[Flashback] This Ain't a Cruise Ship [Tock, Pash'nar]

[Pash'nar]

Timestamp: 78 Summer 508 The sun was a few bells from setting as Pash staggered from the battered door of yet another tavern he never bothered to learn the name of with the full intention of meandering his way hazily back to his casinor and sleep off a bit of stupor before heading back out to sea. Oh, petch, he'd wasted some mizas in there. Perhaps too many as the shouts of a few patrons followed him out into the narrow street. The tattooed sailor was far from sober, sunlight sparkling through the salty old buildings so close to the docks causing him to squint and hiss, though he attempted to turn to catch sight of the angry vagiks he'd pissed off by making off with their meager wages in his pockets. The two men stumbled out after him, one far more inebriated than even the navigator, while the other was perhaps hardly drunk at all. He was the petch he'd have to watch out for, especially since the sod had a knife. "Hows we gonna git any whores if yer sneakin' off wit' our mizas, eh?" Hissed the larger drunkard, "I says we git 'em back an' yers, too. Maybe we'll jus' bleed 'em outta ya, eh lil' sea rat?" The other man said nothing, he just licked his blade. Petching Myrians. Or half-Myrians. Or Sunberth residents. All of 'em. Pash snickered, still backing away, unable to focus his cerulean gaze on either of them with the slight tilt on the world thanks to the copious amounts of alcohol in his earthbound seeming's bloodstream, "No 'mount of mizas'll get your stinkin' arse laid. Ain't gotta miss your coins since I'm doin' y'both a favor." He slurred a bit, risking a glance around the alley they found themselves in. He noticed a few passersby had begun to take interest in the potential fight that was brewing in broad daylight. Not the first, given the city, given the proximity to the docks. "Shut your hole." Growled the bigger man, lumbering forward toward the navigator, smashing him with a fist before he could even try to roll away. He stumbled instead, coughing and blinking away stars, turning in time to twist away from the second patron swinging his knife. Pash attempted to slip between them, to keep himself in the middle in hopes he could use them both as weapons against each other. His movement brought him too close to the smaller man's blade as he sliced at him with it again, dragging the metal across the bare, tan flesh of his ribs. He growled and chased him with an elbow, only to barely touch him. Now the false Svefra found himself truly secure between the two angry men wanting their mizas back and whatever else they could glean from his well-inked person. The larger drunkard swung again, taking a step toward Pash as he flailed his big arms at the sailor's head. He ducked, not necessarily dodging to one side so much as stumbling, and, despite all his usual odds, found his plan working in his favor as the other drunk smashed a fist into the man with the knife. Petch, he was dizzy, turning again to keep himself somewhat near the two, watching as the pointy fellow shoved the larger fellow back with an angry noise of pain before leaping at his opponent again. The dark-haired navigator swung this time, stepping less into the swing and more to the side of it, though the knife still grazed his inked bicep with a searing burn. He hissed through too-perfect teeth and this time connected knuckles to jaw with a satisfying smack and dull jolt of pain. He pushed the armed angry man toward the larger one, bumping them together and keeping the knife from being swung by their proximity, only to have a meaty fist smash into a rib for daring to press too close. Pash was too drunk for this. He'd need a miracle or an easy escape. He doubted he'd find either here on the streets of Sunberth.

OOCNo rush to run into each other. We can set our scenes and end up on the same old casinor in a couple of posts if you prefer.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

