Salt Wind

The dawn had not been kind to the souls sailing on the sea, throwing a torrential wind their way and inciting the ocean to rise up against them. But at length, even the ocean grew tired and relinquished her fight; that night, she let the sailors in her waters breathe and sent a riotous red glow to the horizon as an apology for her tantrum. Gold and pink and bloody crimson banded the sky, tailed closely by rich blue and a looming black that signaled the approach of a warm summer night.

For one ship, the passing of the storm meant a hot meal and then an immediate order to get back to work and tidy up the salty vessel. The youngest member of the crew, a lad of about thirteen, begrudgingly rose from his seat in the galley to take plates and mugs from other crew members to be washed. Anywhere else, this might have been a miserable job, but young Havras learned early on that he could take for himself the scraps leftover from the meal and eat them as a reward for his duty, so he learned to appreciate it. Occasionally he would find himself with some company, too, where he pressed for myths and legends, tricks of the trade, and sips of liquor. He doubted that other kids his age had to work as much as he did, but he also doubted other children got to taste liquor and learn the knowledge and wisdom of so many talented and experienced men, either. He supposed somewhere along the line, it evened out.

An older man pushed open the swinging door to the small kitchen where Havras was midway through scrubbing a soapy stack of plates. A closely trimmed scruff of gray adorned his chin and matched his salt-and-pepper hair, which, though short, was made wild by an ever-present layer of salt. “Havras, boy, are you feeling brave tonight?” he asked, a hint of a smile on his face.
Havras nodded. “Always, sir!”
“Atta boy. Listen close, lad, and put down them plates for a moment, I’ve got another job for you.” When the boy came to stand in front of him, wiping his soapy wet hands and arms on his shirt, the older man motioned back the way he’d come. “There’s a rope tangled up midway up the mast, it’s catching part of one of the sails. Think you can climb up and unravel it?”
Havras nodded enthusiastically. “Aye!” He ran up to the deck, found the rope, and started shimmying his way up the mast with expert skill. He reached out and pulled the rope and the sail free and was just about to climb on down when something caught his eye out in the water.

A dark shape stood against the orange reflection of the sunset, bobbing up and down in the loose waves. At first, Havras dismissed it for driftwood, but as he began to think about it, he thought they would be too far out to sea to see much driftwood, and besides, he could have sworn there was a face, arms, legs…

“Havras, lad, what’s the matter?” The man asked from below, noticing how the boy seemed to freeze in place.
“Orson, there’s a man overboard!” He shouted.
“Are you sure, lad?”
“Aye. He’s got a blue shirt on, I think. Floatin’ face up, looks like. Straight ahead, a little on the port side!”
Orson rushed to the side of the boat, leaning over the railing to take a look when someone thrust a spyglass in his hand. Extending it, Orson looked out at the dark shape and confirmed that it was, indeed, a man. “Where’s a rope? I’m gonna haul him up and check he ain’t dead. Poor soul probably was taken by the storm this afternoon.

As the ship drew closer, Orson took one end of a long rope and dove overboard to swim to the floater, making sure to check him first for a pulse. One hand still clutching the rope and the other pressing against his neck, Orson held his breath. He couldn’t expect the man to be alive, but he wasn’t about to let him die there if he was alive. With much surprise, he tilted his head back and shouted, “He’s alive! Send down another rope, I’ll tie it around his middle and you haul him up!”
After a couple men heaved the stranger up safely over the rails, they helped Orson up as well; by now, Havras had clambered down from the mast to investigate his find, the dishes altogether forgotten. Orson knelt beside the man, looking him over for any serious injuries, though he didn’t see anything fatal. The stranger had, however, endured some form of hardship, it seemed, as there were minor lacerations on his arms, one on his forehead, and he had a cracked lip. It was puzzling, though, because even though he’d stopped bleeding some time ago, there were crusty remnants sealing the superficial wounds closed...and they weren’t red. They were a shiny, vibrant silver. “Someone go find the Captain, tell him we’ve picked up a drifter...but I ain’t sure if he’s human.”

Despite the silvery blood, he looked very human with a strong, lean build, shoulder length blonde curls and an unkempt but very short beard that suggested he probably didn’t have the chance to shave in a while. Crude but small metal hoops adorned his ears--he probably had a combined twelve rings between his two ears, and it looked like another one had long ago been forcibly removed. They looked just like the rings used to mark prisoners in some regions; whoever he was, he’d apparently seen the inside and outside of many a jail cell and had managed thus far not to get himself hanged. He looked pale. Either he was fighting some sort of terrible infection, or he was just beginning to overcome the worst of a botched poisoning. As Orson put his jacket over the man, he told himself this man would have many stories to tell if he made it through his ordeal.

Tobias Merrick sat in the roundhouse of the Steadfast, a large and beautifully crafted brigantine that Captain Vargas had acquired long ago. It was made of fine oak and had one large sail in the stern and many smaller ones from the main deck to the bow. The ship had been modified to hold many cannons and it served its purpose by intimidating the crews of most of the ships that crossed its path. For those who did not heed the warnings, a few rounds of mortar fire were usually enough to set them straight.

Tobias was in the company of his informant, a small, redheaded, sinewy carpenter’s mate named Elias Timbers. Apparently, he had run all the way from the bow of the ship to inform Tobias, the Quartermaster, of an incident happening on the main deck. It was customary for mundane crew disputes to be brought to the Quartermaster before the Captain was to be disturbed in his cabin. However, this was no such incident, as the Captain would surely want to be informed of an unconventional castaway. Elias should have run straight to Vargas, just as Orson had instructed, but he favored the logic and ideals of Tobias over those of the esteemed leader. He trusted Tobias’ opinion in all matters and made sure to keep his Quartermaster updated.

