Log: Gone
IC: Day 8, month 9, turn 22 of Interval 10.
RL: 2010.05.07
Finally getting her act together; the apology down pat, the bottle of rum and a pretty dress on loan, Bailey goes in search of Rio but finds instead...Fremond, and a letter.
Docks, Ista Weyr(#450RJ)
Like fingers stretching out to sea, Ista's dockyards provide plenty of room to berth the ships that ply their trade here. Stone pilings support the wooden planking, the whole sturdy and well-worn from the constant traffic of the sailors and dockworkers that come and go with the tide. Thick posts march along both sides of the docks, rising half a man-height; from a few of them dangle salt-swollen and sun-bleached ropes. The ocean murmurs and slops at the pilings, rarely stretching itself to make the planks more than damp. A short distance to the east lies the Sandbar and out across the water distant shapes outline the small islands that dot Ista's famous black sand coastline.
+view boats
Contents:
Fremond
Obvious exits:
Beach The Sandbar
Late summer afternoon is still sunny and blazingly hot, those clouds overhead building though, threatening rain at any time. Coming down the docks wanders Fremond, his pack slung over his shoulder. A boat full of fish is being unloaded and cleaned and he slows to watch the work as the workers struggle under the weight of several huge fish but soon continues on his way. There's no Orchid Rain docked for him to climb aboard though, he almost seems like a lost canine.
Bailey is clearly a woman on a -mission-! With a bottle of rum in hand, sandaled feet slap along the wooden decking as she comes flying off of the sand from the direction of the Sandbar and onto the docks themselves, hair streaming out behind her like raven’s wings. It looks to have been a bit of a helter-skelter run and she’s expertly ducking and diving through the usual dock activity. That is until she comes upon the gaping great hole left by the Orchid Rain’s departure. Skidding to a halt, the brunette’s mouth drops open as she stares and stares some more as if willing the big ship back into port. Chest heaving she tries to suck air into her lungs. “What?” breathe, “When did she…sail?” asked of anyone in the nearby vicinity that might bother to answer her. Putting a hand out to steady herself against the railing while she catches her breath, “Rio. Where’s Rio?”
The old sailor has enough heart in that narrow chest of his that he doesn't laugh outright upon seeing Bailey's distress. Instead Fremond frowns while he watches her, rubbing his hand across his jaw for a moment or two. He's not so kind as to speak right away though, letting the woman fret awhile longer before making a move to get into her line of sight. "Left this morning." He says back, tone quiet and dull. "Got a note here for you." The pack stays on his shoulder though, his eyes on that bottle in her hand.
Pale eyes tear themselves away from the patch of empty sea, lock onto Fremond as he moves and then narrow suspiciously. “You’re not Rio.” State the obvious, why don’t you. Bailey’s attention flickers out to sea tracking out to the horizon and then back onto the old man, perplexed now, “A note? He said he would stay when the Orchid Rain sailed,” the bottle bearing hand lifting up, tilting in toward herself, “With me.” A realization of a kind forms (the wrong one) and her mouth pulls into an amused line, “He’s hiding somewhere, aye? How much did he pay you to be a part of this?” Because clearly this is some kind of elaborate prank.
There's no mistake that Fremond isn't the 'oh gosh ma'am, just josh'n ya' type. His lips tighten at the mere suggestion that he's pranking her and turns his head to spit over the side of the docks. "Listen missy. I ain't any happier about this arrangement than you are. Don't know what he said to you before, but he's obviously changed his mind." He lets the pack slip off one narrow shoulder and draws out a tied pouch. It's given a little shake towards her as he grunts, waiting for her to give up the fantasy that the big ship-owner is going to come strolling down the dock for her.
Dispassionately, Bailey’s eyes flicker briefly toward that spit over the dockside, the earlier amusement sliding off and her brows starting to fit together into a frown as Fremond speaks. The pouch is eyed warily and then reluctantly taken with a last side to side glance up and down the docks. Nope, no big, brawny, dark skinned man there. Tucking the bottle under one arm the pouch is turned over in her hands. Not opening it just yet, the old man is given a careful look and keeping her tone as devoid of emotion as possible she asks, “So what did you do wrong to get left behind?”
"Got myself a promotion." Fremond drawls as he sets the pack down between his feet and leans over slightly, watching Bailey with poorly concealed interest for her reaction. Inside the pouch is a few marks, the letter all sealed still and the firelizard egg wrapped up in hide to keep it safe and warm. Poor eggs have seen a whirlwind tour. There's an eager little spark in his good eye, "Guess I must have done something right. Maybe."
She tries for a smile, but given the current situation it comes out as twisted little grimace, “Guess so.” That to Fremond’s possibly having actually earned said promotion. Finally her fingers move to untying the cords that tie the pouch, the wrapped egg the first to be extracted, a soft grunt of a wry note for what is revealed, “Talk about getting your own back.” The small bundle is carefully set back in the pouch and the letter extracted. Sliding a finger under the seal, Bailey unfolds the sheaf of paper. Tanned shoulders sag, as the woman reads and then re-reads the note, uttering a despondent “Shit,” quietly to herself, turning her back slightly to the old sea dog to avoid him seeing the tears that fill her eyes and the mockery that would be likely to follow. Staring out to sea she states quietly, “You really fucked up good this time!” Hopefully the old man doesn’t mistake that for being aimed at him.
Bailey,
‘We parted on bad terms. I am just as much to blame for what happened and I should have known opening up was foolish of me. I told you that I was damaged goods but obviously you didn’t understand just how far gone I am. I worry about you. Against my better judgment, you come to mind and I wonder if you’re taking care of yourself. If you are safe. I am old fashioned I guess and even though you are strong and capable, there are things at work in your life that shouldn’t be faced alone. Because I don’t think you want me stalking you, I’m leaving my man Fremond behind, in case you need someone to watch your back.
For myself, I am going home. I wish you the very best in life and I hope that you get to turn over that leaf.
~Candlario‘
Just as well as he doesn't see the tears that would surely make Fremond feel rather rotten for watching her like an interesting drama unfolding. As it is, he can just fix her back with a cutting look. "I ain't done no fucking up girlie. I'm not going to either." He ha'rumphs and smooths a hand down his new clothes and draws his shoulders up proudly. "So, where do I stash my gear?" As though he expects the letter to outline his part in this whole business.
Bailey’s silent for a moment or two and then her voice comes floating back over her shoulder in response as she continues to stare dully out to sea, “Fucked up enough for the both of us, so I guess you’re the one that gets the free pass here.” Turning now, head bowed as she concentrates on the small task of folding the letter back up and returning it to the pouch once again, she glances over to Fremond, “You can take the hammock.” Because there is -no- way he’s getting the small cargo hold aboard the Even’Star that she’d just recently converted into make-shift sleeping quarters for herself and...well, the ‘and’ was now a moot point.
A small clearing of his throat and Fremond answers, less certain and maybe just a hair less edgy than normal, "You can always un-fuck stuff. I mean, if you've a mind to." For whatever reason Fremond's voice sounds doubtful that Bailey would want to go for those lengths. He's biased though. "Hammock is just fine for me." He gives her a longer look, less for the entertainment now though, instead he's concerned. "So, you going to have work for me to do? Or ...." Awkward about actually asking for work and he lets the words fade off, "Been a long time since I've had so much free time."
Reaching for the bottle of rum still tucked under her arm, Bailey waggles it back and forth as if demonstrating that setting things right was exactly what had had her flying down the docks like a crazy woman earlier. Rue the only emotion allowed to leak through an otherwise carefully coached tone, "So I've been told. Little difficult when the when the subject has tucked tail and run." Yes, that was a hint of reproach in there too but she's not exactly on an emotional even keel right now. Eyes shaded a bland blue run a quick look over Fremond. As if accepting her fate, or his, she starts running a list, ticking items off on her fingers as she turns and starts to head the short distance to her sloop, "No fancy women on board. You want to play a little slap and tickle, that's fine by me but go and find yourself a cave or something to do so. Keep your sleeping quarters neat, I don't want to be tripping over old man underwear every morning. No getting blind drunk and singing like a sick feline into the small hours of the morning..." Reaching the gangplank, the brunette pauses halfway up, "You don't smoke tobacco do you? Because if you do, it won't be happening on my boat, it makes me sick." Yes, blame the tobacco. Whatever work she may have in mind for Fremond will probably be next to follow.
"The man has work to do." Fremond responds in a bristling tone to the turning tail remark. "Takes lots of effort to turn an honest mark." As though she wouldn't know about such things. "Besides, not like he is vanishing into thin air. He'll be back in a month, got orders to fill." Pulling his pack up he gives her a scalding look but follows with stiff-steps in her wake. Sounds of agreement to the terms set to his employment, adding a smirk here and there. "I smoke cloves in a pipe. But, if you don't like that, guess I'll keep it to the bar." The lack of work details brings grin to his weathered features.
Even'Star(#1935R)
Designed with only needing one or two members to crew it, the Even'Star is a modest little vessel of just 55feet long and capable of flying up to five sails at once. Fore-and-aft rigging projects from a single mast that bears a topmast. Currently just one headsail is flying and is strangely festooned with bright fabric flowers, one can only guess at the reasoning for such an outlandish display on an otherwise simply decked out sloop. The chipped and faded black with white trim speaks to this once having been a pretty little vessel and yet while hull and stern are nowhere near their potential glory, the decking is kept meticulously scrubbed and cared for. A singe hatch leads down into cramped private quarters that have been divided into living and make-shift cargo hold, thus petitioning the need for hammocks rather than squander space to the luxury of a bunk.
Obvious exits:
Docks
Fremond arrives from the docks.
Fremond has arrived.
All Fremond's bristling remark earns him is a narrow eyed -look-, and the brunette responds in kind, "I wouldn't know," sardonic. Bailey responds on words of the big skipper's expected return in a quiet aside to herself which may or may be heard by his trusted man left behind, "Aye, but not to me." Shaking her head slightly at that, she's soon pushing the door to the below decks cabin area open and stepping through, simply expecting the old man to follow. Wrinkling her nose slightly, "Don't know if those make me sick," cloves, "Like the smell of them cooking though," at least she's trying to make -some- concessions here. Pointing at the hammock that's currently bundled up and set to one aside, "You'll have to re-hang it," without missing a beat his 'job' detail gets laid out, "Need some help stripping the decks, sun's been getting to me lately. Hull needs stripping and re-painting too, but that's going to mean time in the dry docks and paint. Both of which require marks," which she doesn't have. A set of two upended crates stacked one on top of the other are pointed out next, "You can put your things in there."
Fremond likely heard it, but he's not going to remark on what the big importer might or might not to when he returns. He follows up the gangplank though and looks the ship over with the jaded eye of an old sailor who has seen a lot of ships and can pick out each of the flaws he sees. A few grunts as he looks and a very small shake of his head. They're not on the best of terms, so he keeps his opinion under his tongue for now. "Really only tastes good if you have booze to go with it." Remarked to the clove-smoking as he puts his pack down near the crates. In regards to his job duties, there's a frown, oh how the mighty have fallen. "What do you usually haul in here?"
Leaving Fremond to explore his new surroundings, Bailey moves to the adjoining room where the corner of a pillow on the bunk is lifted, the pouch carefully set down and the pillow set back in place once again. The area is small enough that all she need do is lift her voice a little for her words to carry to the old man, “Furs, a few bottles of fruit liqueurs, some samples from a weaver back in southern,” she lists a few other items as she joins him once again nodding at the crates, “That’s all that was left.” The rum bottle she’d set down is taken up, opened and handed over to her new ‘babysitter’, “You may as well have this,” from a shelf she takes down a chipped mug and holds it out to him, “Only got the one,” mug.
Fremond's eyes narrow a little at the list of items she' transports, "gotta be more from the south that these islanders would want and need. See some of the junk they're pawning off?" A small snort, "Maybe you need more junk to sell." He's fixing up the hamock when she comes back, hands nimble despite his age. "Or you need to buy some of their junk here and take it back south." The words are spoke at the knots he's making, only looking up when he's sure the knots are tied. "You'll share your booze with me?" Actually shocked at this turn of events. "Well...toast to this....partnership? And that we don't kill eachother eh?"
With a roll of eyes and snort to match his own, Bailey nods, “Aye, you can say that again,” this to some of the junk on offer, “Was planning to trade with others from up north when we hit Big Bay. Wasn’t planning on ending up here,” and that’s all she’ll say right now as to why one would be daft enough to try and peddle furs in Ista. Approval filters in those big baby blues as Fremond deftly gets the hammock back up in place once again. With the first quirk of a smile since he’d delivered the pouch from his employer, “No use letting it go to waste.” Settling herself into one of the canvas chairs at the small table the knives hanging at the old man’s belt are briefly given the wary eye, likely remembering the time a dance of blades had been on the cards for the two of them. Pouring three fingers worth of rum into her chipped mug and leaving the rest of the bottle to him, the woman lifts the mug in toast, smiling wryly, “Not planning on killing you, old man. I need the free labor,” crooked the grin and attempt at humor.