"Where's my damn dinner, brat!" Minerva's Da screamed from the other room. She grit her teeth and slammed the pan down onto the counter. She was getting tired of this. Her whole life, catering to that drunken ass! The last couple of months had been the worst... ever since Granddad died. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see it. The dream. For three months she'd been in a fever, dreaming of a magical city of her own creation. A city where she was safe. A city where she could create everything she wanted. Sculpted and brought up from nothing but raw parts, magic, and willpower to become a grand and wonderful place. A place where she could forget about this garbage dump she had grown up in. Three months in a coma, struck down by the same illness that had claimed her dear Granddad. Three months... to awaken and find he was not only gone, but long since buried. She hadn't woken from her fever dreams until he was already in the ground. No chance to say goodbye. No chance to see him one last time. Just gone, snatched from her by whatever cruel Gods took an interest in a lost seventeen year old girl with nothing good in her life. Nothing good but the one man that had been taken from her. "DAMNIT MINERVA!" her Da shouted. "Do I 'ave to come in 'ere?" She heard his footsteps, and her fists clenched. The one good man in her life was gone, and her useless, wasted excuse for a father was still here. He couldn't even blame his drinking on his father's death, for he'd been a drunk for Minerva's whole life. "Ya damn, petching BRAT!" Da shouted as he came up behind her and smacked her in the side of her face. She stumbled, clinging to the kitchen counter to hold herself up. Her vision spun, and she looked up to see him towering over her. His chin was stained with spittle and booze, and he smelled like he hadn't bathed in a month. She knew it had probably been longer than that. "When ya ever gonna learn ta LISTEN when I's talkin' ta ya, huh?" he screamed. How could this man have come from the same blood as her Granddad? "I'm talkin' ta ya, ya damn little bitch!" he yelled, backhanding her once more. She was flung against the counter, and saw drops of her own blood staining the wood. Not even for the first time. But this would be the last. Minerva turned and did something she'd never been brave enough to do in her entire life. She hit her Da back. Her weak fist connected with his jaw, and he staggered. The drunken lout had no balance, but he did have strength. He swung a fist for her face, and she felt a searing pain in her eye. Dazed and dizzy, she slumped, ready to give in. She was never strong enough. She couldn't face him. Her gaze fell to the floor and she almost lost her balance, more of her blood dripping down to the wood below. Her Granddad had built that floor. Screaming, she swung a fist for her Da's gut, putting her full body weight into it. He doubled over in pain, but there was no way she could put him down. He grabbed her by her shirt, shaking her. "YOU PETCHING WHORE!" he screamed. He hit her again, and blackness consumed her. She struggled in vain, groping for some help, her fingers clawing at the kitchen counter, her other hand trying to pull his hand from the grip on her shirt. He had her shirt collar pulled so tight it was choking her. She reached out for something, anything... Her fingers closed around the handle of the frying pan, and she swung it with all the strength she had left. A loud clang sounded as it strike the side of Da's head, and he fell to one knee, releasing his grip on her. The sizzling metal came away with a bit of his skin stuck to the bottom. "Why, you little.." "I HATE YOU!" Minerva screamed, and swung again, using both hands to bring the pan down on the back of his head. "It shoulda been you 'at died! I 'ope ya rot! I HATE YOU!" She swung a third time, and her father slumped to the floor. She stood there for a long moment, pan hanging loosely in one hand, catching her breath and fighting the dizziness. She looked down at her Da as her vision cleared. She couldn't believe it... couldn't believe what she'd just done. She wondered if he was dead... A weak cough dispelled that idea, and she dropped the pan on the ground. He'd be out for hours, and when he woke... Without thought, she ran from the room, down the hall, and into her bedroom. She snatched up a backpack and started shoving things inside. Clothes, hairbrush, whatever she could find. She had a stash of mizahs tucked in the back of a drawer, and grabbed that as well. Da never knew about the allowance Granddad had been giving her. Granddad. She thought about his workshop, his pride and joy. He used to create so many beautiful things there... Da would burn it down, or sell it all. Her fist clenched. She couldn't let that happen. She ran downstairs, and started grabbing everything she could. She shoved tools in her backpack, and strapped on her Granddad's tool belt. Chisels, files, hammers, everything she could carry. There was so much she couldn't bring, it was all so heavy. But the important things, the ones she knew Granddad had loved and cared for, she took with her. Then she ran out into the Sunberth streets without looking back.

[Pash'nar]

