90 Vhalar 722
Port Diablo
Commonxxx Rakahi
Time had continued to pass since the Biqaj had begun figuring out how to handle the current situation on his ship. The water had risen further and with it, Pyrre’s nerves. He was fully lost in what he felt he needed to do in order to get the sea back where it belonged; he had made a crude chart in a system only he understood that showed his interpretation of the current movements of the tides and had begun gathering what he felt he would need to to successfully careen and patch his sloop.
His earlier scrawlings had not been entirely correct and amendments had been made as the breaks passed. Now, with the tide slowly slipping back out to sea and the sun hanging low in the sky, he felt far more confident with his makeshift tide chart.
He was not, however, confident about what he would do next.
So consumed in his most recent inconvenience was he that he didn’t notice the all too familiar thud of Ymbre’s boots hitting the deck above him, nor the distinct, long and utilitarian stride the larger man took to reach the door to the Biqaj’s cabin. The uses of the hammer and bits of ruined parchment in his hands were all that currently mattered.
Could enough parchment be wadded up to use as a plug? Could he mix something that he had on him in with it to make it more solid and less likely to leech water in? What even could he achieve with the comically small hammer in his possession? Was he even -
Two heavy thuds announced the Lotharro’s descent down the stairs and drew the Biqaj temporarily from his thoughts before a splash followed.
“What the-”
Still half-consumed by his thoughts, Pyrre blankly stated the obvious five trills too late, “Mind boots. Wet.”
Ymbre, paused mid step down into the hold with arms raised in a ridiculous fashion as if the water were waist height and not mid-shin, quirked his entire face as he flicked his brown eyes from the water to the Biqaj. “I appreciate the heads up,” he replied, equally dry. Then, “I thought water,” he gestured vaguely to the water as he dropped down fully into it, “was meant to stay outside the ship.” He looked incredibly out of his depth - his concern was palpable but he was unnerved by what he misinterpreted to be the Biqaj’s casualness.
“Mmmhhh.” Was all Pyrre said in response as his train of thought slid fully back into preparation mode.
The Lotharro continued to flounder. As he was never able to stand at his full height within the hold - even when he stood directly in the centre, he hunched awkwardly and looked around, visibly unsure of where to place himself.
He eventually chose the chair and then couldn’t figure out where to place his arm before it inelegantly settled onto the tabletop in an attempt to appear relaxed. It was not often the Lotharro found himself so rattled, and, even though he did his best to school his features, his distress was clear as day.
His hand slid across the tabletop, unusually fidgety.
Pyrre had moved to set the hammer and paper back down and was now gathering what little foodstuff he had accumulated over the past few trials - half eaten and picked at heels of bread pinched from empty plates, bits of cheese, one lone and very sad dried fish. He wondered how successful he’d be at begging - or if it was even possible for him to beg for some pitch from the local ship builders. He doubted it would go down well.
Ymbre must have felt the fresh carvings in the wood of the tabletop because his voice interrupted Pyrre’s thoughts.
“What’s this about?” The larger man’s brown eyes fixed on the unusual and poorly made etchings.
Pyrre, still barely paying the Lotharro much mind, shot a look in his direction and then looked back at the rudimentary shipwrighting tools he had found stashed away within the sloop the previous cycle before absently uttering, “Tides.”
Ymbre’s brows rose. He was not unaccustomed to Pyrre’s distractedness, but he was unaccustomed to the aloof sort of calm that had the Biqaj in its grasp. Usually the smaller of the two would have been mid-meltdown. Carefully, he regarded the water, “So… the tides vandalised your table?” His eyes had found Pyrre’s form once more, “To think, it’s capable of forming hands. I get why you sailors are such a fearful bunch.” The attempt at humour was ill fitted and ill practised..
..But it did have the intended effect that he had wanted, as it tugged Pyrre from his obsessive musings.
“What? asked the Biaj, brow furrowed as he finally looked at the Lotharro - really looked and saw him. He huffed a bemused sigh as the other man motioned to the table top. “No. I do. Follow tide. Mark down.”
The Lotharro made a thoughtful face as he nodded.
