Flashback No, Svefra are Never Lost (Vanari)

[Finian Truewind]

Date Summer 13, 510
Location Northern Suvan somewhere between Ryker's Point and Neemi Isle

He'd might as well have had his finger up his nose and beer in his eyes—or beer up his nose and someone else's finger in his eyes, for that matter—staring at the petching map for the upteenth time that evening.

Sprawled on the deck of his casinor, the young Svefra groaned frustratedly, resisting the urge to toss the parchment flapping in the breeze into the Suvan in a final fit of absolute helplessness. Rolling onto his back and raking calloused fingers over his face, Finian stared up through the rigging of his ship, lagoon-blue eyes searching the swiftly fading sky for any astrological assistance in his navigational crisis.

He was sure that just a glimpse of Neemi Isle simply had to be waiting to be seen over the undulating, watery horizon. He'd been mostly on course, he was sure of it. Well, mostly sure. Maybe sure. Somewhat sure. At least sure enough that he was headed toward the western side of the northern Suvan. Maps weren't really his strong point, much to the itinerant shipwright's Svefra-born chagrin. The heat of summer washed over his tanned skin in the form of a sunset breeze and Finian sighed heavily along with it.

Maybe he was lost.

Again.

What Svefra gets lost in the Suvan, anyway?

Only him, apparently.

He made boats, not maps, after all. He read the grain of wood, not someone else's chicken scratch on parchment. He should learn, sure, but he'd never really had to pay attention to maps on the Anchorage Flotilla ...

It was in moments like this that he contemplated returning to the Flotilla. Crawling back home like a sea slug or some otter with his tail between his legs.

"Petch that!" He hissed out loud to no one but Laviku, rolling to his feet with the help of the rough knots in his rigging, free hand crumpling the map into a rough rectangle, shoving it back into the inner pocket of his vest. Bare feet striding across his deck, he slid over the smooth, worn wood toward the starboard side, squinting against Syna's glittering, fading glare on the waves.

Nothing.

Not a single break in that line where the sea touched the sky.

Chewing the inside of his cheek to gnaw away at worry that began to swim to the surface underneath his churning frustration, Finian returned to his rudder, trailing fingers along the taut, familiar lines of rope keeping his sails in the wind and his casinor cutting sharply through the water at a decent enough speed.

But towards what?

The island was a useful landmark, a way of keeping the young man on course toward the Cavindau Fishing Grounds where he could most likely run into a pod or two of other Svefra. He could probably spend the first half of the summer there, bartering his skills for some food and friendship.

But he had to get there first!

One more bell, he decided, he'd stay this course for one more bell before attempting to reevaluate his meager navigational skills against the sunset. Maybe a few stars would show up against the darkening sky and he'd finally have something he considered remotely reliable to navigate by.

Something a little less opinionated than someone else's hand drawn map.

Just how many mizas had he wasted on that thing, anyway?

Settling against stern railing of his casinor and resting his left hand against the rudder, Finian resolved himself to keeping his sails taut in the fantastic breeze. With one last sigh, he let the last of the day's heat sink into his skin, soothing tense muscles, keeping his gaze hopeful against the horizon for even the faintest peek of something, anything, to help him confirm the trueness of his current direction.

[Vanari]

Summer, Day 13, 510 AV

Somewhere out on salty, Suvan seas, in the middle of who even knew where, was a lone figure dangling over a ship's rails, watching the last of her dinner swirl away into the churning ocean depths. A dark mop of wind-swept hair hid eyes glazed from one too many gestational rebellions, and white knuckles gripped the wood as though they were the only things keeping her from collapsing into a heap of misery.

She couldn't, though. Or, rather, wouldn't, because collapsing into states of self-pity and tears weren't what boys did. Instead, the Vantha allowed her stomach to upend itself in relative privacy, ever paranoid of attracting unwanted attention.

Privy trips were always the worst, because not only did it mean finding times to do the deed, but to dump said deeds into the seas without anyone noticing. Her crudely cropped hair and baggy clothing did the trick for the unsuspecting eye, but it would only take one accidental witness for her entire ruse to crumble.

Sighing, Vanari slowly released her grip on the rails and retreated from the ship's edge. She hugged her cloak closer to ward against a evening breeze, the sun's last rays sinking swiftly under the horizon. In a bell or two, she would be starving again, she knew, but what use was it to eat only to hurl it all back up as soon as she was done? Morwen, how she wished she possessed any sea legs at all. She could bear freezing temperatures, tell where ice grew thin, and wake up at the crack of dawn to shovel snow off the front steps, but sailing...