“Th' laddie 'n Orson found a cast away,” Elias said with a crooked grin on his face. Tobias sat at a small desk with a bit of parchment in front of him. It was a map of some sort and he never took his eyes from it, even after Timbers had crashed into the room panting his declaration. Tobias grunted softly and one side of his lip rose in annoyance, for he hated to be disturbed with matters that actually seemed banal. His eyes rolled up from the map and fixed on Timbers.

“‘N what of it?” was Tobias’ short reply. His piercing gray eyes displayed the displeasure he felt and he ran his hand through his slightly stiff, chin length, dark brown hair. Bags were forming under his bottom lids as if he had spent many nights awake. The cream colored tunic he wore was lined with wrinkles demonstrating an unusual lack of care for his appearance. To anyone else it would have been obvious that he was in no mood for drivel, but apparently the carpenter’s mate had never learned of such social cues.

“Well matey, th' man be alive,” Timbers sputtered excitedly. His brow was covered with a sheen of sweat and his breath smelled strongly of grog. Tobias scrunched his somewhat pointy nose up and continued to give Timbers an icy glare. He portrayed the air of a high class gentleman in all official affairs in an attempt to prove himself better than most of the crew. Many found his cynicism to be disheartening and humiliating, but for some reason Timbers kissed the ground he walked on.

“Be that all? You stink,” Tobias said as his eyes traveled back down to the map.

Timbers looked down at his shirt and turned his nose to get a whiff of his armpit. He shrugged his shoulders as if he had no clue what Tobias was talking about and proceeded with his chatter. “Orson claims th' scurvy dog may not be human.” It was as if he had spoken magic words and Tobias’ eyes shot up. He stood and walked to the door where Timbers stood, the map abandoned. Outside the roundhouse, the hall was deserted. A commotion could be heard as he drew closer to the cabin portal that opened onto the quarter deck. From there it was a short distance to the main deck where a crowd of hands stood looming around Orson who was stooped over a prostrate body.

“All hands back to work!” Tobias shouted above the din. Many turned and looked on with surprised expressions and only dispersed after giving a unanimous groan of disapproval. He was relatively sure he had heard someone ask, “whar be th' cap'n?”, but he chose to ignore them and headed toward Orson and the vagrant. They were both soaked from head to toe, but the outsider looked pale as if he were combating some sort of infection.

“What has caused you to believe this man is not human?” he asked Orson as he continued to inspect the stranger.

"Orson..." Havras leaned in timidly, unsure of what to do. "Is he gonna make it, y'think? What do you think happened to him?"
"I can't say, lad," Orson said as he continued to check the man for clues as to where he might have come from. "I can see he's fighting mighty hard to live, though. He ain't giving up, that's for sure." Orson scratched his stubbly chin with a low 'hm...' Looking back up to Havras, he gently squeezed the boy's arm endearingly and said, "Well lad, you'd best keep your distance. Nobody's certain where he came from or what he is..besides, you got them dishes to finish."
"Aw, but Orson--"
"Ah, lad, don't give me any lip, now. Better to listen to crusty old me than to have to hear it from someone less patient than I." He gave a wink and waved his hand. "Shoo, boy. Before the Captain sees you."

Orson returned his attention to the stranger as the boy hesitantly shuffled away. Orson couldn't imagine what he would be if he wasn't human, but the silver did not lie. And he could have sworn the man didn't look like he came from anywhere in the North, as his skin was just a shade too dark and olive-hued to be of the cooler North. Orson remembered seeing folks with similar traits--the blonde hair and olive skin, anyway, the silver baffled him--in the tropical islands further South. Much further. There was another detail that caught his eye, too. Lashed loosely around his neck with a worn piece of leather was an amber-red stone that was immediately recognizable as something called sand crystal. Supposedly, the blood-orange rock was found embedded in the russet hills of the distant desert and was often sold on this side of the map for a pretty penny. Women loved to make earrings out of it. This man's stone was carved beautifully into a tiny little spotted cat.

Urgent footsteps made Orson lift his head and turn, but he found Tobias the Quartermaster instead of the Captain. Go figure, he thought, but this was one instance where the Captain needed to know. He supposed Tobias would be the one to relay the situation, but for some reason it still surprised him.
"Look here," Orson answered his question. The man pointed a calloused finger to the younger man's forehead where a small wound was beaded with silver. "If that's his blood...I ain't ever seen a man with silver blood, have you?" Orson, wanting to be sure of such an outlandish discovery, gently wiped his wet sleeve over the wound to see if the silver would disappear--perhaps it was paint? In doing so, however, he reopened the cut and shiny silver liquid began trickling out at a steady pace, sticking to the fellow's straw hair. Orson cursed his mistake and got up to snatch a handkerchief out of someone else's pocket, ignoring his shouts of opposition that were quickly cut short as the other man caught sight of the silver dribbling out of the castaway's forehead. Orson tied the cloth around his head and muttered, "Sorry, lad..."

