Snippet #1319490

Pierre let off a string of muttered words in French, and Merryweather smiled despite herself. The sight might have been enough to make a few crewmembers double-take, simply because it was not a habit of hers to show anything but disdain or a healthy measure of stoniness. She actually didn't mind doing so, here- Frenchie didn't seem to expect anything of her, and she certainly didn't have to have all the stoicism of someone twice her age when her only audience was barely any older than she was. Plus, it wasn't like he was going to inform anyone that she did in fact have normal human emotions like being amused.

She'd picked up enough French to know what he was saying, and it wasn't long before the curve left her lips, and she followed his eyes behind the ship. Squinting, she decided it was useless and removed her own spyglass, locating the oncoming ship herself. Hmm.. not so large as to be completely useless in pursuit. This might call for something of an adjustment. Luckily for the Wandering Jewel, it's navigator was never unprepared for such things.

Pierre yelled down to what crew were on deck, but she observed with some trepidation that none of the people who outranked herself were presently there. Tok, Atlas, Siegfried, and Kei alike were not around. Granted, the circumstances were a little different because of her age, but that meant she had rank for the moment. Just as well, for she also had a plan, and not having the time to run it by someone else meant it would be accomplished all the faster.

"Later," she told Pierre with a curt nod, before jumping over the crow's nest, snatching onto some rigging on her way down and springing down the rest with the agility only youth and a natural inclination to this sort of life could bring a person. The last nine feet or so she simply jumped, landing on her feet as she had a hundred thousand times before. Spotting a rather towering man she recognized as fairly frequently in the company of Atlas (she did know his name, well... most likely knew it, but it was escaping her presently) she beckoned him over with a curt gesture.

"Tell the Captain and Atlas that we're being followed. I'm going to give us some more speed, but somebody with rank needs to stop moping around belowdecks and get up here and lead." Despite the rather ridiculous picture this presented- a small girl barking clipped orders at a man easily twice and then some her body weight- he nodded and was off.

Merryweather herself headed over to the helm, to find that the helmsman had indeed taken note of Frenchie's warning and was doing what he could to keep the ship moving as quickly as possible. Luckily for everyone involved, the time the navigator spent in the crow's nest was not mere idle relaxation; the had felt a shift in the winds, one which they could use to their advantage. The trick was to ease into it, so they would not seem to be running away. There was no reason to assume the pursuing ship knew their target was the vessel immediately in front of them, after all. Other Navigators weren't apt to spend time where she did, and in her experience, the winds so far above deck blew truest. It'd be a while before the other ship knew what she did.

The Helmsman, a wiry old man known most frequently simply as 'Gramps' was an old sea dog with a lot of experience, but he knew better than to question the small upstart girl that gave him directions, and at her nod, moved aside to let her adjust the course herself. Normally, she wouldn't, seeing as how this whole steering thing involved a level of intuition that she generally scoffed at in favor of logic, but the adjustment was minute enough that it was better to just do it herself.

Satisfied when the sails filled just a little more, she handed the wheel back to Gramps and turned to survey the deck. Still nobody. For the love of all things seafaring, this had to be a whole new level of incompetence. Pirating at one's own pace was one thing, this another entirely. If someone didn't show up soon, she was going to go find them all herself, and the tongue-lashing that would result, while completely unmodulated in tone, would be scathing all the same.