Not a seamstress but a seamstress

Title: Not a seamstress, but a "seamstress".
Time Period: 14th August, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: The eternal hunt for good wine continues.

Oysters they are fishy bi-valves
They have young ones in their shell
How they diddle is a riddle
We don't know, so what the hell

The green sea turtle's bride is happy
With her lover's winning ways
First he'll grip her with his flipper
Flips and grips for many days

It's lively tonight down at the bars by the docks. Multiple voices are singing one hell of a sailors song and Sorcha tonight, is one of them. A few of her dead husband's friends have returned to Dornie in their preperations for taking off and there is an intent to buy the young Widow Ferrier a few rounds in sorrow, sympathy and farewell.

So she stands, on a table with a few others - noteably men - a pint clutched to her chest as she sings so seriously about the mating of various sea creatures. There's a few alchol stains on the bottom of her skirt, and she's barefoot, tiptoes on the table with dark curls this way and that. Mariah's not there to chaperone her, or to have even nudged her into not going out, and so, she's making a spectacle tonight.

"Nique ta mere, they're singing," Bernadette observes ever so lady-like as she walks with her captain into that very same bar. Ever grumpy on land, she walks with a bit of a hitch in her step and a wince here and there as she adjusts to the feeling of walking on dry land again.

It's been a while.

She, too, wears a skirt, the hem hanging around her calves— she loses less clothes this way— and just above a pair of heavy boots. She's a little mismatched, but doesn't seem to mind. And she takes her mismatched, grumpy self over to the bar to order their hardest liquor.
Not mismatched, is Rhagfyr. Today's coat seems crafted together from a wealth of fabric wedges that are all just slightly different shades of brown. The huge surface area of the overlapping segments gives a high dramatic flair potential. Beneath it, a black lace up 'pirate shirt' and leather trousers, which he carries off in style, completed with a pair of high folded-top boots with their black surface stained with salt residue.

"Ah, Bernie. You should sing more often. There was that one time, off the coast of Brittany with the Italians who you made cry. I will never forget it." The captain peers about the room, flashing his toothy smile to the smattering of off-duty crewmen who raise their mugs toward him. "Still. I'm not sure there's a need for a 'how to' song regarding shagging molluscs. Seems inappropriate."

Someone is out of alcohol. Maybe. or maybe it's just the allure of the jacket, as SOrcha bounds off the table, her voice no longer adding to the chorus of the many ways in which sea creatures fuck, and is quick enough, beside the captain of the boat, and peering at his coat. "It's like scales" She breathes, perhaps a little to close and invading ones personal space. "May I see it?" She looks between Rhagfyr and Bernadette. "I'm a seamstress" As if explaining her intense interest in the coat that derailed her so easily from her song and show. Her empty pint glass goes up on the bar counter, tapped twice to be refilled and is back to studying the jacket in question, nose hovering a mere inch from one of the overlapping wedges. But not actually touching.

"You can't hold that one against me," Bernadette claims with the thud of her arm against the bar, "I was very drunk." Which is probably not true, but that's her excuse and she's sticking with it. She pulls herself onto a stool, the relief visible for a moment before she schools her expression better. "Sailors. It's a longstanding tradition that they don't see women often. Must amuse themselves somehow."

When the woman makes her way over and gets all up in their bubble of personal space, Bernie's arm comes out to block her from getting too close to Rhagfyr. "Hold your steps, Petite." The explanation that she's a seamstress has Bernie looking to her captain, possibly waiting to see if he wants to let the woman closer or not.

"Psh. I think we've already established that our crew see more of women than is healthy on a daily basis." Rhag turns to Bernadette with an affected expression of shock, "You? Drunk? Never!" That smirk can't be held back for long.

Digging in his pocket for something suitable, the pirate comes up with a little bundle of jewelry that's certainly sufficient to provide a round for the bar. Which is what he does, much to the delight of his men and their new friends.

A slow turn toward Sorcha with a charming smile. Of course. Everyone loves the coats. No surprise there. He remains next to Bernie though, considering the seamstress as though she might be an assassin or one of his many nemesi. Looks unlikely. "I don't charge to look, lass. Mind your fingers though."

Palms are up with Bernadette's words. "s'okay. Could I see it though? Where did you get it from?" Bypassing the possibility that he himself had made it or someone else on his crew. There's a smile to Bernadette as Sorcha nudges some man off an adjacent stool and she slips up onto it. "Sorcha Ferrier" Offering her hand out a little unsteady. "Seamstress at Pins and Needles. You'd be?" To the both of them.