"He needs some medicine, Tobias. Or something. Look at him. I don't care if he ain't human, if there's any chance he's a good soul I don't want to let him die. Besides, I don't know about you but I've got a whole host of questions for him. 'Bout what he is, how he got to be in the middle of the sea like that, and where he came from...because he don't look like no sailor to me. You ever seen a sailor equipped to the nines like this?" Orson maneuvered the thick oiled-leather bandolier the man was wearing off of his limp body. The thing was well crafted with an array of pouches lining the front, a thin slit for a flat throwing knife to hide on the underside of the front, and a wool blanket wrapped up tightly and strapped to the back of it.

"What do you make of all this, Tobias?" Orson was simply at a loss. He'd seen a lot in his day, but not this.

Tobias had noticed the silver colored wounds before the old man had pointed them out, but hadn’t been sure if it was a trick of the rose colored light. He bent down to have a closer look as Orson used his sleeve to test the edges of a wound on the castaway’s forehead. The cut opened under the pressure and silver blood began to pool over the man’s eyelid. Tobias backed up out of reflex and checked to see if anything had splattered on his clothes. Once he was sure he was in the clear he turned back to Orson with a serious expression.

“You have grown soft, old man. We know nothing about this castaway. He could wake up and try to attack us! He surely looks savage enough to pull it off.” His eyes bulged as he began to pace across the main deck. He was trying to calm his nerves and think about a course of action. “You’re damned right I have a host of questions for him, from the other side of his locked cell,” Tobias said as he came to a stop in front of the drifter again. He was going to order someone to throw the man in the brig, but something shimmered in the light for a split second. It was then that he noticed the sand crystal. An artisan of high caliber must have carved it into the semblance of a spotted cat. Tobias’ hand traveled to the hilt of his sword and he was about to cut the leather from the man’s throat, but someone clapped their palm down quite roughly on his shoulder.

He made something like a gurgling sound and turned, ready to strike whoever had dared touch him. That was until he was face to face with Avery Vargas, the Captain of the Steadfast. They stared each other down momentarily until, Tobias stepped aside. Vargas let his glare linger for a moment before walking past him and assessing the situation. “Aye, what goes on here? And why was I not notified?” the Captain asked everyone and no one in particular. Tobias turned and jumped forward to try and spare himself a night with no food or, god forbid, mopping up the bilge water from the cargo hold.

“I was just about to inform you. Right after I threw this disease carrying vermin in the brig,” Tobias stated, failing miserably at pleading his case. The Captain acted as if he had ignored him for the moment and addressed one of the decks hands who had stopped to watch the scene. “Take this man to the infirmary. Someone will see to his wounds and do what they can. Orson, I would like to speak to you in private. Merrick, we will talk later.”

Tobias hunched his shoulders forward and headed back toward the quarter deck. He was infuriated and humiliated and the fact that he didn’t know what sort of retribution he faced, made his agitation all the more potent. However, the Captain was too distracted by the matters at hand to notice. Vargas turned to Orson and used his pointer finger and thumb to stroke his beard, a habit he had formed long ago when he was in thought. He had large brown cow eyes that could either look sympathetic or crazed at any given moment. His hair was slightly unruly and curly, but it wasn’t dirty. He wore simple, practical clothing with no silly hats or frills.

“What exactly happened here? What do you make of our castaway, Orson?”

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.

Captain Vargas listened carefully as Orson explained the situation. He trusted his old friend and believed that there was something odd and alien about the strange man that had been found in the middle of the ocean. There were many things that the Captain longed to ask the lad, starting with how he managed to get himself marooned this far out at sea. If it had been due to a shipwreck, pieces of the vessel would still be floating around in the immediate area and the waters were clear as far as the eye could see. Before Vargas had become the captain of the Steadfast, he had helped man plenty of ships, so he knew quite a bit about the politics and had seen plenty of his crewmates get deserted at sea for insubordination. He wondered to himself if their castaway had undergone the same consequence.

When Orson handed him the lad’s saltwater soaked bandolier, he quickly inspected the contents. There wasn’t much of note just as Orson said, but the Captain was still interested to know what the trinkets meant to their patron. He instructed the hand that was to take the man to the infirmary to put his things in storage until he woke up. It would give the leather time to dry out and should the man actually wish to harm them, all of his weapons would be out of reach. “Also tell the medic to inform me when the lad wakes up,” Vargas said pointedly. He knew nothing of why Merrick had been informed before him about the marooned stranger, but he didn’t like it and wanted to make it clear it wasn’t to happen again. The hand nodded his head and proceeded to take the drifter to the infirmary.

Vargas turned back to Orson before he returned to the main cabin. “You did the right thing today, Orson. Everyone deserves a fair chance in this world and I’m sure God would have frowned upon us had we not saved this man. I don’t know about you, but if there be beings not of this world, I want to know a much as I can about them. This is a step in the right direction and we are on the brink of enlightenment.” He tipped his head forward slightly to signify that he was about to leave and turned from old sailor to head up to small staircase to the quarterdeck. Just before he was out of sight he turned back to Orson to relay one final message. “I will see to it that you are rewarded for your bravery, old friend.”

-----

Night had fallen, the waters were calm and Vargas had retired to his quarters. He was looking over documents from the King and maps of the next area they were to explore. Officially, he and his crew were scouts for the province of Trostan and thereby exempt from trial for acts of piracy. Unofficially however, the King of Trostan had given them the permission to proceed as they deemed necessary to provide revenue for the kingdom. Vargas took his position seriously, but also tried his best not to abuse his power. When it came to many of their skirmishes, if the enemy surrendered he let them escape and took whatever they had that was of value. He knew many of the crew wished that he were more bloodthirsty, but he preferred to be able to sleep peacefully at night without thoughts of men and boys he had murdered on his mind. The less sins he committed, the better he slept.

