Who

Luciana, Zavyr

What

Zavyr relents. Agreements are made.

Some references to possible violence/rape.

When

It is afternoon of the twenty-eighth day of the second month of the ninth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr Protectorate - The Wandering Disgrace

OOC Date 14 Oct 2016 07:00

 

luciana_default.jpg zavyr_default.jpg

"Don’t want trouble? You’ve BEEN nothing but that."



The Wandering Disgrace - Forecastle Deck

A sturdy ladder leads from the main deck up onto this smaller section of the ship. Deep aged oak runs from brass rail to brass rail, tarnished only where patchwork has needed to be done with newer planks of wood. A few crates are scattered around, but this area is largely clear of debris. A rope is left tied together off to the side. The tall foremast reaches up into the sky overhead, the plain canvas sail billowing in the wind. Net rigging stretches from the tarnished rails upwards to the mast's sails. The deck offers a view beyond it, to the bowstrip pointing forward and the figurehead below. She's a beauty, from what a person can see from the top. Carved from solid wood, her flowing hair cascades back against the outside of the ship. Her arms are flung backwards and her elegant face is lifted up, as if she's prepared to dive straight into the rushing waves of the ocean.


Time has stretched on and by since Luciana “asked” Zavyr to join the crew. Things must’ve gone well because the youth wasn’t immediately tossed off (or worse). The bad news, though? He’s, more or less, now Luci’s “charge” and it’s NOT something she was expecting. So it’s no wonder that when they cross paths again? That she’s less than thrilled. Her plan for taking in the youth in the first place is proving to be more of a pain in her ass. Frustrated by the turn of events, Luciana was hoping for a moment of peace to think things through. Not something she can do when ‘babysitting’ the new recruit. So? She’ll toss Zavyr into the first place she can think of on the ship that can be put under lock and key. Literally and she makes sure the door is well locked and that SHE has the key. Probably thinking she’s so clever, even if it leaves a bit of a bad taste in her mouth. But… damn if she just doesn’t need a break right then and she’ll be damned if she spends another moment listening to that kid babble. Not that she goes far; oh no. She’s not that stupid and she’ll seat herself outside one of the few exits leading off from where she left Zavyr and lean back comfortably. A flask is pulled out and she’ll nurse a few long, slow sips of the contents as she broods.

Really, Luciana was quite correct in not trusting Zavyr’s claim to not be able to swim. She was brilliant in keeping her crossbow handy when he claimed to need to use the off-board privy. Very astute in keeping the distinctive tow-haired lad under wraps, under deck, during the day and close at hand, at night. Had Luciana spied the yellow-gold firelizard that showed up every day, near the docks, spinning ever-widening circles in her seeking of some target she’d not achieved? Did she see the little asymmetrical green and small bronze join that queen now and again, orchestrating some dance of near-intimate familiarity? But never does the gold come near the Fool, ever under cover of the decks, and the performer’s own firelizards only join the lad at night. No matter his attempts to gently goad the pirates to indeed toss him overboard to end that constant banter, his quips and outrageous observations, the lad is yet here. When, finally, Luciana’s endurance folds, and she locks Zavyr into that room, the lad stands there for some time, considering. No windows. No lights to speak of, except the dimming glow left in there, that cast long shadows of every shape. No matter.

On Luciana’s third draw from the flask, the door behind which she’d secured the Fool swings open, and said youth steps out. From all appearances - stealthy and silent of hard-soled boot - the youth did not expect his jailor to be just outside the door. He freezes, then, in full study of Luciana for a long moment. During that instant, the lad assesses the pirate’s ready access to the crossbow, to her other weapons. As the woman reasonably did NOT expect Zavyr to be that adept, that quiet nor that effective a lockpick, the dreaded crossbow is on the floor. And the aisle to the corridor is but a scant score of quick footfalls away. The Fool acts, perhaps, on impulse: “I heard spiderclaws were on sale, a dozen for a quarter mark. Race you there!” And he’s off, bolting toward the exit up.

