[center][img]https://i.postimg.cc/kX89ST2C/cyn.png[/img]
[b][color=DC143C]Time:[/color][/b] Night
[b][color=DC143C]Location:[/color][/b] Sorian Harbour; aboard [i]Remembrance[/i]
[b][color=DC143C]Interactions:[/color][/b]
[b][color=DC143C]Mentions:[/color][/b]
[b][color=DC143C]Attire:[/color][/b]
[hider]Plain roughspun shirt (white) and trousers (brown)
Patched knee-length coat
Shoulder- and waist-belts
Old leather boots
[/hider][/center]
Neirynn circled the Remembrance’s mainmast with slow, lazy flaps of her wings. 

The harrier drifted on a calm, offshore breeze, dripping low—almost to the topsail’s yard—before climbing again with an updraft. Her feathers flashed silver and white in the pale moonlight, her hooked beak glinting like a honed blade. Far below, the ship rocked as she slipped through the harbour’s dark waters, her sails rustling and rigging creaking. 

Cynwaer sat on a crate by the gunwale, his coat crumpled in a heap by his feet, and the right sleeve of his shirt rolled up to his shoulder. Crouched beside him, a woman tended to a bleeding gnash on his forearm, a needle pinched between her thumb and index finger. She had her dark hair pulled back into a loose bun, and her eyes, keen and icy blue, peered over the top of a pair of round-framed spectacles. Squeezing her lips into a thin line, she lightly prodded the needle into Cynwaer’s raw flesh.

An involuntary yelp leapt from his lips, and he pulled his arm away. [color=DC143C]“Feckin’ careful!”[/color] he snapped. [color=DC143C]“Dae ye think ye’re stitchin’ a feckin’ dress?”[/color]

The woman sighed and looked at him. With refined, elegant features, and a gaze that could turn fire to ice, she could’ve easily passed for a noblewoman—or a member of Caesonian high society, at least. [color=FF6347]“I mean, I could stitch a dress,”[/color] she said drily. [color=FF6347]“But I don’t think you’ll look good in it, Captain.”[/color]

Cynwaer scowled, but offered his arm to her all the same. She prodded his wound again, this time a touch more gently. 

[color=FF6347]“Yes, Matilda is right.”[/color]

Both the captain and surgeon of Remembrance turned their heads. Approaching them from the stern was a woman. Unlike Matilda, she had a plainer appearance—the sort that wouldn’t look out-of-place in a quiet village or hamlet far from any major city. Her strawberry blonde hair, streaked with black, was tied into two tails that draped over her shoulders. She twirled the ends of one of them around a finger. 

[color=FF6347]“You would look [i]terrible[/i] in a dress.”[/color] There weren’t any hints of mirth in her voice. Anyone else who’d heard her might be forgiven for thinking that she was being dead serious. 

Thankfully, Cynwaer—and Matilda, for that matter—knew better.

The surgeon chuckled under her breath as she tightened a stitch. Cynwaer drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. [color=FF6347]“See?”[/color] Matilda said. [color=FF6347]“Even Adaleida agrees.”[/color]

Cynwaer ignored her. He gestured to the barrel across from him. [color=DC143C]“‘Ave a seat, Ada. D’ye need somethin’?”[/color]

Adaleida gave him a nod of thanks, and sat on the barrel. For more than a few moments, she fidgeted and shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. Then, she stood back up. [color=FF6347]“I’ll stand,”[/color] she said simply, and as if nothing had happened, continued with, [color=FF6347]“You’re following Sya–Shan–Jan–”[/color] 

She cleared her throat. [color=FF6347]“You’re following the foreign captain.”[/color]

It came out as a statement of fact—which it was—but Cynwaer knew better. She’d meant it as a question.

[color=DC143C]“Aye,”[/color] he replied. [color=DC143C]“Pret’y sure that was clear when I said, ‘follow that ship’, aye?”[/color]

Adaleida nodded, as if taking in some profound knowledge. Then, she cocked her head. [color=FF6347]“Why?”[/color]

[color=FF6347]“Good question,”[/color] Matilda interjected. She pulled another stitch tight. [color=FF6347]“Might we have an answer, Captain?”[/color]