There was a knock at the door and one of the men came in. Vargas recognized him as one of the crew who helped maintain the cannons. He nodded in greeting and gestured for the mate to speak. “That man that Orson found woke up,” the mate said quickly before he bowed his head low and stepped aside so that the captain could exit before him. Vargas stood from his place behind a slightly warped birchwood desk and headed briskly out the door. He was in his night clothes as he hadn’t expected the lad to wake so soon. It wasn’t far to the infirmary and he greeted the surgeon when he arrived.

“Give us some time alone lad, I have a few questions for our castaway,” he said to the auburn haired man.

Orson just nodded quietly as the Captain spoke. In the presence of the Captain, he was a man of few words, but with a little drink in him and a persuasive word, he could spin some wonderful tales. Like the stranger, he was a man of experience, as his graying hair showed. He was happy to hear that he would be rewarded for what he'd done today; It never hurt to be in the Captain's good graces on a ship and he was glad to know what he'd done was justified (it better have been, he was soaking wet) though a little reward was like icing on the cake. Orson thought to himself that he would try and share whatever reward came his way with Havras, as he was the one who actually found the man. Besides, he had kind of a soft spot for the lad and tended to look out for him more than most. Nodding once to the Captain, Orson went into the lower sections of the ship to change into dry clothes and retire for the night.

---

Rohaan's hair had mostly dried and recoiled into wild, loose curls that would make even the most dissatisfied woman thankful for her own, more manageable head of hair. The blonde tendrils matted to his face, too, the sweat on his brow acting like a glue. More visible now, just in front of his left ear was a thin braid bound at the bottom with a leather wrap that also held captive a bronze coin; both looked like they'd been there for some time. He wasn't certain if he was damp and salty from the ocean, or from his own sweat, though either seemed a likely story, as he simultaneously felt chilly and hot in intermittent waves. Oh, he felt awful. And every once and a while, he swore he would hear things or see things that he knew weren't there; he felt a little dizzy.

A man came down the stairs and entered, taking a look at him for a moment before speaking to the first man with groomed short hair. At first, Rohaan hallucinated that he was a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick hands and arms and silky straw hair in a ponytail--he hallucinated that he was Berlin. The stranger had a look of both relief and confusion as he said, "Ai! Ja'ti, Berlin! Vurai da?" And almost immediately after he spoke in the strange language, his accent thickening, he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head a little. Berlin didn't have a ship anymore. He hadn't seen the man for years, that couldn't be him. Rohaan tried again, looking the man over once more to find him dark haired and brown eyed, not gray-green.

Rohaan watched the first man scuttle off at the order of the second man, the one with dark curly hair. For a while, Rohaan studied him without speaking, as he wanted to be sure of what he was seeing. He couldn't fully remember what happened to him (he guessed it would come in time) but whatever it was, it'd done a number on him. "You must be the Captain," he said at last, more present this time, though more than once he would dart his eyes off to the side as if to look at a moving object, though he seemed to be looking at nothing in particular. Each time, he would realize this and revert his attention back to Vargas. Rohaan had seen his fair share of authority figures in his lifetime and spent most of his life around Captain Berlin, so he knew one when he saw one.

"Questions..." Rohaan murmured with a sigh. "I don't remember what happened. Not yet...It'll come back to me. I was more hoping you could tell me..." Rohaan moaned softly, grimacing just slightly as he muttered something to apparently himself in the same language he spoke in earlier. "I just need a moment..." His hands moved to his chest, feeling for something, and when they did not find it, a deep scowl set into his sweaty brow. He felt at his sides, glanced at his feet, to either side of the bed, but he didn't find what he was looking for. His cobalt eyes snapped back up to Vargas, brows knitted with a question. "Ka'aitu," he said, quickly realizing that wasn't the right word. "Uh...my..." Rohaan was drawing a blank. "My..." Failing to find the common word for it, he said again, "Ka'aitu," though this time he touched his hand from one shoulder to the opposite ribcage to describe his bandolier. "There's a flask in it, I need it. Where is it?" He tried sitting up again, but he could feel the blood fleeing from his head, leaving it light and uncomfortably floaty. Surrendering, Rohaan flopped heavily back into the pillow. "What vessel is this?" He asked again.

The infirmary was little more than a cupboard at the back of the third level of the ship. There were two small round windows on the left and right walls. A few candles rested at the bedside of the two small cots that were spaced close to each other. The Captain sat in the one that was empty so as not to lord over the lost fellow. He was about to ask the outsider where he had come from, but the man began to speak without provocation. His voice had a strong accent that Vargas wasn’t familiar with. He called him Captain, making it clear that he wasn’t some sort of savage. Although at one point, it became difficult to understand some of the words he spoke as if he were speaking another language entirely. When the man gestured toward his chest, the Captain began to understand that the castaway wanted his bandolier.

Vargas sat and thought for a moment about his next move. He was sure the castaway wouldn’t try to hurt anyone and if he did it would be easy to overpower him in his current state. However, it wouldn’t sit well with some of the crew if weapons were returned to a strange man they knew nothing about. Truth be told, tensions ran too high aboard the Steadfast at present for the Captain to risk adding to them. The supporters of Quartermaster Merrick would tear Vargas a new one if they found out he had done such a thing.

He was quiet for a bit as he alternated between analyzing different things in the room and scrutinizing the drifter. There was a pail of water on the floor next to the castaway’s bed and Vargas picked it up and handed it to him.

