The runt pressed his face to the porthole below. The eternal seesaw shift of his bed did not sicken nor lull him to sleep. He looked bored, an "Are we there yet?" hanging over his ever-blue eyes " dark, like the sea in a midday storm.

The Gypsies had been good to him, had given him lodging and transport across The Rift. He liked them well enough, well enough to stay, but their journey was a roundtrip, and the runt did not want to go home.

Not that he was running. Av"ah Myst had been a fine place to grow, and Jon had been a fine father, though there was a question of paternity. He was not true father, but uncle, but since Saoirse knew no other, he had been father in all ways desired. Guilt was a reoccurring dream, and though the runt did not want to break Jon's heart, this was a trip he had to make. It was expected. One by one, his elder siblings left, though the twins did not go until nineteen, and Lily followed two months later. He bided his time until puberty's peak, until Jon could no longer delay him, leaving only Khrystian, near nine, to keep home and hearth.

Perhaps one day he would return to that rolling mountain chain, and to the valley his people called home. Until then, he would travel, seeking adventure, fortune and fame, the so-called folly of young men, but to Saoirse, it was everything. It was everything Jon could not give him for all those hours of tedious study, learning the healing properties of this plant and that, small charms and simple incantations, and ways to ward off evil. Saoirse was much more interested in sailor knots and star charts, though for some strange reason, his uncle took umbrage over the latter. Sometimes, in the wee morning hours, Saoirse heard him cursing the sky.

Once upon a time, he had a mother, though he hardly remembered her face. He remembered she was fair, unlike Jon, but a touch darker than Saoirse himself. Jon told him once that Khrystian was her spitting image in babyhood, and that the others resembled their true father: dark, like the Gypsies, black-eyed Susans and sun-kissed. It made sense that their father was not his father, nor was his father Khrystian's father. Tangled webs indeed. These three nameless men were hardly thought of at all, and eventually, the memory of their mother suffered the same fate.

Unlike other boys his age, Saoirse did not yearn for a place to fit, did not dwell over where he came from, but only where he was going.

Today, that where was Dockside, in the realm of Rhy?Din. Saoirse bid the Gypsies farewell with a few hard-won coins for their trouble and faded through a sea-strung crowd of sailors, pirates, and stowaways along the wharf.

She had a peculiar walk, a regard for the ground like she just couldn't be bothered by gravity. Each step proclaimed the grace that was the birthright of her people, and she used those steps to steady herself at sea, just as she used them to creep quietly through the street.

Ayrani had taken to wrapping a long scarf around her pale hair and the scar tissue built in a ring around her neck. It was not a thing of vanity, or of safety, but of practicality. It better protected those delicate places from the rage of the sun, the salt, and the wind. It made her seem hooded, veiled, secret; she was a hidden thing in many ways.

The almost gaunt angles of her limb danced in their weightless, skeletal gait, halting only when something of interest crossed the field of vision presented by greenest eyes. This happened when she saw something that prompted a terrible red rage in her belly. Eyes narrowed, and the bullying she saw down the way vexed her, cut through her trademark stoicism. The elf pulled the crossbow from her pack. One elder. One younger. She would split the difference.

The first bolt that flew was a warning shot. It sliced the air without apology, whizzed between the perpetrators, and with terrifying precision, dotted the 'I' of a sign that read "exit only." She was not without some sense of humor, however little. One turned to the other and then they tore their attention from the little one. Ayrani nocked another bolt, with haste, unearthly gaze settled upon them.

"Fancies herself a big hero, does she?" The younger spoke derisively of the slender and silent thing down the way.

"I'll show her a big hero?" The elder began his approach of her, leaving his compatriot to the struggling boy.

The typical and useless banter of a pair of second rate thugs who fancied themselves of import caused no outward sign of irritation in her. One turned to amble towards her, taunting her without any sign of active intelligence.

"Missed the first time. What makes ya think ya can hit me now" What's the matter, sugar, too stupid ta speak?"

She blinked once and fired again. Her second warning shot lodged neatly into the flesh of his calf. With a decent doctor, he might be fine, though admittedly scarred from the experience. A string of curses flew from his mouth, causing hasty response from his buddy. As the elf approached slowly, she nocked yet another of the bolts and leveled it at the man, calmer than a still glacial lake in summer, nothing but a mirror of the sky.

Ayrani was quite through with warning shots....



—————-

"What in the hell is this?"

It was likely strange to nearly everyone the way that the Captain communicated with the Second Mate. Maia did a little talking, the elf said nothing, and yet it seemed they both understood one another. Diego speculated that it was a woman thing, though Hayes firmly disagreed- she didn't understand even a beat of it. Grey was the only witness for the exchange that involved the urchin picked up in town. Ayrani looked to the captain, gestured with her head and eyes, while looking at the kid, then back to the captain.

"Wants to join up" We are full, though?"

Maia's focus was apparent in the drop of her eyelids, that gaze of serious appraisal fixed on the boy before her. Hands on her hips, she looked at the lad from stem to stern, eyes settling on the ever-blue eyes that made something stir in her head.