Pyrre knew he likely didn’t follow. But he also knew he would accept what was said and not try and rip it apart with questions. He had a habit of accepting the Biqaj as he was, broken sentences and body and all. It was the thought Pyrre needed to get out of the unknown of the future and back into the tangible present. Still absent of his prosthesis and having left his crutch propped up near the steep set of stairs that lead to the deck, his only option was to hop stiffly towards the Lotharro where he took the man’s broad head in his calloused hands and stared down at him drowsily, the weariness of the trial’s exertions - both mentally and physically - visible in his features. “No worry. Will fix.”
He moved to pat the big man on his cheek when he felt the Lotharro’s arm move to loop lazily around the back of his waist, thumb hooked casually into the side of his trousers. Pyrre grinned immediately, eyes half shut.
Seemingly at his most comfortable when indulging in this sort of closeness, Ymbre tilted his head back and offered, “Four hands are better than two.”
Pyrre’s mind instantly jumped to something else entirely and the very obvious and vivid colour shift of his eyes gave him away just as much as the prick of his brows and the smirk that tugged at the corners of his lips.
The Lotharro took notice and rumbled out a chuckle before closing his eyes while shaking his head in a silent ‘No, not that.’ He gave the Biqaj’s hip a squeeze before uncoiling his arm from the other man’s body and gave Pyrre a playful shove. “I meant -”
“I know” Pyrre managed to get out as he stumble-hopped backwards from the momentum of the small shove and eventually dropped unceremoniously to the bench behind him. It was only after the pair collected themselves and put away their grins that he finally shrugged. He couldn’t deny that the help Ymbre could provide would be beneficial but Pyrre was ever his own island and this was his burden to bear; this was between him and Chrien.
“No.” He said, the comfortable casualness matching the one they had fallen into, “I go. Do.”
“Do?” Ymbre queried.
“Uhh.” Pyrre paused, trying to think of how to explain in his limited Common. “I go.. Put ship on beach. Water..” he wavered a hand as if mimicking the word, “go out.”
Ymbre frowned thoughtfully once more, this time in a far more exaggerated fashion, akin to the sort one might use when interacting with a small yet very confident child. “That sounds…” His lips quirked more as he turned his head to one side to eye him curiously as he groped for a word, “Safe.”
Pyrre laughed.
Ymbre joined.
“No,” Pyrre admitted, honestly.
His earlier scrawlings had not been entirely correct and amendments had been made as the breaks passed. Now, with the tide slowly slipping back out to sea and the sun hanging low in the sky, he felt far more confident with his makeshift tide chart.
He was not, however, confident about what he would do next.
So consumed in his most recent inconvenience was he that he didn’t notice the all too familiar thud of Ymbre’s boots hitting the deck above him, nor the distinct, long and utilitarian stride the larger man took to reach the door to the Biqaj’s cabin. The uses of the hammer and bits of ruined parchment in his hands were all that currently mattered.
Could enough parchment be wadded up to use as a plug? Could he mix something that he had on him in with it to make it more solid and less likely to leech water in? What even could he achieve with the comically small hammer in his possession? Was he even -
Two heavy thuds announced the Lotharro’s descent down the stairs and drew the Biqaj temporarily from his thoughts before a splash followed.
“What the-”
Still half-consumed by his thoughts, Pyrre blankly stated the obvious five trills too late, “Mind boots. Wet.”
Ymbre, paused mid step down into the hold with arms raised in a ridiculous fashion as if the water were waist height and not mid-shin, quirked his entire face as he flicked his brown eyes from the water to the Biqaj. “I appreciate the heads up,” he replied, equally dry. Then, “I thought water,” he gestured vaguely to the water as he dropped down fully into it, “was meant to stay outside the ship.” He looked incredibly out of his depth - his concern was palpable but he was unnerved by what he misinterpreted to be the Biqaj’s casualness.
“Mmmhhh.” Was all Pyrre said in response as his train of thought slid fully back into preparation mode.
The Lotharro continued to flounder. As he was never able to stand at his full height within the hold - even when he stood directly in the centre, he hunched awkwardly and looked around, visibly unsure of where to place himself.