“I wouldn’t recommend drinking it, but you can use it to wipe some of the salt off.”

Vargas had noticed the matted blonde curls and figured the sweaty lad could use a good splashing. “You are aboard the Steadfast. As for your belongings, they are in safe keeping,” he said finally answering the man’s questions. “We are scouts for the King of Trostan. One of my men found you floating on the water not long ago. You were quite far out at sea and I saw no ship wreckage. Do you remember where you were before we found you?”

The Captain took a seat across from him and again, Rohaan watched him in silence as he, too, remained rather quiet. The guy reminded him of someone, or something, but it wasn't quite coming to him yet. He couldn't really identify it as a pleasant association, either; perhaps someone with similar features had once wronged him, though apparently not bad enough for him to remember much about them.

A little rolling wave hit the ship from the side, making it lurch suddenly to one side and then tilt back and forth slowly, somehow making Rohaan feel more at home. Rohaan always loved the ocean. He wouldn't be surprised to learn that he could swim before he could walk, as that was an actual phenomenon that happened where he grew up, as his small village was incredibly and tightly bound to the sea. The Lady Ocean gave them food, endless hours of entertainment for young children, and shelter when unwanted visitors came to their island with ill-intent. Despite this, Rohaan had never been on a boat until he was eight, and frankly found the entire experience baffling. Of course, once he learned to trust the Captain of this ship, he actually quite liked it and the way that even a mounted cot felt a little like the hammock that used to be just outside his little house, swaying back and forth.

Rohaan took the bucket from the Captain; a cloth was floating in it already and he used it to mop up his salty, sweaty face. Compared to his skin, it felt delightfully cool. It was when he was wiping the damp cloth all over his forehead when he scraped the little laceration on his forehead that by now had truly coagulated and was a little less volatile. It didn't start bleeding again, but Rohaan guessed that at one point, it had been, which meant that these men would have seen his blood. Normally this might have made him nervous, but seeing as how he hadn't been clapped in irons yet, or cast back into the sea, Rohaan deduced that this crew did not know much about his people and what he was, exactly. Surely, they were all wondering.

"You don't understand," he said at length. "There's a flask in the...ai, what's the word? Ka'aitu," he said again, at a loss. "I need it. There's something far more helpful than booze in it, I assure you. Call it medicine, or an elixir. Call it whatever you want, but I need it. If you don't bring it to me, you'd best believe I'm gonna haul myself up and look myself. I need it, Captain."

The man explained he was now on a ship called the Steadfast and that he'd been found conspicuously far out to sea. But what interested Rohaan the most was their affiliation with the King of Trostan. He was a free man on a certified ship! Rohaan never thought he'd see the day, and clearly, they did not know who he was, or they would not have taken the time to see to his wounds. What started as a little grin turned into a chuckle, and then a light laugh. "A certified vessel! What good luck." He was amused, no doubt, and was quickly becoming more and more coherent by the minute.

Rohaan hesitated to answer the last question though. Obviously the question on everyone's mind would be how he managed to get all the way out there, and without a doubt, Rohaan guessed they had already begun to speculate. The blonde wondered how to proceed, now, as he didn't want to tell a certified ship's Captain that he was a wanted criminal and a creature that could be legally sold into slavery or killed (his people were not well liked amongst humans, and hadn't been for centuries). But even he didn't have much wiggle room to lie, at this point. The man would need an explanation and besides, if he didn't know what he was already, then he probably wouldn't have some kind of negative association. Just in case, Rohaan took note of his physical state. If he had to, he probably could shift and try to escape, though it wouldn't be long before he was back in the ocean, floating without much in the way of resources or help.

The blonde grinned, smoothing his erratic curls back with a sweep of his hand. "Now that you mention it, I can remember a little more now. As far as my current condition goes...I...had sorta a nasty fight and I think someone fought dirty and cut me with a poisoned knife. Yeah...I remember now. Bastard. As for how I got into the middle of the ocean..." Rohaan's unnaturally blue eyes flicked up to Vargas', grinning slowly. "Would you believe me if I said I was flying?"

Vargas listened intently to the man who now seemed to be regaining some of his cognition. Upon his final statement, the captain couldn’t help but comically raise one brow. In all of his years on the sea, Avery had seen many things and accomplished numerous “impossible” feats. The incident that led to him becoming captain of the Steadfast is still somewhat of a legend until this day. Many of the younger sailors have tried to get him to divulge the secret of how he was able to capture a band of six foreign merchant ships with limited crew and artillery, but he chuckles and claims it was mostly luck.

Despite all of that, he had never seen or heard of a man being able to fly. He had to take a moment to himself to try and fully grasp the drifter’s meaning. Was the lad saying that he possessed the power to fly or what if some sort of object gave him aid? There were many items in the bandolier that had no significant value to any of crew, but may very well be the key to his abilities. Vargas didn’t want to hold the responsibility for the death of the curly blonde, but he also didn’t want to relinquish any weapons to the stranger either. Not before he had more time to figure out if he was a threat, at least.

Thinking of a way that they all could win, Vargas peaked out into the hall. He was sure Eli was still waiting somewhere nearby, as the infirmary often served as his quarters when he had a patient. Surely enough, the physician sat leaned against a cannon within speaking distance. “Eli, go to the cargo hold and tell them the captain sent you to retrieve something from the castaway's belongings. You are looking for a canteen or anything holding a liquid.”