Cynwaer shrugged. [color=DC143C]“‘E’s a man worth befriendin’,”[/color] he replied. [color=DC143C]“I saw ‘im cut down fifteen feckin’ men wi’ou’ breakin’ a feckin’ sweat, aye I did, an’ anyone wi’ that sort o’ skill’s worth keepin’ on our side. An’ e’en if we cannae ‘ave ‘im wi’ us, I sure as feck dae’n wan’ ‘im gae’n o’er tae Caesonia.”[/color]

[color=FF6347]“Is that possible?”[/color] Adaleida asked. [color=FF6347]“It doesn’t seem like Caesonian laws would suit him, Captain.”[/color]

She had a point there, Cynwaer had to admit. Sjan-dehk had shown nothing but aversion towards the very notion of witchhunts and witchhunters. The man didn’t even like the word ‘witch’. And the care he’d shown towards one of his arcanists—the one who’d dispelled the magic plaguing the tavern—had been much too real, much too genuine for it to have come from someone who merely [i]tolerated[/i] the existence of magic.

Cynwaer couldn’t help but wonder about the lands Sjan-dehk and his people hailed from. Wherever it was, it clearly had no problems with magic, and those who used them. 

Perhaps, had Cynwaer and his family lived there, instead of Caesonia, she would—

Up above, Neirynn let out a shrill cry. 

Cynwaer shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to daydream. Although thankfully, while he’d been lost in his own thoughts, Matilda had finished stitching the wound closed. Cynwaer looked at it, flexing his arm a few times to make sure the thread held. [color=DC143C]“Cheers, Matty,”[/color] he said.

[color=FF6347]“Try not to get yourself cut up next time, Captain,”[/color] the surgeon replied. 

[color=DC143C]“I told ye befer,”[/color] Cynwaer said. [color=DC143C]“‘Tis was nae but an accident.”[/color]

[color=FF6347]“Sure, they’re always accidents.”[/color] Matilda’s voice was dry, but he recognised the look of care hidden under her sharp gaze. [color=FF6347]“Skilled as I may be, I cannot cure [i]death[/i].”[/color]

[color=DC143C]“Dae’n sell yersel’ short, Matty,”[/color] Cynwaer replied with a chuckle.

Then, he turned to Adaleida. [color=DC143C]“In any case, ye righ’ about ‘im nae likin’ Caesonia, but ‘tis nae somethin’ I’m ‘appy about leavin’ tae lady luck, aye I’m nae. An’ besides, if we wan’tae work wi’ ‘im and ‘is lot next time, I reckon we should come clean, aye?”[/color]

[color=FF6347]“You mean to tell him everything.”[/color] Once again, Adaleida spoke a statement, but meant a question.

[color=DC143C]“Aye,”[/color] Cynwaer replied simply.

[color=FF6347]“Even if he does not like Caesonia, it doesn’t mean he’ll like us,”[/color] Adaleida said, her voice unchanging and devoid of emotion. [color=FF6347]“Or what we do.”[/color]

[color=DC143C]“It’s a risk.”[/color]

[color=FF6347]“A risk you’re taking with a man who, as you said, ‘cut down fifteen feckin’ men’.”[/color]

[color=DC143C]“Aye, a big risk. But we could find oursel’s a good pal. Or at least keep a nasty enemy away frae the likes o’ Caesonia.”[/color]

The ghost of a smile suddenly curled Adaleida’s lips. [color=FF6347]“Great risks for great rewards,”[/color] she said, once again sounding as if she’d just been enlightened by sagely wisdom. [color=FF6347]“That’s just like sailing the unknown. I like it, Captain, and I…”[/color]

She trailed off, a hint of red colouring her cheeks. She looked at her feet, and wrung her hands. [color=FF6347]“I…Um, I, I apologise for ah…Questioning you, Captain.”[/color]

Cywaer stood up with a laugh. He snatched his coat from the deck and threw it on. [color=DC143C]“Nae worries, Ada,”[/color] he said, giving the quartermaster a pat on the shoulder as he passed her. [color=DC143C]“You’ve been wi’ us fer far tae long fer us tae worry about these wee things.”[/color]

Overhead, Neirynn screeched again. She dove, and snatched a passing bird with her claws. Cynwaer and the two women watched the harrier as she landed on the gunwale, her latest meal in tow. 

[color=DC143C]“Anyway,”[/color] Cynwaer said. [color=DC143C]“Let’s ‘er sailin’, an’ be ready wi’ ta’ signals. Our friends o’er there will likely see us soon, an’ I dae’n wan’ us shot tae feckin’ pieces we can e’en talk.”[/color]