first stop is for towels, then putting on the electric kettle. Tea solves all mysteries.

"I can call the police or the Coast Guard chaps and let them know you made it ashore," she says, peering out briefly through a window on her way back with an armful of grey wool blankets, plain white towels, and one enormously fluffy bathrobe. Modesty probably counts for someone. "Being stormy and such, they might send out an ambulance instead to take you to A&E." See, British, sometimes the slang isn't translated quite right. She grins at the niece of the bunch. Teenagers aren't far off who she is, either, not that much older. Minus that spot in Hell. "Yeah, I'm Meggan Puceanu. Just Meg, though. Sorry for such a sopping wet meeting." She plonks the towels on the table, and holds out the robe. "Any injuries? I've a good first aid kit and we can get something warm in everyone."

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Except the short, red-haired man speaks Britsh -- well, British via Irish. So, he gets what she's saying. "That's fine," he says. "That's just fine. Thank you, so very much, for your help. We -- We wouldn't have survived without you."

The girl takes the robe, wrapping it around herself before she gathers towels and takes them to her siblings and parents.

As she wraps the towel around her mother, the woman hugs her and then tries to move her toward her siblings. The woman gets up, stumbling a little as she comes toward their rescuer. "I don't know how we'll ever thank you," she says, her voice weary and a little breathless. "I just... I don't..." Her hands rake up over her hair snagging on a pair of combs that, remarkably, haven't become dislodged throughout the course of the adventure. She yanks them from her matted hair, looking down at them in her palms.

"Here," she says suddenly, thrusting them at her. "Please. Take these. They belonged to my grandmother. But, I... I want you to have them."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"What else could I do? You needed the help and I was here." No need to press the point more than that, Meggan shrugs her shoulders with that blithe smile despite being damp enough to leave puddles on the ground. They all probably are, but she can go wring her hair out in the sink or use a mop to clean it all up. "No thanks is needed, I promise! Were the shoe on the other foot, I should like to think someone would do the same for me in their way." She looks to the teenager in surprise, then over her family.

Teeth sink into her lower lip. Hesitancy is there, especially with the dripping weight landed in the sink. She, unlike Cu Chulainn, isn't cursed by a denial but good behaviour, a Traveller's upbringing, and the Otherworld all craft their due. "You're sure?" she asks, her eyes widening at the offering. Not to be rude, but rather a concerned look to the girl. "At least for a cup of tea. Our reception out here isn't the best, but we can set your family up to be comfortable."

Acknowledged, then, as long as it's safe.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
"Please," Mara, the mother, says, pressing the combs into Meggan's hands. "You saved my children. My grandmother would agree. Take them, please."

She backs away from Meggan, hands held up to deny any chance to return the gift. The red-haired man steps forward, helping Mara back to her children, before giving Meggan a smile. "You've done so much, already. It's the least we can do."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
A bitten lip will do. Meggan takes the combs gently, and she hugs them to her chest. "I promise to take wonderful care of them, as your grandmother and mother, and you have done." A nod to Mara, and then to her daughter, makes the gesture hopefully more meaningful. "Let me go at least comb out this rat's nest before I do them any injustice though."

She gestures lightly with her free hand to the fridge and the kitchen. "Anything you like, help yourself. Let me go place that call so no one goes out into a storm if they don't have to." And she's as good as her word.