When he was sure Eli was on his way, he turned back to the drifter. The ship continued to rock gently and the creaks from the hull were familiar and soothing. Vargas was thankful for the evening’s pleasant weather. Dealing with the unknown being was stressing him out enough without adding crashing waves to the mix. “What is your name?” he asked suddenly realizing he had been referring to the lad as the Castaway for the last several hours. However, before the blonde could answer, there was a knock at the door. Vargas assumed it was Eli returning with the so-called medicine, but was surprised to find one of the scullery cooks standing in the doorway holding a tray of food.

The man who oversees the galley is an ancient sailor named, Old John. He is a caring man who probably heard that the drifter had regained consciousness and wanted to make sure he had something in his stomach. Vargas took the tray and nodded, sending the cook on his way. The pewter plate held a flask of clean water, the turtle soup that had been served earlier and a hardtack biscuit that had managed to not go stale yet. It wasn’t a glamourous meal, but it was better than what most ships served. He handed the plate over to the drifter and waited for his response. A name could tell you many thing about a man.

Of course not. Nobody ever believed Rohaan when he made statements regarding his abilities unless they had prior knowledge of him or his kin, and then he often had to dispel a great many myths about what he could or would actually do. Some people believed he could steal another's soul if he changed his shape to their likeness, or perhaps learn a man's secrets. That was silly, of course, but something he heard far too often. The blonde just laughed quietly, as if Vargas' doubt was some kind of inside joke to him.

"That's what I thought. But you asked, and we both know I'm not in much of a position to lie, right now. So take it for what you will." 

An aging man came to bring him a platter of simple food, though Rohaan wasn't quick to dive into it. It wasn't that he wasn't grateful or that he mistrusted them, but despite his apparent coherence, his world was still spinning violently. He'd barely stopped hallucinating, but even moving his eyes too quickly would make him dizzy and sick. Slowly, he picked at the little biscuit, as his stomach was simply not ready to handle the soup. He needed that flask first, and then he imagined he would devour it.

"I have many names," he said when the cook left. "My mother gave me three, and the world has given me far more." he hesitated, for his name was known abroad and there was a good price for his head. But as he said before, he was in no position to lie, now. If he didn't know now, then by the time he figured it out, Rohaan could escape with ease.

"My name is Rheoaan Rohaan Rio Ja'aisen. For the time being, you may call me Rio. My surname is also acceptable. The other two names are not for you." in Rohaan's culture, the first name was the longest and was reserved for immediate family and a spouse, the second and third were derived from the first and got progressively shorter; one for friends, and one for strangers, respectively. To earn the use of the second name took time and trust. "And what are you called, Captain?"

Eli returned with a large flask that looked like it'd seen it's share of wear and tear, wrapped in a nice oiled leather that was still salty and moist. "Doesn't smell like any medicine I've ever seen..." he muttered as he held it out towards the Captain.
"That's cause it isn't like any medicine you've ever seen," Rohaan answered, taking the flask from him quickly before Vargas had the chance to take it first or intervene. It expended a lot of energy for him to do so, but he seemed not to regret his choice to lunge forward and take it. Rohaan unscrewed the cap and within seconds, his eyes dilated sharply. He took a slow pull from the flask with some strain, as if he had to control himself, and then quickly and decisively screwed the cap shut tight before he took more than he meant to.  Rohaan had lied, but only a little--it wasn't exactly medicine, but it accomplished the same purpose and would do him far more good than anything Eli might have had in his wares. Within a minute or so, his eyes had less of a distant, dull look and now seemed to be alight from within, vigor returning to him steadily. His body was still weak, but very slowly, things started to spin less and less.

"Feeling better already..." he sighed, laying back and letting the mysterious substance do its work. "Thank you both."

Vargas watched Rio pick at the small plate of food and knew the foreigner couldn’t be feeling entirely well. The captain rose and stood by the door. The business of maintaining the crew, pleasing the King and now dealing with the discovery of supernatural entities left him feeling a bit strained to say the least. He shook his head for a moment thinking to himself that Rio had misunderstood his reaction to the news of flight abilities. It wasn’t that Avery hadn’t believed him, but rather became more cautious of the man. The possibilities now felt endless because though Rio wasn’t in any position to lie, Vargas was sure that he was smart enough to keep some things to himself; he was still very much an unknown.

Before Vargas could tell Rio his name, Eli returned with a large flask wrapped in strong leather. He held it out to the Captain for inspection, but Rio snatched it quickly. Little more than seconds later, he had unscrewed the cap and begun to desperately chug the odd liquid. It seemed to take all of his discipline to keep from drinking it all. Vargas pardoned the rudeness, for it seemed the drifter had been suffering and only wished escape from his misery as any man would. He cleared his throat loudly to signify that the show was over and Eli was dismissed.

The color was quickly returning to Rio’s cheeks and his eyes shone brightly. Obviously, what ever he had taken had helped immensely, but the speed at which he had jumped forward to grab the flask before Vargas could inspect it was alarming. He would have him watched closely and should he act funny or circumvent authority again, the Captain would have him thrown in the brig. “My name is Avery Vargas. Most of the men call me Captain. Tomorrow we head out to Grotams Reef. It has only one land mass of note, but many merchant vessels use it as a place to camp and restock. It is a good place to catch them unsuspectingly. Your roommate will be Eli for now until we can find you more suitable lodging. Get a good night’s rest. Breakfast is served just before dawn,” he said with his hand already on the doorknob.

