[Flashback] This Ain't a Cruise Ship [Tock, Pash'nar]

[Pash'nar]

Women. Why was it so petching hard to say the right thing? Was there a right thing? Pash'nar had long-since come to the conclusion that there simply wasn't. Whether kind or cruel, it all sounded the same to their gender. Surely, the gods found this a hilarious joke. Was a woman's common sense something else they went ahead and tore to pieces with the Valterran? Men were at least straightforward. Mostly. At least, it seemed like they made more sense much more than half the time. Not that it ever really mattered unless one's intentions involved anything more complicated than a bed for either gender. Ridiculous. Pash sighed. This was almost too complicated for his patience. He'd refused her kindly, for her own sake, and she was insulted. He offered to take her home safely, and she'd only further exploded into some inexplicable emotional outburst that the false Svefra discovered he simply had no idea what to do with. Drunk wasn't so … bad. Well, alright, it often led to trouble. Always, really, but Pash knew his kind of trouble wasn't quite the same as the girl was implying. What is it with kids? Young adults? Whatever! Gods, women, children, mortals ... for the love of the sea, what wasn't petched up somehow or another? This was obviously not the first time he'd reached this horrified conclusion about the inherent wrongness of the world, but, petch, this crying girl on his deck sure did know how to magnify it's obvious confusion at a moment's notice. The tattooed sailor only groaned in response to her further melting down on his old casinor. He really wasn't planning on going anywhere. To sleep? To bandage his wounds below deck? Tonight, he didn't really have it in him to sail more than a bit out into the harbor to keep the riffraff away. "Look, I ain't one t'ask questions." He finally spoke quietly after letting sob-filled silence hang in the last of the sunlit air for a long time, "So, how's 'bout we clean you up an' get'cha somethin' t'eat an' see if leavin's what you really mean t'do once you're patched up a bit, eh?" He struggled a bit to stand, clenching his teeth to put weight on wobbly legs again as his body protested too many sudden movements. He swayed a bit before shoving a calloused hand in the red-head's direction, offering to help the sniveling thing up, "Let's duck belowdecks an' see if we can't quit bleedin' all over my boat." He really wasn't faring much better than she was, though much of it would look a bit different soon enough. He was sure he had much less than an hour before this tan, inked body handed sway back over to his more statuesque, moonlit one. That was going to be awkward. Or interesting. Or, well, something. "Then I'll decide what to do with you."

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Minerva looked up at the man weakly. He wasn't throwing her overboard, so that... that was good enough. He even offered to feed and aid her, something she'd never had a stranger do for her in her life. Strangers in Sunberth almost never went out of their way to help one another. A weak, trembling girl like her was a victim, not a charity case. At least, that was the life she was used to. She took the offered hand, struggling to her feet, swaying and nearly falling over again. This had been the worst, longest day of her life, and more than anything she just wanted sleep. But maybe food was a good idea too. She followed silently as he led her below. She had no concern about being in the lower deck of this strange man's boat. He had saved her life, turned down a chance to take advantage of her, and offered her aid without asking anything in return. Anything he wanted, he could just take from her anyway; it wasn't as if she could fight him off, in the state she was in. He had no reason to help her, and yet he did. The simple act earned him her instant, complete, and heartfelt trust. She'd only ever trusted one man in her life before, her Granddad. But, fragile though her state was, weak and vulnerable though she was, the kind sailor was offering her shelter instead of taking whatever wealth, virtue, or innocence she had left, any of which could have been his with nary a protest. It made it such a simple thing to know that she could trust him, for he had already declined to take all she had to offer, and there was simply nothing else he could do to her that would matter in any way. Other than sending her back ashore.

[Pash'nar]

