CALEB FOUL

When the old man- er, excuse him- his glorious captain nodded his head after his request to bathe, Caleb felt a much needed sense of relief bubble in the pit of his heart (did he even have one of those?) and even let a small smile come to his face. It was a short lived moment. Immediately after, he was giving orders to an apparent "Mr. Faires" and if the man's last name was any indication to his personality the same way Foul was to his, he was sure they wouldn't be getting along any time soon. Maybe it was the pony tail that threw him off. The mustache? The fact that he was blowing his nose into a handkerchief at that exact moment...? He wasn't quite sure of the why, but was well acquainted with the what. The what being that he and the Lieutenant would have never crossed paths hadn't it been for this unfortunate downward spiral of events, and that perhaps it would have been better that way.

"And please see him assigned to Mr. Baillie's division." He inwardly hoped that Baillie was a beautiful woman who let the men who worked under her do whatever they pleased and lounge on hammocks all day, but seriously doubted it due to the precedent word of "Mr." In actuality, there'd probably be more mustaches where he was concerned too. The fuzzy little caterpillar lookin' things...!!! And then the captain was off, out to deal with captain things in the captain's captainy chartroom. Caleb tried to resist the urge to snort a smug little mini-laugh at Faire's pompous "at your leave" mixed with the dopey hand gesture (Respect for your superiors was sooo last century!) but failed badly. Let the judgmental snorting commence.

"I don't suppose you'll be able to wash up without a new set of clothes, Mister..." the asshole paused to make it clear that he was an asshole before he actually spit out his name, "Caleb." The boy's face instantly dropped from one of pained, forced, and strained restraint to a more familiar look to him: flamboyant disdain. He rather liked his name! Well, not always. He didn't particularly care for the given effigy until situations like this popped up where he suddenly was very passionate about it in an almost knee-jerk reaction. His head slumped downward, accentuating the multiple chins he was capable of possessing despite his abnormally skinny stature and demonstrating just how dull his eyes could look.

"Our cook may have spare shirts he can provide. His name is Domus." Caleb tried to remember why the name sounded so familiar before his brain finally caught up to him to remind him of the word used earlier in Jallad's statement: Cook. He was suddenly having a flashback to a time not too long ago, and much more fonder than the one he was stuck in now, back when all he knew was terror and lidded barrels, nothing of stolen freedom and an inevitable fate. Domus' saucer eyes pressed into the breathing hole of the barrel only to see Caleb's doing the same thing, the eyeballs only an inch or so apart from each other. Seconds later, mass hysteria. Caleb was screaming, Domus was screaming. There was flailing of limbs, prayers to deities, and a whole lot of pickle juice involved. Right, Domus. His first instinct was to reel back and avoid seeing him again, mostly out of embarrassment, but then he remembered that he didn't possess dignity and that it was kind of a requirement to be embarrassed. He seemed friendly enough, if not a tad bit feminine. Feminine he could handle. He wasn't exactly the image of pure, 100% beefed up man either. "Presuming you will be presentable afterwards, you are invited to dine with us. As for Mr. Baillie, he is that man over there, with the red mane, long mustache and tattoos." well there went his woman fantasy wish theory. "You will be introduced later, when he is less occupied. Lastly... the men here are of a respectable sort, and deserve to be treated as such. Do avoid referring to them as 'sea dogs' in the future. Now, I suppose you will be needing a guide. Wouldn't do to have you wandering the ship by yourself...." said the puff.

He looked at a man who immediately shook his head quite fervently before escaping right away. He couldn't smell THAT bad. What, exactly, was wrong with him, anyway? Aside from the whole con artist, cheapskate, coward thing, he couldn't be that obscenely awful... could he ? It wasn't like he was being tried for murdering his seven wives! He didn't even have a wife! He was hopelessly single! And probably would be for the rest of his life! ...

