longitudinal | open post

The Royal Amphion does not often take passengers without the direct consent of the Regent or his council directly, but it isn't unusual to be approached. Quentin watched from th other side of the deck when the woman came and went not once, but twice, with big eyes and offering hands. The men on the deck paid no mind - a maid on a ship like theirs would be no real trouble, no real interest, but something about her kept Quentin from looking away for too long.

We're taking her on, boys - ship off in the morning, his father wailed across the decks long after the young woman had left. And with the huff of the older man, they shuffle off for a night of warmth and ale.

Usually, he's one to make the place lively, tell stories and jokes, coax a barmaid into a dance and rally the tavern musicians to improvise something new and exciting. His shipmates are already doing that of their own accord, deep in their drink. He feels the eyes on him long before he looks up, catching her gaze at the last moment, his mouth pulling into the sly curve of the mischievous.

A brief glance to the first mate and the man flutters off to the bar and the seat beside him opens up. The fire near him warms the air and he sits a little slouched in his seat - easy and comfortable anywhere he goes.

"Of course, it's not mine to claim. If it is empty, my good lady, then sit and enjoy the fire."

His eyes almost sparkle in the firelight, but there's a bite of magic on the air, even if he's unaware of it. Seeking out a drink for her, where the most efficient barmaid is and - ah. "Can we get a warm ale for the lady? My coin, of course."

And the woman offers a warm, large mug to Pearl and turns to leave. "You're the one who bought passage on our ship, aren't you?" All that to say - she looks a little lost among the waves of people.

She murmurs thanks as she takes the ale, curling her hands around the mug gratefully. Her mother made sure she would be able to survive outside her prison cell, but the reality of that survival has been exhausting. None of her privileged upbringing prepared her for this.

"I am."

Lifting the mug, she sips at the ale, dark eyes watching him with interest that seems unrestrained so close. He is a curiosity, one she will have to restrain herself from trying to learn more about. Her threads of magic are what found her in this situation, she cannot pull at anymore threads if she wants to keep her fragile freedom. Her father's men will find her if word gets out that her power has been spotted.

"I'm very grateful to have found a place on your ship."

"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?"

His father. Realization sparks in her eyes, that is why he was always in earshot of the captain's dealings. Pearl's sisters were the same way with her own father. Not Pearl though, she wasn't useful.

"Mmm," she agrees, soft, disbelieving, smile not touching her somber mouth but humor dancing through her eyes. All of her expressiveness is there, none on her face. "Terribly boring."

She wasn't raised with brothers, but her father's men, the men in the prison, they had plenty of laughs. Even with her in prison, they'd been a playful, teasing bunch. Curious too, asking Pearl all manner of questions — she may have been the princess in chains, but she'd had an education the guards had not and they would sit with her after they brought her meals, getting a belated education. It shouldn't have been a wonder that her mother managed to secret her away from the prison.

"Away. Your ship looks well loved. I thought it spoke well to the sailors aboard."

"Away."

Curious - but they don't ask too many questions. Making her leave and return had been a test - one she passed. So for now, they will allow her passage. Although their ship is under the employ of the Regent himself, it doesn't change the fact that so much of their crew had been worn and warm faces they'd taken aboard. A chosen family among the fleet.

His father would never let anything happen to his crew. So she must have something to her - that adventurous eye, else she wouldn't be here waiting for passage on their ship.

"The ship is very well loved, yes. Spend most of our time there than anywhere else - I'd hope our home looked nice," he grins again, laughing, stretching prop his feet up on the table across from them. He regards her again, the warmth in her eyes, though her expression still.

"Careful, though - stay too long and we might put you to work. Look like you're sturdy enough, though," and he means it. He doesn't underestimate anyone.

"Perhaps were it a fishing boat. I learnt to braid nets when I was a little girl."

Her mother would set her free in the markets in the city, let her race through the wharves, the spare, forgotten princess, fancy dresses stained with mud and dirt, sparkling with fish scales when the fisherman taught her to filet the catch, carefully plucking bones free with her child's fingers. She was deft at weaving ropes and grasses together, knotting them to make nets for the next catch, fingers scraped raw and bloodied when she was done.

Not an activity one would expect from a lady.

"I am happy for work for my passage."

Quentin's eyebrows raise - she looks delicate, even her clothing finer than much of what they see in these sailor's ports. It makes her interesting - the skills she has that do not align with the woman he sees before him. Curiosity burns at him.

"Nets can be useful for many things, not just fishing. That tells me you can tie excellent knots. Or can be taught. Useful on a ship."

He drinks deeply from his ale, humming in thought when she offers work.

"I'm sure you will be if you stick around a while. But if we don't know where you're headed, it sounds like you'll be working for your board, not for passage."

"I don't have a destination, only away."

She suspects they will think she's fleeing some marriage she doesn't wish to be joined in and she isn't interested in illuminating any of them to the truth. The truth is dangerous and their ignorance will protect them if her father finds her. It's dangerous enough to admit that she's running away.

"Though it would be helpful to simply tell people my destination is wherever you next choose to set port." If anyone asks. She will have to spin a tale of why she must stay aboard if their next port isn't some place she can go to shore, but that is something she hasn't thought so far ahead to fully consider.

"You might be surprised to know that most of those on this ship started out that way. No end in sight, just away."

Quentin can feel a pull of something in his chest - maybe the familiar glimmer of a kindred spirit. The type to run unafraid into the next destination. He knows nothing more than the sea thanks to his father, but being landlocked would be a miserable existence.

He finishes his ale, considers her for a moment, then:

"Finish up. I could give you a tour - scope out a cabin for you. Look steady on your feet when the others arrive later. They won't ask any questions if you look like you belong, and something tells me you'll get on fine."

He pushes to his feet and offers her his hand, grinning ear to ear. "Quentin - navigator of the Royal Amphion, and if you fancy a bit of mischief, I can get you there."

She drinks her fill of the ale, not all of it, despite the hunger pangs prison has left her with, hollows in her frame that used to have more of a curve, she can't stomach very much anymore. Usually she grows full simply looking at a meal.

"Pearl." Her hand slips into Quentin's with ease, cool despite the fire. Like a pearl. A name well suited for a woman about to take to sea. Her name is the only thing she can't let go of, despite how foolish it is to forgo an alias.

"I would be grateful for a tour. At least I will keep some dignity if I can cross the deck without tripping over the ropes."

She has nothing to bring with her, no luggage, only the dress she is wearing and the cloak draped over her shoulders. She hadn't even paid for a room at this inn to wait out the night. There is nothing to keep her here and everything leading her to the ship.

open post

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject