A Moment of Respite

There is little peace for you. Endless repairs demand your attention, and the Captain’s demands have grown increasingly erratic. But all things must end, and so does this day. You fall on your bed, ready for the poor comfort of leaden sleep. The sound of your door opening denies you even this smallest of mercies.

”Got a moment,” the Captain says, not asks. ”We gotta talk.” She has brought a bottle of Workermash Rum and no glasses. Her lips are already stained by the black ichor, and she takes another drag before handing it to you.

You drink, pull yourself up, and rub the sleep from your eyes.

She sits down beside you and snatches the rum back. ”We did well enough,” she says and drinks. ”Considering...”

You mutter some dark agreement.

The Captain hands you the booze. ”You couldn’t have known. We couldn’t have known. Still...” She, exhaling, motions for the bottle back. ”What happened, back in Corpser’s Point?”

You consider lying. {if Divine Blood = 2} It would be oh-so-easy to weave pleasant platitudes into plausible excuses. {endif} But trust is won hard and lost fast. There should be no secrets between a captain and her crew – between a captain and her First Officer.

You tell her about the envelope. {if Connected: The Starry Eyed = 1} About your visit with the Starry Eyed. About the improper saints, profaned by the dregs of Polite Society, and about the Pale Muse whose face you painted white with your cum. {endif}

{if A Tattooed Mariner = 1} You tell her about the crew and their debaucheries, about the dockside whore covered with their semen, and about the Tattooed Mariner. About her need for your dick, and your willingness to help her out. {endif} You admit to an all-around failure of time management, and you ask for her forgiveness.

A moment of silence passes, ended by the Captain taking another swig. {if Acquaintance: The Feyborn Whore = 1} ”And here I thought the Feyborn Whore would’ve been more than enough to drain your cock, proper-like.” {else}”And here I thought Corpser’s Point would’ve had more than enough whores on offer to drain your cock, proper-like.” {endif} She snorts. ”Tell you what,” she says, ”we’ll get back to Barenhaven, and I’ll get you laid there.”

You protest; lack of opportunity has not been your problem after all. Rather the opposite, really.

Hiccuping, wheezing laughter grips her body, and she plummets down to your mattress. ”Fuck the Saints, First Officer, this is where you draw the line? A friend offers you a helping hand, and you...” She, smirking still, turns to face you. ”You deserve a bit o’ fun, ‘s all I’m saying. Well, we deserve a bit of fun.”

Locks of dark hair cover her flushed face in messy strands. Her face looks softer than usual, less wind-bitten and as if freed from stress. She hails from one of the small isles that dot the Oursea around Barenhaven and a hint of that bucolic innocence shines in her amber eyes. She sniffs, rubs her nose, and almost spills rum all over your mattress.

”I’m rambling.” She tries to stand, succeeding on her third try. ”Ignore me. Imma – here.” She thrusts the bottle into your hand. ”Imma head back to my cot an’ slam Leviathan bone up my cunt ‘til it breaks. The bone, not...” She stumbles towards the exit. ”Night.”

The door slams shut behind her.

You drink. The two of you are accustomed to rough Mariner talk and to boozing, but this is different. Your body aches and the **** sends the room aswirl. A gentle wave rocks the boat, and your thoughts, whatever they may be, are washed away by dreams.