Wheel being quiet and removed, Berlin allowed. That was fine. But he would tolerate no disrespect amongst the crew. Berlin was not a strict captain generally, especially compared to most. He was no admiral, no naval captain, and hierarchy was a loose thing on the Borealis. The only shred of it was that Berlin was the captain, and when he put his foot down on something, he meant it. That, and occasionally he would hand over the reins to Pieter, who was semi-officially the first mate. Other than that, Berlin harbored a sense of equality on his ship. They were a team, after all, and it was his duty to them as captain to trust those under him, listen to them, and consider their ideas and complaints with sincerity. But one thing he was very strict about, and that was the harmony of the crew. Not everyone had to like eachother and be best friends--Wheel and Rohaan had an odd relationship in which the younger of the two found it incredibly tempting to antagonize the berserker at every opportunity for the sake of sport. But respect was another matter. It was required. Period.

Berlin stood, following Wheel as he got up from the table, quietly catching him by the arm with one hand. Berlin had a way with Wheel that most people could not manage without getting killed. For one thing, Berlin was a bear of a man and generally demanded respect, but he also had control over the darker side of Wheel that no one else could--just like he did with Rohaan. Berlin kept the berserker in check when he needed to, preferring to unleash the man's rage and violence when it came to an actual fight with an enemy. 

Berlin stared him down. "Hanabaptiste is no passenger. She is a crew member of the Borealis now, just like you. You don't have to like her. You don't have to fraternize with her. But I'll be damned if I let you treat one of mine with any disrespect. Another outburst like that and you'll be pulling double watches and I'll pull your ration of rum until you get the picture. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?" His voice was low. Berlin did not need to raise his voice to be intimidating, as his bear-like physique and cool, confident authority did most of that for him. When Berlin was not trying to make a point, he was akin to a flowing river. Strong, but cool and serene. But cross him, and he turned to a thundering waterfall. "When you're done checking the traps, you can scrub the cannon clean until you can eat off it." It was not a request. With that, Berlin released his arm and coolly strode back to the table, reclaiming his seat like he'd merely gone to return a dropped handkerchief. 

Rohaan nodded and began clearing the empty cups and plates, disappearing into the small galley to scrub them clean with some water and the flat knot of old manilla rope that was too worn to be part of the rigging anymore. Woven into a small pad, the rough fibers did a wonderful job of scraping dishes clean.

It was dark when he'd finished. The Borealis sort of shut down and anchored as best they could with the sails furled at night to allow their tiny retinue to sleep and enjoy a couple hours to themselves every night. Rohaan came up on deck to find Hanabaptiste at the rail, looking out at the starry horizon that reflected the pale moon in the distant waves. With the soft padding of his bare feet against the deck came a quiet "I'ada", which was a casual Vokurian greeting he sometimes used, as he often slid between Carisian and Vokurian fluidly in a single sentence or conversation. He kept his distance from her, standing just out of arm's reach. She didn't seem too bad, but Rohaan wasn't ready to totally trust her just yet. Berlin seemed to, and that was something, but he wanted to make his own judgement too. "I stole some cookies from the stores. Don't tell Ca-mm." He grinned wickedly, then said, "I guess you can have one." He held out a long, thick biscuit filled with almonds and swirled with cinnamon. It was a hard, crumbly confection topped with powdered sugar and was probably meant to have with coffee.

The early autumn night was cool, and the tropical-based Rohaan found it chilly, so he wore his black cloak over his white shirt, which still had faint pinkish stains and a tear where he'd been shot. Through the hole, the pinkish scar could clearly be seen. The unlaced collar showed his new trophy, the iron ball on a leather strip, which sat just at his collarbone. His wild hair was also pulled back in a semblance of a ponytail with an old piece of tattered cloth, though a good deal of his blonde curls still sprayed out in little rebellious corkscrews that flitted in the wind.

He looked at her, tilting his head before asking, "Is your head cold...?" But before waiting for an answer, his body changed into a near perfect likeness of Hanabaptiste, only his eyes were still the same shocking blue. He gave a small shiver then returned to his normal form. "It is cold. Why don't you have hair?"