The big one was down for the moment, at least, rolling on the ground and snarling like some crippled barnyard animal with the other man's knife in his gut. And Pash didn't even have to do anything. Well, he fell over. A bit too much to drink and a barfight didn't exactly mean he was all spring in his step. Not after that lug landed a few blows against his brainbox. This was going much better than planned, considering the smaller petch was out a knife, but the tattooed sailor had to get up first. Get up before he got kicked a few more times, at that. At least he still had their mizas. It would be nice if he could keep them. With a groan, he managed to roll away before the most sober of the three got another swing of his leg in the direction of his ribs. He snatched the knife from the lug's gut, making sure to twist a bit just to make sure he stayed down. He might have grinned a little, lopsided and red-cheeked, at the loud, pained reaction he elicited with the ripping motion, though his cerulean gaze was still on the smaller man to whom the weapon once belonged. Using the wounded man still groaning in the street, he scrambled to his feet and lurched himself forward. In the golden light before sunset, plenty of people wandered the streets, giving the scuffle outside the tavern a wide berth. No one bothered to intervene. A few stood around and watched, mostly a handful of urchins and a few enterprising Sunberthians willing to exchange more mizas in betting on strangers bloodying each other. Not that Pash'nar noticed. His vision wasn't entirely clear and parts of his body ached and he was rather convinced he'd end up spilling the day's worth of alcohol on the streets against his volition before he made it back to his casinor. If he made it back to his casinor. So, the dark-haired navigator threw himself bodily into the other man, wobbly limbs and drunken momentum more than strategy. He managed to rake the small blade he'd acquired across the smaller man's chest with all the unimpressive liquid grace of an inebriated flail. He continued his forward motion, one leg not exactly landing where he wanted so the sailor simply crashed his entire shoulder against the other man with a grunt, losing his balance. His whole wiry weight crashing into the man was enough to knock him over, not expecting the false Svefra to fall in his direction. The smaller man attempted to punch, push, dodge, something, only to crash to the ground underneath Pash with a grunt. It took a few moments of struggling for the far-from-sober man to realize he was still holding his opponent's knife. And that he wanted it back, grabbing and kicking and growling at him. "Petch no." He slurred at the man underneath him, elbowing the other man while he tried to wrestle his vambraced wrist out of his greedy grip. There was some heckling from the onlookers at this point, which only served to amuse the inked navigator. He couldn't put on much of a show, though, not with his alcohol-blurred brain power. The smaller man twisted beneath him in an attempt to flip him over, but in the process lost his grip on his own blade. Pash'nar slipped with the momentum, the blade flying downward only to lodge itself in the man beneath him—right in his chest. He blinked. The other man blinked. Then he gurgled. The sailor wavered and slid ungracefully to one side, watching the surprise on the other man's face melt into a numb semblance of horror. He frowned, though it wasn't entirely out of regret for the angry little vagik. It was his petching fault for being a sore loser. Pash tugged on the knife and decided he didn't have the energy to attempt to keep it, leaving it stuck in the dying man's chest with a grumbly sort of disappointed sound in his aching chest. Mizas exchanged hands over one of his inked shoulders and the children scattered with laughter. He laid in the sun for a few minutes, listening to the larger man continue to whine and gurgle like a pathetic animal. He'd live, but petch if he wasn't a wimp. Too drunk to accurately assess his own personal damages, the dark-haired navigator eventually rose to his feet, dusted himself off, wiped blood from his face with a tattooed back of his hand, and staggered off toward the docks, a glimmering hope that he didn't look too much like easy pickings for any more natives this afternoon. He still might have regretted not taking that knife. Just a little.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Minerva glanced up at the setting sun. She hated being in the streets at night. The worst sorts came out at night. The sorts that took a girl for a hooker, or worse, for prey. Growing up in the city of Sunberth, a girl had to become one of three things: tough enough to fight the boys off, weak enough to surrender and be a victim, or savvy and greedy enough to profit off it. Minerva wasn't sure which she was. Certainly not the latter, for she had never tried to use her body for profit, or offer herself to keep the peace. But was she tough? She thought about her Da, and silently shook her head. No, she wasn't tough. She was just a different kind of victim. A victim to Da's fists and drunken rampages, and to the shattered dreams of knowing her life was meant to serve him his meals and buy him his liquor. She had considered running away many times, but she had never been brave enough to. She had considered Da's fists to be better than what other men would want to do to her. But there was no going back now. She stopped at an intersection, looking around. She didn't know where to go. She had just gotten far enough from home to