Private Bivouac [dropped]

Rain pittered down amidst a gray dawn that idled about the dockside district of the Kharsagan Embrace. Dozens of vessels lapped with the waves, moored and stagnant with nary a sailor in view. Laborers took to the morning with alacrity, rushing to tarp goods left out overnight and board up windows otherwise open to the arid breeze wafting east from the wastelands of Cindersend; flecks of salt and sand lingered in wet rivulets canvasing the sides of houses, souvenirs from a set of charted trades down the Suldazan coast. The city's beating heart yet slumbered.

A lazy morning crept over the flotilla.

Kaina Wendreef, wrapped in a poncho that played at obfuscating the grin that cracked the lad's lips, slunk about the morning with a surveilling eye. He cased the docks and mooring, checking the ropes, scanning the vessels for any left carelessly to the swell's mercy. Few of them held any remark for the lad, and he made a bustle of his activity.

After a few minutes he paused, toeing a knot that crinkled with a sight more fray than the others. Kaina followed its length to a skiff that bounced against the docks, its sails furled and its deck mired beneath a pile of rain slicked furs.

"Say, Param," he said, hedging under the first notes of apprehension he may have felt since his grandmother whipped him for invoking her name as privilege, "maybe this isn't a great idea?"

Even so, he planted a foot against the rope and tugged at the knot.


@Param

Drunk on the rushed fervor of fresh adventure, Kaina tugged free the knot mooring the skiff to the Embrace. He tossed the rope onto the deck and summarily followed, the soft hemp of his sandals thudding against wood. A grunt sufficed the exertion; he swayed at the hips, stretching out hands to a low rail to steady himself.

Cocking a grin, he swept hair back from his eyes and grabbed at an offered oar.

"You think they'd catch us?" he asked with a gesture that encompassed the vessel. "In this? They won't even know we're gone."

Oar set to station, he set to matching his companion's pace, paddling in measured step to beat against the roiling sea. It took some time to free themselves from the enmeshment of ships ringing the Kharsagan outskirts, much to Kaina's chagrin. He stayed silent through it, unwilling to admit that Param's earlier suggestion to rope a pilot into their ranks was sound. Instead, he rowed into the storm, pride bloated and bruised.


@Param

"Shit," the lad spat, feet padding down the hard-waxed deck. He slid hands along the mast, fingering the netting, squinting deep at the fabric. Sure enough, it near glistened. A fresh cut of cloth adorned the beam, all sung pride and taut eagerness. Even the hemp that bound it had none of the signs of use. Virginal.

Kaina took a breath to assuage the panic that began to settle at his chest.

"Who last commissioned him?" he asked, fingers rolling down as he tried to recall the logbooks. "Thought it was old Yaz's skiff. Hasn't been untethered in what, half-year? The fuck's that gee doing having it retrofit? He got kids or something?"

Still, he tugged at the knots banding the sail shut. Maybe the Lamora would be missed, and maybe they'd be back before Yaz could pitch a fit.