"Looks like you're stuck with me, ya old seadog!" he chimed in an uber-ultra-perky manner, raising his two fists to his chest and shaking them as if to show his excitement for the whole situation. While he didn't intentionally call him sea dog to piss him off, he rather liked that it ended up that way and made no attempt to fix it. "I mean, I know my way down to the kitchen. I spent a good deal of time there, after all. I mean, I was in a pickle barrel but there was a peep hole and... Well, I just know where it is. I'd just pee myself with happiness if you accompanied me though. I can just tell we'll be the best of friends!" he cried, hands grandly sweeping from their centerfold position on his chest to extend all the way out like two double rainbows at the word "friends". "Let's go, then!" There was nothing quite like well placed sarcasm to brighten the day, no? Caleb was already well versed, and as he continued in the act, he felt himself slip into his business man's persona. This wasn't new to him at all and now that he was able to express the inner idiot that dwelled inside him, he felt much less angsty.

---

While Domus jumped around the kitchen, Jack didn’t move much. At all actually; merely maintaining his place and following the cook’s erratic movements with his eyes. He was beginning to think that perhaps he had read his shipmate one too many swashbuckling tales and catalogues of armament, for it seemed that now some form of blade had been added to his invisible repertoire. ”You have that look on your face,” Domus tried to rearrange his own, and Jack snorted.

“Whatever I look like, I highly doubt it’s that,” he countered matter-of-factly, but he doubted he was heard or heeded. Domus was too busy in his fanciful realm of imagination, and Jack was only too happy to let him remain there for as long as he chose to be. It was an odd thing, but being in Domus’s company was like seeing the sides of humanity he’d never really been exposed to; this joviality, a pure sort of joi de vivre, was as mystifying to him as living on the right side of the law once had been. It was fascinating and, if he were truly to be honest, uplifting in a sense. Now, Jack would be tied down and tortured to within an inch of his life before he’d even consider saying something so ridiculous aloud, but it was starkly true in his own mind even so, and his posture relaxed slightly as the cook cavorted about.

The topic eventually returned to the stowaway, and Jack had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to get him to discuss anything else until the excitement of this was over and done with, hence his relatively easy acquiescence. This level of indulgence was absolutely unheard of where anyone else was concerned, but with Domus it was simply natural. Maybe it was a subtle form of reciprocity for those glimpses into something Jack himself was not able to experience on his own. Perhaps he felt guilty for his vicarious parasitism, for the fact that he could give no such effulgent happiness in return, only leech it off and away.

Truth be told, Jack had imprisoned himself in a corner of his own devising long ago, and even though he saw the outstretched hand of this man for what it was, he could not take it. There were so many reasons, not least among them that he lied to all of them every day. Worse even than that was what it would mean for the poor, well-meaning victim who offered that hand. Much as part of the sailing master wanted to accept the gesture for what it was, he knew better than anyone that some part of him would always end up hurting a person with a heart that open. Perhaps not intentionally, but there was much to be said for being a vicious emotional hermit with a criminal upbringing and a killer instinct. None of it was nice to hear, either.

A sudden seizure of her hands brought Jack from her reverie, and she fought very hard against the instinct to tear them away and lay into whomever was responsible. For obvious reasons, she didn’t take touch very well. Touch was power, it was control, and Jack had a near-pathological need to keep them both within her own sphere of influence. She stiffened, but forced herself to relax. This wasn’t an enemy, this wasn’t a small-time crime boss with big-time aspirations. This was only Domus, without ambition or malicious intent. Only wasn’t the right word there, but she forced herself to relax all the same and slackened her hands so that they simply fell back to her sides when he released them, as though she had never been perturbed at all. Rubbing the pads of her fingers against her thumb, she realized that they were warmer now. What a strange thing to notice. Of course contact was warm- there was body heat involved.

“Oh, I'm sure the ninny will wet himself when he catches sight of you.” His grin was just a bit infectious, and Jack allowed himself a small smirk in response. “He’d damn well better,” he quipped. “I’d hate to think I’m losing my touch.” So saying, he followed his enthusiastic companion up the stairs and onto the deck itself, where he caught sight of Jallad leading the man in question away from the captain. The stowaway did not look happy, but it was not the face of a man condemned to the brig for the entirety of their journey, and he lamented the captain’s mercy. That fool wasn’t going to be able to keep up pace with the rest of the crew, and they’d all have to pick up his slack. “Bloody brilliant,” Jack muttered bitterly.

