[If she gets lost, she is to stay in place, and the crew will come back to find her. It's almost a game when it happens, sometimes, to see who first does the finding. Usually, Noa wins; she's good at waiting, better at watching, and so often manages to scurry to the side of the crewmate who's backtracked in search of her before they realize they're in the right spot. As with most things, Noa likes to win.
The longest she ever had to wait was three hours, give or take. The captain was not pleased with the crewmate who had taken her out and left her behind then, even when Noa—Noa, always so quick to take advantage of being the captain's darling, loathing to face a consequence for anything—insisted it was an accident, as much her fault as anyone's.
Now, it's been three days. This town isn't large, they certainly cannot have just missed her here, and it wouldn't make any sense for them to leave her behind without a word.
Something is wrong. Her crew does not know where she is.
And so, on the fourth day, Noa buys breakfast solely so she can sit down at a table indoors to spread a map across. She tried working outside, but it's difficult enough to keep the paper in place even without the help of the wind. She's gotten quite good at keeping her right arm dead weight under her half-cape—too long and heavy for someone so small, covering up her arm and her bag and her cutlass—but it's so bothersome, not getting to use it, to have to find ways around something so simple as holding down a page corner. Why manufacture and maintain such a thing if it won't be used?
She manages, at least. Her plate holds down a far corner while she scrapes lightly across her map with a piece of charcoal. Here is where the ship last docked, here is the direction they were going, here is where she is now. Here, then here, then here; she will have to travel...she can cut through...if she takes this way...
There's magic here. It's strong, but unfamiliar. She's never so close to something so strong. Even the feeling is unfamiliar, pushing at the back of her skull.
Without finishing her line, she pulls the charcoal away and sits up straight. She can't focus. If she keeps on like this, she'll get frustrated. She can't get frustrated.
If the source isn't here, it's near, or it will be—or it will pass her by and she can move on with her day, but that seems terribly unlikely. She peers out the windows, watches the door. She's good at waiting. Better at watching.]
[ It's been a few weeks since Bren arrived in town, which is much too long in his book. He likes to spend as little time in each place as possible. Long enough to "help" but not long enough to deplete the little energy he has. Things rarely go the way he wants, though. People in need of help, stolen or worn out supplies, missing funds--It’s like his ever decreasing luck wants to keep him here, tired and busy.
He drops the last of a group of escaped chickens into its coup and turns around to leave before the farmer notices his return. Bren wants to get out of sight and earshot before the farmer can either ask for more help or offer compensation.
Farmers don't have much, he'd maybe get a free meal and a place to stay, but it would be hard to refuse. He misses sharing meals, misses idle chatter with no purpose or expectation behind it. But shared meals loosen lips. There’s something about food and company that make people share their stories, their regrets, their goals and hopes--things that could potentially be classified as 'needing help.'
The risk outweighs the reward, so he leaves quickly, before the offer can ever be extended.
On his way back to the town’s tavern and inn, he removes his cloak. He’s been chasing chickens the better part of the morning and is still sweaty and warm from the exertion, making the heavy fabric uncomfortable. A vein of seafoam green crystal peaks out from his shirt, noticeable now that the cloak has been removed. It follows his collarbone and rounds his shoulder, where it nearly meets up with a second vein that creeps up near the nape of his neck.
It’s easier to hide the crystals when he can, it prevents odd looks and uncomfortable questions, but he’s hoping the tavern will be dark enough inside to keep prying eyes at bay. He pauses before entering the Tavern. On the back of his hand, a few new crystals have just pushed to the surface. He must have missed something on his way here. ]
…Great.
[ He sighs as he steps into the dim building. It'll be harder to hide the back of his hand. Maybe he should invest in gloves. ]
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The longest she ever had to wait was three hours, give or take. The captain was not pleased with the crewmate who had taken her out and left her behind then, even when Noa—Noa, always so quick to take advantage of being the captain's darling, loathing to face a consequence for anything—insisted it was an accident, as much her fault as anyone's.
Now, it's been three days. This town isn't large, they certainly cannot have just missed her here, and it wouldn't make any sense for them to leave her behind without a word.
Something is wrong. Her crew does not know where she is.
And so, on the fourth day, Noa buys breakfast solely so she can sit down at a table indoors to spread a map across. She tried working outside, but it's difficult enough to keep the paper in place even without the help of the wind. She's gotten quite good at keeping her right arm dead weight under her half-cape—too long and heavy for someone so small, covering up her arm and her bag and her cutlass—but it's so bothersome, not getting to use it, to have to find ways around something so simple as holding down a page corner. Why manufacture and maintain such a thing if it won't be used?
She manages, at least. Her plate holds down a far corner while she scrapes lightly across her map with a piece of charcoal. Here is where the ship last docked, here is the direction they were going, here is where she is now. Here, then here, then here; she will have to travel...she can cut through...if she takes this way...
There's magic here. It's strong, but unfamiliar. She's never so close to something so strong. Even the feeling is unfamiliar, pushing at the back of her skull.
Without finishing her line, she pulls the charcoal away and sits up straight. She can't focus. If she keeps on like this, she'll get frustrated. She can't get frustrated.
If the source isn't here, it's near, or it will be—or it will pass her by and she can move on with her day, but that seems terribly unlikely. She peers out the windows, watches the door. She's good at waiting. Better at watching.]
SORRY FOR THE MASSIVE DELAY
He drops the last of a group of escaped chickens into its coup and turns around to leave before the farmer notices his return. Bren wants to get out of sight and earshot before the farmer can either ask for more help or offer compensation.
Farmers don't have much, he'd maybe get a free meal and a place to stay, but it would be hard to refuse. He misses sharing meals, misses idle chatter with no purpose or expectation behind it. But shared meals loosen lips. There’s something about food and company that make people share their stories, their regrets, their goals and hopes--things that could potentially be classified as 'needing help.'
The risk outweighs the reward, so he leaves quickly, before the offer can ever be extended.
On his way back to the town’s tavern and inn, he removes his cloak. He’s been chasing chickens the better part of the morning and is still sweaty and warm from the exertion, making the heavy fabric uncomfortable. A vein of seafoam green crystal peaks out from his shirt, noticeable now that the cloak has been removed. It follows his collarbone and rounds his shoulder, where it nearly meets up with a second vein that creeps up near the nape of his neck.
It’s easier to hide the crystals when he can, it prevents odd looks and uncomfortable questions, but he’s hoping the tavern will be dark enough inside to keep prying eyes at bay. He pauses before entering the Tavern. On the back of his hand, a few new crystals have just pushed to the surface. He must have missed something on his way here. ]
…Great.
[ He sighs as he steps into the dim building. It'll be harder to hide the back of his hand. Maybe he should invest in gloves. ]