realize that she was doing it, she was really leaving. But where to? Travelling overland to another city was too dangerous. She might be able to find a well-defended caravan to travel with or something, but she didn't think it likely. A ship would be better... a ship could take her anywhere. Anywhere in the world. She didn't even know where she wanted to go... just away from here. She turned towards the docks, keeping her head down and walking as fast as she could. Unfortunately, she didn't get far before someone stepped into her path. "Where ya off to, Min?" a boy's voice asked. She glanced up at him, keeping her face lowered to hide the bruises, the black eye, and the split lip. It was Corwin, a boy who'd been hounding her off and on for years. "Go shove a pickax up yer arse'ole," she told him, moving to step around him. Sometimes he just left her be. Not today, though. He moved to block her path, holding his arms out to either side. "Why ya got a bag packed?" he asked. He leaned up on his toes to peer at the pack on her back, trying to see what was in it. She shifted it protectively to the side. She didn't want him stealing her Granddad's tools. "Get outta my way," she growled. He laughed at her. He stepped forward, slipping his arms underneath hers to try to reach for the pack. It wasn't the first time he'd tried to put his hands on her. "Come on, Min," he said, "lemme see whatcha got!" He was laughing as she struggled and tried to shove him away. He'd robbed her a few times before, when her Da sent her out with money to buy his hooch. More than once he'd also offered her her own money back, if she would provide certain 'services'. She'd refused, preferring to face her Da's rage at returning without the liquor, rather than losing something more precious. "I done told ya, Corwin," she shouted, "get outta my way!" He just laughed more. She shoved him hard, and that was when he started getting rough. He grabbed her arms and pulled her close, slipping his hand into her pack. He pulled out her Granddad's best chisel. "What's 'is?" he asked. He turned it over, looking at it, obviously never having held a tool before in his life. "Give 'at back!" Minerva screamed. They were drawing a crowd now. Everyone was watching, but no one was helping. She hated this city. "What's it worth ta ya?" Corwin asked, dangling it in front of her. "How 'bout a kiss, aye?" He made kissy noises at her, and she grit her teeth. Enough was enough. She stepped forward and snatched the chisel from his dangling grip, and slashing out with it, cutting him across the arm. "Ahh, what the hell, Min!" he shouted. As much as he was a brute, he'd never hurt her before, and she'd never retaliated. He was so caught off guard that he didn't realize it when her fist came swinging for his face. He staggered back, clutching at a bloody nose. He wasn't laughing anymore. "Ya little fucking whore," he said, advancing on her. "I ain't lettin' ya off so easy, this time!" He grabbed her and threw her down an alley, advancing on her. She stumbled, still weak from her earlier brawl with her Da. But she wasn't going to back down. He rushed at her and grabbed her hair, shoving her against a wall. She grunted as the wind was knocked out of her, and stabbed the chisel for his face. He grabbed her wrist before it got there, pinning her arm against the wall. "Git offa me!" she screamed, using her other hand to beat at him. "Git! Ya lousy oaf! Git!" She smacked him repeatedly, but without a heavy frying pan to do some serious damage this time, her blows were too weak. She tried to knee him in the groin, but he was ready for that one, and shifted to protect himself. He held her pinned, and she stopped struggling for a moment. "Now, ya apologize," he said, "an' maybe I won't beat yer sorry ass right here, aye?" She spat in his face. He pulled her from the wall and then slammed her back into it hard. Her head spun, and she slumped. Weak and nearly defeated, she closed her eyes and started to sob. Corwin leaned in close and whispered in her ear, "Just apologize, aye? Maybe I'll forgive ya if ya give me a kiss..." She opened her eyes and glared, then snapped forward, clamping her teeth over his ear as hard as she could. "AHHHHHHH!" he screamed, releasing her and shoving her away. She clamped her teeth over his ear so hard that half of it came off with her, and she spat it to the ground. Corwin staggered, but he was still stronger than her. If she gave him a moment to recover, she was done for. "Go ta 'ell, ya piece o' trash!" she screamed. As he doubled over trying to recover, she kicked him in the gut, and he fell. Then she kicked him again and again, screaming and nearly frothing at the mouth. She kept kicking and kicking, taking out years of frustration and abuse on him, making him pay for what this city had done to her. She finally stopped when her strength gave out, pausing for breath, then kicking him once more right in the face. "Worthless git!" she shouted. She then staggered down the alley, away from the gawking crowd at the near end, and exited on the opposite street. She raised a hand to the back of her head. It was wet with blood from where Corwin had slammed her against the wall. She was covered in sweat, blood, grime, and shame, her left eye swollen shut from the blow her Da had given her, her lip split, her face bruised, and her head bleeding. And still no one offered to help her. Her arms ached from the way Corwin had pinned her, and her foot was sore from kicking him so much. She limped down towards the docks, determined to get the hell out of this city.