For now the gold firelizard will go unnoticed, as will the arrival and return of Zavyr’s green and bronze. Luciana has other things to currently occupy her mind; including the very real “escape” of her “prisoner”. He’ll be stared at in turn as he steps out from that room, surprised etched so clearly upon her features as they both remain frozen in tableau. It’s true, she cannot grab her crossbow in time (and how that’ll annoy her later for her moment of lax behavior) and his impulsiveness answered first by a curse from the woman before she’s off like a shot herself to run him down. Intending to reach him before he can find his way out, when she does get a hold of him by grabbing the back of his clothes, she will be quick to haul him back. What may startle her is how light his frame may be and she may use more force than is entirely necessary. She is, after all, expecting to be dealing with a young boy, not a young girl; not that there’s THAT much difference. Still, she’ll seek to roughly pin Zavyr against the wall, one hand moving swiftly to clasp around his neck with sufficient pressure to hold but not choke. Her body will twist in a way to provide the rest in ensuring that he’s, at least for the moment, unable to escape. “You’re really starting to piss me off, kid.” she growls, breath a touch heavy from the excursion of chase and capture. Realizing they’re not in the best of places for this little heart-to-heart, she’ll back off, but only after her hand keeps a hold on him; this time by the back of his neck; clothes, skin and hair. Literally, he’s a dog here. He can struggle if he wants to, but it may only do him worse and make his “captor’s” temper all the fouler. It’s back to that room that Luciana drags both of them, kicking the door shut and remaining INSIDE with him this time. Never mind the near insufficient lighting; she can see enough for the purpose. “I don’t know how the fuck you got out of this room. What other tricks do you have? And are you as stupid to use them? Where’d you think you’d go?” she half-snarls at him, keeping her voice lowered (of all odd things). “You’re damn lucky I was the one that caught you! Any of the others would’ve not been so kind. Do you want to be whipped, kid? Because even I’m being tempted now!”

When Luci analyzes this encounter later, a few points might become clear that, in the heat of the moment, are not. First, in addition to the scant weight claimed by the lad, contrary to the build suggested by the loose clothing he wears (likely stolen, but not in good repair, so stolen some time ago. From some Northern clothesline), there’s the feel of layers. Of more cloth under the shirt. And the lad simply has no fight in him. He does not strike back, does not hit or claw or bite, but evidently his attention goes to minimizing sustained damage as he is thrown against the first wall, as his breath is knocked out of him. Slender fingers catch at Luci’s arm around his neck, but not to battle it away with strength, merely to use her arm as support so he does not choke. He is oddly supple in her grasp, almost like the two are executing an odd dance, with the lad’s anticipating her movements, and attempting to alleviate the worst of the hit of his light frame into the wood of the cabin, to keep his head from smacking hard as Luciana now has Zavyr fastened within the room. She’ll feel, in the immediacy of the moment, the fleeting touch of his fingers on her arm, the swallow in his throat, and then only possibly feel as the fingers of both hands whisper over her clothes, to the visible knife sheath she wears, and finding one other, hidden. The tug of only one is felt, as the blade clears leather, and that, seconds before the knives clatter across the floor, sliding to the darkness somewhere on the other side of the room.

While the lad easily had the opportunity to turn Luci’s own knife on her, while cold steel would have turned the tables, instead the youth simply neutralized that possible threat. His eyes, freakishly pale with pinpointed pupils constricted in high emotion, are likely blind in this dim light, but the lad’s soft voice does finally answer Luci, “No, ma’am. No desire what-so-ever to be whipped. I’d planned to get the hell off the ship and go get lost in the Hold until you all left port. Then, I figure, Pern is a big place, and I, but a small person. There is much to see. What else do I do?” The Fool relies on words, in catching and hooking Luci’s interest to hopefully belay her wrath for the fleeting theft and toss of those knives. “I pick pockets.” Obviously, Luciana can now attest to the lad’s skill, “I jump. I tumble. I fall. I climb walls. I leap from roofs. I have lived in a cave for some four turns and am fairly confident about them. I ride runners, drive wagons, can wash a mean table, muck out a stall and repair a cobbled road inexpertly. I cannot, it seems, Impress a dragon.” She’ll feel those hands come to rest on the arm she has against his throat. Not fighting it, but in a posture that, if Luciana puts pressure on Zavyr’s neck, the youth might be able to continue to breath. He simply does not attempt to fight.

