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[i]17th Suns Dawn 
Daggerfall, High Rock[/i]

[hr]

[indent]Captain Ravana was a man of high esteem, with a stride and a swagger that had him own every establishment he entered. His heart belonged to his Lady, but the same could not be said for his manhood - which he shared frequently and fervently whenever he spent time upon land. 

The only true loyalty he had was for his ship - the Kismet. A striking and unique vessel, possibly more famed than he was in the port towns of Tamriel. It could be said that if his heart belonged to his Lady, then his very soul belonged to the Kismet. A worthy receptacle she was for such an essence too. The two had been entangled in life for over fifteen years. They had been witness to spectacular events, to great loss and tragedy, and equally to significant joy. Truly, if Captain Ravana ever had the patience to sit down and pen his story - he would produce a tome revered by even the most uptight of scholars. 

It was outside of a tavern called ‘The Shy Lute’ that the Captain emerged with a smile from ear to ear, alone. He was dressed in his usual garments - namely cotton trousers tucked into light boots with a silken knee length sleeveless coat in a plush burgundy. His bracers too, were equipped and of the same hue as his jacket. He was as sharp looking as his gaze, which unlike his warm smile carried a cold dissonance to everything - and it was exactly that umber stare that attracted women to him. The air of mystery that didn’t quite permeate his charm, but instead sat alongside it.

Ravana lifted his arms behind him, to fasten his hair into a loose ponytail in a fashion that revealed the foreign, yet stylish shaved sides of his head. His beard too, was well groomed, as if it had only just been trimmed and styled. His heavy eyes closed briefly, remembering the feeling of exhilaration he’d experienced sitting in his bath, waited on hand and foot by several beautiful courtesans. His hand balled into a fist and he brought it into his chest—at his heart, as if to give thanks to the higher powers that had allowed him such a truly memorable evening…

[hr]

“How did you come to be here again, Falnon?” Asked Ravana with a curious glint in his eye and a quill in his hand - nib tapping impatiently at the parchment on the desk.

In front of the desk was a short young boy, no older than his sixteenth year, surely. His face was slightly sharp and his eyes were a hazy shade of blue, sat under the shadow of his messy blonde hair. He was completely youthful in his appearance, still sporting the rosy glow upon his apple cheeks of childhood, the glow that stays there until the harshness of the world peels it back.

He was dressed in a simple white shirt and waistcoat, and some even simpler brown jerkin trousers. The shirt was splattered in red stains from wrist to shoulder, and across the chest. He held in his hands a washcloth and he turned it over again and again, intimidated by the Captain, even as relaxed in his seat as he was.

“Well, I er— just found me way ‘ere honestly. I’m an orphan and Bronn brought me on board to do cleaning for yer all I think…” Falnon said, his hands wringing through the cloth in his hands as he tried his best at telling the tale of his mediocre origin on the Kismet.

The young boy cleared his throat, and couldn’t help but look around at Captain Ravana’s quarters, all of the exciting things he had in there - a painting on the wall - and a cabinet filled with a porcelain tea set, of all things. “Wasn’t really the best at the cleaning, too small—anyways so they had me took down to the kitchens and I peeled the potatoes mostly until Joanna decided she’d train me up a bit—specially since ‘er ‘ands were getting a bit stiff and hard to make work…”

Ravana smiled, and in his eyes too, he placed an elbow on the desk and motioned his hand for the boy to continue and then he placed his head into his hand. He appeared to be enjoying the story.

Falnon nodded, and loosed his hold of the tattered cloth. “So, then she taught me ‘ow to make a few more difficult things like soup and ‘ow to cook a bird up properly. She said it was the basics of cooking - the fun-di-men-tles,” he said, emphasising each syllable as if to make them count - or make sure he got them right. “After I’d done that for a year or so she was showin’ me ‘ow to do all the cakes and more complicated things…”

“Like your apple strudel?” Ravana asked, his smile still present and hand now relaxed, the quill at his side. “I do enjoy that dish, young Falnon, you also make a stew with beef and some kind of cake?”

“Dumplins’” Falnon said with a happy smile, it filled him with a sense of pride that the Captain enjoyed his food. 