Pash'nar was doing his best not to consider the entire situation too deeply. He figured a bit of freshening up would help send the youth on her way and out of his hair, hopefully before sunset. He led her down the loud old stairs and into the surprisingly roomy cabin. What would have been the cargo hold of a normal ship his size had become his home, his living quarters, with a little kitchen, a bit of storage, a table and benches for chairs. A curtain separated his more private sleeping quarters from the main room, with a few cushions on the floor and some knickknacks on the walls. There was also a curtain next to the stairs, leading to the head and the actual storage areas Pash often used for cargo when he rented his services out. The table was covered in papers—charts of stars, currents, maps, sketches—some spilling onto the floor. If the girl had looked up, however, she would see his whole cabin ceiling had been turned into one giant star-chart, hand-inked in black and white. The whole place looked old—not just kind of old, but really old. Well-worn but well cared for. Antique. Older than the man that led her to a seat at one tiny bench next to his pile of star charts and notes without a word and wandered off for a moment, leaving her alone to hear the ocean's noises from inside a rickety hull. He returned from the head with a little wooden box of salves, some bandages, and a towel, "Here ya go, lass. I'll, uh, leave ya some privacy to assess your damages, eh?" He had his own wounds to investigate, "Jus' holler when you're dried off'n presentable 'gain." He smirked, though it wasn't leering. His usual social visits to the privacy of his cabin were far from decent. The tattooed sailor paused to light a tiny lantern in the middle of his ceiling, further illuminating the huge work of art that spanned the faded wood of his roof. There was still just enough daylight to see by, but it would be gone soon. The portholes let in the last of Syna's rays even while the small square windows on the roof of his cabin were already fading into darker hues. With a nod implying she surely must know what to do with herself, he then disappeared behind the curtain into his room, adding as an afterthought, "Oh, an' don't touch anythin'. None of it's worth sellin', so don't get any ideas." The dark-haired navigator proceeded to slip out of his soaked, bloodied vest and investigate the bruises and gashes awarded his earthbound flesh by the petchers he left bleeding in the street outside that tavern with the piss-poor lager. What a petching mess. He set his now much heavier pouch on his bed with a satisfied smile, though it was followed by a groan as he prodded sore ribs and daubed at brine-filled cuts. They balanced each other out somehow, surely, in the grand scheme of things. Maybe the girl would let herself out if he occupied himself long enough, he thought, gingerly wrapping the particularly deep and still-bleeding wound dug into his bicep. He tried to keep his pathetic pained noises to a minimum while he cleaned up his own mess … there was still a woman present, young or not. He was mostly successful.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Minerva followed the man down below and slumped into a seat without a word. She didn't know what to expect from the inside of a boat like this, so it wasn't much of a surprise what she saw. More of a curiosity than anything else, and even that was highly limited since she could barely think straight at the moment. So the cabin received only a cursory glance for now. She took the offered bandages silently, not really knowing anything about healing practices. After he left, she sat there alone for a long moment, trying to let her mind catch up with what was happening. She was gone... home was behind her. Sure, the boat wasn't really moving yet, but that didn't matter. She'd taken the first steps, and that meant everything. Eventually, she started dabbing the salves onto her wounds, wincing in pain with each touch. Then, not knowing what would work best, she just folded a couple of bandages and placed one over the back of her head and the other over her swollen eye, using a third strip to bind them in place by wrapping it several times around her head. When she finished she called out to the man, "Mister? I's done... can we go now?" She wanted to set sail. "Wherever you's goin' is fine... I promise I won't be no bother o' nothin'. Just drop me off wherever ya want... anyplace what's not 'ere. Jus' whatever city's closest... Mura I done think. 'At'll jus' take a day o' two, aye? 'En ya won't never 'ave ta worry 'bout me again." She had never left home, and knew nothing of the world. She thus had no idea how long a sea voyage would really take, but her innocent imagination naturally pictured days, not weeks.

[Pash'nar]

"Go? Mura—" The sailor hissed from behind the faded curtain to his room in abject incredulity. He barked out a laugh, loud and salt-worn, reverberating through the hull in his casinor's cabin. The thought of the White Isle, all full of magical women, did make him pause for a moment, still chuckling, but their visions and their vision water made him nervous. Being surrounded by more Konti than he could handle may have sounded particularly delicious in his less than sober moments, but the thought of exploring a past he couldn't remember and wasn't entirely convinced he wanted to put a bit of a damper on such an alluring fantasy. Cerulean eyes flicked out a window, glancing at the last burning curve of Syna on the undulating horizon, "Petch, I ain't goin' anywhere tonight but a bit out in th'arbor. I was plannin' on sleepin' a bit an' then pickin' a current to follow jus' to see where it went. Alone. I ain't convinced I need any passengers, certainly not ones like you." Inked fingers parted his curtain and the dark-haired navigator tossed his head in the girl's direction, tide pool gaze storming, "What'chu in such a petchin' hurry for? You an escaped slave? You been robbin' ships at th'docks? You got some pissed off vagiks after you? They gonna be comin' for m'boat after your skinny arse?" His free hand rubbed sore flesh across his bare chest as his lip curled indignantly, "You can't jus' half-drown in front of a man's boat an' think he's gonna sail you wherever the petch you want." Not that he particularly objected to Mura. He just objected to his current passenger. It's not like she could even pay, most likely. Then again, did he want her money? She was running from something, someone, somewhere. That much was written on her features plain as day. Pash'nar had spent fistfuls of decades running, but he never really had anywhere to go. There would never be anywhere for him to go but back. At least she could leave. Start over. He just hid from the inescapable. Where could he go from Leth? This girl could sail as far away from Sunberth as he could take her. No strings attached. She wasn't trapped like he was—stuck in a body that wasn't his own in a life he didn't ask for. It wasn't all bad, but it had never been his choice. He'd never entirely have such a luxury, or so he felt was his burden. His albatross. The tattooed sailor scowled, deep lines etching themselves into the wind-swept shapes of his tanned, unaging features, "Mura's over a week away. Almost two. I don't do free rides. You work or you pay or you swim. I'm still half'a'mind to put you back on that petchin' dock an' be done with you." Battered, intricately tattooed arms crossed over his chest and he leaned his good shoulder against the archway to his room, "You stolen cargo, lass? Tell me true, 'cuz that's gotta price."