"Never hurts to have someone extra around, in case something goes wrong. Could work under the greenhands, cleaning, picking up skills here and there?"

Yes, something nagged loudly in her gut, that crucial instinct that had kept her alive for so long. That thing that had ultimately led her to this ship. This boy was not to be left behind. Why, well? that was something beyond her understanding, but the once-pirate had abandoned the dream of understanding long, long ago.

It was likely as much good fortune as anything else that had led Saoirse Roisin to end up aboard the brigantine Al Na'ir. She was, by all accounts, one of the more fair and well-run vessels coming out of Rhy'Din.

It was likely as much good fortune as anything else that had led James Greystone to ending up with the Al Na'ir in the first place. He'd been far younger, ever adrift between ports, whores and both merchantmen and pirate ships. No desire to climb the ranks, no desire to do anything more than just live and drink and sleep with cheap women. Really, he had stuck with the Al Na'ir for no real reason, until a pitbull of a naval officer came up broadsides and...

Well, and held up the larger brigantine with some dummy cannons and a sixty foot schooner yacht.

The fact that by that point the brigantine was in rough shape, the captain was drunk as a skunk and the crew was lethargic at best no doubt made it easier, but even then, Grey had to admire the balls it took to do it. Even though back then the brigantine had been armed with a few deck cannons, Kennedy had so brazenly acted that their captain surrendered for fear of there being more hidden arms on the schooner.

His first clear image of Archie Kennedy had been pacing down the deck, a flintlock in hand, sounding his new acquisition. Fairly short, battered looking uniform, but attitude in spades, he looked like he could theoretically snap a man in half.

Later Grey figured out that the cold confidence Kennedy wore was just that — something worn and not truly internal. But that was long later; had he known it then, he might have cut the Lieutenant's throat just because.

Still, they went on to take two other vessels before returning to port in Rhy'Din. Then, without so much as a 'by your leave', Kennedy said he was giving all the vessels, including the brigantine, to a friend and disappeared. By then, he had sort of come to respect the officer in a distant manner; Kennedy had been cold, but more fair than most of his captains previous, and it was almost a shame to Grey he hadn't stuck with pirating. They sure hadn't done too bad with it.

Still, he was gone and without anywhere he really wanted to go, Grey stuck around.

Then came Lowe.

His first clear image of Lowe had been far less exciting. Only a week or so after Kennedy had vanished, Grey only noticed the scrutiny the vessel was getting when he chanced a look over the bulwark between his runs aft to raid the booze left in the hold, then back to the fo'c'sle. Likewise fairly short, black greatcoat, not very physically imposing as he stood in the driving wind and snow, like a statue, eyes focused aloft. Until they lit on Grey, wherein he immediately realized both that this was Kennedy's aforementioned friend, and that despite his stature, the confidence he had was anything but worn.

It was a rocky start. Some of the crew genuinely didn't know what they were doing; some of them did but had gotten so half-assed about it that they couldn't be bothered to do things properly. Lowe tolerated none of it — he seemed to be able to spot something wrong from fifty paces and would transform from a silent, stoic sentry to a bristling, snarling driver in under two seconds. A few men vanished after one day of that; those that stuck around either got their act together or openly admitted that they didn't know something.

And then he taught them. Abrupt in words, patient in taking time to show how things were done properly. Within a short amount of time it was clear that he'd give no quarter, and likewise clear that he'd give no abuse if they didn't try to take advantage of anything.

And so time went on. Lowe vanished, Marial took over to take Lilith hunting for him. Long, long weeks turned from fair weather to stormy winter seas, and by the time the crew all got back, they were far more capable and doing everything right had long since become routine.

Marial left, Lowe came back. Kennedy came back. Not often, then, just often enough to check on them, pay them, take care of things, then leave again. But often enough for Grey to come to like them both, for different reasons. Lowe spent his time working on the full-rigger deep into the Salvage Yard — Grey had seen it twice up close, the Balclutha, and thought the man must be crazy for trying to restore something so big and complex the first time he laid eyes on her.

When she was finished, though, in September of '06, he saw her the second time and though he wasn't terribly sentimental, he had no choice but to think she was beautiful from stem to stern. After the Balclutha was finished, the by then captain and first mate started overhauling the Al Na'ir.

Then things happened. And in March, Lowe was gone. Kennedy shortly after.

Then came Maia.

His first clear image of Maia had been shortly before Lowe had vanished. Another short officer, cool, ice-eyed, but though her confidence was likewise not worn, she also had her hope and humanity show through. He thought he'd seen the last of her, though, until they decided to contact her when all hope seemed to be, at best, dying.

She brought the hope back with her. Brought along a lot of determination and confidence, as well. And it was under Maia that he became first mate of the brigantine — rescued by Kennedy, given dreams by Lowe, real experience by Marial, and ultimately saved by Maia.

Of course, Saoirse Roisin couldn't know the history of the brigantine, but the cabin boy was benefiting from a long story, a mostly good story with deeply sad parts, and perhaps that was the point all along.

Grey didn't try to explain it all. Just said, properly detached but genuine, "Welcome aboard, kid. Now go forward an' see if Jonson needs anything done."