“Yes, yes dumplings! I do enjoy those as well — Falnon, you’ve a bright future on the Kismet,” Ravana said, picking up the quill into his hand as his expression darkened. “So you can imagine my level of disappointment to hear of the trouble you’ve been in…” He added, his voice as sharp as a blade. “I don’t wish to see you squander your opportunity here by frightening the crew with [i]ghost stories[/i]... You know the ones I’m talking about, yes?”

Falnon was brought back to the night of the fourteenth... 

[hr]

It had been late - [i]too late[/i] to have still been working, but on that night in particular, he’d been taken over by a spell of inspiration. Chocolate cake! With no idea as to why, he just wanted to create something new, something fresh. Chocolate cake with cherries had been that creation sitting at the forefront of his mind.

The young Nord recalled cracking an egg against the bowl, and being surprised at how loud it had seemed… It had made him hesitant to crack the second - but when he finally did, he found that it was completely normal, in fact his curiousity at the noise was overcome by surprise at the fact that there were two yolks in the second egg. He then simply remembered shrugging it off as having been a sound from the upper deck, the crew messing around as they often did when there was nothing else to do. 

Then came the whispers.

Whispers from somewhere else - he had no logic to attribute to that, it was a primal instinct that made it clear the voice came from beyond. A shuddering, resonant hum and breath - disembodied from life, speaking through a hole in the void. He couldn’t make out the words, but he knew that the voice was desperate to speak a message, desperate to be heard. He could feel heartbreak in the murmurs. Then frustration. The whispers came faster, and in a circle around him - not just from one direction but from everywhere. 

A brass lamp on the wall shook and the flame snuffed out. 

Thunder bellowed from the beyond too, a flash of lightning lit up the dark kitchen and in that split moment Falnon made out the shape and spectral form of a woman reaching for him. Her mouth was open and she trembled fiercely, he saw her screaming herself hoarse but no sound came - just the flickering lightning that danced around her in a purple aura until she was gone…

Falnon was gone too, bolted up the stairway and out of the kitchen - tears streaming from his wide, frightened eyes, screaming. He’d ran head first into Bronn - and in his distraught retelling of the event he attracted quite the crowd. There was a distinct split between who those who believed him and those who laughed at him. Bronn had been one of those in the latter… The disappointment in his rich eyes had been cut through with quick anger, anger enough for him to raise a hand--

[hr]

“Falnon?” Ravana snapped impatiently, observing that the boys eyes had glazed over and he was shivering. “Do you understand?” He asked again, sternly, but not without a measure of concern for the boy too.

“Aye, aye. I promise I won’t again— I just heard something,” Falnon stammered, hands clenching again - sweating under the pressure of the Captain. His instant flip had caught him off guard. “I know it weren’t real Captain,” Falnon began, lying, voice frantic and panicked. His small hands came up to his chest, together as if in prayer. “I just got frightened down there after dark last night, you know?” He added, voice shaking and a tremble beginning in his chest. He felt the anguish of the silent scream once more and every hair on his body began to prickle and raise from his skin.

Ravana simply nodded, closing his eyes and taking a breath so deep that his nostrils flared. “You’re a good worker, we’ll let this one slide. But Falnon?”

“Yes Captain?” Falnon gulped, holding his breath.

“I’ve a ship full of real passengers today— they can’t be hearing your delusional stories. I don’t want them to be scared… Do you understand?” Ravana asked, his voice low, eyes glowering.

“Aye Captain I do, I’ll not say a word I promise,” Falnon said with a smile of relief.

Ravana nodded again, and just like that the authority slid from his shoulders and drifted away - as it hadn’t been there in the first place. “Tell you what boy, make your beef stew and apple strudel tonight!” 

Falnon nodded enthusiastically, he patted down his shirt - those damned tomatoes had gotten him again… He would have to change if there were to be real passengers. “I will! I’ll make it the best one yet!”

“Then I look forward to it,” Ravana said with a hand on his chest, bowing his head appreciatively towards the young chef. “Oh and maybe later, when our passengers are sleeping, I can give you a sword lesson? How about it?”

Well, that was enough to make Falnon’s heart burst in his chest - that his Captain enjoyed his work, and wanted to give him a sword lesson. [i]The[/i] Captain Ravana - the boy was star struck, and it showed in his face as his jaw dropped.