The ship rolled just then over a particularly large wave, and Vanari found herself seized by yet another bout of nausea. She closed her eyes, breathed deep, and tried her absolute best not to think about it.

This was not the kind of grand adventure she had pictured herself retelling to her family. Sneaking around with a pot of her piss. Heaving her meals one after another into the merciless sea. Vi, The Master Puker, they would call her.

Groaning, the young Vantha buried her face in her hands, willing with every fiber of her being for this sickness to go the petch away.

"There he is!"

Her head snapped up as several, burly sailors and their grizzly bear of a captain sauntered up to her. They leered with a kind of morbid glee, but the captain merely looked furious. What the gods could this about?

"Tryin' to stow away on my ship, now, are ya?" the captain growled, his eyes slitted with so much fury that they made the girl quake behind her flimsy cloak. He tossed a canvas sack at her across the the deck, and upon touching it she realized they were all her belongings. "And you know what we do with stowaways."

"W-what? No, there must be some mistake! I paid for my passage, check your records! It has to say--"

"No use lyin' to us, lad," the first mate drawled, hands tucked nonchalantly in his pockets. "We know what the records say. Says passage was paid by a boy named Ari, and that same boy is standin' right here, willing to swear by all the gods he is who he says he is. Ain't that right, boy?"

Vanari's jaws dropped as they shoved forward a scrawny child of no older than thirteen or so years, a look of bottomless guilt written clear as day across his eyes.

"I-I am A-Ari," he sputtered, "and I c-can prove it. T-That there's no b-boy at all...it's a girl p-pretending to be one!"

What a dirty little snitch. She glared at him and he flinched away as though the look burned, shame devouring his features. "So what? I am a girl," she retorted, her Vani accent thickened in her anger. "What difference does it make? I was the one who paid, and I am the one who gets to stay. It's filthy, honorless rats like him who should be tossed off this ship."

At her words, some of the crew began muttering amongst themselves, suddenly not so confident of their earlier convictions. The decision, however, rested entirely on the captain, who looked like he could care less who stayed and who didn't.

"I admire your fire, lass, but it is what it is. The records say a boy paid, and you are no boy." He made a motion with his hands, and two of his burliest crew came forward and hooked Vanari's arms in theirs. She barely managed to grab hold of her sack before they hauled her up and over the rails.

Her last view was of the stricken looking boy, the indifferent expression of the captain, and then the bruised, indigo evening sky as she was hurtled into the silent seas, screaming and kicking the whole way down.

[Finian Truewind]

“Oh! Thank Laviku!”

Ian all but shouted into the dusk, sitting up a little straighter next to his tiller as he spotted the other ship on the horizon, a large wave lifting his whole casinor a bit higher than expected. Maybe they were friendly. Most likely they had better map-reading skills and could at least point a finger in the right direction. That would be enough, friendly or not. The waves were picking up at a rate unanticipated by the young Svefra as Syna danced her last over the Suvan for the day, Zulrav’s breath exhaling strong into his sails, whitecaps becoming a bit more frequent.

He was going to have to do some quick tacking to even be on the same course as the other ship in the distance, but he was confident he could grab the speed necessary to catch up before nightfall. Turning, he reached for the knotted rope that held his mains’l in place, unbinding the rigging with both hands. Pulling in both sails, he felt them tighten against the wind, quickly drifting toward the middle as he yanked the ropes. He had to work swiftly to keep his small craft from stalling during the change in direction, ducking under the boom as it was flung across his deck to the opposite side. The sails caught the upwind and the whole casinor tipped sideways at the speed of his turn, causing Finian to stumble into a squat, fumbling his way into quickly balancing the boat with his body as extra balance. Wet rope gnawed into his hands as he let the mains’l out, filling it and the heads’l with all the wind it could catch.

The Handmade’n righted herself back in the sea again, cutting a sharp turn toward the other boat and splashing loudly into the cold, deep water below. Blinking through the briney spray, the itinerant shipwright waited a few breaths to make sure he had both footing and his balance again, letting the sails out to pick up speed, before securing the rigging and taking the tiller back into his now-stinging hands.

