One roaming the deck might have glanced upward in passing to catch the shimmer of scales against the moon. And the voice above would sound, 'Allo!, complemented by the glow of a live smoking pipe. "Out of the nest, baby bird," he'd go to the young navigator who occupied the crow's, for that was clearly lizard territory, and to deny this would surely result in a horrible fate. Tonight was different, however. He left his reservations with the wine barrels. The
monstre lay dormant, oddly enough, perfectly contented with a tipsy Frey, letting Finny rant and rile over handwriting fit for ill-headed children (and Django himself could have hardly done better) while Bendlet huffed over broths. To the captain, he had no use in squabbling—it is impossible, Addie; why are you such a bastard, Addie—when he could speak with a knowing quirk of the brow. It was the feverish energy that had him bristling, seemingly resting otherwise, as he perched atop the main mast, plotting, scheming, having a laugh.
Right, perched was an odd term. Adhered, more like. He was unperturbed. Gusts whipped at unruly hair. An old formal shirt hung from the red sash round his waist, threatening to blow away at a moment's notice. Narrow limbs outstretched, hands and feet planted on the spur, head pointed downward with chin rested on wood, the man cut the image of a readied spear. His sole movement lay in the tail, which lethargically swished about in the air. Concentration aside, the thought of the Madam conjured wild images; the letter alone had been more than enough to raise his suspicions, and beyond the swig of ale were stored memories of women silhouetted in fog. He knew the goings-on of her kind. He knew the scum of Valdmire, reveled in their ways. Surely she had her methods and motives, questionable as they may be. To risk being immersed once more in past crimes was quite the danger indeed. But disputing the pay was a hapless cause: in spite of his wariness, the glint in his eye spoke of a creature who would not hesitate, no matter the end result, to fulfill their duty. Some small part of him was roaring to strike. Another just wanted a drink.
Maybe the princess was a classy drunk.
Sock then made a point to start heckling. What a perfect alarm he was. The first mate idly opened his eyes, greeted by the lights of the looming city and a rather excitable captain below. Disregarding status, he did not rush to stand at their leader's side. Curiosity tensed him into lingering on the spur, preparing his body for a tidy landing as he watched the small crew file out on deck. A smile tugged at him. They were... cute, for the lack of a better term. Good for bantering in the face of death. With no petit Juliet in sight, at least for now, he descended the mast at a brisk pace, one hand in front of the other. Claws flexed, gripping the surface. It was the odd sight of a writhing, climbing thing that guards of royalty would stand against. He loathed to think of their determination, hot-headed knights charging into a dragon's den. At the very least, a challenge was often welcomed.
From the shadows of sails he appeared to the band of rogues, taking his place beside the captain. "Present."
Django gave a sly salute to them all. He stretched and let out a large yawn, and as he hunched slightly, his spines flared out before flattening against his skin. No holster. No blade. How utterly messy.
Speaking again, he tossed on the white formal shirt. His feet were bare. They would remain that way. "Euh, sorry for ze wait," he said. "I was writing our eulogies." And to Frey with a smirk and a wink: "Found your head?"