[Pash'nar]

Pash'nar stumbled from one alley to the next, calloused fingers trailing along old, salty wood as he retraced his steps back toward the docks. He'd paused more than once along the way to make sure the entire contents of his stomach were left behind in a few choice places on the busy, dirty streets of Sunberth—a mediocre meal and too much piss-poor alcohol. Oh well. It wasn't like he'd be hungry after sunset anyway. The adrenaline was beginning to wane, draining out of his system and completely stealing any real buzz that clung to the brighter places of the dark-haired sailor's consciousness. Stuff was starting to petching hurt—here'n'there. A few cuts. Bruises. Maybe something was broken. Again. These alleys just were not the place to stop and examine your wounds. He did his best to keep his chin up, to not let the blood or the dirt look like it was wearing him down. Not when he'd catch the sideways glances from some of the other sods on the street. Vultures. This place was full of 'em. Eventually, shanty buildings and occasionally cobbled roads gave way to dirt and wood, the tattooed sailor staggering along, pausing to lean, dragging along at the best pace he could manage. The usually refreshing smell of salt-water was over powered by the less savory scents of life in Sunberth, clinging to the already stinging places in his nostrils and making his stomach churn a bit more than it already was. Soon, sandaled feet were slapping across wet wood of the docks, sliding a bit as he wove his way past ropes, cargo, sailors (or pirates or both), a handful of enterprising young whores, and other flotsam. He just had to remember where he left his casinor in the tangle of bows, sterns, masts and sails. This was, really, always the challenge when even remotely drunk. Syna was lazily stretching her last rays over the sea, and it was perhaps one of the only times Sunberth looked remotely beautiful this side of too many drinks and a good beating. The false Svefra soon recognized the worn paint and time-smoothed wood of his cozy little vessel, far down the docks and out of the way of the more impressive, shiny merchants and questionable, smelly pirates. It was simple, well-cared for, and home. He clambered onto his deck, nearly taking a dip in the sea instead, white knuckled and still dizzy as he hauled himself on board ungracefully. For several minutes, he just sprawled out on the sun-warm wood with a groan and a wheeze, feeling the flow of blood (petch, he'd have to clean that later) and the protest of injuries. The safest place for the night would be out at sea, he decided, and it took considerable effort to crawl back to a standing position and begin to untie his creaking ship from its moorings. Grumbling to himself, he shoved off from the dock with as hard a kick as he could muster, ribs protesting the forceful motion. He nudged the tiller and sank back down on his deck, wanting to rest a moment before messing with his sails. Drifting lazily with the receding tide, Pash wavered a bit and squinted at the sun. Sunberth could be a petching entertaining city, but it was more often than not more trouble than it was worth.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Minerva stumbled through the city in a daze, heading towards the docks. The smell of salt, fish, and human waste assaulted her, but her nose was so stuffed with snot and blood that she could barely smell it. The people around her were a blur, one eye swollen shut, the other half darkened with swirls of blackness that clouded her vision. She eventually made out the shapes of ships ahead of her, and knew she was almost free. She made her way down the docks, avoiding meeting anyone's gaze. Sailors were among the worst sorts, usually showing little care for the citizen of Sunberth, and even less so because they would be gone by morning and be free from facing the consequences of what they did here. She squinted at the ships she passed, having no idea which one to take. Most had people standing near them that looked rough and crude; not at all the sorts that were likely to let a teenaged girl aboard their ships without wanting something in return. She didn't know what to do. She stopped in the middle of the docks, looking from one end to the other, tears falling from her eyes. There were too many... she didn't know what to do, where to go. Her throat caught with a sob, and her hands started shaking. She weakly lifted her wrist to wipe her nose with her sleeve, and started shaking more when she saw the blood that stained the cloth. Was she going to have to go back home? She saw movement, and squinted in the failing light, seeing a small boat starting to move away. Her heart clenched in her chest, and she turned that way and started to run. She didn't care what ship it was, or where it was going... it was leaving now, and she needed to be on it! She ran as fast as she could, her breath catching in her throat, her soreness and exhaustion making her limbs feel sluggish and heavy. Her boots stomped across the damp boards of the pier as she raced for the end, seeing the boat moving away. It was far... too far. She sobbed and cried out in a panic as she leapt from the end of the dock... And landed in the water just short of the boat, flailing and screaming. She couldn't swim! She kicked her legs, trying to stay above the surface, her hands clawing for the fleeing boat. She choked on seawater, coughing and sputtering, gasping for air as she reached desperately for the surface. She screamed, but the sound got cut off when she wound up with a mouthful of the sea. Was this how she was going to die?