It took half a bell before he was close enough to make out figures on the much larger boat in the fading light of dusk. Leaning a bit over the starboard rail from his place at the stern, he squinted to count just how many bodies seemed to be on deck as the waves became choppier in the evening wind and against the wake of the ship he was now trailing. He’d catch up soon enough, but still felt too far away to give a shout of greeting. The other ship was larger than his own, but not of Svefra make. No markings looked familiar as signs of his people, and he found himself gnawing on the inside of his cheek again in indecision.

If they weren’t his people, they most likely wouldn’t be of any usefulness. His Common was sub-par on a good day when sober and it wasn’t like outsiders took kindly to his race.

Petch. What a waste of half a bell.

Just as Ian was beginning reconsider changing his course, he noticed there was a commotion aboard the other ship. It was all drown out by the wind and the distance that still stretched between him, but he could see agitation in the movements of the bodies on deck.

The Svefra still couldn’t make out faces, especially as dark began to creep over the waves, but he suddenly stood, slack-jawed in surprise as someone either fell or was purposefully tossed overboard. He scrambled to grip the tiller again, blinking a few times in disbelief.

What was going on?

The other ship didn’t make any maneuvers to stop or slow down, and as Ian felt his stomach lurch, bouncing in their wake, he let his focus fall again onto the water, searching for the other figure in the sea. His mind raced a bit with all of the possibilities, from most dangerous to least likely. Piracy? Slavers? Crooked merchants? Lovers’ tiff? The gods only knew, but once he saw someone surface, sputtering salt water and struggling under the weight of way too many clothes, he could at least come to the conclusion that they weren’t dead.

But they soon would be.

To Ian, it wasn’t an entirely unthinkable punishment to be tossed into the sea, but it was one usually reserved for criminals and brown-eyed Svefra babies (though, both of those were for entirely different reasons). None the less, he found his hands moving before his mind caught up with them, once again shifting the wind in his sails from gaining speed to slowing down his casinor instead.

Should he stop? Really?

Well, even if the lone figure drown before he got there, maybe they had something useful in their pockets.

Probably not a map, though. Not that he needed another one of those petching things. Gods above, he didn’t want one anyway. Mizas wouldn’t have been bad, though. If that other ship was occupied by pirates (not likely as they obviously weren’t Svefra and only Svefra made good pirates … obviously), then it wasn’t likely anything would be left in the overboard wretch’s pockets anyway. It was a difficult choice, but one Ian’s body seemed to have made for him without properly consulting his brain at all. He didn’t have to pull them out of the sea, but he could at least check out the situation … from a closer view … right?

He was almost in shouting range, unwilling to glance away from the floundering individual as the waves tossed them about and evening began to slide into night. It would be dark soon. Syna’s face had already gracefully disappeared behind the thin line of the horizon and Leth’s visage was still unseen. His sails began to luff loudly as he turned into the wind.

Surely, criminals struggled to keep from drowning as much as innocents, but such condemnations were generally a lot more of a gray area when out on the Suvan Sea, far from the kinds of laws that were necessary to force folks to live together crowded into some petching city. Then again, who really threw innocents overboard anymore? Hopefully, the crew of the ship he was now allowing to slip away from him again into the dark were the only folks who did.

“Hey!”

Finian finally shouted gruffly, mustering his limited knowledge of Common into hardly a word more than a grunt. It was not the most impressive piece of his vocabulary. What did one say to someone who was all but drowning anyway? He was still in motion on the deck of his casinor, moving with practiced ease to stall as quickly as he could. The wind left his sails and they fell limp in the rigging, though it was impossible to bring his craft to a complete stop in the waves.

The blond pressed himself against his portside rails to make sure the overboard individual was still above the surface, white-knuckled and burned palms, not quite yet willing to heave himself overboard unless it proved absolutely necessary as a rescue,

“Swim!” He offered with cautious encouragement, waving a hand in some semblance of concern while the other snatched up rope from his rigging just in case more extreme measures became required.

Then, well, Ian sort of stood in awkward anticipation, spirits sinking a bit as the other ship swiftly pulled away into the coming dark.

[Vanari]

A thousand needles pricked her back as she hit the water with a loud smack! and immediately began to sink. Cold darkness surged all around her, smothering her eyes and mouth and nose before pulling her down to unknown, inky depths.

