Like a maledicted string of pearls, a hissed exhale of foul sailor's curses escaped the lips of the false Svefra, tattooed hands lifting into the air at the unexpected impact of the fish-woman's weapon. He sneered and opened his mouth again to demand an explanation, only to have any words of bravado choke into a pained, unmanly whimper when the woman tripped and mangled her own trident into a more sensitive stern-ward area of his flesh that the navigator would have on all accounts preferred left undamaged by sharp objects and such. To add insult to injury as he fumbled hastily to dislodge himself with the hopes of preserving more important and useful bits from such unnecessary harm, the charoda simply skipped off to the Svefra woman as if nothing at all had just happened. Pash'nar ignored the blonde's accusation at first, smearing bloodied fingers across the still-dripping bare skin at his hips before reaching to begin undoing his collection of belts, "Petch your boat, it was just a tap." He spit with pained vehemence, though it was more over his pride than his body. Wounds of the flesh healed eventually. Other things took a different sort of time. Regretting his curiosity as he slipped a pouch and a handful of belts to the Sparkle's deck, retaining a scarf in the calloused fingertips of one hand, he wordlessly undressed just enough to peer in and investigate the damage without invitation or further glance to his audience, considering he wasn't entirely sure they appeared concerned enough about him. "And an accident, thank you. You'll have to excuse my haste for concern, eh? Ain't every day I—shyke, nevermind." He inhaled through too-perfect teeth at the mingling of salt water and open skin. A bare foot curled toes around the offending weapon that was flecked with his own familiar smear of red, sliding it out of reach behind him, cerulean glare lingering briefly on Liandra in accusation, "That was a bit more purposeful, I'd say." He resumed the undignified peering under his hem, pressing his uninjured hip against the rail for balance while he considered his options. It would have taken more work to lift the leg of his pants, bound as they were by two buttons just below his knee, so, instead, he simply dropped them. Nudity, he concluded without much thought, was currently the least of his worries. It wasn't as if he had any further impression to make on the women—at least one of them had made up her mind about him as it was. And, well, he'd lived too long to lug around too heavy an anchor of dignity. He set about making use of the colorful scarf from his waist to cajole his blood into staying where it belonged instead of on the blonde's deck where it was attempting to pool, focusing mostly on the deeper gashes on his thigh, "I'll shout my intentions a bit louder next time, for Laviku's sake." |