All Towns Look Alike

Title: All Towns Look Alike From The Docks
Time Period: August 12, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: Rhagfyr and Carys discuss their new home.

Out in the harbour, the Pysgod quietly rolls on the shifting currents with those familiar sounds of the rub of wood, the tightening of rope and the lazy flap of fabric on the breeze.

Most of the crew are ashore, indulging their vices and enjoying the leave although the captain still hasn't gotten entirely at home with the concept of actually living on land yet. There's something all too comforting about the ship that began their new lives and continues to win them their legend and fortune. It's plausable to find him anywhere on a night like this, with the moon hanging low and spilling silver light across the water; the rigging, sometimes, hopping up with that enviable ease to just sit and watch the view with an irrepresable smile.

Tonight though, he's located on the back of the boat, having opened up the windows in the cabin and parked himself on the beams to look toward the open seas with a bottle of rum. The cosy glow of the town not so far away provides some texture and the man looks quite content with his lot in life.

Carys has been gone most the day — she feels the tug of land as he does the tug of the sea. When she's not on the ship, it's likely she's in the forest hunting, or perhaps in the market to make a few trades with whatever she's managed to take down. There's a quick, trademark knock of the door to his quarters before she opens the door; a bottle of wine in one hand and a canvas bag full of market finds in the other suggest she's had a profitable day. There's the scent of fresh baked bread, and her greeting is a soft toss of a plum in his direction.

"A plum for your thoughts," she says, striding across to where he sits, one hand swinging the bag off her shoulder and setting it on the wide wood ledge he rests on.
The knock draws his attention, a pre-emptive smile as to who it might be, one that grows when she comes through. Snatching the plum from the air, fingers curl about it to test its ripeness although he doesn't immediately look down. "Someone's been busy." he remarks, taking in a deep breath to savour that fresh bread smell, so awfully rare is it while out at sea. "Obviously, annwyl, I was just thinking how much better this moment would be if you were here to share it, and lo and behold, here you are. Magic."

There's teeth in the smile that follows, offering out a hand to help her up. The large windows are fastened open, given that he sits within the opening with a leg hanging off the back. "I could get used to having my wench bring me bread." he adds in a teasing tone.

She doesn't really need the help up, even if she's small — climbing is what she's best at. But his hand is taken and the climb up is made all the easier for his strength and the boost. She doesn't drop her leg out the other side to dangle over water as he does, but instead pulls both legs up, knees craning in front of her. "Magic, is it? Am I some djinn who only appears when you have need of me, and not a will of my own?" she asks in mock disdain that is ruined by a laugh and a shake of her curls.

"Some bread, some cheese, some fruit, and wine, for a few rabbits and an hour's work. Not bad, aye?" Carys asks, gesturing to the bag, if he wants any or all of it. She leans back against the wall, turning her face to the window, and the lights of Dornie reflect in her green eyes. The far-off look is pensive and wistful for a moment, before she seems to shake it off and look back at her captain.

Turning to lean against the window frame, he curls in a leg so that he can stretch it out beside her with his bare foot nudging at her hip. The other's repositioned between the arch of her legs, keeping her in place although it would be a terribly easy escape if she were so inclined. The plum is exchanged for bread, bitten into eagerly and prompting a quietly contented sound. "That it is, girl. Although since I always have need of you, clearly you've got more free will than I'd like." he counters, attempting to meet her disdain with a grumble and failing, miserably.

The wine's snared next, working away at the cork while keeping the heel of bread in his mouth, preventing talk; he watches her though, always capitvated by the way she sees things so differently. Another mouthful of bread, washed down with a swig from the bottle and then it's offered to her. "Something bothers you?"

The moment of quiet melancholy is brushed away by the eagerness with which he snags the bread; her lips pull up into a grin and she watches him eat. She reaches for the bottle and takes a slower, longer drink from it.

"You ran out of your three wishes a long time ago, if I'm your djinn. I must stay because I like you or something. Imagine that." The wine bottle is handed back and Carys wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

It might seem she isn't planning to answer his other question but eventually she shakes her head. "All towns sort of look alike from the docks, don't they," is all she says, and it's easy to imagine what town in particular she has on her mind.
"Or maybe you are my three wishes, ain't it?" Not one for formalities, given that they're already drinking from the bottle, his smile curves wider at the wipe of her face. The rest of the bread is scarfed down before he indulges in more wine though, "Ah, da iawn."

A pitter patter of fingertips around the neck of the bottle just waiting out the answer or no answer and she speaks right as he starts to take down more of the bottle.

There's a faint, sad smile at her words and he reaches out to rest his hand at her back, gaze unavoidably turning towards the lights of the settlement. "We can move in to town, if it helps." he suggests quietly, thoughts following hers. "Although I always imagined that when we finally set down, we'd have a castle." Even beset by darker memories, he still pulls up a small joke to try and tease her from the pensivity.

She shakes her head quickly. "The ship's castle enough for me. And I never sleep well on land anyway." She's more prone to nightmares when her subconscious mind isn't soothed by that gentle rocking of the boat, the creak and complaint of the ship's wooden skeleton.

Her eyes return to the lights of the inn and other buildings in the distance.

"It just feels more like home than most the other places we've been, yn wir?" Carys looks at him to see if he understands what she means. The south of Europe was too warm and sunny to feel so much like Wales; the people, the languages, all more exotic than this country, that feels like a brother to their motherland. "I expect, sometimes, to see them in the market or the shops, like nothing happened."