It’s the lack of any aggression in turn that keeps things from spiralling further. Luciana is not overly violent herself, despite the threats she snarls and the behavior she’s shown now. She’s no real desire in physically harming Zavyr, beyond roughing him up a bit but if she’s truly pushed? There have been a few who have misjudged her before. Hearing the knife clatter to the floor has her lowering her head and glancing vaguely towards the direction of the sound but soon her eyes will look back up to the youth she now has pinned against the wall. Damn it, that was a good knife! She’d taken it from Inessa but… it was still hers and good quality. The fact he didn’t turn it on her registers next and has her easing back, just a tiny little fraction, as she scowls down at him. Idiot kid, that’d have been the perfect moment! Grudgingly, she may have a little respect for his gall and what she’s perceiving as a lack of real fear. It gives her pause. “Good. Don’t run and you don’t get whipped, or beaten or whatever other horrors usually await deserters. You got on this ship and like it or not, are stuck here until otherwise said so. Got it? And why are you so damn set on the Hold? Didn’t you hear me earlier? There’s sickness there. Catch it and you’ll liable not to see any of Pern again as you’ll either be dead or crippled and blind for the rest of your miserable, wretched life.” Apparently losing her sight is a fate worse than death to this woman. He does succeed in catching her full attention next, as her hold on him does not tighten; neither does it let him go and they remain at this awkward stalemate. “Pick locks, too, then. Should’ve known better.” Lower spoken, like a thought voiced out loud, she mumbles: “Should’ve tied your hands and feet.” Alas. She didn’t and now they’re here. “From a Weyr, then? That were you got those two creatures of yours?” His lack of ability to Impress earns no sympathy, as Luciana has very little love towards the Weyrs. Realizing they’re deviating off the matter at hand, she’ll press down harder against him in a silent threat as she leans in. “If I let you go, are you going to behave? No tricks?” Honestly, she is getting tired of it all. It may be then that there’s a small registering note at the layer of clothes, the frame of his body, but her focus is still too strong on Zavyr himself and his answer.

“Oh. I get out of bindings too.” Zavyr adds. “My uncle used to tie me up. For fun. Not -” he hastily adds, “That kind of fun. We were traveling entertainers. It was… Entertainment. Escaping bonds. How fast… Bets…” Weakly spoken. “I’m very good at that, still.” As Luciana begins to relax, as the situation de-escalates slightly, Zavyr’s pupils round larger, and Luciana will feel him try for a fuller, deeper breath. “No. I am from an underground cave system. Near Igen Weyr. Where there were Raiders.” The honesty is flat, but there. “The Weyr opened it up, when they figured out where we were. And I found one of the eggs - the green - under a hen, while I was stealing hen’s eggs, in the Underground caverns. Before it was opened up. I had no idea how it got there. The bronze… A friend of mine gave the egg to me. She knew I was going to leave, if I did not Impress. The green is fairly useless, and she wanted me to have a larger lizard.”

Then the pirate is leaning in and Zavyr stiffens once more, reflexively tightening his fingers on the woman’s arm, then willing them relaxed again. “Ma’am? -Yes!” Zavyr’s tension is legion; this woman is far too close, and Zavyr is desperate to put distance between Luciana and whatever she might discover with this particular intimacy, “I’ll behave. I yield.”

A hasty explanation is very welcomed, as Luciana was about to take it all the wrong way and was already partly voicing a incredibly disgruntled sound. Still, the explanation has her eyeing Zavyr, studying him in that dim lighting in the room. Curious, so very curious. “Ahh. So you’re not entirely unlike us, then.” she mutters, taking note of his explanation of the firelizards with a dismissive huff of breath. “Keep those two on a tight leash as well. Not everyone here is fond of them. Myself included.” Yet she won’t harm them, as others might and that warning weighs heavily in her tone and the look she gives him. His reaction to her leaning in brings a grim sort of satisfaction that she’s FINALLY got to him, but it also draws a few more little nagging notes that she’s no longer so distracted that she doesn’t catch on. Keeping to her word, she lets him go, but her hand hovers, indecisive, before giving a probing touch of her fingers to his shoulder; next, a flat hand more to his chest, briefly, before moving to his side. Unless she’s stopped, of course, in her examination that isn’t wholly intrusive but still a breach of personal space. Suspicious now, her hand lifts with fingers seeking to take hold of his jaw this time and tilt his head, as though she’s trying to find the truth there, in his features instead. “How old are you, kid?” she asks flatly, finally dropping that hand of hers back to her side.

