Who

Iviano, Kehm

What

The two captives, one of them willing, meet on deck and discuss their predicaments.

When

It is the twenty-eighth day of Winter and 57 degrees. The day is dreary and overcast. A chilly winter rain is falling down in soft drizzles.

Where

Southern Cross

OOC Date 01 Aug 2015 04:00

 

iviano_default.jpg kehm11.png

"Wait! I bet it's Tiny."



Main Deck

Longer and wider than the other decks of the ship and lacking a tall mast to preside over it, the main deck is set up a little differently. There's the same sweep of dark stained wood and worn rails, but the contents are more than just rigging and sails. There are several rowboats, suited for at most, four men crews secured to the floor with a thick ropes and heavy clips. Crates of product are stacked around, some creating convenient hidey holes and nooks for a person to take a nap or hold a private conversation. There's a large swath of empty space in the middle and a set of short stairs leading to the quarter deck. Off to the side lays an ominous plank of wood, there are droplets of blood and scuff marks on it.


The main deck is often crowded and loud, but with the middle of the day darkened by the winter clouds, and the cold drizzle that causes the hairs to stand up on the skin, most people have deserted to the inside. This leaves only those who have the unfortunate luck to have some job or other to do outside. This lot includes Iviano, because he always seems to get the shit draws on chores, and so he is settled on the railing, with one foot hiked up and the other settled on the deck, singing a soft, if rather nasty little pirate tune to himself as he works at a knot in the ropes.

Is it fever or the weather? Kehm's been running hot the past two days ever since being on the Southern Cross, which he found out is the name of this rig just this morning. His quest for air and ability to stay useful (and alive) means he's on deck, and finally has privacy enough to piss off the edge. Iviano does not get much of a show, sorry. Mission complete, he exercises each vertebra one tiny stretch at a time, experimenting with the strain to muscles groups. "Tied those in myself last night," blinking water out of his eyes at Iviano. He could be serious.

Iviano's eyes lift upward from the knot, to land upon the newest captive/crew member, his little song continues for a moment as he finishes the verse before responding to the comment, 'and then she lifted up her skirt…'. A mischievous grin appears after a moment and he offers a chuckle, "Oh good - already making more work for me. You'll fit in nicely around here then." The sarcasm heavy, but the tone light enough, he knows how to take a kick. "You've made it two nights? I've seen men make less."

"Don't know that one," Kehm declares in the harsh accent of the native bands roving this part of Southern. "But it has happened to me." Doubtful he was the inspiration behind that ditty though, it predates him. He stands roughly in the middle of the ship, watching rainwater leak through the hatch. Head turned in partial thought, "not just job security, life security. So long as there is shit they don't want to do you're safe. More or less." Care is taken to get on one knee, his back to Iviano so the boy isn't seeing the brand of anguish on his face from the 5-day old stab wound. He makes it seem as though the slowness is trying to keep his balance on the rolling ship. "So what's your— no let me guess. Is it Salty? Slim? Duff?"

"Not really." The longer-surviving captive offers about job security. "It will for a while, but unless you have a talent for bringing in goods and marks they won't keep you. And Faranth knows we've brought on a lot like you recently. Not sure what The Cap is about, but there's only so much grunt work to give around. Best you start looking for what you are going to bring onto the ship, or if you have valuable information - don't give it up without some sort of assurance that'll you'll be alive the next day. And I don't just mean someone's word." The klah-sweetened young man, offers a smile of support, if not outright belief the other can do such a thing. "Iviano, helps me blend end on shore if they don't call me Long-Legs." A scuff, "Slim. Good one." Clearly not the first time he's heard that. "And you? You worth naming, or you going to be dead tomorrow?"

"Wait! I bet it's Tiny." Kehm is having too much fun guessing because: ship = excruciating tedium. He imposes steady pressure on the hatch handle to open it, sees one of its giant hinges cracked. The tools given to him by Bentley are many, a collection absorbed from other ships some both useful and others? God knows where they're supposed to be inserted. It doesn't seem he's listening, eyes pinched until they're surrounded by lines as they scan the heads of the instruments. Several he guesses at its function. "Kehm. Sounds like dream. You know, like the one we're living." He's still trying to cipher the tools, finally pulling one from the canvas holder and seeing if he and it can do justice to the hinge. "You must be nice. No wonder you make a terrible pirate." Water drips readily from his hair.

Iviano sighs at the newest member of The Southern Cross and shakes his head, "Yes. It is Tiny. That is my name." The man stretches his legs out in front of him as he returns to the knot. His only facial expression is the lift of his eyebrows as Kehm calls what they are living a 'dream'; if they could go any higher the would, but they can't so he just emphasizes his disagreement by snorting heavily and grumbling, "Whatever." As for his abilities and characteristics he laughs, "Yes, I am nice, and yes, I am a terrible pirate." Mostly because he isn't one, "But, you'd be surprised what people will give you, or what you can take when they aren't suspicious of you - because you are nice." A lot. The answer is a lot.

Hm. He thought he had Iviano pegged as a Tiny or at least a Duff. "'Iviano' sounds like you come from a Hold." Pure speculation. Kehm generates a sound of disgust as none of these tools are going to fix the break in the hatch. They're gonna have to tarp it if they want to keep the water out. "Something about catching more VTOLs with sugar than vinegar. You have a point. Not many people offer me things from their good will. That's when taking it becomes necessary. Maybe if I said please more…" A social experiment for another day. He folds the canvas containing the tools over, conscious of their condition. "The ship have any oil for these?" Waste not, rust not.

"That's what it is supposed to sound like." Iviano finally wiggles his finger into the knot and begins the slow process of pulling the loose end through. Bloody knot, it better not have been Kehm. "Something like that. But I don't think saying, 'Please Ms. lady from the hold, may I have that expensive looking necklace from around your neck', is going to work for me, but if you can put people at ease they'll let they're guard down, which is basically them asking me to take it. Right?" Is that an actual question, no, he offers a flourished and winning smile. "For the tools? I've seen someone using some I think. They don't ask me to use them much." Mostly because he's awful with them. "Guess I'll be running buckets all night." Delightful.

Kehm had made the sensible decision to keep his furs under the protection of the ship's interior though 'dry' in the holding area is a relative term. From a slight angle Kehm is looking at Iviano like he expects the boy to say how much he likes popping fish eyeballs, which would be more normal to him than the disarming altruist (and he did cause those knots, fyi). Kehm is prepared to locate this possible amount of oil, soaked through as he is. A heel grates the slats, imposes a full stop to his impetus. Lording a look over his shoulder, "Iviano, do yourself a favor and cut off someone's ear or something. They'll respect you more. Just don't make it mine, I happen to like symmetry." Then, reeking in wet leather, he's gone.

"Oh. Like those two bronzeriders I took a knife to?" Iviano comments casually to the new guy, before Kehm turns to leave he gives him a smirk, and with another raise of his eyebrows, he turns back down to the next knot.

"Only counts if they died!" A voice without a body booms from damp stairs.

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