Now, when faced with a shrieking banshee huddled in the corner of a crow's nest, one would think that parroting the assailants yell would be a perfectly reasonable reaction—so, Tinker threw out his hands defensively, whilst throwing his weight bodily into the wooden enclosure as to not entangle his legs in the netting. Her mouth gaped open like a fish, releasing a piercing squall that caused his hands to immediately sail to his ears, pressing as tightly as he could to dampen the sound. And then, Cathy's voice died down and she leered balefully at him, regarding him as if he was a seagull who'd swept down to peck at her food. Not so! The carpenter returned her look, arching his eyebrows with feigned reproach. The lookout's face transformed into the likeness of an adorable little girl, though she was a woman grown and now invaded his personal space by lurching forward, hands pressed against the wooden boards and face pressed mere inches in front of his own. His own eyes rolled uncomfortably cross-eyed, before he leaned his head backwards and pressed his hands against her shoulders, as if warding a snuffling dog out his lap. Though, Cathy's expression reminded him more of a swarthy, ill-contented tomcat, then an affectionate mutt. Somehow, he felt as if he'd trespassed into enemy territories, and felt unreasonably guilty. His lips pressed tightly beneath her steely gaze. Tinker's resolution shrunk a few inches, before he coughed uncomfortably in his closed fist.

Finally, Cathy relented her silent assault and slithered back into one of the corners, pulling herself over the lip and staring down at the newcomer who was being pulled back onto deck. It wasn't much farther than he was sitting, or slouching, rather. Tinker heaved an exaggerated sigh, then proceeded to kick his feet out in front of him, splaying them across the expanse of the crow's nest. She looked like a wild beast about to pounce and eject him from her tree—it wasn't far from the truth. He eyed her warily, before allowing himself a painful smile. It pulled all the bruises tight, and shot threads of pain across his face, but he didn't really mind. “I got it, I got it—,” Tinker conceded, dropping his gaze for a few moments. Again, he made a clicking sound with his tongue and raised his gaze. At Cathy's final snarls, Tinker took a deep breath between his teeth, then slowly exhaled. “Of course I did, y'know you're the only one who can heal this broken heart.” As if to conclude his ribbing statement, he rested his hands on his chest; above the beating appendage. He allowed his head to loll, until it rested comfortably (or as comfortable as one can be while slumped against stern wood) against the nest's interior. “Besides, there's too much commotion.”

Her pout deepened, then she looked away as if conceding something that hadn't been said. Of course, Cathy wouldn't force him to clamber down the netting right now. It wasn't like Tinker would hamper her lookout duties, but he'd probably tease her until she relented and joined him in badgering anyone else walking around on the upper decks. A rumbling chuckle escaped his throat, and he tipped an imaginary cap. “You have my thanks 'O fairest Queen of the hawk chasers,” He replied graciously. The remnants of manners unbeknownst to his fellow crew mates filtered through, then disappeared just as quickly as laughter erupted from his chapped lips. Cathy was certainly a doll—though, he doubted she even realized it. Innocence glinted in his unveiled, swollen eye. And she certainly was expressive. Sometimes, Tinker wanted to pinch her cheeks and question how old she really was. Experience had taught him that such questions, in regards to women, were best left unvoiced. He also felt like he'd be missing an important appendage if he fell to such a ridiculous urge; pinching anyone's cheeks aboard the Ratgrins would win him a place on Tiesa's stretcher. As much as he loved the redheaded woman, he didn't want anymore bruises than he already had.

“A kraken made of gold, though, can you imagine? We'd be doomed and crushed, but probably very, incredibly, undoubtedly... rich,” Tinker added, lowering his voice for affect. He was leaning precariously forward, pressing his hands between his knees so that Cathy would have to strain to hear him. Upon drawling the final word, spoken as if he were whispering into his lover's ear, the carpenter laughed gaudily and allowed himself to slump backwards once more. “Fortunately, I've never seen a kraken. So that much we have in common.” When Cathy tipped her head, Tinker smiled. Instead of sidling in his corner like a beaten hound, he decidedly lurched forward and caught himself on the nests lip to keep himself from propelling forward. Aching as he was, Tinker wanted to see what was happening below. He spotted the newcomer speaking to Raziah, Tok and Siegfried, and wondered what would happen between them. They could handle themselves in the presence of one man, he was sure. It sounded like Raziah was threatening to lop the man's head off, but then she was unceremoniously pushed away with a bump of Tok's swinging hip and the unknown man was collected into a manly embrace.