For a moment, she watched in stunned stillness as the ocean's rippling surface drifted farther and farther away, her cloak billowing out around her like a funeral shroud. It felt as though she were in a dream, her limbs unusually heavy and her mind too foggy to tell her she ought to panic and move about, wave, dance, anything!

The heavy sack of all her life's belongings was dragging her down...shouldn't she be worried? Didn't this mean she was going to...

...die?

Panic gripped her as she exploded into motion again, paddling and thrashing her way back to the surface. As soon as her face broke free she gasped wildly for air, kicking and flailing to stay afloat as best she could while still stubbornly holding on to her bundle.

For the next few chimes that seemed to stretch infinitely in all directions, the floundering Vantha struggled between a desperate will to live and a looming sense of inevitability. How long could she possibly keep this up for? It was pure hell, her lungs burning from effort and swinging with water all at once, and between the flailing and the choking and the gasping it was all she could do not to just give in to her fatigue and sink peacefully down to her watery grave.

"Hey!"

Her already over-worked heart leaped to her throat, causing even more agony as it competed with the water and air that lodged there first, still locked in a furious battle. Was...could someone be trying to rescue her?

"Swim!" she heard over the ruckus of sea water splashing against her ears and her own frantic gasping. Vanari fought the urge to yell an expletive at whoever gave the command. Obviously, if she were any better of a swimmer, she would have gotten somewhere by now!

But there was no use in arguing. She couldn't even afford enough breath to explain herself, let alone waste another tick kicking around in the same spot until her body simply gave out in exhaustion. Dredging up every last bit of energy and will left after so many nights spent hurling her dinner overboard, she began making painstaking progress towards a ship-shaped blob in the distance.

For a while, things looked rather hopeless. The Vantha's abilities to maneuver in water may as well be nonexistent, and she was still desperately pulling her sack along with her, gripped with inexplicable determination not to let it go. And then, just when it seemed her numbed limbs were about to completely give out, a sizable wave came rushing towards her.

That's it, Vanari conceded. I'm dead.

The wave shoved her forward with sudden force, reminding her, oddly enough, of the rudeness with which she had been thrown overboard. A surge of anger coursed through her, and a store of energy she never knew she possessed sent liquid fire into her limbs. She began paddling with ridiculous fury, screaming madly as she made her tenuous way towards the mysterious vessel.

And then, just as she bumped clumsily into its slick, wooden hull, she felt the last of her strength burn away. The girl managed to inhale one final gulp of air before her head sunk beneath the surface again, her free hand waving feebly as the murky sea drew her down once more.

" "

[Finian Truewind]

Whoever it was, shouting and struggling in the sea, they weren’t Svefra. They weren’t much of a swimmer at all, really, which meant they most likely weren’t a sailor of any kind, either. Ian watched, trying to decide whether to cheer them on or sail away, still torn about the wisdom in his decision, while giving the rope he’d picked up from it’s tangled place in his rigging a good tug to make sure it was secure. His hands made a loop and tied a knot while the waves rocked the now-windless casinor, checking the knot twice before slipping it over one shoulder.

This far out from shore, the Suvan was petching cold. All the time. It was deep and dark and even summer’s warmth hardly made a dent in the temperatures of the surface. The cold sting stole breath from your lungs and made your limbs not work right.

This poor individual wasn’t going to make it without a hand.

That much was clear.

Still, the blond Svefra continued to hesitate. It may have been caution. It may have been racial pride. It may have been laziness. It may just have been twisted amusement. It was hard to tell, but it wasn’t until flailing hands slapped helplessly against the orange-painted hull of his casinor that Finian seemed willing to spring into true action. He inhaled in sharp anticipation before flinging himself over the portside rail, feet first into the instantly numbing brine. Stars danced in his vision as the chill sliced through skin and bone in a heartbeat. The rope cut deep into his side with the toss of rolling whitecap as he sank under the surface, wrenching him back against the barnacled wood of his keel before he could entirely get his bearings.

Exhaling more air than he wanted through clenched teeth in pain, Finian floundered a bit before he could focus on finding the body that had sunk below the waves in the murky near-dark of late evening. In all those clothes, the wretch was heavy, sinking fast, clutching something heavier than necessary to its chest.

Maybe it was treasure.