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

"I ain't nobody's slave!" Minerva replied, glaring at him with her one open eye, the other covered by the bandage. "An' I ain't no thief! I jus' need ta go..." Fresh tears fell from her face. She didn't want to tell him about herself. She didn't want anyone to know. But it seemed like a choice between telling him, or potentially getting thrown off the boat. She was silent for a long moment before she said, "My Da..." She paused and swallowed a lump in her throat, sniffling. "My Da did 'is... An' if'n I goes back, 'e's gonna kill me!" She couldn't expect sympathy from him, though. Nobody around here ever cared about anything but themselves. "I can fix up yer boat," she offered. The boat looked old. It was bound to have some kind of repairs that needed to be done. "I's a carpenter. An' I gots tools... my Granddad's, NOT stolen!" She pulled her bag into her lap, holding it close. "I can work, I can fix stuff! Jus' don't send me back 'ere, Mister, please..." She looked up at him with a trembling lip, her one good eye wide with her plea. Tears streamed down her face, stinging at the cut in her lip and the bruise on her cheeks. "Please Mister... I's stay outta the way," she said, her words coming out between choked sobs. "I's good at fixin' stuff, an' I can make yer boat better, an' please don't send me back 'e's gonna kill me!" She broke down in open sobs now, lowering her head and shaking. She couldn't come back... jumping off that dock had been the moment of her freedom. She'd rather have drowned in the sea than be sent back now.

[Pash'nar]

Petch. More crying. Really? Did she get slapped around because she was petching weepy? There had to be a way to make it stop. Pash'nar refrained from furthering the situation. He threw up tattooed hands in obvious exasperation, unable to entirely cope with the purity of uncontained teenaged female drama. He groaned above the tears, "Oh for godssake. Shut off the petchin' waterin' … don't petchin' drown me from th'inside of m'own ship." Fingers ran through still soaked dark hair and he leaned away from his curtained archway. He understood running. He did. But— "Petch!" The navigator shouted in the narrow confines of his wooden hull, coarse voice ringing loudly, disappearing back behind his curtain to sit on his bed and stare at his ceiling, hands curling into threadbare sheets. He sat in silence for longer than he should have, desperately waiting for the sobbing to stop. He just had nothing for it. No defenses. No salves. Nothing. How could sniveling children create such abject feelings of helplessness? Disgusting. He agonized for those quiet moments, his ship rocking in the tide. Traveling with others wasn't just simply sailing—it meant befriending. Someone else to outlive. Surely, he doubted the girl would be trouble. Gods, only if she cried the whole petching time. Could she? Probably. That would be horrible. Torture. "Ain't nothing' wrong with my ship!" He finally broke his self-imposed silence—insulted, selfish, alone. As he spoke, he watched as his skin began to pale, tattoos fade, and earthbound flesh be reclaimed by his taller, opalescent ethaefal form. He sighed, having lost this argument to the setting sun. Leth's sway claimed him without a word, which would only leave him with some explaining to do to some frightened, abused stowaway who'd sobbed her way into a free ride to wherever she pleased, "She's jus' old. Ain't broken. Don't petch with a thing." He grunted, reaching again for the curtain between them as he stood. The change in forms didn't take the day's bashing away, even if it wiped all appearances into a shockingly perfect moonlit statue that breathed and moved like a man. Pale hair like sea foam and milk-white horns peered out from behind his self-imposed barrier, stern and yet obviously chagrined. This was awkward, "You done cryin' yet?" His voice was the same. His cerulean eyes were the same. And yet, nothing else was the same. He acted as though he'd looked this way the whole time, saying nothing, "I bet'cha ain't got any food in that heavy as petch bag you almost drown with, eh? I'm gonna have to feed you, too, right?" Not a word. Just a wry smirk carved into pale, aquiline features. He'd begrudged her the ride, the escape, but that didn't mean he was going to be someone easy to travel with.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