How curious. An amused expression tugged at his lips.

Even more amusing would be Raziah's reaction.

Atlas Winters

Double post whoopsey

Atlas Winters

Atlas could only smile as he watched the woman parade her manhood for everyone on deck. The smile probably did not help her sense of power, which she clearly did not have over him. That was something Atlas had realized not too long into this line of work. If the fear of death lingered anywhere on your mind then anyone could take some kind of power over you. However, if death had become like it had for him, as a sweet friend that he would inevitably join one day, no manner of threat could rob you of anything. And yet, there was something mildly attractive about the woman pretending like what she said actually mattered.

And so, the old pirate stood in silence, though he was sure his grin spoke enough for him, as the woman he had yet to be introduced to called him this name and that. Her continuous use of the “old man” insult made Atlas wonder just how old he looked, a for a few moments his mind floated away and he began to try and picture himself, not remembering the last time he had looked into a mirror, let alone shaved or cut his hair. His clothes had to look like simple rags by now. Hygiene was something he always tried to have back when he was a captain, and it stayed with him to the best of his ability even into his days of depravity. He was as clean as the salt water could keep him, at least, and he still had all his teeth (or the missing teeth had been replaced by gold or silver substitutes. He already had two gold teeth from many fights in his younger years, and while gold was hard to come by he was able to manage another gold tooth as well as a silver one since the time of losing his ship. Of course, said teeth had come out of dead men, but a tooth was a tooth no matter whose mouth it came from. Atlas often wondered if the teeth he had stolen had come from someone else’s mouth at one point, and if that chain continued for a few more people. In that case, these teeth were a legacy, and it was his duty to carry them on until someone came and took them from his freshly made corpse.).

The woman talking brought him back into the moment. She was saying something about him not knowing how things are done, and then offered another insult. Curiously though, she raised her blade up as if she meant to kill him. Without losing his grin, Atlas followed her blade into the air and studied it intently as it came down to do what many other better swords had tried, and part of him actually wondered if there were the end. Though he knew it wasn’t. There was some black fate that brought him here, and it didn’t bring him to simply have him die by the hand of a pissed off woman who probably just needed a bath and a good lay to get her senses about her.

Fate answered, as Atlas predicted it would. His eyes trailed the blade as it swept inches from his person and imbedded into the ship’s rail. Yup. Right as I said. I’ve done far too much of both good and evil to die like this. His gaze moved from the rail to the voice that spoke up immediately thereafter, “Well, I’ll be damned! If it isn’t Derek James!” If the years had been bad to Atlas, then the good that was meant to be in his own years had somehow found its way to the cheery captain that now stood before him. Tok was a sight to see, holding himself with a confidence that only fit a pirate captain. Atlas recognized it quickly, considering he once had it himself. “Good God, it’s been years, mate! You look…” Atlas could feel Tok give him the once over, and once again he tried to picture what it was others were seeing at the moment. Considering how Tok ended the sentence, it was nothing good. “Well, you look like you’ve certainly been living. What have you been doing, bloke?”

“Living, certainly,” Atlas agreed with him, “though I’ve not been called Derek in quite some time.” Atlas couldn’t remember the last time he’d been called that, to be certain. It had been years ago at best. Most people who knew him died around the same time the name did. “I was just trying to explain to your…” Atlas turned towards the woman who moments ago had tried to take his head off, “friend here that I’ve become quite skilled with a net and all. Atlas I’m called now, Atlas of the winter, or Atlas Winters if it suits you. Drinking and netting, is all I guess, that I’ve been doing lately, the past years, fucking long time actually…too long, ‘tis true.” He faded off after realizing he had been going on about nothing.