There was still plenty that he wanted to ask Rio, but the hour was beginning to grow late and the following day’s festivities required his mind to be sharp. He nodded to Eli as he headed back to the great cabin. He asked him to watch Rio closely and to inform him of anything suspicious. After that, he returned to his quarters and lay down on his cot. His lids felt sore and heavy from a hard day’s work and he knew sleep would come quickly. Thinking about the events of the day with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, he shut his eyes and was dead to the world.

"Aaavery Vargas...." Rohaan played with the words in his mouth, wondering if he'd heard them before. No, likely not. It'd been a while since he was on the sea, and back then, Rohaan had not been concerned with the business of other ships. At first, he was merely concerned with survival, but as he learned to trust the gentle hand and the kind words of Berlin, Rohaan did not care who was captaining other ships they encountered, he merely cared what they had on board and how he could pilfer it. "Can't say I know of you. Back when I spent time on the sea, I didn't concern myself with such things, so I can't be surprised. Mmm..." He took a cleansing, deep breath and let it out slowly. "It's been so long since I felt the Lady Ocean's hand..." he said, mostly to himself.

Rohaan smirked to himself as he learned that the softspoken Eli would be his roommate for now; he couldn't help but notice the look the man gave him when he was in the room last. He knew that the man was afraid of him and yet equally as curious to understand just what he was, as no doubt he'd been listening in on the conversation between he and Vargas. Rohaan knew the type. To humans, he was a physical anomaly, though Rohaan never saw himself that way.

"Ca-mm," Rohaan said, his emphasis on the word odd. When he was young, as he tried to pick up the common tongue as a second language, he interpreted the common slang 'Cap'n' as a very exaggerated 'caah-mm'. The habit stuck. "Did you say...catch them unsuspectingly? As in an ambush?" His blue eyes lit up, and that soft, low laughter of his started again. "I see...I see. See you at breakfast then," he said grinning, as though he was privy to some kind of inside joke.

After the man left, Eli reentered and sat slowly across from the blonde, the two of them looking each other over in silence. Finally Eli spoke. "You should rest, mate. You've had an eventful time, it seems, though who knows how long you've been out there. Might be good for you to finish eating that. You're weak and dehydrated."
"Aye, thanks doc."
There was a pause, and then, hesitantly, Eli asked, "Were you lying?"
"Lying?"
"When you said you were flying. Did you lie? I understand if you want to keep secrets from the captain and want to keep your business private, and you don't have to tell me what happened to you. It's not my business. But I'm a man of medicine, and as far as I know, there's nothing I can think of that would make a grown man fly..."
Rohaan merely grinned. "I think the captain would be upset if you had more information than him. But I will say that I've been honest. I was flying."
"Flying."
"Aye. Flying."
Eli sighed. "Aye, mate, I won't ask how. Just curious is all."

Rohaan was silent the rest of the night, as was his roommate. The blonde slowly ate the meal given to him, the water being the most appetizing to his upset stomach, and then settled in for the night. Sleep found him easily, as he was exhausted and spent and his body needed to recover still.

Eli awoke early that morning, moving softly throughout the space so as not to wake his patient. He did not succeed, though, as apparently Rohaan was dreaming and confused the sounds of the other man's movements for those in his dream. "Berlin..." he called softly, though his own voice woke him. "Mm? Oh..." he murmured, remembering where he was. "What time is it?"
"Not yet dawn. How do you feel?"
"Stronger. Better. A little clearer headed." Rohaan pulled from the flask again, once more with the same level of restraint. "Yes," he said with a breath. "Much better. My mouth tastes horrible though...mmm..." He glanced around for his bandolier again. "That bandolier...I'd like that back, eventually," he huffed. "Got some mint leaves in it, it does. Probably all ruined from the salt now...pity." Rohaan was a mint-leaf addict, practically. It was something Berlin had shown him; Rohaan didn't know that the fragrant leaf could leave his mouth feeling cool and tingly until the older man showed him, but Rohaan made a habit of chewing it whenever he could get it ever since.

Rohaan stood slowly, adjusting momentarily to the soft movement of the ship beneath him. The indigo shirt he wore was loose and nearly hung off one shoulder, as the cord that laced the collar up had been long since lost. With a look of disdain, Rohaan glanced at his boots and kicked them off, pushing them beneath his cot with his bare feet. He hated shoes.

"Havras and Old John seem to be nearly finished preparing breakfast. It'd be good for you to try and eat again, if you feel up to it."
"I do, much more than last night. I might take a short walk around the deck for a moment, orient myself, first."
"Er...alright..." Eli said, unsure if Vargas would approve. He was a little too nervous and not aggressive enough to challenge this man, though, so he figured if it was an issue, someone else would confront him. Besides, it might do him some good to get some fresh air, he thought. "The bell will sound when food is ready."

Rohaan nodded and slowly made his way up to the main deck, where he found a place at the rail where he could be out of the way of anyone working the deck. He seemed to be familiar with ships and the way they lurched under his feet, the general layout, and the places he could stand where he might get in someone's way. The wind in his hair felt wonderful, as did the cool air on his hot face.

The Steadfast is a well maintained vessel and each of the 60 souls aboard--61 including Rio--take their jobs seriously. Even before breakfast when the sun hasn’t yet risen above the horizon line, the main deck is lively with sailors setting about their daily tasks. The gentle glow of the approaching sunrise helps to wake them as they yawn through checklists and sparse chatter. The boatswain barks orders to the swabbies to mop up the water and crusted salt from the deck. There is a bit of a buzz in the air as it is mission day. The crew knows that they can expect fresh food, water and supplies and their mouths salivate in anticipation.