The rest of the afternoon will pass alternating between the drinking of rum and going over the work in need of doing on the sloop to restore it to its former glory. The brunette however, doing very little of the drinking and in fact, passed a sip or two, doesn’t even finish the initial pouring into her mug but instead finding that it still turns her stomach, spills it overboard when the old guy’s back is turned.
RL: 2010.05.07
Finally getting her act together; the apology down pat, the bottle of rum and a pretty dress on loan, Bailey goes in search of Rio but finds instead...Fremond, and a letter.
Docks, Ista Weyr(#450RJ)
Like fingers stretching out to sea, Ista's dockyards provide plenty of room to berth the ships that ply their trade here. Stone pilings support the wooden planking, the whole sturdy and well-worn from the constant traffic of the sailors and dockworkers that come and go with the tide. Thick posts march along both sides of the docks, rising half a man-height; from a few of them dangle salt-swollen and sun-bleached ropes. The ocean murmurs and slops at the pilings, rarely stretching itself to make the planks more than damp. A short distance to the east lies the Sandbar and out across the water distant shapes outline the small islands that dot Ista's famous black sand coastline.
+view boats
Contents:
Fremond
Obvious exits:
Beach The Sandbar
Late summer afternoon is still sunny and blazingly hot, those clouds overhead building though, threatening rain at any time. Coming down the docks wanders Fremond, his pack slung over his shoulder. A boat full of fish is being unloaded and cleaned and he slows to watch the work as the workers struggle under the weight of several huge fish but soon continues on his way. There's no Orchid Rain docked for him to climb aboard though, he almost seems like a lost canine.
Bailey is clearly a woman on a -mission-! With a bottle of rum in hand, sandaled feet slap along the wooden decking as she comes flying off of the sand from the direction of the Sandbar and onto the docks themselves, hair streaming out behind her like raven’s wings. It looks to have been a bit of a helter-skelter run and she’s expertly ducking and diving through the usual dock activity. That is until she comes upon the gaping great hole left by the Orchid Rain’s departure. Skidding to a halt, the brunette’s mouth drops open as she stares and stares some more as if willing the big ship back into port. Chest heaving she tries to suck air into her lungs. “What?” breathe, “When did she…sail?” asked of anyone in the nearby vicinity that might bother to answer her. Putting a hand out to steady herself against the railing while she catches her breath, “Rio. Where’s Rio?”
The old sailor has enough heart in that narrow chest of his that he doesn't laugh outright upon seeing Bailey's distress. Instead Fremond frowns while he watches her, rubbing his hand across his jaw for a moment or two. He's not so kind as to speak right away though, letting the woman fret awhile longer before making a move to get into her line of sight. "Left this morning." He says back, tone quiet and dull. "Got a note here for you." The pack stays on his shoulder though, his eyes on that bottle in her hand.
Pale eyes tear themselves away from the patch of empty sea, lock onto Fremond as he moves and then narrow suspiciously. “You’re not Rio.” State the obvious, why don’t you. Bailey’s attention flickers out to sea tracking out to the horizon and then back onto the old man, perplexed now, “A note? He said he would stay when the Orchid Rain sailed,” the bottle bearing hand lifting up, tilting in toward herself, “With me.” A realization of a kind forms (the wrong one) and her mouth pulls into an amused line, “He’s hiding somewhere, aye? How much did he pay you to be a part of this?” Because clearly this is some kind of elaborate prank.
There's no mistake that Fremond isn't the 'oh gosh ma'am, just josh'n ya' type. His lips tighten at the mere suggestion that he's pranking her and turns his head to spit over the side of the docks. "Listen missy. I ain't any happier about this arrangement than you are. Don't know what he said to you before, but he's obviously changed his mind." He lets the pack slip off one narrow shoulder and draws out a tied pouch. It's given a little shake towards her as he grunts, waiting for her to give up the fantasy that the big ship-owner is going to come strolling down the dock for her.
Dispassionately, Bailey’s eyes flicker briefly toward that spit over the dockside, the earlier amusement sliding off and her brows starting to fit together into a frown as Fremond speaks. The pouch is eyed warily and then reluctantly taken with a last side to side glance up and down the docks. Nope, no big, brawny, dark skinned man there. Tucking the bottle under one arm the pouch is turned over in her hands. Not opening it just yet, the old man is given a careful look and keeping her tone as devoid of emotion as possible she asks, “So what did you do wrong to get left behind?”