“I don’t deal in blood.” Zavyr repeats to Luciana’s question about the similarity of pirates and raiders. But Luciana’s prisoner stops speech once more as the pirate begins an exploration that would be the natural consequence of suspicions that Zavyr was hoping to avoid. The disguised woman presses against the wall, exhaling as if to make herself that much narrower, but says nothing until the question is offered. “Eighteen.” That number returned flatly. Eighteen, when many a Pernese woman is pregnant with their second child, long married or apprenticed to a Craft. Zavyr senses the proverbial beginning of the end, now.

Luciana knows all too well what ‘eighteen’ can imply. His age brings no answer from her, just her cold stare as she seems to come to a conclusion all on her own. The lack of any action or denial on Zavyr’s part likely confirms her suspicions too and his sudden silence. She doesn’t openly call him out even as it dawns on her. There’s no laughing or sneering or anything of the sort. Just silence and the sound of wood creaking as she takes a step back. Then another, slow one as her eyes remain on him. Eventually she’ll crouch and it’s obvious then that she’s trying to seek out that knife, vaguely aware of where it went and blindly reaching for it with one hand and keeping him held by her gaze alone. When her fingers finally brush against the knife, she’ll grasp it and rise up from her crouch to walk towards him again. Given their recent altercation, her approach could be menacing if he assumes the worst. When in reality what she’s about to do will be in stark contrast to her recent behavior towards him. She’ll get close enough to take one of his hands and place the hilt of the knife into his palm, curling his fingers around it if she has to. “You’ll have to, at some point, kid.” she mutters low. “And I don’t care what your reasons are and it’s none of my business but I won’t rat you out. Dangerous enough for a kid, worse for… I’m sure you get it.” So the knife is his to take, the one she’d so happily taken from Inessa, once briefly hers and now attempting to change hands again. Luciana will be damned if she allows him to go without it but she won’t push it either. At least she tried?

As the woman had crouched, Zavyr had held statue-still. The one skill he’d held back from his captor was his talent at throwing knives. He, like many skilled persons, assumes he is not alone in his hobbies, and with her crossbow outside, the knife would be the next logical weapon with which she might harm Zavyr. But the youth’s regard is calculating, and he knows where the door is, and who is likely to reach it first. Yet he stays, still, to watch. Without are a shipful of pirates, none of whom owe Zavyr the first allegiance and several of whom may be annoyed by the presence of the odd Fool, for he has taken the time of Luciana, and she, with her duties altered, has no doubt increased the workload of the rest of the mates. Within is, possibly, the one ally Zavyr might have on this ship. And if what she says is true - that deserters are hunted down… Been there, done that.

When Luciana folds Zavyr’s fingers around the hilt of the knife, the fingers stay. Then the blade slides into the empty sheath at the lad’s belt. “I,” he repeats softly for the third time, “Don’t deal in blood. Unless…” There was an exception. Ironically, with a dagger given to him by another, that Zavyr impaled Nodin with. The leatherworker’s disappearance remains a mystery in the Underground, a story of speculation that entertains around late-night fires. But the Fool shakes his head, the briefest smirk on his features, “I am but a Fool, and most don’t bother to deal with the inconsequential. But thank you. There was a second knife I took off you. It should also be under the bunk, there, ma’am.” Then, abruptly, “Rigging. If you could get me a position on the rigging, I could stay clear of most of them. The others. I don’t want trouble.” Trouble does seem to want Zavyr, however. “What.. Else will you have me doing here, Mistress Sharp?”