Breakfast would be more a formality as it had been weeks since they restocked and most of the good food was gone. Tobias took the opportunity to excuse himself from the mess hall and converse with Timbers. They stood on the main deck in a deserted corner near the rail. Tobias was pacing as he often did when something was bothering him. He had heard from one of the gunners below deck that the captain intended to allow the stowaway to join the mission and he was using Timbers as a way to blow off some steam.

“Who does Vargas think he is, making a decision like that without consulting me. I’m second in command!” he said as he stood gripping the rail and looking out over the water. “I didn’t slave away in the Trostan Navy to become little more than an accountant. He trusts me with nothing.”

Truth be told, Vargas didn’t trust Tobias as far as he could throw him and it was no secret to the crew. When asked by a friend about his feelings toward the quartermaster, he simply said, “there is a darkness about him”. He had never been one for gossip, so he didn’t go on to reveal that he believed Merrick could be the next big name in the golden age of piracy, but the suspicions were there none the less. It was the look of satisfaction in his Tobias’ eyes when he got a kill or the way he was quick to anger when Vargas decided to be merciful toward their enemies that led to the captain’s conclusions. If it were up to him, he would have fired him long ago, but he had no solid justification.

“Maybe it is time I took control,” Tobias said more to himself than Timbers. He was just starting to give the idea serious thought. “Quite a bit of the crew share my ideals and if can prove that Vargas is nothing more than a cowardly knave, I can gather even more to my side.” Timbers smiled and nodded in agreement as he always did. The sun was beginning to peak it’s head up a little more. Tobias sighed as he knew everyone would be heading to breakfast. He didn’t want their conversation overhead, so he decided it was time to rejoin the masses. “Let us get out of here before our absence is noticed.”
-----
The small galley was packed full of sailors and there were too few tables to accommodate them all. It wasn’t the typical procedure, but it was a mission day. The captain wanted everyone assembled so that plans and positions could be reviewed. Vargas set the men at ease, assuring them that if everyone stuck to the script, things would go smoothly. The merchants who would pass through the area would be clueless and without much firepower. They would most likely scare easy and surrender.

After his speech was made, most of the crew dispersed to take their places and ready themselves. Only the highest ranking officers remained. If there were any questions to be asked or suggestions to be made, this would be the last time to sort them out. Merrick arrived late to the party and Vargas couldn’t help giving him a pointed stare. Being second in command, the quartermaster should have been one of the first to arrive.

“Everything okay, Merrick,” Vargas asked with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“Yes, sir. All of my affairs are in order.”

Rohaan couldn't help but notice the sideways glances of caution and suspicion that the members of the Steadfast were giving him. He couldn't blame them; finding a man alone in the sea without a trace of shipwreck or dinghy was hardly a good omen. To find one that was clearly not human? Well, he could only imagine what images and fantasies were running through their heads. But nobody seemed to know who he was, and in this Rohaan counted himself lucky. He would not be invited to breakfast if that was the case, and now that his body was recovering, he was remembering that it'd been some time since he'd eaten.

The bell tolled a few times and the crew filed down into the galley with the hopes of food. There wasn't much, and Rohaan had to call himself spoiled as he took a look at what they had to offer. Despite being kind of a vagrant who rarely kept much money, Rohaan ate well. Of course, this was mostly due to the fact that he thoroughly enjoyed marching into the dinner parties of the rich and important folks of the world, smile politely, and take the lamb chops and wine right off the table. Most of the time, people were so appalled that nobody really made a move to stop him, and he quite enjoyed the looks of shock on their fat faces. Even when he lived under the command of Berlin on the open seas, there was always fresh meat on board, thanks to Rohaan's...skill in fishing and hunting. But he had eaten worse things before, and he knew the pain of going without. Even though the rations were meager, he would take them gladly.

Once finished serving the crew, Havras took his own plate and sat himself across from the blonde stranger, curious eyes fixed on his head, where a few dots of silver showed through the cloth bandage. For a while, the two sat in silence, looking at each other. Finally young Havras spoke. "Are you a demon?"
Rohaan expected a pretty straight forward question from the lad, but not like that. He laughed; a rich, joyous sound. "Can't say I've heard that one before. But no, lad. I'm of this world."
"Are you dangerous?"
Rohaan smiled. "Every man is dangerous, kid. It just depends on what you do to him to make him that way. What are you called?"
"Havras."
"Rio," he answered back with a polite nod.

Vargas addressed the crew, giving them the lowdown on what was to take place that day. Standard procedure, Rohaan thought, wondering what his place in all this would be. From the sound of things, he was to participate like the rest of the crew. But Rohaan was not like the rest of the crew, and his skillset was quite different, and perhaps more useful.

After the crew dispersed, a few of the higher ranking sailors remained behind. Rohaan did not want to intrude, but he also had a few things to sort out with the captain. The man hovered near the door, removed from the group but still somewhat listening in. The way he watched the men made it evident that he had something to say, but he knew better than to interrupt the captain's affairs. He waited until they were finished before he approached the captain.
"Vargas, sir. Do you mean for me to be in on this? Make no mistake, I believe I'm able, now, and willing. But a man does not make a crew of just anyone. I would understand if you would rather not have a stranger on this mission of yours. But....you should know that I could be of some assistance to you. What I am capable of is...better left shown than explained, perhaps. What say you, Ca'mm?"