[Flashback] Ghost Stories (Naama)

[Hawkins]

15th Winter, 510 AV Somewhere off the Coast of Riverfall Ocean. Finally. Hawkins found himself enamored with nothing more so than the open water. The steady rock of the wooden construct beneath his feet brought him a sense of joviality. Unsteady, chaotic, yet unfailing, while under the star-filled night driven sky, there was no law, no drive to thrive. Just the air. The sea. Soft winds carried the vessel on that night, sails billowing in the winds of chance. And there he stood. One of the few out after the dismissal of the sun, Hawkins stood beneath the bow lines, hair fluttering as he made a fuss of keeping his hat firmly attached to his head. Here he looked natural. While on the land his sailors gait caught the attention of the common populace as queer, unusual. Disturbing maybe. Yet here, her it fit. It made sense. Hawkins was born to sail, not trounce about on some flat, unmoving hunk of earth. Fah. How boring. So it was that he made himself useful, his boots thunking against the deck of his latest crew vessel. A trade ship, was she? The captain was a bit of a tool, but little mattered when Hawkins was at sail. Who did these lines? Pah. A volunteer for the late night antics, Hawkins was tasked with a great deal of the lesser maintenance of the vessel. Resewing knots, mostly. With a bit of a fumble, he removed some of the strain from his current post, assisting with a temporary hold before he tossed the bit of rope about another strand, slipping one edge into a loop with a bowline. There. That was handy. Content, he tightened the quick fix and nodded, seemingly satisfied. Perhaps he enjoyed the work, or maybe because it was the first bit of activity within the last hour. How exciting. Well, at least he was not swabbing decks. There was enough of that to go around. With a shrug he resumed his cant about the boat, idly placing one foot after the neck in his coast. It took only a matter of moments for him to clear the bow and wind up - somehow - at the aft. Several strides and he was atop the forecastle, strolling about and around the late night helmsman. "Bit of a boring night, eh? Why ah, don't you get yourself a break. I can handle a straight course for a bit." Hawkins spoke with a grin, his head poking in front of the man as he exchanged pleasantries. The fellow, seemingly half asleep, shook his head at the disturbance and muttered something in response - apparently less coherent than cognizant. "Ah. Fetch a nap. I take care of the old girl." Hawkins stepped up beside as the man made away with the welcomed replacement. It was still some hours before the sun would rise. In that time he could handle a little steering. From the moment his hands hit the helm he was at peace. Relaxed. Free. His shoulders set themselves back, fingers grasping the wheel and holding the course steady. A chart lay beside him with a few passages marked for guidance, those that he would occasional glance down at and decipher what he did know of the seaborne navigation. While his knowledge was not particularly extensive, he knew enough to get by - or at least fake it. Stars. Those were what mattered. For some time he remained at the head, comparing the markings with the dotted sky above, matching notes with reality. Naama was missing out, he imagined. And speaking of the halfbreed, just where was the woman? A cursory glance sent his attention spiraling away from his revelry for just a moment in a quick search for his friend. Companion. Ah, whatever she was. Funny how he had yet to figure that out.

[Naama]

She couldn’t sleep. More importantly she couldn’t sleep at night. Not when these men had the nerve to grope what they shouldn’t be groping and stare at what they shouldn’t be staring. It wasn’t much of a problem, oh no, one look from Naama and they scattered like flies on a dung pile. But at night, when the halfbreed just wanted one petching good night’s rest…. someone had to ruin it. From around two dozen men nearly a dozen of them harbored a broken or fractured bone. Even the captain himself was a lecher, and due to his lecherous behavior he now harbors a broken nose on behalf of an exasperated halfbreed. It was the first ship where the men routinely ogled her, as if by some miraculous circumstance her clothes would fly off and she’d seduce the lot of them into a stupor. It wasn’t going to happen. Ever. The woman had settled herself in the crew’s quarters, where the lapping of the waves against the hull offered some semblance of reprieve during her hours surrounded by the men who seemed daft in conjunction to being foul-smelling. She’d closed her eyes for not ten minutes when the creaking of the floorboards snapped her awake in her hammock. There was a dark figure standing above her, a grin on his filthy, cracked lips and a calloused hand reaching straight for her. “Oh for the love of--” Crack! A howl echoed through the cabin, as Naama retracted her fist and shoved the sailor into a startled man. “One night!” She growled, stomping her way up the ladder and onto the main deck. And there was Hawkins, pleasantly oblivious it seemed to the libido that ran rampant on the ship. This wasn’t normal. “Hawkins!” She called, striding toward him, “Take me for a wench, do they? You’d think after ten blows to the head they’d understand not to touch what they haven’t earned.” She leaned against the rail, “Just as well, those knaves need to rut each other if it keeps them off me.” A sigh, “But I doubt they’d know where to stick it in.” She paid him a passing glance, “How exceptionally flamboyant does the Master “Argh” look this fine night.” Naama proclaimed with a grin. Below the decks, there was a dull shouting and a thundering of boots against rickety floorboards.

[Hawkins]

Ah. There she was. And by the looks of it not much had changed. Men at sea were lonely. Men at sea with a woman on board their ship? There were a few female crew members, but none of them were quite so exotic as the halfbreed, nor wear they twice as alluring. Or so fond of walking around in so little. Hawkins was not surprised to find her ruffled, or even for her to find him at all. For some reason his advances ceased in the presence of Naama. Not for lack of interest, surely, and not for a swath of personalty. About whores and other savory delights Hawkins swayed with the best of them, but here mayhaps he was the singular, shining relief in the whole of the open water. Best to keep comments to himself, then. Instead, his gaze flicked from the deck to the advancing form of his companion. How long would it be before she became accustom to those gropes? Never. Comfort aboard such a vessel came at what you made it. "Ah, so much about as ruffled as you do, m'lady." Hawkins grinned and offered a bow of his head, his body somehow remaining forward as he tended to the steering. He seemed in his natural element for once. Satisfied. Much unlike the woman. Finally, his long, unbuttoned coat made a sort of sense, and the hat? Well, hats fit on a ship. "S'partially your fault, you know, trouncing about in, well. Whatever that is." He motioned at the choice of attire Naama often sported. "And sleepin' with the captain might not be such a bad idea, eh? At least you'll get a bed without rats in'it." Oh, he was proud of that one, but before he could brace for the incoming recourse another antic caught his attention. What was all the racket? No one came to call this late at night. Peering about off the forecastle, Hawkins watched as a sailor blitzed from the crew decks below. The man was aghast, pale, and breathed without enough force to stir up a hurricane. He only managed to scream before his pursuers came upon him. A blood curdling pitch echoed into the night air. Two sailors, just lads from the look of them, removed the edge of a spear from the poor bastard's gullet. Hawkins quirked a brow to the side. They laughed at their antics and kicked at the slumping body, their boots sliding about in the blood and leaving a trail of gore as they danced. Oh. Well. If that was all. A loud clattering foray came up from the bowls of the vessel and Hawkins, already spooked, made quick work of his defense. The quick shlick of his blade sounded as it was loosened from the sheath. "I ah, do believe we have a problem."