"My father enjoyed your attitude," Quentin muses, grinning around the lip of his mug of ale, sipping at it and humming at the warmth it provides. They stop in this port often and by far he feels most a home here, settled by the fire.

Something about the woman draws him in, eyes staying level with hers, quiet and thoughtful, even amused.

"But give us a few days - you might wish you'd found another ship. We're very boring, you see. Naval boats aren't much for debauchery and fun, far, far too serious."

He wrinkles his nose, grinning - tale of a little lie written all across his face. There's a noise over his shoulder - a pair of the men laughing and cackling at some joke, punching each other in the arms and diving back into loud chatter.

"But why our ship? Where are you off to?"