More Like Guidelines Anyway

Title: More Like Guidelines Anyway
Time Period: August 10, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: A ship parks near Dornie, much to the joy of many and the chagrin of one.

Almost noon, clear skies and good sailing. The Pysgod slips into the harbour, bobbing on the relatively calm water while the hands scurring up and down the rigging, cutting the sails until the ship is only subject to the whims of momentum and current.

The call comes to drop anchor and ready the boats to land. It's not that it wouldn't be possible to simply moor the vessel right at the dock, but the Captain is still not entirely trusting of this new town and leery of grubby villagers sneaking onto the ship in the night to pilfer their hard-pilfered treasures. Give it time. For now, the longboats work to carry those who wish it back to land even though some of the men still feel most comfortable bobbing out on the water and rarely partake of the journey.

The man himself stands at the prow of the ship, cutting a striking figure as ever in a long, layered felted brown coat that turns to whisps at the edges. A foot propped on the rail, he has his elbow upon his knee, indulging in the pensive-pirate posture.

"Sometimes I wonder if you secretly practice these poses, just for such moments as these," Bernadette's French accent cuts through the gentle wind over the water, a smirk over her lips as she watches him and, beyond him, the land hovering. "Everything's in order, Capitaine. And smoothly done," she adds, compliments to the rest of the crew, even if they can't hear her.

She comes up to the prow as well, leaning against the rails to look over the harbor town. "It doesn't look very exciting, does it?" Not like all those days at sea, between bits of action. But then, she is ever critical of what sits on the ground.

"It's not, especially, is it." Rhagfyr agrees, not revealing the secret of whether or not he stands out here when no one is looking, grooming the perfect position to look both daring and insightful. It wouldn't be terribly unsurprising, would it?

"Although, Carys and I did find those bandits just the other day. That was entertaining." His words have a distance to them, talking from his reverie and not fully paying attention at first. A tiny shake of the head brings him back to the here and now, turning toward her with teeth flashing in that smile, "Good work, Master." There's no real accomplishment here, but simple tasks done well is something the captain appreciates. "You don't approve of our new 'home'." There's a slight inflection on the last word, shifting its focus from the ship — their true home — to the town, their associated home.

"Well, that is something." She'll give it that much. It has bandits. Bernadette looks over at him when his attention shifts back to the now. A shoulder lifts at the comment, her gaze sliding back over to the harbor. "I don't approve of anything until it's managed to impress me."

Straightening up, her hands move to her hips and she lets out a sigh. "I will be sleeping on board," she comments needlessly, since that is also unsurprising. "And live in the hope that they have decent wine here; better than their bandits." That part comes with a crooked smile, at least.

"Well, given the quality of the banditry so far I hope that's a given." The counter comes with a wry twist of lips. Turning he settles against the rail, gaze drifting to the eager men who are clambering into a boat with their money ready to pay visit to the Dovetail. It may have only been a day at sea, but after the previous weeks away from land they're making the most of it and the captain begrudges them not one bit for their enthusiasm. Happy sailors are effective sailors, and all that.

"I wonder." Musing he looks back to Bernadette and her legs, mostly before cutting a glance to the shore. There's a thought percolating there, steeping and preparing itself to be birthed. "A little floating shack, moored at the dock. All towns need a dockside tavern, no matter how large. Deals go smoother with liquor, I find. But. What if it were on the water, instead of next to it."

Bernadette turns to look back at the men as well, lips dipping into a frown. "This town is about to make a lot of profit." Nothing quite like the swell of sailors with heavy pockets. She shakes her head, as if disapproving somehow, before she looks back to Rhagfyr again.

"Do you plan on insisting each town we visit build such a thing? That would be an undertaking." Her tone carries just a hint of sarcasm. Just a touch. Her hands tug on the bottom of her vest to straighten it as she lifts her chin. "I'll be fine." Which is, of course, not at all true. But pride often comes before sense.

"I was thinking we could just tow it with us wherever we go, a cross between a pub and a…" Rhag frowns faintly, rubbing his fingertips together as though to conjure up the word he seeks, "Caravan. I think they used to call them." He's far from upset at the rebuffing of his idea; no doubt he'll have another, similarly unwise plan in the near future that will also be brushed aside.

With her headshake, he digs into a pocket and retrieves a flask — one pinched from some great Spanish noble and inlaid with fine silverwork — A swig for him, then it's offered over. "D'they have man-whores here? We could ship one out for you, I'm sure." Grinning in the face of her indignation, the teasing statement fishes to obtain a smile from her.

"I imagine they still do, out there somewhere," Bernie crosses her arms, although not from upset, either. "But if we find a port that has one, I suppose you'll know where to find me." She leans back against the rail, half sitting there on the edge.

The flask is taken, and a drink as well, but she nearly chokes on it for laughing at his suggestion. She gives him a shove before she manages to clear her throat again. "Shut up," she says without any real bite, "If you'd hire one on more permanently, we wouldn't have to have this discussion."