She stopped crying and dried her eyes, the contact with her face bringing pain. She hated crying, but she'd never been strong enough not to. At least when her Granddad was alive, she'd had someone who would let her cry. Someone who would hold her and comfort her and tell her it was all going to be okay. Someone who told her there was nothing wrong with a girl crying. When the sailor man came back out, she looked up at him, squinting in the dim lantern light. She still couldn't see so good, but he looker... paler. Paler and glowy. But with one eye swollen shut under the bandage, and the other squinting and half blind from the beating she'd taken, she couldn't figure out what she was seeing. She lowered her gaze and brushed away her wonder. There was too much tumbling through her mind right now to start dwelling on why the strange sailor man looked different. Maybe he had just been dirty earlier, and had cleaned the filth off his skin, and that was why he'd looked darker earlier. Until the worry and fear and doubt cleared from her mind, that was a good enough explanation. "I can pay," she protested. "I got money..." She didn't have much, just what she'd taken from the house. But maybe it'd be enough. "O' I can clean o' cook o' somethin'! I'll do whatever ya want, Mister! I ain't need no charity, jus' need ta get someplace else..." She didn't know what else to say. She was desperate for anything that would get her out of here. She didn't even care if she ever saw the man again after he dropped her off. Just as long as he dropped her off anyplace in the world that wasn't here.

[Pash'nar]

"No cryin'. No whining'. No stealin'." He answered gruffly, walking toward the tiny excuse for a kitchen opposite her paper-laden seating arrangement, "No askin' too many questions. No fiddlin' with stuff that ain't yours 'less I tell you to. An' no funny business like before." Turning his opalescent back to the girl, he rummaged through his little cabinets, taking stock of what he had stored. At least he could always fish. Hopefully, she didn't eat too much, though his need for sustenance was only during Syna's reign. He thumbed his nose and decided he could stretch what they had by sleeping a bit during the day—he had no interest in returning to Sunberth proper, especially if it meant leaving the girl alone on his ship. There'd be plenty of water, especially if it rained. He sighed, stuck being too sober to do anything but the nice thing. Tears were wicked, wicked things. "Y'ain't gotta pay." Pash said with obvious reluctance, one hand rubbing the back of his neck where a familiar compass in a mood had once been but was now gone, replaced by smooth ashen skin, "Jus' don't make me regret not throwin' y'back." "You really wanna go to Mura?" His tone implied she could go anywhere, though it was obviously easier to head to the next closest port. He'd take her, really, if she'd have had somewhere else in mind. It wasn't like he was on a particular route himself, always drifting when not employed. Usually, he'd just drift back to Zeltiva. To home, if he would ever bring himself to call it that, to faces he knew, "You gotta name, lass? Or have I gotta make one up?"

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Minerva sniffled, gently wiping her nose, and trying her best not to continue crying. She didn't want to bother the man, since he was offering to help. She kept her eyes down, her hands wringing around a spare bandage she'd been using as a handkerchief. "I won't be a bother," she said softly. She could keep to herself until they got where they were going. She was used to keeping herself out of the way, in order to avoid her Da's rage and his fists. She was used to not drawing attention to herself, since that was the only way to get by in the streets of Sunberth without being harassed. She'd make sure to keep out of his way, and cause no trouble. She shrugged when he asked where she wanted to go. "It's someplace what ain't 'ere," she replied. "'At makes 'er as good a place as any. A better place 'an some..." The rest of the world had to be better than the place she'd grown up. She couldn't imagine a place being any worse. When he asked her name, she said, "I'm Mi--" then stopped, biting her tongue. She didn't want to tell him her real name. She didn't want to bring that name with her. She was leaving that life behind. Her Da had named her, and she hated him and everything that reminded her of him. Better to leave that name behind, too. She thought for a moment, wondering what name to give. Something that meant something to her. Something that signified change. Change like building stuff, like moving into the future, a new place, a new time. Time had been wasted in her life, and she knew she only had so much time to spend before she left this life. She didn't want to flit it away, time passing her by, every second of her life ticking away in some hellhole like Sunberth, tick, tock, tick... "Tock," she said. "My name's Tock..."