To Her Cabin

Her cabin is a mess. A last glint of light flickers in one of the Tar Lanterns and dies. Her books, tomes on navigation and borderline illegal romances, sprawl out from her unmade bed. You stumble and she flops from your arms, down to her cot.

The Captain snores, sniffs, and suddenly jolts upright. ”Fuckin’...” She points at your feet.

You find a canteen filled with, hopefully, water amidst the disorder and hand it to her. She gulps some down, swallowing fast. A trickle of dark liquid flows from her lips and stains her rumpled dress uniform. Locks of dark hair cover her flushed face in messy strands. She hails from one of the small isles that dot the Oursea around Barenhaven, and a hint of that bucolic artlessness dulls her amber eyes, now bloodshot. She sniffs, rubs her nose, and points at her desk.

You are slow to find whatever it is she wants, and she curses like a fishmonger. With her wind-bitten face flush from ****, she does look like one, or like a shameless dockside whore. Her jacket hits the ground beside you, and you tear yourself away from her fumbling with the buttons of her shirt.

You find her dildo inside the bottom left drawer. Pale perse runes circle the base of the yellowed shaft. The Leviathan bone pulses in your hand, and she answers your mimed question with a nod. Her pants hang around her ankles, and she has already pushed her underwear off to the side.

”Imma...” she slurs, ”thanks.” She snatches the toy from your hand and immediately sucks the tip, seemingly oblivious to your continued presence. ”Girltime now.” She makes a dismissive gesture. ”Can’t have the crew... Nighty-night.”

Her moans start before you can close the door and follow you down the hallway. A drunk mariner stops to listen, but you shoo him away. The image of her sloppy undress clings to your mind and the **** in your veins sends the whole ship aswirl.

You fall on your bed and into a leaden sleep.