But then there was a change. Like a ship somehow resurfacing from the depths of the ocean, a bit of his old self emerged from underneath his decrepit exterior. With a swift motion, Atlas cracked his neck and turned his head in the direction the ship was sailing. “You’re sailing for the Americas.” Atlas spoke softer, differently than his original tone since arriving on the ship. It wasn’t a question. He had made this trip enough times to know when a ship was going on such a voyage. He knew where they were going, or at least had the general idea, but why? Such would soon be discovered. “I want in.” Closing his eyes for a moment, Atlas felt the breeze wipe across his face and hair. He ran his hand along the end of the ship, feeling the wood, regretting all the years he had not spent on such a ship.

Domus' bounding enthusiasm seemed endless. His optimism, his naive trust in the order of things could be seen as perpetually stupid—but, he thought he was lucky to have his type of attitude. His far-too-loud laughs always brought embarrassed cries of disapproval from the crewmates, and an impressive swiftness to pry his eccentric fingers from their elbows. It wouldn't be too far from the truth to say that Domus was childish, and even so, Jack chose to keep company with him. Out of the very few, Domus always looks straight into Jack's eyes, which is not too often because they are quick, so piercing sharp while he's so young and soft; the intensity is beyond him—it's in those moment's that he realizes that Jack is like crisp snowfalls, not all white but clear; not all bitter but damaged. He understands this, and so he isn't so childish. All he knows right now is that Jack isn't snarling with the ferocity and bitterness of weighty anchors, and for a little while his shoulders' are lax. It isn't something you can really notice, unless you squint hard enough.

After failing miserably at duplicating Jack's austere expression, Domus' eyes immediately brightened. He leaned forward, placing his knuckles on his bare hips, with his lips set in an anguished pout. “Not even close?” He enquired, searching for heady compliments that he wouldn't receive. A couple eyebrow wags later and Domus finally surrendered, clapping his hands together. Even if Jack never joined in his antics—he did more than that, he was always there. There hadn't been a time where he believed Domus was below him, nor did he turn-tail like the others; thinking he was a deplorable urchin with a penchant for the dramatics. To Jack, he wasn't pathetic. He was something else. And in Jack, Domus found endless possibilities within protected pages. He found weathered stories that were guarded: stuck, firmly shut. Unlike his own stories that consisted of bruised butterflies, fluttering human hearts, and fragile dreams—Jack's stories were darker, more twisted, and dolefully broken. Internally, he always promised that he'd hold his hand through stormy weather. Whenever Domus said things like that, Jack would always shake his head, hand firmly pressed against his forehead, and call him a moron.

Rocking periodically on the balls of his feet, Domus' expression mirrored an excited child who'd been promised a fine stallion for his birthday. And he couldn't stop grinning! Falling backwards with an excessive amount of hullabaloo, the sous chef's hand shielded his eyes before he catapulted back into place. Honestly, if Jack agreed to take him along to see what was going on with this stowaway his day would truly be complete. His lack of self consciousness was only too obvious, and if such feelings could immerse Jack and possibly change his circumspect, then Domus wouldn't hold back any of his absurdities. Waggling his tongue never got him in trouble. At least, not in any kind of trouble that involved his head being lopped off. He didn't seem to really notice how stiff Jack had gotten since Domus had entered his personal space, though the mirth dancing in his pupils seemed muted for a couple breaths. Almost immediately, he dropped his trembling fingers and folded them neatly behind his back with juvenile introspect, depicting his ignorance. Of course, Jack didn't like being touched. But, there were so many things that Domus loved about physical contact. Things he couldn't share because his mouth couldn't speak fast enough. Words' that couldn't be expressed through sound, but with gangly arms in impatient embraces. It was the ending of missing someone: the beginning of warmth.

Throaty laughter escaped his lips as Domus swung forward, capturing Jack's shoulders to spin him around and back up the stairs towards the decks. As if remembering something, he released his friend's shoulders and gathered himself a few paces ahead, sliding his fingers across the wooden railing—at least, it was something to hold on to. The more he thought about it, the more he found it amusing. Here he was: a muddy, under-dressed rowboat with holes across the bottom pushing a regal ship with it's resplendent grace and billowing sails made from the thickest canvas. But even so, as if spurned by Jack's small smirk, Domus' own infectious grin coloured his dimpled cheeks. “Oh, he will. He will! Only the bravest, most twisted, sea-dogs could ever stand your... your ferocity!” The cook implored, tone splurging on the brink of storytelling and eccentric amusement. It didn't take him long to catch sight of Jallad and Caleb. Astonished eyebrows buried themselves into his hairline, then burrowed together in genuine befuddlement. Why didn't the stowaway look happy? Now, hadn't he been saved from an eternal life suckling pickles and vinegar juice?