Letting her arm down again, Bernadette still watches the woman for a few moments. Just in case! But once she's satisfied she isn't about to pull a weapon, Bernie turns back to her drink at the bar. "I know. A shock to all," she says to Rhagfyr as she picks up her shot glass to swallow it in one gulp. The glass thunks back against the bar, and she turns to look at Sorcha.

"Bernadette is the name I tend to go by," she says, not taking the hand herself. She looks at it, sure, but seems to be more comfortable leaning her arm against the bar. Charm is the captain's forte, not hers.

The captain does take the offered hand in a firm shake, his hands calloused from ropes, rails and the wheel of the ship. "Rhagfyr Llyw." says he, finally claiming his own stool after letting go and awaiting his drink. "Captain of the Pysgod." A tilt of the head, back toward the bay where the ship is quite hard to miss out in the water.

"She's a curious one, isn't she?" he asides to Bernadette, "Is she blind? Or is this some canny excuse to feel me up?" It's a stage whisper with no real effort to keep the words unheard by the other woman. "This particular coat I took from the body of Black Jim Whale." he states sagely, "It has saved my life on more than one occasion."

"Feel the coat up. Not you. I want to see the inside, how it's made" She can hear that stage whisper, oh yes she can and Sorcha's own hand grips his back just as firm. Little flecks of color on her fingers that are actually fibres of thread, stuck there from sewing. "Clothing with a tale though. And a purpose. Though I am sure that Bernadette here and saved you far more often than the coat"

She looks to the water though, to the shipping bobbing out, and her face falls, for a moment as if remembering something not so good. But she schools her features soon enough and plucks up her pint to drown that look in yet more alcohol. "How long are you both here for?"

"Very curious," Bernie answers after Sorcha's protests, managing a crooked smile. But possibly because another drink arrives just then. And is quickly dispatched. Her attention comes back around to Sorcha at those words, though, and she laughs roughly.

"I wouldn't count on that, miss. That coat is eternally vigilant. I do sleep sometimes." She reaches a hand over to pat Rhagfyr on the arm— or rather, pat the coat on the arm, but it works out the same. "And trouble comes at any hour." As for how long they'll be, she looks at Rhagfyr, an eyebrow arched.

Rhagfyr looks unconvinced, having heard his men ask many a time to see the inside, although never about his coats. The crew know well, don't mess with Carys. Don't mess with the coats. All else is negociable. "See, here's my conundrum." he begins, pausing however to turn to Bernie and raise his mug toward her in toast, "While Bernadette is very capable, you seem to imply that I am in need of saving far more often than I am comfortable with." A wink for his Master Gunner before picking up the other thread of the conversation.

"If you find out how my coat is made, then you'll go ahead and make ones like it. Which will then make mine less unique." Reaching up he rubs at his chin, "I read once that it used to be common practice, long ago, to sell items in a certain style due to them being popular with notorious individuals." Because everyone wants to be Captain Llyw in his mind, so this makes perfect sense. Some quiet contemplation follows before the final query is recalled, "Until we leave."

"There, sir, is more than one way to skin a cat, or in this case, make a coat like that" A gesture to the coat in question. "Is he questioning my honor" She leans over and in towards Bernadette. "He's questioning my honor" Sorcha looks up with wide eyes, well into her drunken state. "You are questioning my honor"

She sits up proper in her seat, looking at the room and it's inhabitants. "HE is questioning the honor, of a sailors wife!" There's a forefinger, pointed at Rhag. "For shame"

"Only from your own wit, Captain," Bernadette says, for her side of that toast. Which seems to be the case at the moment. Her features twist a little as Sorcha leans in, less happy. And all the less so for her words. It could very well be that Bernadette, even with a couple drinks in her, lacks the sense of humor to take the words with a laugh.

She slides off her stool, feet touching the ground with obvious pains. Her jaw clenches, her hand gripping the bar does most of the work in keeping her upright, and her words come out sounding a forced. "Take care with the direction your merriment takes." She turns to look at Rhagfyr there, frown firmly in place. "And you wonder why the land loses it's allure."

"I think she's trying to get us beaten." This is terribly amusing, and as a contrast to Bernadette's pain and frowning, the pirate looks delighted. The very notion of a bar room brawl putting him immediately into high spirits. Clearly at this point he would really like to actually question Sorcha's honor, but Bernie's countenance makes him think the better of doing so. His men, their friends, the locals, the widow's backup have all started to look over curiously. Some of the captain's crew look skeptical, while some of the opposite side look angry.