There's a tiny flicker of relief in his eyes; while he obviously would strike a berth on land if it would help, he'd obviously prefer the Pysgod. She knows that as well as any. The bag of the goods is pushed further along the sill, making room for him to maneuver which seems to involve a mix of pulling and pushing at her until he's able to make room to settle in behind her with arms about her waist and chin resting at her shoulder. The town, straight ahead.

"It reminds me of Hollyhead, in looks." he admits, "And weather." Silence for a little while, before he sings every so quietly.

"Os treisiodd y gelyn fy ngwlad tan ei droed,
Mae hen iaith y Cymry mor fyw ag erioed,
Ni luddiwyd yr awen gan erchyll law brad,
Na thelyn berseiniol fy ngwlad."

Even without nation states, the Welsh are too proud to give up their anthem and perhaps now it's even more fitting. Though the enemy oppresses my land under his foot, the old language of the Welsh is as alive as ever. The muse is not hindered by the hideous hand of treason, nor the melodious harp of my country. "I think it could be good for us, here." he adds after another quiet moment. "The men seem to enjoy having a house of ill repute to welcome them every evening. I'm sure their profits have doubled."

She closes her eyes, resting her head back against his shoulder; when they open again, they are dry, perhaps surprisingly. One hand moves to his face, and she leans up to kiss him lightly, a thanks for the song that feels like a prayer in this quiet moment.

"That they do, and I think they're rather popular with the from what I heard in town from the girls. Especially Owin, who tips more than he has sense in his head," she says, grinning up at him, the melancholy moment seemingly safely behind them — for the time being.
Rhagfyr's arms tighten about her middle, pulling her closer in response to the kiss and when she draws back, there's a smile hanging there on his lips. Their particular corner of The Land of my Fathers may be denied to them, but it's clear that he feels at home wherever she is.

A laugh follows, rich and care free, "We should have cut a deal with them for some kind of discount for the men. I promised Bernadette I would try and find her a man-whore who wasn't prone to seasickness too and ship him out here."

Fingers curl and uncurl, pulling his hand along her thigh to find hers. "When the Sglodion comes back to port, it'll be easy enough to encourage the crew to swap out as they'll all be paupers and need to refill their pockets."

Carys reaches into the bag for one of the plums and settles back against him; content, it seems, for the time being as well. "You'll be itching to go out on the water again by then, I think, but luckily you won't be itching for the same reason."

Her green-gold eyes narrow in mock suspicion for a moment. "At least you better not be," she says playfully, before biting into the plum and looking back out at the lights playing on the water.

"It's not a bad place to call home for a time." Nothing is home forever, after all.
"Ah, you're the only dynes who ever makes me itch, annwyl. An' I mean that in the best possible way." Undeniably true, given that despite all his charms, he never does look at another woman in the same way. Not since that first instant, seeing her upon the roof so long ago and the promise made and always kept.

Leaning over her shoulder, it's a toss up as to whether he's just looking down her top or aiming for the plum. The opening of his mouth and the little unintelligable sound indicates the latter.

"What'd you make of the locals? Should likely spend more time ashore and meet more of them, I know. Just wanted to make sure that everything's settled and running smoothly." Oh, the perils of being a slave to one's reputation.

A snort meets his words, however sweetly meant. "There's a compliment not up to your usual silver-tongued standard, cariad," she says with a grin, taking a bite of the plum and chewing for a moment to consider his other question.

One shoulder lifts. "They're townspeople," she says quietly. "They've had a harder time of things than usual this past winter, suffered a little more than usual, but survived. They think this makes them strong, but they don't know that worse things exist. I'm not sure if I pity or envy them for that."

Since she's not paying attention to his unspoken demand, his fingers curl about her wrist to guide the plum to his mouth so he can steal a bite. "Sometimes, it's just that you leave me without words that are potent enough for your many charms." he counters, matching her grin as he resettles, licking stray juice from his lips.

Nudging aside her curls with his cheek, he lays a kiss in against her neck, long and lingering before turning back to the town. He's comfortable in silence, fingertips idly stroking along her leg, "Worse things indeed." Spoken with a slightly forced casualness, as not to veer off into thoughts of the stoorworm, "So long as we don't get cut by the politics. The pettyness of townsfolk is always a harder battle than steel, in my estimation."

She lets him have the plum, reaching for the wine instead. "True. There's an honesty in a physical fight that's easier to wrap a head around, I think. At least for me. Politics never were my game. I will leave you and your amazing word smithing to that," she teases, before taking another swig of wine. One more glance is thrown to the lights outside before she unravels her legs to hop down.

"Come. There's heartier things for supper than a bit of bread and fruit, and a walk will do you good."

Finishing the plum, he discards the remainder of it through the open window to bob away on the current. "That's very kind of you." The reply comes with a crooked smile, for the compliment and the surrender of political activity to his court. The curve of lips loiters on and he remains there in place, watching for a second as she straightens and stretches.

"All I need's the sight of you to keep me from starving." Now it's a grin, though despite the protest he swivels and pushes off to his feet. A kiss is stolen, on the way to grabbing one of the coats from the rack, "Where are we going?"

"Pretty words, but man does not survive on love alone," Carys says with a fond smile for her captain. "The Albatross. I heard some of the crew in there when I passed, and the food smelled wonderful. I've made it a goal while at dock not to eat anything that's been dead longer'n a week and didn't once have fins or gills, if I can help it."

She flashes a grin at him as she opens the doors from the quarters that lead out onto the deck. "After you, captain," she says, with a sweep of her arm.