He whistled low. “That won't help him any, might as well just give up, that one.” Then, Domus shuffled hurriedly towards Jallad whilst looking over his shoulder to make sure Jack hadn't escaped him. He couldn't simply swagger up to the captain without any reason. Well, he could. But, it wouldn't necessarily look good. Slowing his pace, Domus halted clumsily and threw Jallad a lazy salute. Surely, he could've done better but no one had sought to teach him anything besides the basics in etiquette and literature, which was all thanks to Jack. He wasn't a soldier, and he was barely a shoddy sailor with a surprising gift for the culinary arts. Honestly, it was his steely determination that kept him afloat. The mismatched-eyed man squinted at Caleb, then made a quick circle around him—inspecting him, that is—before clapping him amiably across the back.

“Wow, you've got some handsome eyes, there.” He unabashedly lamented, rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Just like a woman's—actually. Really pretty.” Turning towards Jallad, Domus hooked his free hand towards Caleb. “You aren't going to throw him overboard, are you? Now, that would be a waste.”

---

If Hermione had been drowning, she probably would have let the water take her. The sun was setting, everything was growing colder. The sound of the water lapping against the sides of the ship and the way it rocked gently back and forth, side to side; the princess could have fallen into a dreamless sleep right there, if she so wished it. The sun was just above the horizon. Right now her sickly sister, her mother and father, were eating their dinner. They were enjoying something well dressed, cooked by adept fingers and seasoned with great care. Hermione could smell dinners from the past, see that across the table her sister was only sipping at broth, her cheeks sunken in along with her beautiful and round eyes falling into black holes. She was so sick. So fragile. It had even begun to affect her will.

“Man HO!” Green eyes, filled with a past she still wasn’t sure she could leave behind, looked up past Tok to see men grabbing ropes to bring something aboard the ship. Hermione stayed in her place, knowing when she was of use and when she was a plague. The man brought aboard was disheveled, worn, and had nearly drowned, for sure. At the same moment he was brought on board, Raziah, the wounded woman Tok had brought down to Tiesa’s chambers, was already up and threatening the man behind the helm.

Siegfried? A name she knew, but couldn’t place. It was much too familiar. One she heard on many occasions with…

Raziah roared at the crew and began to verbally assault the shipless man. He retorted, his voice coarse and unused. It all happened rather quickly. Hermione followed the conversation well enough, though her mind kept pulling her toward the man named Siegfried, who had moved a bit closer to her. He kept a safe enough distance from the helm that he could still man it while Raziah was otherwise occupied. It was happening quickly and so the escalation was swift and dangerous. Hermione let out something between a gasp and whimper and her thin hands covered her mouth as the blade started to fall toward the stranger. And he simply stood there! The princess moved a booted foot, but Tok was already on top of things and bumped Raziah away in some comical kind of movement. He took the man up in an embrace and spoke loudly and fondly of him. Derek James, the man who’d just stood there while Raziah threatened his life.

Hermione’s heart was in her throat, beating madly and one of her hands moved from her mouth to her forehead. These pirates were ruthless and Hermione found herself frightened all over again. Her fingers were shaking and she suddenly felt like she needed to sit down.

“Betcha never thought pirating was a spectator sport, did you, Miss 'Mione?" Siegfried was speaking to her and she let her green eyes fall on his darker ones. Those eyes, that mouth… something was much to familiar about him. He shared characteristics intimate to her. Something inside her stirred fear and recognition. Hermione, so lost in trying to figure out who he was, missed his jest about asking Raziah about France. It didn’t seem to matter as much as figuring out why Siegfried was so familiar…

It hit her like some kind of brick falling off the palace. Her head swam for a moment and too many thoughts came rushing at once. Sure, her parents had sent out armies and navies to find her; certainly they were still scouring the lands and oceans for her. But one person, one man, would do it on his own. She knew he was… passionate enough to do so. That’s why Siegfried was so familiar. The sudden realization that Nathaniel was coming to find her, coupled with the shocking truth behind his brother’s disappearance was only a bit too much for Hermione to handle and she found herself tripping over boots that weren’t moving. The fall was less than graceful, but did nothing to disturb the current goings-on. Her bum hit a crate covered in rope and hurt, but she didn’t really care. The princess couldn’t take her wide, green eyes off his face.