In a louder tone, to the room at large, Rhag says, "As many of you may know, I am hardly in a position to question anyone's honour." It gets a chuckle from some, at least. "I think you should simmer down, dynes. Lest things get out of hand."

"Never-" There's a hiccup from Sorcha who has gotten to her feet and tries very hard to meet Rhag eye for eye - at a whopping 5'5 round about - forefinger pointing at him. "Never question, my honor when it comes to my trade. For I am the seamstress here and I never divulge a trade secret" SHe pokes him (or attempts to) on the chest before lifting her pint, and guzzling the near full drink down. All the way down. Not a single stop for air till the very bottom can be seen.

It's then plunked onto the counter and she shakes her head.

"I am going home. For I have dragon hide, that I need to make into something and that something, is…"

OKay, she doesn't know what that something is. Which might explain why she gives a little curtsey head bobbing to Bernadette - but not Rhagfyr - and is making her way to the door on unsteady feet.

Bernadette rolls her eyes as she sits back down, finger tapping against the bar. "I'm going to need several more of these," she says dryly as Sorcha makes her way out. She even goes so far as to sit cross-legged on the bar stool. Feet well and truly off the floor.

It's hard to say if it helps, since that pained expression stays put on her features. "I'm beginning to doubt that those tethered to the land know how to properly enjoy a good drink. It seems to have soured our lady seamstress."

"Was it something I said?" Rhagfyr asks, feigning innocence as he resettles in the aftermath of the poking — which he does not attempt to prevent — eyes following the woman toward the door with a lingering smirk on his lips. There's some more random spoils in his pocket that he lays out on the bar to continue to fund the expedition toward drunkenness.

I guess she was an actual seamstress." he muses, with the dragon hide comment. "I'd started to think that was code. "Seamstress"." There's the verbal quotation marks, but the captain doesn't indulge in the gesture to accompany it. This is the part where he insults her honour from a whole different angle. "Perhaps when we are more drunken, these people will make more sense."

Bernadette blinks at that, and then laughs more naturally. It takes a second, but she can spare a touch of amusement here and there. "I do think that would have gotten us a fight, Captain. I'm under the impression she is a seamstress and not a seamstress. Despite wanting inside of your coat. Although, I admit being curious to see how big a huff that implication would have gotten."

She glances toward the door, as if wishing the woman back again. But as she doesn't reappear, the alcohol gets her attention instead. "Perhaps that is so. It's never as entertaining to be the sober one among drunken rogues. A position that leads to far too much responsibility."

"Ah, well. Next time." Force of habit has the captain leaning against the bar, counting faces and comparing the quantity of those known to those unknown, running through potential outcomes in his head. A look up toward the ceiling, searching for something that would have made a suitable pivot to swing from. An imaginary bar fight is about all that's going to occur, for now.

Another drink finished, the next one begun. "I do find myself hoping that more bandits will appear at some point. Or raiders. Or something. I'm sure our presence puts people off. I fear if this keeps up we're going to have to go troll hunting or something."

"Missing the excitement of the high seas already, are you?" Bernadette looks his way, her smile wry. "I'm sure there are monsters looming at this very moment," she says, as i being comforting. "My self, I would prefer kraken hunting, if we must chase them down."

She leans on the bar, perhaps starting to feel those quickly consumed drinks. "But not just now," she says with a laugh. It even sounds more relaxed. A little, at least. "Though, it would be comical, at least."

"You've not had enough of the sea beasts after the whole stoorworm escapade?" Rhag asks, a crooked smile in place yet the faintest hardening of his expression around it. Ships and men are hard to replace, after all. "Hunting men is always the most profitable." he laments, "Although I am certain they would take poorly to it around here."

A laugh at the latter though, "Perhaps we should start a Drunken Piracy Friday and see how far we get. Maybe when the Sglodion returns we can give it a shot."

"Never," Bernadette claims, but given that she is sometimes a sea beast herself, it would be a true tragedy if she ever tired of them. "But it is true, they carry little of value with them except their skins."

She turns to look out at the room, her back leaning against the bar this time. "I would think it depended on which men you decided to hunt. But I suppose if the bandits and ruffians don't make a show, we're bound to offend someone with man hunting." She looks over at him, arms folding, although there's a chortle at his words, "I've never heard a worse idea. We really need to try it out at least once."

"We'll just have to come up with a cunning plan to avoid accidentally murdering one another." That would be a downer. Rhagfyr ponders this while separating something from his pile of loot with a finger, sliding it over in exchange for a bottle of liquor to make the imbibing of alcohol a less tedious business.