"Got myself a promotion." Fremond drawls as he sets the pack down between his feet and leans over slightly, watching Bailey with poorly concealed interest for her reaction. Inside the pouch is a few marks, the letter all sealed still and the firelizard egg wrapped up in hide to keep it safe and warm. Poor eggs have seen a whirlwind tour. There's an eager little spark in his good eye, "Guess I must have done something right. Maybe."
She tries for a smile, but given the current situation it comes out as twisted little grimace, “Guess so.” That to Fremond’s possibly having actually earned said promotion. Finally her fingers move to untying the cords that tie the pouch, the wrapped egg the first to be extracted, a soft grunt of a wry note for what is revealed, “Talk about getting your own back.” The small bundle is carefully set back in the pouch and the letter extracted. Sliding a finger under the seal, Bailey unfolds the sheaf of paper. Tanned shoulders sag, as the woman reads and then re-reads the note, uttering a despondent “Shit,” quietly to herself, turning her back slightly to the old sea dog to avoid him seeing the tears that fill her eyes and the mockery that would be likely to follow. Staring out to sea she states quietly, “You really fucked up good this time!” Hopefully the old man doesn’t mistake that for being aimed at him.
Bailey,
‘We parted on bad terms. I am just as much to blame for what happened and I should have known opening up was foolish of me. I told you that I was damaged goods but obviously you didn’t understand just how far gone I am. I worry about you. Against my better judgment, you come to mind and I wonder if you’re taking care of yourself. If you are safe. I am old fashioned I guess and even though you are strong and capable, there are things at work in your life that shouldn’t be faced alone. Because I don’t think you want me stalking you, I’m leaving my man Fremond behind, in case you need someone to watch your back.
For myself, I am going home. I wish you the very best in life and I hope that you get to turn over that leaf.
~Candlario‘
Just as well as he doesn't see the tears that would surely make Fremond feel rather rotten for watching her like an interesting drama unfolding. As it is, he can just fix her back with a cutting look. "I ain't done no fucking up girlie. I'm not going to either." He ha'rumphs and smooths a hand down his new clothes and draws his shoulders up proudly. "So, where do I stash my gear?" As though he expects the letter to outline his part in this whole business.
Bailey’s silent for a moment or two and then her voice comes floating back over her shoulder in response as she continues to stare dully out to sea, “Fucked up enough for the both of us, so I guess you’re the one that gets the free pass here.” Turning now, head bowed as she concentrates on the small task of folding the letter back up and returning it to the pouch once again, she glances over to Fremond, “You can take the hammock.” Because there is -no- way he’s getting the small cargo hold aboard the Even’Star that she’d just recently converted into make-shift sleeping quarters for herself and...well, the ‘and’ was now a moot point.
A small clearing of his throat and Fremond answers, less certain and maybe just a hair less edgy than normal, "You can always un-fuck stuff. I mean, if you've a mind to." For whatever reason Fremond's voice sounds doubtful that Bailey would want to go for those lengths. He's biased though. "Hammock is just fine for me." He gives her a longer look, less for the entertainment now though, instead he's concerned. "So, you going to have work for me to do? Or ...." Awkward about actually asking for work and he lets the words fade off, "Been a long time since I've had so much free time."
Reaching for the bottle of rum still tucked under her arm, Bailey waggles it back and forth as if demonstrating that setting things right was exactly what had had her flying down the docks like a crazy woman earlier. Rue the only emotion allowed to leak through an otherwise carefully coached tone, "So I've been told. Little difficult when the when the subject has tucked tail and run." Yes, that was a hint of reproach in there too but she's not exactly on an emotional even keel right now. Eyes shaded a bland blue run a quick look over Fremond. As if accepting her fate, or his, she starts running a list, ticking items off on her fingers as she turns and starts to head the short distance to her sloop, "No fancy women on board. You want to play a little slap and tickle, that's fine by me but go and find yourself a cave or something to do so. Keep your sleeping quarters neat, I don't want to be tripping over old man underwear every morning. No getting blind drunk and singing like a sick feline into the small hours of the morning..." Reaching the gangplank, the brunette pauses halfway up, "You don't smoke tobacco do you? Because if you do, it won't be happening on my boat, it makes me sick." Yes, blame the tobacco. Whatever work she may have in mind for Fremond will probably be next to follow.