“I’ll worry about that knife later,” Luciana might not have been aware that he’d taken both off her person and doesn’t want to let on that he’d managed that feat without consequence. So it’s brushed off for now and she’ll focus on the more important matter at hand. She’s no idea of Zavyr’s past, just the few glimpses he’s so far shared. “Don’t thank me. If I’d known, I’d have left you on those plague ridden streets. You wear it well.” IT being the disguise. It had her fooled… until she got far too close. His abrupt suggestion brings a narrowing of her eyes, as though she’s annoyed by him making such a demand at a time like this. Yet… Again, she pauses in thought. Maybe? “I’ll see. I could spin it more like punishment or some angle to keep folks from wondering why you’d damn well choose that. Heh,” She’ll huff, briefly amused. “Don’t want trouble? You’ve BEEN nothing but that. For now, you’ll do as your ordered. Not by me, though I’ll try to get you to rigging.” Obviously she still has her own hidden agenda for Zavyr, but she needs just a little more time to work out the details. She HAD been doing so, until he tried to escape and with what she just discovered? New skills and the truth? Well… that changes things. “I’ll let you out of this room, too. One last chance, kid. Got it?” Another pause and her mouth twists into a grim, but sly smirk. “I know what you are, now. Remember that.” It’s a low, low tactic, blackmail but one Luciana is familiar with.

Once upon a time, in the past, Zavyr had been able to pull off the male-lad-shtick up close and personal, too. But then, she was half-starved, razor-thin, and had little to recommend her as female. But Candidacy at the Weyr, though full of hard labor and a thousand little annoyances, did come with the constant buffet of food for the taking. And Zavyr had partaken. Her weight, while still lean, lends a softness to her frame that it had always lacked previously. Despite the strict binding of her chest, despite the overlarge clothes, the immediacy of an unusual health, of actual flesh over the leanly-muscled skeleton undercuts the believability of Zavyr’s male disguise. After a few sevens of shipfood and exposure to the elements, Zav will likely return to her more usual, more convincing uber-thinness. But for now, her disguise is compromised.

To Luciana’s oblique compliment, Zavyr flashes the barest show of teeth, “I am but a Fool, so what I wear,” a gesture indicates the fullness of the demeanor, not just the garb, “is meant to wear on others. Keep them at an appropriate distance, ma’am. And usually it works. I am not,” drolly-spoken, “Generally assigned my own private guard.” The last chance, the threat… Believed. Zavyr’s expression clears to a dead-neutral, and the entertainer reaches to tug on the brim of a pretend hat, with a nod. “Of course, Madam Sharp. I am now a crewmember of this fine vessel, like it or not. The consequence of my desertion is whipping or death, and you now hold over me as particular persuasion, a certain secret whose revelation will likely… Cause me a great deal of…” The gesture is entirely male: Zavyr reaches to rub her chin lightly, where a goatee might grow on a lad of his age, even as her eyes slide uncomfortably away from Luciana’s. “Trouble. With a natural consequence of getting ‘a gal in trouble’, more than likely. And I would, if at all possible, prefer to avoid such a ‘swelling’ of crewmembers.” Numbers, of course, right? Or a swelling of crews’ members? The innuendo is legion.

“I am not your guard or your keeper. Remember that too, kid!” Luciana points out and yet has to prove otherwise yet; so far she’s been exactly both. Could be she doesn’t want to be reminded of that fact? She’ll ignore his continued use of that nickname, less it tip her over the edge as far as her temper goes. Instead, she’ll grin a bit with a quick flash of her own teeth. “Yes, I do.” Good. He was smart enough to pick up on that. As for the trouble? Now her expression falters to one of unease and, shifting her weight, will beckon for the youth to step closer. Such a contrast to her earlier rough handling! “That’s exactly why I’m not ratting you out just now. You don’t look like you’d stand a chance against one man, let alone two… or more. I gave you that knife so you’re odds are better… if you even know how to use it with your ‘no blood’ deal.” There’s a smirk for that, but teasing aside, she grows ever serious and grim. “As much as you’re a headache and a pain in my ass right now, I’m not that cruel of a bitch. So your secret is safe… for now. And if any of the men start sniffing about you, suspicious like? Tell me. I’ll deal with them.” She doesn’t want her leverage on the youth to go to waste after all! That and, despite her other shaky morals? Rape is not among the list and it’s filed under a short list of things she despises and does not tolerate.

