Orson squinted down at the castaway, noting the rings in his ears and his rough hands, the worn knees of his pants. Perhaps he had gone soft, as Tobias' accusation assumed. There was once a day when he was a hard, tough man to abide. Bold, he could be called, perhaps, though time had worn on him just as waves churned stones into sand, and he was not the man he used to be. Orson considered himself wiser and a little less brash than he once was. Perhaps soft-hearted was among those traits, now. And he would be lying if he said he had no doubts about this wayward stranger, but he also wasn't comfortable with the idea of calling him an outright savage. No, there was something more to him.
"You're right," Orson said after a moment's thought. "I think the lad's well capable of doing a fair amount of damage, here, but something tells me he won't. If you ask me, he's fighting too hard to hold on to life to snap at the souls who saved him. I think he'd appreciate the gesture." Out of curiosity, Orson started opening the soaked bandolier the man had been wearing and peered inside the pockets, unsure of what he would find. The first one he opened contained, of all things, mint leaves, now wilted and swollen with salt water. One contained a few coins but not many, and another held a variety of small trinkets and baubles of no aesthetic value or apparent function. In fact, most pieces appeared to be broken pieces, and one he recognized as a maimed woman's hairpin. Orson could not ascertain what their purpose was, nor could he figure out any kind of pattern to the rest of the man's belongings. Whoever he was, he didn't have much.
Orson was just about to stop Tobias from cutting the leather necklace on the man's neck--the item was a rare one and was likely of some value to the lad--Captain Vargas came and did it for him. Orson quietly greeted him with a soft and unobtrusive, "Cap'n." He stood, and stepped aside to let Vargas have a good look at the wet, salty lad at their feet and despite the thick summer air, Orson shivered just a little, as the wind was picking up a little and cooled his wet clothes rapidly.
Glad to know the stranger would be looked after, Orson watched first Tobias go, and then a deckhand and the castaway as the two disappeared to the lower sections of the ship. He worried for the blonde, but he was afraid too. He'd never seen a man who wasn't human before and he wouldn't know what would become of it.
"I had Havras untanglin' a line up the mast and he spotted 'im floatin' back that way." Orson pointed. "I dove in and checked to see he was alive and since he was, we hauled him up. The lad don't look good, but he'll pull through..." Orson was avoiding the large issue at hand, mostly because he didn't know how the Captain would take it. "I noticed..er...the lad had been hurt, as you saw...and I accidentally opened up the one on his head, see...and er...his blood wasn't red, Cap'n." Havras turned over the heather-gray of his sleeve to show his superior the silver that had now soaked into the fabric. "I'm certain he ain't human. But what he is...I don't know, sir."
Orson handed over the castaway's bandolier-pack, still dripping with salt water despite being well oiled. "Not much to say about his things, except that they don't mark him as a sailor, if you ask me. If I had to guess, I'd say he came from the tropical region to the South--I seen men that looked like him before--but I also think he's a man of experience. Rough hands, a southeastern sand crystal on his neck, and lots of little rings in his ears. If he's civil, he'd be worth talking to, I'm sure."
----
It wasn't very long before the young man caused a commotion again. Dusk had well fallen and the wind had but died for the night, though a few lolling waves rolled by like laundry swaying in a gentle breeze, tilting the ship rhythmically side to side with an occasional creak of protest from the oak boards. To Rohaan Ja'aisen, this combination was practically a lullaby. He was not aware of much else for some time; just the whisper of the oak and the soft lurching that sometimes made his head tilt to one side or the other. As he regained consciousness but not yet clarity of mind, Rohaan fell into hazy dreams.
"I feel awful, Berlin..."
"Well, Rheoaan, that's what happens when you drink too much. Didn't your father ever teach you about hangovers, boy?"
"It never crossed his mind to impart that kind of wisdom to his eight year old son, no. Is this something you would have passed on to Kirra had you been around?" Rohaan quipped, pulling the scratchy blanket over his eyes.
"To Kirra? No. She's a Havahann. She knows how to stay out of trouble." The broad man laughed. "You, on the other hand, are a Ja'aisen. Had I known you would be so much trouble back then, then yes, I would have taught you early. Now, you get some rest, boy. Word is there's a pie in the galley, and I intend to have me some before the crew eats it all."
"Pie..? Come bring me some, Berlin."
"It'd make you right sick, it would. Rest yourself Rheoaan." Smirking tauntingly, Berlin left, heading up the narrow stairway.
"Hey...wait, Berlin! Ai, Berlin!"
Though he'd been unwittingly uttering low moans for a minute at least, Rohaan spoke no coherent thing until a very muddy, muffled, "Berlin..." came out from between his cracked lips. The medic aboard the ship, a quiet auburn-haired man called Eli, watched the man carefully, as he had been since he finished dressing the young man's small wounds. If indeed he wasn't human, he would be a fine specimen for observation. When the now sweat-laden stranger asked for Berlin again, this time more coherently, he leapt up and went only so far as the door to holler (which was a feat itself, as Eli did not raise his voice much), "Fetch the Captain! And hurry! The castaway's comin' to!"
It was only a minute or so before the blonde called out for someone called Berlin again, though he got about halfway through saying the name when his eyes, an unnerving blue color brighter and deeper than the tropical seas, snapped open and he bolted up, scrambling to get to his feet. He didn't really succeed, though he did end up tossing the blanket laid over him onto the floor in his fright. Truthfully, he hadn't gathered his full faculties enough to actually get himself up to his feet, so when Eli quickly but hesitantly went to his side and urged, "Easy, lad. All is well. Try not to hurt yourself." Rohaan didn't need a whole lot more convincing and sagged, defeated, back into the cot. The color had returned mostly to his face and indeed, he had the milky-tan complexion typical of the Southern tropics as Orson had noted, just a slight shade darker than the graying sailor himself. His eyes, however, were undoubtedly his most striking feature. They were a true cobalt, and if one looked very, very closely, one could spot the wafer thin tendrils of silver veins in the corners of his eyes. This could only be seen up close, though, and upon very careful examination, for it was subtle and easy to miss.
Rohaan's throat felt crusty and like ash. Still, he managed to rasp, "What happened, and what vessel is this?" He spoke clearly enough for a man who wasn't supposed to be human, though on a few words, a very light and odd accent surfaced.
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