Calloused hands snatched the edges of the other person’s cloak, tugging against the weight of the sea that seemed to want to drag the body downward further still with Laviku’s strength. Ian yanked upwards, both hands greedily gathering for more and more fabric until they finally found flesh and bone. Arms, specifically. He pulled the no longer struggling body against his own, scowling at all the extra weight. Sinking still. He wasn’t a fast swimmer, and though he wasn’t the strongest, either, his only advantages in the moment were his strength as a shipwright and his birth at sea. He much preferred shallower, warmer waters. At least it was relatively calm. His lungs were stinging, reminding him painfully that his watery god had only touched him once in his short life and no more. Kicking against the added ballast of the person he now hugged to his chest, the Svefra struggled to break the surface. He exhaled a string of expletives loudly in Fratava before inhaling deeply, mostly air and some sea spray, shifting his strokes to keep his burden’s face toward precious air as best he could.

His side burned, trailing his blood in the water from where the rope had mangled his skin. Turning back toward his casinor, he realized he hadn’t quite worked out how to get someone else on deck from the water by himself. At all.

Was this other person awake? Breathing? He let one hand stray from his precarious grip to pass over the limp thing’s face. There was breath, but nothing bit him. It wasn’t awake, but alive.

Petching fantastic.

With a groan, Ian treaded another large wave, using its momentum to drift back toward his hull. He twisted, attempting to slip free of the rope, his only lifeline. It was like moving in slow motion and, at first, his body refused to submerge completely again. Somehow, after a few pained ticks of thrashing, dunking both himself and his unhelpful companion several times, the blond managed to free himself from the loop while keeping a grip on his unconscious passenger. His fingers numbing and toes aching, he struggled for what felt like several bells to get the loop over the head of his rescue and at least under one arm. It took a few attempts, one of which knocked him into his own keel with a growl of pain, but he finally had the other person somewhat secured and managed to keep them almost entirely above the water, breathing.

Good for him. Now what?

The next roll of the waves gave Finian a chance to grab the portside rail as his casinor tilted toward the sea at some graceless angle, and one hand shot out to snatch at the worn wood. Fingers protested to the curling, but did his bidding anyway, and he was forced to relinquish some of his grip on the limp body weighing him down. Once he had a foothold, he crooked an elbow around the railing and waited for the next toss of a whitecap to more or less throw the both of their bodies over the lip of his port side and crash them both onto the deck. It wasn’t graceful or heroic so much as necessary. It hurt.

The force of impact was enough to knock the remaining breath from his chest and probably rattle water from the lungs of his now unexpected passenger. Ian was just thankful to be out of the cold Suvan, though his whole body felt like protesting his entrance instead of celebrating his exit. He sprawled on the deck for several breaths, praying to Laviku he hadn’t made the wrong choice in his pursuits. The body on his deck was certainly not dangerous at the moment, but that didn’t mean whoever was sputtering to find their breath again under all those wet clothes wasn’t capable of causing him harm once fully recovered.

Of course any of his weapons were belowdecks. Oh well.

Flopping a bit like a fish fresh out of the sea, the blond shipwright slid over the wet wood of his deck toward the other body. He swept short dark hair and sea scum from a pale face and gripped a shoulder with his other hand, turning him or her on their side. Currently, he was utterly unconcerned about features or gender so much as making sure the thing on his deck was, in fact breathing.

He huffed hair and sea glass from his own face, and started to work at untangling the thing from his rope and their own cloak if nothing else.

As long as they didn’t struggle, the process wouldn’t be too difficult.

[Vanari]

Cold...wet...can't...breathe...

Vanari coughed, her eyes still closed, and water splurted from her throat. She could feel cool, slick wood beneath her cheek. Once, twice, thrice she attempted to open her eyes, and each time it was like trying to wake from a dream, the tiny muscles of her lids refusing to obey. After a few ticks, the girl managed to get one eye to crack open, only to squeeze it shut again as drops of water from her drenched hair crashed against her skin with ridiculously brutal force. She tried to move, but she may as well have had fifty ton anchors tied to each of her limbs for all the good it did her.

And gods above was she tired.

For a while, she simply laid there, rather enjoying the feeling of not drowning, and of being quite still. Dead or alive, whatever this was, it was better than being stuck out there in the middle of the heaving sea, fighting tooth and nail to earn every breath of air she gulped just to stay alive.