[Pash'nar]

Pash'nar stared up at the sky with blurred vision, watching the blazing clouds as Syna finally began to surrender her reign to her lover. Evening was coming. It made his tan, tattooed skin tingle in the sea breeze. He thought about getting up, about finally examining the stabbed bits and bruised portions of his borrowed body, but any productive thoughts were squelched by the sound of loud feet clattering down the slowly distancing dock. There was a shout, a splash, a few gurgles, and some very distinctly girly drowning noises. The tattooed navigator grit his teeth and crawled to the starboard rail of his old casinor, cerulean eyes struggling to come back into focus. There was something small and red-headed splashing about just barely out of reach of his hull. It wasn't swimming so much as sinking. "Oh for petchsake." He mumbled, watching idly in hopes the person—child?—would figure things out and flail back to the docks. Only, it didn't. It sank a bit, gurgling on brine and failing at surfacing. He scowled, reaction time a bit slow being drunk, wary, and wounded. He should probably do something about that. With a string of sail-worthy curses, he slipped over the edge of his boat and into the dirty harbor. Air left his lungs as brine flooded through open wounds and he groaned angrily, dunking under the depths to swim the short strokes toward where the red-head disappeared in bubbles and splashes. He inhaled a sharp, stinging breath before sinking again, ignoring the sting as he opened his eyes to see the girl, laden with some huge pack, sinking. There was blood in the water that didn't belong to him, and he snatched a raised wrist, tugging upward until the struggling thing was level with his face. His grunted, air escaping in wild bubbles from his nose as his free hand tugged on the weight of her pack—what the petch?—hauling them both to the surface. The tattooed sailor sputtered a few more blush-worthy curses and lifted the girl up to breathe, changing his grip to wrap one arm around her chest and flap with great difficulty back toward his boat. Did she have mizas in there? A body? Calloused free hand found familiar holds and he attempted to climb. The first time, he just tossed them both back in the sea, struggling to grab the girl again before she slipped back under. The second time, he just smashed his face against his hull instead of falling completely. The third time, with much verbal protest, he hauled their soaking bodies to his deck and all but collapsed against his rail, coughing and wheezing saltwater. At least the girl was breathing. He watched her chest rise and fall in silence, one hand clasping over the burning gash on his chest, "This ain't a petchin' cruise ship. If you've been robbin' merchant vessels while they're crew's off whorin', you ain't gonna find anythin' here." He spat overboard, blood and sea water. Pash slumped to a sitting position, finally glancing down at everything that hurt while he waited for the soaked thing on his deck to recover. He hadn't seen much of her face in the dirty harbor water. He'd only felt how heavy the weight she was carrying had been and was nervous of its implications. "An' I ain't a charity, either. So catch your breath an' get back on dock, kid. It ain't gettin' any closer."

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

When Minerva felt someone grab her, she desperately clung to him, grabbing and clawing for any sort of hold. She screamed and flailed, helpless in the water, feeling seawater start to invade her lungs. She coughed it out, and when her head broke the surface she gasped for air, her chest burning. She clung uselessly to him as he struggled to get her to safety, having no strength left after the longest night of her life to do anything but grip his shirt in weak, trembling fingers. She groaned in pain as she was tossed to the bottom of the boat, shivering with the cold and shaking with a mixture of fear and relief. The very first thing she did was open her pack and make sure nothing had fallen out. She counted every chisel, every gouge, every file to make sure that not a single one was missing. She heaved a ragged sob of relief when she saw they were all there, clutching her precious treasure to her chest and letting her tears flow. She glanced back at the city, not far behind yet still behind her, and years of abuse flowed from her tears. When the man, her savior, told her to get back to the dock, she turned a panicked gaze onto him. She wiped the hair from her face, revealing bruises, the black eye, and the split lip. Desperate, she scooted forward on the deck and reached out to grab the man's wrist. "Please don't send me back!" she cried out, more tears falling from her bruised eyes. "I'll do anythin'..." She gazed at him with desperate, weak, defeated eyes. She'd come too far, she couldn't give up... not when she was away now... not when she was free. Staying free was worth any price. "Anythin'..." she whispered with a choked voice, clinging to his wrist with trembling, innocent fingers. She lifted her other hand, shaking, and placed it on his leg. She whimpered and choked back a sob, ready to offer whatever it took just then to keep from getting sent back.

