The man hadn’t even moved away before there was a woman taking his place--Ignia, it was--and Nëis felt somewhat overwhelmed. As it was, though, he decided he might as well fake an interest. There was no need for dissension in the ranks, or the distrust that came from not forming camaraderie, as forced as it may have been. He knew that sort of stigma well enough.

[i]“Hello! It’s…”[/i]

Her hair was a fiery, devilish red, more so than the other redhead. It was barely natural, being as bright as it was, and though it looked strange, certainly, it could therefore be thought of as exotic. He could see why she was a slave. There was no sort of excuse in that, but it was what he assumed would be the truth of the matter. He didn’t care to ask to see if he was right or wrong, though.

[i]“Nëis.. right?”[/i]

He nodded, fine to keep silent. There had to be others to speak to, more sympathetic or more interesting to a person. But, no, here she was, and here he was.

[i]"You don't really look like you want to talk,” no, he didn’t, he really didn’t, “but I figure if we're going to be stuck on this boat together for however long, we should all get to know each other. Besides, you're up here too, so I guess we have that in common, yes?"[/i]

It felt like they had the same amount in common as all humans did, in the embodiment of breathing, eating, and sleeping. He didn’t feel any particular [i]kinship[/i] in standing on a ship with another. It was unlikely they were like-minded, being a slave and a free man, but he had been surprised by less before.

She leaned, and he stood up more, drawing away from the siding and straightening his back. An attempt to end a conversation that went unseen. She spoke, and he listened, looking for either an end or an anchor.

He looked to her wrists when she displayed them, drawn to the shine of the silver. They were pretty, but they didn’t look exactly decorative. Slave finery, if it could ever be called that. He’d seen it before, but not up close. It looked heavy--not quite visually, but there had to be some sort of… [i]baggage[/i] to that.

[i]"All I can really do is silly stuff. Dancing, singing, that's not useful on a ship. And I can cook, but not like.. a professional or anything. I'm sure someone here is better than me at that too."[/i]

Silly things. The mention of dancing brought back memories that he preferred not to dwell on, but with nothing else to distract him that was exactly what he did. Dancing was popular in Reicnin. He knew it was the same for everywhere else, too, but Reicnin took it to another level entirely. If there was any sort of event, there would be dancing. A good harvest, there would be dancing. A death, there would be dancing mixed with the mourning. It was used as more than just enjoyment or an art form, it was more spiritual, meaningful. He was a terrible dancer. 

She looked at him, and he kept his gaze firmly forwards. [i]"What do you think he'll have you do? Do you have skills?"[/i]

For a few seconds, he didn’t answer, gathering himself. Remembering ‘sociable, and why to be it’, a lesson his mother used to try to teach him. It never worked out, but he wished she was still around to try to beat it into him.

“I do not know what he’ll set me to doing,” he said, “I don’t feel I have the best skills for this setting.” He didn’t feel like continuing, but nor did he want to leave her with the impression that he was entirely useless. “I used to make--salves, tea remedies, things like that. I still do, when I’ve the time. It isn’t useful, but natural medicines can help with a great many things.”

He thought that was fine, then--an anchor. She could do first aid, and he could do… something a bit like it. His mother always told him to find something in common, and that was theirs, though he may have been reaching a bit. He didn’t have much to say to her, aside from answering her question.

“I hear it can be tedious, to be locked away on a ship for weeks on end. Perhaps we will need a little entertainment to keep us in good health.” He thought mostly of home when he said it--singing and dancing was all that was ever going [i]on[/i], it seemed. If there was any sort of entertainment on the ship, he’d be likely to skip out on it, but he knew what a little levity could bring to a group of people that might otherwise be at each other’s throats.

His father always told him he was ‘just fine’ at pretending to be softened. Honeyed words, indeed. He’d never cared for the sweet stuff himself.