The girl was shivering a little now, the summer sun having long given way for evening chills to reign once more. Between her cold, numbed fingers, she could vaguely make out the shape and feel of her belongings till gripped feverishly between her clutches. That must have meant, then, that she was alive after all. Goddess knows, the dead couldn't possibly take all their possessions with them into the afterlife, or whatever came next. If they could, their heirs would die of fury themselves.

There was movement beside her. Squishing sounds of wet things pressing against one another ensued, and the realization that she was not alone dawned ever so very, very slowly upon the mostly-lifeless Vantha. A sudden jerk at something wrapped around her torso jolted her out of her near-death stupor. Too tired and beaten to be properly alarmed, she found her curiosity piqued and, with mammoth will and effort, managed to open both eyes and look warily up.

Vanari squinted hard at the figure looming over her. It was too dark to make out much and all the water in her eyes kept everything frustratingly blurry, but it didn't look like the stranger was trying to murder her or turn her into supper.

Something fell limp onto the wet floor. It looked like rope, and her waist felt oddly lighter. Bit by agonizingly slow bit, she managed to string the pieces together, until at last she had some semblance of what might have happened in between her drowning and...not...drowning.

"You...you saved me," she muttered in thickly accented common, her voice reed thin from all the previous exertion. "Thanks...name...Ari..."

And then she collapsed, her head thunking back onto the wooden planks from sheer exhaustion. Petching hell, she'd never felt this tired in her life. Just speaking those few words had left her weak as a babe again, her limbs filled with lead and her head a giant, jumbled mixture of gratitude, panic, and the intense desire to black out.

Vanari shut her eyes tight, breathed in deep, and with a furious groan tried to push herself up. She got about a finger's width above the planks before her body refused to go any further and she sank back down with a grunt of defeat.

Maybe this wasn't much better than being dead after all.

[Finian Truewind]

”Y’ain’t saved yet.” Grunted the blond shipwright with a wry smirk in his best Common, not quite sure he recognized the other’s accent at all. The chill of the Suvan had sapped his strength more than he was willing to show at the moment, and he kept his expression full of pure Svefra bravado,

”If y’re a criminal, I’ll throw y’back.”

Ian laughed then, hoarse but loud, as if to soften the blow of the harsh reality of his honest statement. Whether he meant it or not was left to be seen, of course, and almost entirely dependent on his unexpected passenger who was at least currently in no condition to be much of a threat, somewhat-drowned and barely able to roll over on his deck. The Suvan was just as dangerous as the rest of Mizahar, after all, but if the two of them shared anything in common at the moment, it was an exhaustion-induced domain of relative safety.

He preferred not to have to toss anyone overboard (again) if at all possible.

With a groan, the young Svefra forced his still-tingling limbs to do his bidding as best he could, staggering to a stand and yanking Ari up with him. He wasn’t gentle or graceful at all, but he was’t rough, either. The rolling of waves under their feet against the hull of his casinor may have meant little to him, practically born with sea legs, but he was forced to compensate for his clinging-to-consciousness charge. A bit of fumbling and he had them both upright, half-stumbling, half-dragging, and half-walking in to the hatch that led belowdecks,

“Call me Ian,” he returned the introduction distractedly, though he could hardly be hurt if he had to repeat it once Ari was a bit more recovered from a near watery grave. He wasn’t quite sure his own thought process was left undamaged from the brief dip in the cold he had to subject himself to for the rescue. It took a bit of effort to get the words out, trudging them both down the stairs, “Let’s getcha warm an’ dry.”

The stairs were narrow, creaky, and only Finian knew to duck at the end of them to avoid bashing his skull on the sturdy wood. He was careful, though, free hand white-knuckled on the rail while doing his best to not toss Ari completely down the stairs, to keep her head mostly safe--just this once. The stairs opened to a room that was less a living space and more a workshop of sorts, with a tiny galley and an open sleeping area being the only evidence that the Svefra used his casinor for eating and sleeping at all. It was mostly tools for woodworking and carpentry, spare ship parts, a few mysterious barrels, and ropes in various knots. Nothing was particularly messy, but everything was definitely coated in a fine layer of sawdust as evidence of its frequent usage.