[Pash'nar]

First, it dumped all its shyke on his worn deck. Sharp things, pointy things, flat things, things! Pash only had a vague idea what some of them were simply because he'd repaired his ship over the years. The rest of the heavy crap in this red-head's bag was unfamiliar and probably dangerous, but the girl hugged them like family members and … Oh petch. No. Not the lip quiver. Not. Not the tears. For Leth's sake. Gods no. The horror. She was crying. Not sniveling pretending-to-be tough crying like the Zeltiva boy. At least he had some balls, that one. No. This thing was sobbing and trembling and all kinds of melting, girly pathetic right there on his deck. And she clung to him. Snot and tears and bruises and blood, cold little fingers on his tattooed skin and heavy wet leather vambrace looking all the more despondent and sad with each passing heartbeat. The wind-worn creases around his sun-lit seawater eyes deepened as he scowled, a brief flicker of true terror on his ageless face as she whimpered and begged. She was bleeding. He was bleeding. At least they were even. He wasn't very drunk anymore, so unfortunately, he possessed entirely too much good judgement for this kind of situation. Then there was a hand on his leg. "Oi!" Hissed the dark-haired navigator, just barely resisting the urge to smack her hand away, face twitching in the effort. Obviously, some folks had seen themselves fit to smack her around enough. He preferred not to hit women, especially not children, unless they had their hands in his pockets or otherwise deserved it. This, well, he wasn't sure about this at all. Instead, he removed the offending appendage like it was a rotten fish, lightly between calloused fingers, depositing her hand back on his deck, "I ain't that desperate. You're a bit on th'young side an' that sure as petch ain't my thing." He shuddered to think that there were plenty in this city of all places who certainly would have no qualms about such an offer. "I ain't really a passenger ship, kid. Not usually. I live 'ere." Pash swallowed, eyeing her face, "Didja get lost? Didja wander down the wrong alley lookin' for your Da—" he'd seen that before … He chewed the inside of his lip to keep from groaning, adjusting his lean against his own railing so his ribs didn't ache so much. His tide pool gaze washed past her face to the horizon. She'd be in for more surprises soon enough, "—I can walk you home if that's what you're afraid of, lass."

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Minerva pulled her hand back in shame, simultaneously grateful that payment of that sort wasn't necessary, and yet slightly insulted at the disgusted reaction she got. "I's seventeen," she protested in a weak voice, sitting back and pulling her pack into her lap. She lowered her eyes, wondering what he thought of her... and wondering whether she should care. She listened to his words with a sinking heart, wondering what else she could offer him. She wasn't going back, she wasn't! She glanced up at the sail, wondering if she could figure out how to pilot this ship herself, assuming she could manage to throw him overboard. She doubted she had the strength left in her, but maybe if she caught him by surprise... Then he mentioned her Da, and her eyes snapped back onto him. Between the failing light and her swollen eye, he wasn't much more than a misshapen blur, but she still focused all of her anger and hate at that blur. "My Da's a worthless petchin' drunk what shoulda be the one 'at died!" she screamed. She started shaking again, worse than before, her hands clenching into fists. Sobs choked out past her trembling lips, and hot tears burned their way down her cheeks. "I ain't goin' 'ome!" she shouted. "I AIN'T!" She slammed her fists into the deck, her breath coming in sharp heaves as she tried to control her shaking. After a few moments the energy started to fade from her, leaving just a quivering, bleeding, crying girl, her gaze drifting helplessly down to the deck.