A harsh whisper left her lips, directly to Siegfried. “Your brother will follow me…” There, right there. That was where the fear had entered in with the recognition. Nathaniel frightened her. He was a prison guard in her future and she was scared.

---

The whole episode had Siegfried chuckling under his breath. Raziah was ever-so-wrathful, and this Atlas fellow quite unconcerned about it. He had to give the man his due for that; it was not always easy to look the Persian woman in the eye and tell her to come off it. He personally got away with it because he was more interested in entertaining himself than with his own self-preservation. From the sounds of things, this old friend of Ruddha’s was not the sort to care much whether he lived or died.

His attention was drawn away from the diversion, though, when the princess seemed to swoon and fall beside him. He had an instantaneous debate about whether or not to attempt to break her fall, but ultimately decided against it. She didn’t have that far to go and he didn’t really want to be the one who startled her into another fit by being so uncouth as to touch the poor thing. Among pirates, that was a stupid kind of thing to think, but he remembered society well enough to figure that.

He did crouch beside her though, extending a hand to help her up, if she wanted it. He was about to crack some kind of joke when she said something, voice little more than a strained whisper. The good-natured grin fell right off his face, and his one visible eye narrowed. His jaw clenched for a visible moment before he forced it to relax. For a moment, he considered denying the implicit assertion, pretending he knew nothing of what she was saying, but in the end, she probably wouldn’t believe him anyway. He’d always looked so much like his brother that anyone who had seen the both of them knew without doubt that they were related.

Instead, he sighed, shaking his head slightly. “So I guess it was him, then.” He’d known the young woman was affianced, but not to whom. The possibility had always been there, given the social standing of his family, but he hadn’t thought his juridically-minded sibling would even bother pursuing anyone, let alone going to the effort it would take to win over the King.

For a moment, he simply studied the girl’s face, noting her obvious fear. He did not know what it was about Nathaniel that had sparked it, but he could guess. Where Siegfried had always been free-spirited and of a casual, friendly demeanor, Nate was… intense might be the best word for it. Sometimes frighteningly so, and he was one of those men that didn’t tend to take well anything that interfered with his plans. He supposed that having one’s future wife kidnapped would constitute such an interference, now wouldn’t it?

Damn chivalry. As much as he would have liked to ask her to not say anything about this to the rest of the crew and left it at that, it was rather obvious to his better nature that he should say or do something to ease her worry. Unfortunately, his better nature was very much out of practice, and initially, the only things that came to mind were bad jokes about Nate, none of which would be of any help at all. With his un-extended hand (he still hadn’t bothered to move since she spoke, apparently), he pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. At last he seemed to reach some kind of decision, for he locked eyes with the princess again and spoke with deliberation.

“Look, Miss ‘Mione, I don’t really know what Ruddha has planned for when this whole thing is done, but if you’d rather not go back, I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you don’t have to. Until then, you can bet all of us will, right?” It wasn’t a very dramatic pronouncement, really, and he hadn’t gone over the edge of reason and said he’d swear knighthood to her or something equally ridiculous, but one can only give what they have. Siegfried was nobody’s knight, and he certainly wasn’t the sort to offer things he couldn’t follow through on. He was, however, conscious of the fact that he’d just made a very big promise, and something dropped leaden into the pit of his stomach.

He had this feeling, somehow, that this whole thing was going to bring him face-to-face with Nathaniel, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle that.

“Also, if you don’t mind, can we keep the thing about my brother between us? Nobody except the Captain actually knows I’m related to him, and not even Ruddha was aware whose betrothed you are. At least, he’d better not have been.” Siegfried frowned, but then shook his head and forced his face back into something pleasant but not quite all-there, his typical expression.