Depositing his new passenger in the general vicinity of his threadbare kitchen, Ian paused to examine his own person, scowling at the long, curved gash under his left ribs where the rope had caught and burned him deeply. Calloused fingers prodded his bare, tattooed flesh with a hiss, and it seemed as though the waves that were inked from his hip to his wrist moved and reacted to the touch. The bleeding had stopped, for the most part, but he knew he would be sore and bruised after being knocked around against the hull of his own casinor. He he wiped blood off his hands and onto his still-dripping pants before stumbling toward the spare berth tucked up behind the kitchen to snatch the blankets from the bed and offer them to Ari as both towels and comfort,

“Can’t getcha warm’n‘less you’re dry.” Finian said matter-of-factly, totally uninhibited and unconcerned when it came to matters of personal space and privacy. Life on the Flotilla, a large family, and the virtue of being born Svefra left him hardly ever embarrassed over a bit of bare skin, “Wet off. Blankets on.”

He turned away before the dark-haired stranger could object toward his own berth to wriggle free of his sea-brined clothes and wrap himself in his own blankets, giving Ari some time to himself.

Or herself.

Whoever.

He hadn’t bothered to notice. Was that important? Maybe, but not as important as whether or not Ari was some criminal. The blond shipwright had plenty of questions, but he wouldn’t be able to ask anyone unconscious and shivering.

[Vanari]

Getting down the hatch below decks was like walking through a carnival while fazed on hallucinogens--things loomed alarmingly close while others seem to fall leagues away, and nothing really made any sense at all.

Vanari leaned heavily on this so called Ian, feeling for all the world like she was drunk out of her mind, except her mind was more or less perfectly fine and it was every other part of her body that refused to cooperate. She could tell how petched up things were going to be tomorrow. A dull aching was already snaking its way through her limbs and muscles and her fingers felt a bit numb from clutching her bundle so tightly to her chest. But, what choice did she have? Her only option was to get dry and warm, as Ian had bluntly advised, lest her troubles take a turn for the worse.

When her surroundings finally stopped warping, she found she had been left in what looked like the galley. The sack slipped lazily from her tired fingers and clunked harmlessly onto the floor. It was rather bare, this kitchen, but that was the last of her concerns, for Ian was now inspecting something under his ribs. Its didn't take much speculation to guess what it was--he must have been cut or burned by the rope he had used to save her. Vanari winced in sympathetic pain, at once guilty for having caused such pain on another and fascinated by the intricate tattoo traveling from his waist to his wrist.

A steady drip, drop could be heard from her sopping clothes creating a sizable puddle on the planks as Ian prodded his wound and hissed, then wiped the blood on his pants before grabbing what looked to be blankets. He offered one to the girl and she took it gratefully.

That is, until he said "Wet off. Blankets on." And then turned around to begin undressing.

Now, after three years of being on the road, the Vantha vagrant was no stranger to a general lack of time and opportunity for niceties such as privacy and propriety. But up until this point, she had at least been able to plan ahead, or be resourceful and maneuver around any tricky obstacles.

For the first time, she found herself without any tools or tricks at her disposal, cornered in a tiny space with no where to run. No where to run, and only a mere few strides away from a swarthy seaman who was stripping with careless speed.

Vanari whipped around, holding out the blanket at arm's length, her cheeks reddening considerably. Then, realizing if he finished before her he may very well turn around in an untimely fashion, she started peeling off her wet clothes with equal speed. One by one, the hopelessly soaked articles went plopping onto the ground in a sad heap, and with a hasty toss of the last piece she wrapped the blanket thoroughly around herself.

When Vanari shuffled back toward her rescuer, he was still facing the other way. Her shoulders sagged a little in relief. "Um," she muttered, unsure of how to address him, "Thanks, Ian. You can turn around now."

She looked around anxiously before working up the courage to blurt out the truth. She had to, before she lost the strength to speak at all. "I did not deserve to be thrown off that ship. I paid, but another boy lied. You did a good thing in place of their wrongness, and I owe you an impossible debt."

The Vantha held out a hand as brown as the seaman's, and just as calloused and hardened, too. "My full name is Vanari of Skyglow hold: traveler, carver, and storyteller. I come from the North, where most of our water is frozen, so you must forgive my embarrassing dance with the sea."

She smiled wearily, hoping her honesty would keep her from a second, intimate meeting with the Suvan's merciless depths.

[Finian Truewind]

The blond shipwright hardly took a handful of heartbeats to slip free of wet clothing, completely unaware that baring one's skin would ever truly be an issue of embarrassment. Not a single concern flitted through his tow-headed mind even as his unexpected passenger first hesitated and then struggled her way out of clinging, salty garments.