"Hard to picture people going on holiday, nowdays." Wealth, and looting, has provided the man with access to books over the years and stolen snippets of history. He's prone to drawing inspiration from them albeit often in entirely unuseful ways. There's the Rhagfyr shrug, the rebuttle sliding off him like the proverbial water departing the duck's back.

"Assaulting the captain." A tsk tsk follows, desparately trying to keep a straight face with no success. "It's a good way to make me hire a man-whore who's good with a whip." Oh so casually he steps away from further reprisals. "Aside from some good loving to erase your perpetual French scowling, s'there anything else you need from shore?"

"It isn't the right world for it anymore, I suppose. Holidays. Pity." Bernie nods toward the smaller boats heading to the shore, "Except for them. For tonight, at least."

His reprimand gets a smirk, and she nods firmly, "Oh yes. Only when he earns it, though." It's a good thing he moves, too, because that comment looks like it's about to get a follow up. But instead, she passes the flask back over toward him. "And they say I'm the slippery one." She glances back toward Dornie, eyes narrowing. "My scowl is my best feature. But if they have something decent to smoke."

"Every day is a holiday for us, isn't it?" Rhag counters, with the teeth showing once more. Clearly he does not consider any of their antics on the seas to be work.

A laugh from the captain, pushing with his hands to sit upon the rail and snaking a hand about the nearby rope to prevent any other jostling from sending him overboard. A swig, a small toast, another swig. "It's only your beast feature because you practice it so much." He however turns toward the rest of the ship, thoughts of supplies and requirements poking in around the edges. "My pipe has been empty far too long." he agrees. Silence awhile until his eyes find her once more and he asks, in a more sober tone, "Do you miss it?" Land, presumably.

"Oh, it's all swashbuckling fun for you," Bernadette chuckles wryly, "Sword at your hip and coat blowing in the breeze, oui." She grumbles, but not seriously. Not that she'll say she likes it, too, but not saying she doesn't like it is something.

The question is a sobering one, enough for her to look away and off toward the horizon. Her fingers move to twist the stone that hangs around her neck absent-mindedly as she pauses to consider it. "I miss the freedom to walk it. Country sides, mountain trails. It all loses its beauty, these days."

He doesn't study her further, instead following her gaze to their mistress, the sea and the endless comfort she offers. "It's like home, I suppose." he murmers absently, indulging in one of those rare moments when he'll let something meaningful slip out without thinking. He doesn't elaborate the point however, but it could be assumed to relate to the fact that it's possible to return, yet painful. Rhagfyr knocks back the flask, moreso this time and nudges it against her arm.

"Would you give it up, if you could?"

It's enough to bring Bernadette's attention back around, and even though she doesn't prod at that slip, she watches him for a moment. Right up until she takes the flask for another drink.

"And give up all this?" She asks, spreading her hands out to take in not just the boat, but the water stretching out behind. "The life children dream of and women swoon over? Not a chance," she says with a sudden, toothy grin. "Plus, having given up one for the other already, I feel it would make me some sort of terrible turncoat."

The grin is met with a hearty slap on the shoulder, the pirate equivalent of 'I'm really glad we had this talk', along with one of his own infectious smiles. "See, that's where I've been going wrong. You're looking for women to swoon over you, not fawning man-whores." The transition from pensive inquiry back to carefree jovility is seamless.

"We would have to hunt you down and gut you like a dog if you deserted, I'm afraid." he adds, affecting a solemn tone. "It's in the rulebook."

The slap has Bernadette shaking her head, eyes rolling in an indulgent manner before they settle on him again. "Just someone who doesn't get seasick would do," she says, her own humor not quite carefree, but there all the same.

"Do we actually have a rulebook? I've yet to see this fabled text." She reaches for a rope, to pull herself to her feet. "And I'm beginning to believe you're making things up as you go."

"Of course we have a rulebook." Rhagfyr swigs back to his own feet via his handhold, pocketing the rum and absently straightening out his coat while he takes a glance toward the next boat that's nearly ready for departure. A sharp whistle informs the men that they'd best wait for him. "It's got a ton of entries in it too, although most of them simply amount to 'do as I say'." The incorrigable smile returns.

"Right. Something to smoke, some wine. These things I'm pretty sure I can manage to obtain. Whether there'll be any left by the time I get back is a whole different story." Rhag turns once more, taking note of who is still on board and who's departing. The nod, when he faces her again is more formal, "You have the deck, Master Gunner."

"Nice and simple, easy to memorize," Bernadette say with a hint of a smile curling one corner of her mouth. "And I'm not above telling Carys you're being cruel," she adds, "Keeping a Frenchie from her wine."

Her smile disappears at the more formal tone. "She'll be well looked after until you return," she says, even topping it off with a salute. "Good luck out there, Captain."

"Never let it be said that I kept anyone underserving from their wine." Rhagfyr replies with a smirk, hand lifting to his chest as though wounded from the threats and blackmail.

A hop up onto a rail, he snags his tri-cornered hat from one of the stubs of the wheel as he jumps down from the castle deck toward the longboat with a wave over the shoulder.