Aridly, Zavyr intones, “When I have killed, it was strictly by accident.” The knife is pulled back out of the sheath, with Zavyr’s attention going to it. The blade is flipped into the air. Once, twice, then with a deft speed as the juggler gets the sense of its balance. With a flick of those pale eyes to Luciana, Zavyr pulls another trick out of his bag. The blade is sent spinning across the room to hit the exact edge of a frame of a map secured to the wall. “Is it worth demonstrating?” Of course he can throw knives. That only makes all sorts of sense. “Or will that mean they’ll try to disarm me from a distance before they try to kill me?” The question is leveled earnestly. Zavyr is already quite cognizant of the damage a crossbow can do. And a whip - both the kind used for punishment in certain unstable environments such as aboard a ship, or in a Raider’s cave, and the kind stockmen use to drive herdbeasts. “It’s not usually a skill I try to display. I do not try to draw out competitive martial interests in my fellows, ma’am.” And his mind treks forward along this path he’s resisted for the past several days, during which Zavyr has been wholly occupied with attempting to drive Luciana and the others into setting him ashore. But the pirate’s patience has outlasted Zavyr’s resistance, or her trump card of holding his secret… Regardless, now the Fool has turned to questioning his captor/benefactor about tricks for survival. “And I’ll need to learn to tie knots. And what those …All those ship parts are.” He considers. “How many of them are good with crossbows? And how many are there? Who is apt to hurt me? How badly? Anyone with anything approaching a sense of humor, on this ship?” The again-lad steps over to pull his dagger out of the wall, and while he’s on that side of the room, crouches to retrieve Luciana’s second blade from where he’d tossed it, before. As a second demonstration, Zavyr does the same thing: Three flips of the knife to get the balance, then a hard throw into the far wall, again right along the edge of, this time, the closet doorframe. Accuracy was not a fluke. And no, for the record, he does NOT come over to her, as beckoned.

“That’s usually how it starts. As an “accident” and then next thing you know…” Luciana’s shoulders shrug. There’s no going back, apparently. She flinches when that knife is sent spinning; it was wholly unexpected and the skill with which it’s sent has her narrowing her eyes on Zavyr again. “No,” she states flatly and without further explanation, silent all through his list of questions and his movement as he goes to pull the knife from the wall. She’ll watch too as he takes her second knife and repeats his performance, no longer so surprised and merely smirking for the display. Before he can cross, she’ll take back that second knife, HER knife and she will close the gap between them and unless he moves out from her hand, she’ll seek to clasp it to his shoulder; firmly. “You ask too many questions,” she growls with a voice that is a balanced mixture of annoyance and faint amusement. This is the beginning of a hate-love relationship, really. “And I’ll answer SOME but not without something to drink first. Damned if I won’t need it by the time this waste of a day is done.”

“Fellow thought I was a lad, and evidently that was to his taste. I didn’t see him or hear him coming behind me. I was working my staff.” That, Luciana has not yet seen - where is Zavyr’s staff, anyway? “-Which I would like back, if possible. Please. He knocked me around some. I had no idea a knife went into a man’s stomach that easily. Or that a man could have so much blood in him. It was fast and horrible and if… “ If Styker had not come along and helped a shocky Zavyr, the youth may have simply sat there until a less moral guard came along and found him sitting by the dead body. “I don’t want to be doing that again. Believe me.” Those words are breathed, and while Zavyr stiffens under the clasp of Luciana’s hand, his regard attends her, and he does not take leave, this time. “Seems you have caught yourself a Fool, Lady Sharp. Now, how do you propose to keep me alive, if you can’t answer my questions? If a drink is in order, to lubricate your answers, then by all means, drink. And if,” Zavyr’s amusement is faint, but distinct, “If there are bargains to be driven, I’d much rather you be on the far end of a bottle when they are settled.” He winks.

