Snippet #1865548

It was an awful lot of formality and parading about for the sake of a handful of nobles. Shaafir immediately that those who had been called upon to hunt down The Hangman weren’t interested in such ceremony. His long lanky frame was unable to stand still, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. Ergolyse heritage having left him nearly a head taller than the surrounding crew, his rich chocolate eyes were allowed to remain locked on the vessel which would be his home for the foreseeable future; all but ignoring the royalty.

The Obsidian Star was a fine ship, a testament to the importance of their given task. Elements of craftsmanship from every nation were evident to the properly trained eyes of the carpenter. The narrowed curve of the hull from Islong for speed, the heavy reinforced skirting of Lisim warships, the rigging was Demecian as the thick ropes were strengthened and tinted green from the sinewy resin of the Colawb trees native to Demecia, and the final touch were the cannons, massive imposing weapons protruding from the ship, a sign of the wealthy Wifield benefactors of the mission.

In the process of admiring The Star, Shaafir noticed the man whom had already boarded. It was impossible to read the man’s face from such a distance, but it was clear by his body language that he wasn’t wholly comfortable. It was pointless to speculate, but Shaafir was sure the man was to be their captain long before he made his way through the crowd and approached the stage.

Over the steady lap of the waves and cry of the gulls, the brief exchange which took place between the man and the queen was all but inaudible. Some sideways glances shared between nobility and an uncomfortable hush was all the insight granted, implying a bitter history among The Hangman and the captain.

Several members of the audience cheered and clapped as the man’s identity, and Shaafir’s suspicions, were confirmed. There was little time wasted after Gareth’s introduction, the queen ordering the mass of recruits to their respective ships. Shaafir was eager for the task to get underway, lest it was sand between his toes, he didn’t care much for solid ground; instead preferring the faithful roll of the deck beneath his feet.

The captain himself made a beeline to Oliva Mastrontoni, the woman who had until now been tasked with keeping them in order. The recognition on both parties faces was clear as the sun in the sky, though Oliva seemed slightly more in control of her emotions over their reunion.

Making mental note of the shared past of the two captains, Shaafir moved to introduce himself, only to be jostled out of the way by a gruff man who smelled of booze dragging a woman by her arm.

“De’lit mer fashu.” the carpenter hissed, cursing the ignorant fool in his native tongue.

In an attempt to reign in his ruffled feathers, he instead turned his focus to the woman. She seemed like she’d be willing to chew off her own arm if it meant she could gain a little breathing room from her would-be overlord. Memories of Heldreg flooded back, causing Shaafir to noticeably bristle as he cast a disdainful look in the pair’s direction. The man introduced himself as the sailing master, though based on the smell of his clothing it was unlikely he was able to navigate himself home from a bar on most nights let alone a ships course. So that left the woman, whom John didn’t bother to give a name, referring to her as an it rather than dignifying her with an identity. Classic dominance move, a tactic of cruel and feebly minded men. She was the talent, not him despite his bravado.

Silently Shaafir promised himself that he would be keeping a close eye on the duo. A handful of others approached from behind Shaafir, though he found himself unable to take his eyes from the woman. Besides Shaafir himself, she was the only other that was noticeably foreign in a position above rigger or marine. The suspicion that she was the real brains behind what was likely the most important job aboard a ship captivated him, and a healthy respect was earned from her silent tolerance of the unspoken abuse. A shared past.

In his observing the pair, another stepped forward, a hawkish gunner by the name of Edurst. Hair kept in a shallow buzz, bare footed, looking more reddened by the sun by the minute despite his deep tan. The master gunner had a bit of a wild look in his eye, an unspoken eagerness and enthusiasm he exuded that bordered on unsettling.

The rest of the ship’s company still approaching, including a redhead and woman who looked far too small to serve any real purpose; Shaafir faced his new commander.

“Xele. Shaaf-" he caught himself, native tongue refusing to go quietly "The Finch. Carpenter & surgeon.” He did not present his hand, and kept his words brief, ending his opening statement with a curt nod to the officers.