Rohaan pretended to consider the offer like there was any question at all, despite the fact that he'd definitely come to her for that very reason. "Hm. Okay." Lifting his legs up, he pivoted on the gunnel so that his feet were now dangling over the deck, not the sea, and he faced her directly. "Berlin's tried before. It's hard. See, we don't--Vokurians--We don't have books. We don't read, and we don't really have maps, not like people do everywhere else. We tell stories instead of write them down. So letters are a new thing to me. But I do know how to write my names. I have three." 

Rohaan held up a finger, changed to a small bird and flitted into Berlin's quarters, to which the door was slightly ajar. There was the sound of papers, fluttering wings, and then a very surprised and frustrated, "RHEOAAN! Damn it!" Before bird-Rohaan returned clutching a piece of paper and a bit of charcoal. He was a boy sitting on the deck in the blink of an eye, the stolen goods in his hands. Berlin was at his door, not actually upset enough to chase down or reprimand the boy. Besides, he knew what Rohaan was doing and that he and Hanabaptiste were getting along, and that was all that mattered at the moment. Leaning against the frame, he watched as a tiny smile played on his lips. There was hope for that boy yet.

Rohaan took the charcoal in his hand and began slowly, carefully writing out letters. His penmanship was poor, but that was to be expected. He diligently spelled out RHEOAAN ROHAAN RIO JA'AISEN on the paper, then made a thoughtful face. "Maybe I can write yours too." Slowly, he sounded it out under his breath as he scrawled the letters, HAANA. "Is that it?"  Rohaan pulled his cloak tighter around him, getting comfortable as he pulled a neat coil of rope that sat nearby towards him to be a seat--his little personal nest. It was not uncommon for him to curl up in a rope coil (especially after combat when he was tired from shifting and fighting) and he'd been shooed away by Pieter many times when the man needed the ropes he napped on. "Okay. So what's this book you got?"


---

Uban didn't play music every night, but he certainly did more often than not. Sometimes he would play and sing loudly for the whole crew, inviting them to sing along in the familiar shanties they all knew. Other times, his fingers would be light and soft on the strings and his voice even softer, if he sang at all. Tonight was one of those nights. Uban felt introspective and thoughtful as he lay on his back on the aft deck, the one just above Berlin's quarters. His plucking and strumming had begun as mindful playing, but now it was just something for his hands to do while he thought. The tune he played was soft and as wandering as his thoughts as he reminisced about the earlier times of his life. It felt like imagining a different person. His hair had been cropped short, his desires were simple, and his hands just as calloused, though not from ropes. He had never left his little home and he always thought he'd take over his father's farm when he passed.

He couldn't have been more wrong. But Uban was not sad. He wondered often about the life he might have had, but it was rarely ever wistful or full of regret. He liked where he was. And now that he'd seen the ocean, now that he had felt her gentle hand rocking him to sleep at night or waking him in the morning, or spraying his face in a storm, Uban knew it was where he was always meant to be.