“That way, you shall have nothing to be frightened of on the ship you call your home…” Ravana finished, standing from his desk to approach the Nord. The two shook hands, and Falnon went on his way, Ravana followed behind him - out and up the stairs and onto the deck. He strode across. She had been polished, he could smell it - and her sails had been starched. The Captain smiled as he made his way over the deck - that familiar sound his steps made was comforting, and his crew all knew his gait. Each stopped and gave him a bow of acknowledgement, whatever it was they were doing, they stopped doing it to smile at him.

At his own pace, he made his way to the wheel of the Kismet, taking it into his hands with a look of triumph in his eyes as he looked out to Daggerfall — the city he would leave behind soon enough. In the same breath, his eyes peered out across the sea too…

“Adventure awaits us once again, my Queen…” he sighed, holding onto the moment for as long as he could. 

[hr]

Dro’Sintaba’s eyes watched the small frame of his new [i]employer[/i] as she wove through the crowds and towards the ship. He chastised himself for admiring the shapes of her in those suede leggings, and focussed his attention instead to her jacket - royal blue with square, fringed shoulders. He’d recognised silver buttons too - and there was a gold piping around the edges. “Why are you dressed like that?” He asked accusingly with a forlorn sigh, catching up to her side to peer down into her curious and awe-filled green orbs. “You look like you’re the captains first mate. [i]Are[/i] you the captains first mate?”

“No, I like to impress is all… And I like this jacket very much.” She responded with a look of bemusement, running her hands over the velvet, finding a sense of joy in doing so.

“And why do you have this little toothpick?” Dro’Sintaba asked, flicking a finger at the sword sitting on her hip. “You don’t have the skills of a fencer. I know that much, kid.”

“Excuse me, that’s a rapier - and I can too use it.” Ms. Vasellius replied, clearly growing impatient with his comments. 

“Whatever,” Dro’Sintaba huffed, unable to bring a hand up properly to rub his tired eyes, they were busy carrying her belongings. He had to keep reminding himself it had been good pay, half now, and half once they arrived in the Imperial City. A ship to Anvil seemed the least taxing method to carry it out. Once in Anvil, they’d caravan, he’d receive the rest of his money and leave Ms. Vasellius to her own devices. He hoped. He really hoped that would be it, but the manner of his hiring by her hand had been a curious one. 

They’d met in ‘The Shy Lute’ two nights prior, she was hooded and attracting attention even then. If only she’d had the toothpick he might not have gotten himself embroiled in whatever scheme she was planning. Because if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that mysterious women in taverns seeking a hireling were usually up to no good. Ms. Vasellius was a magnet for trouble, it seemed. Still, he wasn’t one to let a woman be hurt and so he’d intervened when a scabby looking Breton had made an unsavoury proposition. The rest, as they say, [i]is history.[/i] The Breton got two or a few more cuts to scab over after that, Ms. Vasellius got her bodyguard, and Dro’Sintaba got himself some work. It was a win win win situation.

Dro’Sintaba watched the petite woman practically skip her way onto the Kismet, her raven hair bobbing around in it’s loose ponytail - tied with a ribbon in the same hue as her jacket. What he’d gleaned so far was that she was too cheerful, too talkative, and too much trouble. She was most certainly hiding something, and the skeptic inside of him assumed it all to be an act. He had plenty of time to find out who was really in there.

As he watched her provide the attendant with their receipts, he sighed again. He’d been in Daggerfall for too long, and it surely felt good to be leaving now - but like this? It was strange - he felt something in his chest, a flutter of anticipation perhaps? Dro’Sintaba gave a friendly nod to the Altmer attendant. A man whose height almost threatened his own, with flowing blonde hair to the small of his back - he was as androgynous as many Altmer were, it was simply his absolute boyish figure that gave it away - not a slight curve on him. In fact he looked so frail and willowy, that it seemed a strong enough breeze might just carry him away into Oblivion. 

Ms. Vasellius’ bags were collected by someone else and escorted away - she went alongside the escort, and the two were chattering happily all the way across the ship. It was annoying. The Cathay-raht decided that from now on, he’d refer to her as ‘Vas’ - whether she liked it or not. Then, the Khajiit simply made his own way across the deck, taking himself a seat on a barrel by the railings. His eyes were drawn to a dominating figure by the wheel - a smirking redguard with grim eyes, dressed in finery with a scimitar at either side of his belt. [i]Strange[/i] he found himself thinking, and then found he wasn’t thinking too much about it at all - electing to simply sit in meditative silence - enjoying the gentle rocking of the Kismet on the easy waves of the port.[/indent]