He eventually chose the chair and then couldn’t figure out where to place his arm before it inelegantly settled onto the tabletop in an attempt to appear relaxed. It was not often the Lotharro found himself so rattled, and, even though he did his best to school his features, his distress was clear as day.
His hand slid across the tabletop, unusually fidgety.
Pyrre had moved to set the hammer and paper back down and was now gathering what little foodstuff he had accumulated over the past few trials - half eaten and picked at heels of bread pinched from empty plates, bits of cheese, one lone and very sad dried fish. He wondered how successful he’d be at begging - or if it was even possible for him to beg for some pitch from the local ship builders. He doubted it would go down well.
Ymbre must have felt the fresh carvings in the wood of the tabletop because his voice interrupted Pyrre’s thoughts.
“What’s this about?” The larger man’s brown eyes fixed on the unusual and poorly made etchings.
Pyrre, still barely paying the Lotharro much mind, shot a look in his direction and then looked back at the rudimentary shipwrighting tools he had found stashed away within the sloop the previous cycle before absently uttering, “Tides.”
Ymbre’s brows rose. He was not unaccustomed to Pyrre’s distractedness, but he was unaccustomed to the aloof sort of calm that had the Biqaj in its grasp. Usually the smaller of the two would have been mid-meltdown. Carefully, he regarded the water, “So… the tides vandalised your table?” His eyes had found Pyrre’s form once more, “To think, it’s capable of forming hands. I get why you sailors are such a fearful bunch.” The attempt at humour was ill fitted and ill practised..
..But it did have the intended effect that he had wanted, as it tugged Pyrre from his obsessive musings.
“What? asked the Biaj, brow furrowed as he finally looked at the Lotharro - really looked and saw him. He huffed a bemused sigh as the other man motioned to the table top. “No. I do. Follow tide. Mark down.”
The Lotharro made a thoughtful face as he nodded.
Pyrre knew he likely didn’t follow. But he also knew he would accept what was said and not try and rip it apart with questions. He had a habit of accepting the Biqaj as he was, broken sentences and body and all. It was the thought Pyrre needed to get out of the unknown of the future and back into the tangible present. Still absent of his prosthesis and having left his crutch propped up near the steep set of stairs that lead to the deck, his only option was to hop stiffly towards the Lotharro where he took the man’s broad head in his calloused hands and stared down at him drowsily, the weariness of the trial’s exertions - both mentally and physically - visible in his features. “No worry. Will fix.”
He moved to pat the big man on his cheek when he felt the Lotharro’s arm move to loop lazily around the back of his waist, thumb hooked casually into the side of his trousers. Pyrre grinned immediately, eyes half shut.
Seemingly at his most comfortable when indulging in this sort of closeness, Ymbre tilted his head back and offered, “Four hands are better than two.”
Pyrre’s mind instantly jumped to something else entirely and the very obvious and vivid colour shift of his eyes gave him away just as much as the prick of his brows and the smirk that tugged at the corners of his lips.
The Lotharro took notice and rumbled out a chuckle before closing his eyes while shaking his head in a silent ‘No, not that.’ He gave the Biqaj’s hip a squeeze before uncoiling his arm from the other man’s body and gave Pyrre a playful shove. “I meant -”
“I know” Pyrre managed to get out as he stumble-hopped backwards from the momentum of the small shove and eventually dropped unceremoniously to the bench behind him. It was only after the pair collected themselves and put away their grins that he finally shrugged. He couldn’t deny that the help Ymbre could provide would be beneficial but Pyrre was ever his own island and this was his burden to bear; this was between him and Chrien.
“No.” He said, the comfortable casualness matching the one they had fallen into, “I go. Do.”
“Do?” Ymbre queried.
“Uhh.” Pyrre paused, trying to think of how to explain in his limited Common. “I go.. Put ship on beach. Water..” he wavered a hand as if mimicking the word, “go out.”
Ymbre frowned thoughtfully once more, this time in a far more exaggerated fashion, akin to the sort one might use when interacting with a small yet very confident child. “That sounds…” His lips quirked more as he turned his head to one side to eye him curiously as he groped for a word, “Safe.”
Pyrre laughed.
Ymbre joined.
“No,” Pyrre admitted, honestly.
