[sup][h1][b][center][color=black] E D R I C  B L A K E[/color]
[color=2e8bc0]E D R I C  B L A K E[/color][/center]
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[indent][sup][b]Interacting with:[/b] NULL
[b]Location:[/b] Aboard the Gunpowder Storm[/sup][/indent][hr]

Edric had volunteered to stay aboard. There was always work to be done, and it wouldn’t get done swilling the pisswater that the local taverns or wenchhouses suffered upon their patrons. Not that he didn’t enjoy a pint, gods knew he had, but time on land could soften a man when he wasn’t looking. One drink became two, two turned to dice or worse, and soon the whole evening slipped away. He didn’t begrudge the crew their pleasures. But for him, the quiet was its own reward. Besides, ships didn’t rest, not really. Not even in dock.

He started forward along his usual route, a loop he had walked more times than he could count. It wasn’t written down, but it was there all the same. Start at the fo’c’sle, check the rigging coils by the windlass, then move down along the starboard rail. Midships, pause, watch, listen. A ship talks if you let it, you just have to know how to hear her.

The ropes were too loose again. He knelt beside the pile, hands moving with quiet precision, no grumbling, no muttering, just the steady pull and tuck of a man who’d done it a thousand times before. The lines coiled tighter now, neater. Done right. He let his fingers trail the rope a moment longer than needed and felt the oil, the wear. Not bad quality, not great either. He made a note of that.

Next came the railings, especially where the crew leaned too often, rough fingers left splinters. A fraying gasket drew his eye. He crouched low again, blade flashing for a moment in the dull light before cleanly slicing the binding free. From a pouch at his hip, he pulled a new cord, tied it, and tugged it tight.

Onward. He passed the hatch down to the hold and pressed his palm to the wood. It was solid but the hinge… he knelt again and ran his thumb through the grit and rust gathering there. Salt and time, the Silent killers. He made a note to oil it later.

The sweep wasn’t about urgency, it was about rhythm, repetition, and comfort. A ship was too big to hold in your head all at once, but if you walked her long enough, listened to her, you’d feel it when something was off.

He paused amidships. That was always where he stopped, like a heartbeat between steps. He let his hand rest on the mainmast, fingers splayed. She didn’t speak in words, but Edric swore he could hear something when it was quiet enough. Not voices, or ghosts, Just… the ship, breathing, waiting.

He exhaled through his nose and kept going. The port rail. The cannon mounts. He nudged each, letting his boot do the talking. Solid, but the boards beneath… he crouched, ran a hand along the grain. Still some soot, and the fastenings? Loose. Danneil would get to them, sure, but if he didn’t, Edric would. That was the rule. You didn’t leave things half-done. You didn’t assume someone else would do it. Not if you wanted to keep the sea on the other side of the hull.

He moved again, past the galley hatch, then the quarterdeck steps, and finally the wheel. All part of the loop. All steps in a dance only he deemed to remember. 

At the stern, where the wind hit clean off the water, Edric laid a hand on the railing and stared out at the harbor’s edge. Sunlight glinted on the sea like shattered gold, it was peaceful, almost too much so. He'd never liked Nassau. Too many soft hands, too many loud mouths, but a ship in port was still a ship, and this one still had her shape.

He didn’t say a word. Just stood there, listening. The ship wasn’t quiet, not really. She whispered as she shifted, as she waited. She always did.