"It's all adjustment." he states after a quiet moment, "A necessary step." Toward the grand plan of the pirate kingdom, no doubt. The determination tempers the melancholy. "We should enquire if there are any other local towns that no one would mind offending."

"Difficult. But we'll manage somehow." Not murdering, that is. She pulls out her own trinkets to set on the bar, narrow eyes turned on the barman. "A bottle of the very best wine this town has to offer." It will make or break her impression of Dornie, no doubt.

She looks back to Rhagfyr at his statement, a sort of mirthless, and brief, chuckle for those words. "Isn't everything. But I take your meaning. And I'm sure we passed something a bit smaller down the coast. I'm sure no one here would miss a few missing articles from down there. If you're bored."

Distracted by the promise of the best wine in town, Rhagfyr's peering to follow the progress of the barman with interest as though his continued patronage may well be determined by the quality of this vintage. "This might be inspiring, anyway." he murmers, "In that it may inspire a trip back to France to loot some wine cellars."

Brightening once more, the minor mood swings of the pirate come and go like the tide, always in flux. "Bored no, but… restless. The minutia of pay and planning are trivial when you know that tomorrow you'll be facing some unnamed foe and screwing him over for his things. Without the latter, it's all become grating. A change of perspective, I think is more in need than anything."

"Don't tease me, Captain," Bernadette notes, "It's too cruel." She holds little expectation for Scotland's wineries, apparently, but then, very few of their ports have lived up to her expectations as far as good wine goes.

"Well, you'll get no argument from me there. As much as the men enjoy their time to lounge about. I only enjoy it if there's a decent wine to be had. And decent company." Which is still in debate here. But the wine issue will soon be settled, as a bottle and glasses are set down in front of them.

"You know there are still two bottles left from our last chateaux-sacking." Rhagfyr doesn't bury treasure, but does have a tendency to squirrel away alcohol for rainy days. "If it all gets a bit too much for you, perhaps I'll be generous." i.e. let her come up with some trade that capitalizes on her weakness and makes it worthwhile for the captain.

He allows the woman to open up the bottle, since she's paying. Now he's gained that wounded look though, clutching a hand to his chest. "Oh, were only I able to be decent company. Perhaps some day I'll develop a charming personality to go with my dashing good looks."

Bernadette lifts an eyebrow at that comment, no doubt mentally going through her own little treasures to measure what is worth giving away. Sadly, most of her possessions are considered expendable in the face of a good, French wine. "I'll let you know."

It may all hinge on this very bottle in front of her. She does open it, the pop of the cork satisfying, at lease. "Maybe one day," she comments with a smirk. Her thumbs runs over the cork, and she leans over to smell the bottle, but there is no grand expression of approval coming. But at least it isn't disapproval, either? "You're always around," she adds, eventually, to explain. And while she does pour each a glass, she doesn't drink hers right off.

"I'm sure you can come up with something. It was very good." Rhagfyr tries to hold his smile in check as he pulls his glass closer. He's willing to let it breathe a moment too, not spoiling the anticipation of the moment for her. What's in the box? Deal or no deal? He does, however, slide over a small knick nack to her pile to contribute toward the cost of the bottle.

"I see. Familiarity breeds contempt. Whatever." Chin up in the air in a faux-huff. "Oh." Some more rummaging finds a flattened leather pouch in his pocket, almost square with a little row of small cigar tips poking out of one side in a row. It's added to her pile too. "I'd forgotten about these. Don't say I never give you anything. I managed to trade for them at the faire, before it all went bloody crazy."

"Exactly," Bernadette says with her chin lifted. But she cracks a small smile his direction a moment later. Not too much contempt. She sits up straighter as she picks up her glass, peering at it a little before she actually takes a sip. There's a pause, eyes narrowing in consideration before she swallows and shakes her head. There is the disapproval. "Might as well be sugar water," she says, sliding the bottle back toward the bar. At least she shoves the cork back in. "Foist this concoction on someone else."

She never has been afraid of making her displeasure known.

She does drink down the rest of her glass, and leaves enough to pay for just what she poured out, rather than for the whole bottle. The rest, she pockets, save for the cigars. Those she keeps in hand as she turns back to Rhagfyr. "I would never claim such a thing. And in fact, they will be most treasured. Especially right now." And will likely wash away memories of a bad wine. "I think I will go bad to the ship and sort out what can be spared to claim a decent bottle." Her legs unfold and she settles her feet back on the floor again. Even with the alcohol in her system, it makes her shudder before she can steady herself. Her walk out will be less so, but at least she can claim it is from too much drink this time around.