Luciana utters a low throated sound, “Then the man deserved a knife to the gut. Simple as that.” she mutters darkly and as for his staff? Her mouth twitches. “We’ll see.” Ahh, so that’s also part of the ransom for good behavior? Gain their trust, get your staff back. Simple. She’ll just shake her head when he claims again that he does not wish to kill but refrains from calling him out on it again. As far as she’s concerned, he’ll kill again at some point in his life. “Wish you’d stop calling me that,” she sighs but she’s gradually learning to just shrug it off. His bit of sass will earn him a gentle shake as her hand remains clamped to his shoulder. Even when she reaches for the door and seeks to lead them both out of that dim lit room. “What’d I say about that mouth, too? I’ll answer your damn questions, just ONE at a time! Drink first. Food for you if you want it. Let me guess? No drinking either?” He’ll just earn another LOOK for the mention of bargains and maybe the tiniest shove forwards as she lets him go. Fingers flick in a ‘go on’ gesture. Onwards to the galley! How much of this will Luciana come to regret?

The layers of cloth are clearly felt under Luciana’s hand, but so is the lean, solid shoulder underneath. Zavyr seems amenable to the ‘manhandling’, such as it is, and steps forward into the brighter corridor after dipping his head down to partially shield his eyes from the light. “I perform with the staff. It’s a tool, not a weapon. And the chains.” No doubt those were confiscated too. Zavyr sighs and steps out, reaching down to pick up the crossbow. “I’ll carry this.” Volunteered with a quirky smile, “And if I drank, who’d there be to laugh at you when you got drunk, ma’am? I can’t let you out of my sight, drunk, could I? Something might happen to you, what with your trusting nature and open and warm personality. Hell, on this ship, I suspect there might be a scarcity of noble souls who’d look out for your best interests. And since you’ve got me on three counts - at least until I figure out which cabin is yours, and get my possessions back - then it’s in my best interests to make sure you’re hale and whole. So. Drink up. I’ll eat. It’s a hobby I like to regularly practice.” By now, Zavyr will have a sense of where the galley is on the ship, and at least the lad has absolutely no qualms about any dark or dank or enclosed corner of the entire ship. That is is also not at all afraid of heights is likely also a result of previous living conditions and current ambitions as a roof-top lurker. “So. Would they leave me alone if they thought I was your lover? Just how feared are you, M’lady Sharp, on this ship?”

“No,” Luciana makes to grab the crossbow back from Zavyr’s grip. “You won’t!” She’s not about to let him have that weapon. A knife? Sure. Crossbow? Nope. Especially not HER crossbow. She snorts, “So you get them back when you perform.” she mutters, only to smirk. “You don’t know how much I can drink and I didn’t say I was going to be drunk.” So there. The rest she’ll just let slide over her like water, partially ignored. Clearly her sense of humor is… lacking or she’s just not in the frame of mind to cater to that part of his personality. “Not very feared. I’ve not served aboard this ship for long enough yet and some may still dispute the recruiting of another woman. ‘Bad luck’ they say. Bullshit, is what I say.” she tells him honestly. There’s a scoffed laugh, “It’d crossed my mind that if any of the men started sniffing about you to lay claim. Probably look poorly on me but I’d care less what half of ‘em think.” Clearly she’s not made very many friends and won’t in the near future at this rate. As they reach the galley, she’ll lean in close to whisper low: “Watch what you say now. No telling who’s lurking about.” And then she straightens again.

The crossbow is easily yielded. Zavyr will walk where Luciana’s hand on his shoulder directs him to, and he nods to her last few words. “I kinda figured,” he returns sotto voice, “That bad people were lurking about. But then again, that’s all an attitude. But first…” Zavyr’s regard sweeps over the galley, the people within, “If something goes south with me, since you brought me into this, I charge you with an obligation. You will send word to S’ayde at Igen Weyr and you will tell him, if I am dead. He will contact my few friends. I am known as the Fool, so that will suit.” With that, Zavyr steps forward and if Luciana is not quick, he’ll shed her hand by virtue of his quick movement. He’ll head toward the galley doors, to fetch a plate of what might be offered and when some of the sailors challenge him with a look, the youth returns a steady regard, paired with a flashed smile, a wink, a gesture of hand, but always moving swiftly through benches and tables, until he’s selected one in the middle, and put two plates down. One has breads, the other, fish and what passes as vegetables and the never-ending fresh fruit one might expect at a Southern Port - likely loaded by Drex. There, as if cronies of old, he will await Luciana and her drink, or drinks, if she is willing to test Zavyr’s fortitude.

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