Content to occupy himself with examining the new stains on his pants for a few moments before hanging them, Finian gave Vanari all the time she needed without any intentional thought. Finally reaching for the warm comfort of his own blankets, he draped them over his broad, freckled shoulders and wrapped himself in their dryness without taking time to consider his wound. Oh well. A bit of sea water and sunshine would surely treat a stain well enough. For now, the young Svefra just didn't want to be too petching cold.

If he turned too soon or just in time, he didn't bat an eye or give away anything he saw in his expression. Bare, calloused feet padded back across his cramped cabin to stand before the Vantha in time for her self defense.

Ian's mouth curled into something between curiosity and amusement at both her gratitude and more personal introduction. While he wasn't one to take on outsider passengers unless he truly needed the mizas, he knew that other, lesser sailors of far inferior races were probably much more desperate and far less honest than any Svefra. Her story lined up with something he'd expect of people not of his kind. This was unfortunate, since the burden of dishonest proof often fell on Svefran shoulders to bear. He preferred to keep his word, especially when payment was involved. He'd had some frustrating customers in his time, but never one he felt it entirely necessary to toss overboard. Maybe he'd been tempted once or twice, though.

"An' that's why I don't take passengers."

Finian laughed with a wink, taking Vanari's hand in his own in more of a warm squeeze of greeting and welcome than any kind of congenial shaking. It was somewhat awkward. Did he hug her? When did he let go of her hand? Did he squeeze too hard? Not hard enough? He was a hugger, not a hand-shaker; the concept of personal space and formal greetings more than a bit lost on the blond shipwright, "Though I guess now I have an exception. No debts owed to me; you have Laviku to thank for your fortune."

He had no idea what a hold was. He'd heard of the far northern places where everything was frozen. He pictured it as sad, boring, unmoving, and cold. Maybe it was pretty. Some ice was pretty. But cold and frozen solid sounded uninhabitable. Ian was uncomfortable with stillness, having the motion of the sea define his whole existence. He couldn't sit still himself, let alone imagine living anywhere but on the sea.

"Any good dance can be learned." He offered in small comfort, hunkering down on a floor cushion for a seat, buried in his own blanket so that just his sun-kissed, freckled face and still dripping sea glass-baubled hair were left uncovered.

"I make boats. Or fix them. Sometimes, I carve wood … Do you carve ice?" That last bit slipped out in curiosity, Finian trying to imagine using his wood carving tools on a frozen sea. It would be impossible to travel with ice if you carved it … wouldn't it melt?

He was too distracted by the idea to think of asking where he would have to deliver the Vantha yet.

[Vanari]

Vanari let out a breath of relief when he squeezed her hand and assured her there was no debt between them. Though, at his mention of Laviku, the Vantha found her curiosity piqued. She knew a little of the God of the Sea from her studies and travels, but not enough to know how she could repay such a debt. Welp, only one way to find out. At Ian's simple and earnest attempts at light hearted conversation, Vanari relaxed a little under her warm blanket and sat down carefully in front of the blond Svefra. His question about carving ice brought a grin to her face and she happily obliged. "I used to sometimes, back home," she answered wistfully, trying to ease out the thickness of her accent. "My mother was very good at carving ice. She made sculptures for our goddess in the Ice Palace. But I...was not so good. Never had Morwen's mark, so too cold. I am better with wood, like you." Vanari patted the dry planks between them, leaving a damp handprint where she had felt the texture. "Good wood, good carver," she noted, grinning wider at Ian. A thought struck her, and she reached to pull her bundle closer to her, leaving a streak of dampness in its wake. Struggling to keep one hand on the blanket and the other working at the knot, it took her a moment before she managed to pull it open. She dumped the contents to the side, hoping Ian would not mind the temporary mess, and rifled through her belongings. There was an assortment of tools, miniature carvings, combs and essentials, a colorful cloak, some simple clothes, a mealy apple, and a small flute. Aha! She found what she had been looking for: the biggest carving in her collection, one of an ice bear standing on its hind legs, holding a fish in its mouth. "I carve things like this. Not good for making ships, but maybe I can help a little..." She set the bear down on its feet facing Ian. "I work hard, and learn fast. I need to go to far away, maybe to a place called Syliras. Perhaps, we can trade?" A pause, and then she continued, "I also like to trade with stories, sometimes. If you would like, I have some good ones in exchange for a story about Laviku."