Serge chuckled playfully at the Sharee’s remarks. She seemed to like him, to some degree or another, which made the Breton feel much better about his place on the boat. He lifted his mug and nodded at Sharee as she finished speaking. 

“I wouldn’t dare, Captain. You get too many drinks in me and I’ll be going overboard.” He sipped from the mug despite his comment. Then, as seemingly an afterthought, Serge glanced over to Allaina with a respectful interest. He looked over her fine dress, and the even finer curves and dips under the dress, and sighed. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Serge said, loud enough to catch Allaina’s attention but almost no one else’s. He lowered his head to better meet the Bosmer’s gaze. His eyes were entrapping, they were boys eyes. His tattoo rested on the peak of his head like a crown, yet he was roguish; he was the Rogue Prince. “Serge Yncan, fool extraordinaire.” He held out his hand to take Allaina’s, it was unassuming yet implied that she was familiar with common courtesies—he’d kiss it if she gave it to him. Serge’s eyes flicked over to Sharee’s for a moment, an acknowledgment of shameless flirtation, “And yet, you’ve made me feel more the fool than I ever have,” he finally said. 

Sarel was in a similarly difficult situation speaking with the Orc. He was asked about his style of fighting, how he’d learned it. This sparked the fires of memory in the Dunmer so brightly that he could not help but speak only the truth, Beilin deserved at least that. 

“I was a skinny orphan in Solstheim when a wondering swordsman found me. I was surviving by hunting Netches, I was quite young, but quite skilled. You see, my father hunted netches and taught me all about it before he di…—killed himself. I was a dead-eye with a bow, I could pin a pup to the ground from over seventy-five meters. No longer, I haven’t even held a bow in over two decades.” The last time Sarel held a bow was when he and Beilin went boar-hunting in the Colovian highlands. That was a splendid weekend of paternal bonds and bloody friendship. Sarel had to rein himself back into the conversation, he felt himself being lilted off by melancholy. “Well, this wondering Swordsman trained me in an ancient and strict martial art, long since forgotten, forged by Dunmeri minds.” Sarel felt like he belonged to the Sentinel verse club just then, his words took on poetic meaning. “When he died I was not half way through my training, he had so much more to teach.” Sarel’s eyes watered now, the combination of distant emotional ties and the cool sea air made that so. “Suffice it to say, Orc, I’ve killed a hundred times a hundred men, and I find no pride in that.” He said this with despondence and not a fraction of hostility, he was buried in discomfort and sadness.