Logs:Storm Coming
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 16 October, 2014 |
| Who: Drex, Itsy |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Life aboard The Pirate Queen. |
| Where: The Pirate Queen |
| When: Early Month 1, Turn 36 |
| Mentions: Devaki/Mentions, Roddran/Mentions |
  |
| Ista was a warm (and very welcome) stop for a seven, but the life of a sailor and their ship requires them to remain on the move. The Pirate Queen flies the flag of High Reaches Hold on its journey west, following the expected trade route. They're almost a seven from Tillek, though the winds -- unusually strong for this time of year -- have been in their favor. Drex has spent most of the morning in the bird's nest, and when he finally climbs down from the rigging to drop onto the deck, it's in search of Itsy. Itsy doesn't often man the ship's wheel - although she can - but she's often found not far from there, hovering on watch whether she's scheduled herself to be or not. Today, she's braced against the rail nearest the wheel, the fingers of one hand tangled about the ropes nearby; the other holds her spyglass. Her face is mostly obscured by that ever-present old hat of hers, but that's not to say she's not aware of Drex's approach. "Anything to report?" she wonders, in that low-class Tillekian voice of hers, rough-edged and surprisingly deep for a woman. Drex slouches into place beside Itsy at the railing, leaning against it, lifting and dropping his shoulder in a single gesture. "Big storm building," he finally says in a low voice, with a long look at her. "Can always tell." A beat, a ghost of a smile: "Your hair goes all frizzy." Itsy makes a face at Drex; in fact, she goes so far as to stick her tongue out at him. More interesting, however, is the storm, which draws those blue-green eyes of hers towards the horizon. "Building," she agrees, "but not here yet. Reckon we can beat it, with these winds?" She probably doesn't really need his opinion to make up her own... and yet. "Rather not waste time pulling into moor anywhere. We can do it." Dark eyes reflect the amusement that doesn't present itself in his body language. "Maybe," Drex says, about the storm. "We might be lucky." A beat, while he tugs a hand through his hair. "Could get there faster by throwing Roddran overboard, but it might make docking more difficult to explain." Captains go missing all the time, right? Itsy's own eyes gleam. "But it'll be exciting," she says. And isn't youth about chasing thrills? Isn't it? She tucks her spyglass into the loop on her belt, that wide mouth twitching with mirth. "Blame the storm," she suggests. "Or don't. Remind me to have them send down another bottle, though, eh? We don't need the interruption, not if we're going to make it home." Except home is here, and her tone acknowledges it. Exciting, and Drex is grinning briefly to match her sentiment. "Storm, plus rum, but where else will we find someone willing to take on all the responsibility? Better the..." he stops, abruptly, the old harper saying slipping from his tongue without thought, turning expression into a frown. Either he doesn't catch her tone, or he deliberately pretends he doesn't, since he straightens and stares down at her. "So eager to get back to the Hold? There's nothing there for us." How many turns have they been together, now? Nine, at least. Itsy's broad grin narrows, though she's still amused when Drex frowns; she's fond, in that glance, even if the rough edges are back in place in a moment more. "There's something everywhere for us," is her correction. "Anywhere we go, there's something. But my girl here," she rests her hand upon the smooth wood of the rail, "she's home there, and we owe her that much. Now and then. The frown fades by measures, with Drex dropping back into a slouch against the Pirate Queen's railing. "Aye," he concedes, after a flickered glance at Itsy. "Now and then," a slight change of emphasis on the tall man's part. "Fine. But no more dress up meals for him," he says, determinedly. That just makes Itsy chortle. "Y'think I enjoy it any more than you do? Skirts. No one makes you wear a skirt." Plus, Itsy has to take her hat off, and that's just Not.On. "But we owe him, me and you. For her," and for other things, even if she doesn't specify them. "Cheer up. We've a seven at sea before we have to fend off anything formal. And then we can figure out where we want to be off to next, eh?" She aims a (sharp) elbow at his side. "I'm sure you enjoyed it," but there's that familiar quick of Drex's mouth to indicate he's teasing her again. "You could wear a skirt. It'd make climbing the rigging all that more interesting." His gaze goes skywards, towards the netting, as if considering it in great detail. He grunts, not agreeing on the topic of Devaki but at least willing to concede Itsy's point. He exhales sharply at the elbow, reaching out to try and casually knock the hat off her head. "Somewhere warm. Ista was nice." Many of the sailors did, indeed, enjoy the brothels. Itsy bares her teeth and positively growls, ducking out of the way of that hat action: no one removes her hat and gets away with it, not even Drex. No doubt the teasing about the skirt hasn't helped much, either, even if she is smiling again as she clambers up onto the rail, holding on to the rope with quiet proficiency. "You need another brothel visit already?" she wonders, rough-edged teeth visible. "Teenagers." never mind that she, too, is one of them. Chronologically. "Not for me," though Drex's ducking back as he says it, out of the way of revenge for the hat, the skirt, or that; pick one. "I'll go see to our Captain," the word used without any of the respect due the position of the old drunken man. Itsy points her toe, leather-covered as it is, in Drex's general direction; it falls just short of a kick, even if she's nowhere close to catching the other teen with it, even at full swing. "Go, go," she says, laughing. "Before I take you down. Bring that bottle. Tell him about the storm, but that we've got everything under control, eh? With his permission. He'll like that." "With his permission," Drex echoes, a little dubiously, like he's not sure he can possibly pull that off convincingly. With a touch of hand to his forehead, he mutters, "Cap'n," before he slouches off under the decks. |
Leave A Comment