Luck, Be A Gentleman

[Victor Lark]

Victor shielded his eyes a moment against the flame’s light, but they adjusted soon enough. He had remained on the firm and static dock until then, and as he crossed onto the wavering casino he laughed. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a little something below deck? I do love a good story.”

While the claim remained mostly true, Victor was fonder of a drink’s other influences: shattered inhibitions yes, but not necessarily those of the intimate variety. Alas, none would replace the creeping sobriety that hung over both men. Averting his attention from that particular dilemma, Victor clung to the mast where the all but dependable firelight hung and cast a scrutinizing eye over the boat beneath him. He knew little to nothing about sailboats—had spent the greater part of his last journey bent over the side of one—but he had some experience with Ravokian canal boats and therefore considered himself worthy of inspecting this one.

“I’ve always believed in learning as you go,” he said, fingering the knot of ropes he found upon turning around the mast. “So let’s just go, and see what happens!”

Then he tugged on the line, loosing and untying it from its cleat. As the other end resisted upward, he obliged; as the rope flailed into the night sky, the sail fell down. Unaware of what other measures need be taken before the sails are set, Victor watched it ripple in a starboard wind before he turned a wide grin to the captain.

[Pash'nar]

"Depends on what kind'f somethin' you're looking' for belowdecks," smirked the ethaefal without bothering to conceal his coyness, thumbing his nose and watching the dark-haired man find his footing on his antique of a ship, "Been 'round long 'nough t'ave plenty o'stories tucked away down there, I s'pose, but ain't all of 'em's for sharin' 'less it's gonna matter somehow." He winked then, though he'd have shared just about any story if really asked. What was behind the hatch and down his stairs? His hand-painted sky, his well-worn bed, and his thoroughly mapped charts. Was there more to himself than those things? Petch if Pash'nar knew. Or cared most days. It wasn't like any of those things would ever matter to his current companion. Victor's persistence in shoving off from shore was a real one, and in his sobriety, the shard of moonlight still found himself caught off-guard. He was unclear about the other man's motivations, and suspicious that it was hardly coin at all. Sailing? Really? He had his doubts about that as well. But, then, what else was there to do but roll with the tide? There was little time to ponder once he'd gone and unfurled his sails. The port at night was more full of slumbering ships than some of the busier dawns spent unloading them, and despite Pash'nar's preference for mooring away from the crowds, he still had to navigate past vessels often much larger than his own. This was an interesting task in the darkness. With a hiss of surprise, he was forced to keep his sails from luffing uselessly in the wind, quickly finding the right balance between tension and fullness. He attempted to explain as he went along, brushing past the other man and naming the lines his pale hands reached for as he tugged them or winched them or tied them. It had to happen quickly, however, for the real risk was running the casinor into the dock or into another ship in the dark, so he slid his way to the tiller with a few mumbled curses in fluid, almost unconsciously habitual Fratava, offering further explanation as he did so. "Ain't gotta wheel. S'a tiller. Left goes right an' right goes left. Can't let your sails out too much inna stiff wind. Rippin' 'em ain't good for sailin' or steerin', obviously. Not that I wanna go too fast here with all these petchin' ships 'round. Shyke. Gotta let th'sails inna bit jus' so we don't end up decoratin' someone else's hull with our gods-be-damned faces." He rolled his eyes and began to maneuver his antique of a floating home past a lumbering, snoozing galley and between two dark ships larger still, scraping old wood against one of the ship's sides in the darkness and the haste of Victor's insistence, "Steerin's th'easy part if'n y'ask me. Any dumb vagik with ha'fa'brain left in his skull can waggle the tiller here'n'there—" Whether that was an implication or an invitation was hard to discern. He'd gladly let the other man steer in open waters if that's what he really wanted, but certainly not until they were clear of any other obstacles. Whether it was to his benefit or detriment in this situation, at least he could talk about sailing. And the stars. To anyone. Even this man who'd invited himself onto his boat too petching sober. If there'd been more drink involved, surely, a more thorough tour of belowdecks would have been more appropriate. Or more to his habits, to say the least. But, no. What was he doing instead? Maybe the promise of coin would be worthwhile in the end, "—it's catchin' the wind right an' learnin' to read the sky that takes some thought, in m'opinion."