"The man has work to do." Fremond responds in a bristling tone to the turning tail remark. "Takes lots of effort to turn an honest mark." As though she wouldn't know about such things. "Besides, not like he is vanishing into thin air. He'll be back in a month, got orders to fill." Pulling his pack up he gives her a scalding look but follows with stiff-steps in her wake. Sounds of agreement to the terms set to his employment, adding a smirk here and there. "I smoke cloves in a pipe. But, if you don't like that, guess I'll keep it to the bar." The lack of work details brings grin to his weathered features.
Even'Star(#1935R)
Designed with only needing one or two members to crew it, the Even'Star is a modest little vessel of just 55feet long and capable of flying up to five sails at once. Fore-and-aft rigging projects from a single mast that bears a topmast. Currently just one headsail is flying and is strangely festooned with bright fabric flowers, one can only guess at the reasoning for such an outlandish display on an otherwise simply decked out sloop. The chipped and faded black with white trim speaks to this once having been a pretty little vessel and yet while hull and stern are nowhere near their potential glory, the decking is kept meticulously scrubbed and cared for. A singe hatch leads down into cramped private quarters that have been divided into living and make-shift cargo hold, thus petitioning the need for hammocks rather than squander space to the luxury of a bunk.
Obvious exits:
Docks
Fremond arrives from the docks.
Fremond has arrived.
All Fremond's bristling remark earns him is a narrow eyed -look-, and the brunette responds in kind, "I wouldn't know," sardonic. Bailey responds on words of the big skipper's expected return in a quiet aside to herself which may or may be heard by his trusted man left behind, "Aye, but not to me." Shaking her head slightly at that, she's soon pushing the door to the below decks cabin area open and stepping through, simply expecting the old man to follow. Wrinkling her nose slightly, "Don't know if those make me sick," cloves, "Like the smell of them cooking though," at least she's trying to make -some- concessions here. Pointing at the hammock that's currently bundled up and set to one aside, "You'll have to re-hang it," without missing a beat his 'job' detail gets laid out, "Need some help stripping the decks, sun's been getting to me lately. Hull needs stripping and re-painting too, but that's going to mean time in the dry docks and paint. Both of which require marks," which she doesn't have. A set of two upended crates stacked one on top of the other are pointed out next, "You can put your things in there."
Fremond likely heard it, but he's not going to remark on what the big importer might or might not to when he returns. He follows up the gangplank though and looks the ship over with the jaded eye of an old sailor who has seen a lot of ships and can pick out each of the flaws he sees. A few grunts as he looks and a very small shake of his head. They're not on the best of terms, so he keeps his opinion under his tongue for now. "Really only tastes good if you have booze to go with it." Remarked to the clove-smoking as he puts his pack down near the crates. In regards to his job duties, there's a frown, oh how the mighty have fallen. "What do you usually haul in here?"
Leaving Fremond to explore his new surroundings, Bailey moves to the adjoining room where the corner of a pillow on the bunk is lifted, the pouch carefully set down and the pillow set back in place once again. The area is small enough that all she need do is lift her voice a little for her words to carry to the old man, “Furs, a few bottles of fruit liqueurs, some samples from a weaver back in southern,” she lists a few other items as she joins him once again nodding at the crates, “That’s all that was left.” The rum bottle she’d set down is taken up, opened and handed over to her new ‘babysitter’, “You may as well have this,” from a shelf she takes down a chipped mug and holds it out to him, “Only got the one,” mug.
Fremond's eyes narrow a little at the list of items she' transports, "gotta be more from the south that these islanders would want and need. See some of the junk they're pawning off?" A small snort, "Maybe you need more junk to sell." He's fixing up the hamock when she comes back, hands nimble despite his age. "Or you need to buy some of their junk here and take it back south." The words are spoke at the knots he's making, only looking up when he's sure the knots are tied. "You'll share your booze with me?" Actually shocked at this turn of events. "Well...toast to this....partnership? And that we don't kill eachother eh?"
With a roll of eyes and snort to match his own, Bailey nods, “Aye, you can say that again,” this to some of the junk on offer, “Was planning to trade with others from up north when we hit Big Bay. Wasn’t planning on ending up here,” and that’s all she’ll say right now as to why one would be daft enough to try and peddle furs in Ista. Approval filters in those big baby blues as Fremond deftly gets the hammock back up in place once again. With the first quirk of a smile since he’d delivered the pouch from his employer, “No use letting it go to waste.” Settling herself into one of the canvas chairs at the small table the knives hanging at the old man’s belt are briefly given the wary eye, likely remembering the time a dance of blades had been on the cards for the two of them. Pouring three fingers worth of rum into her chipped mug and leaving the rest of the bottle to him, the woman lifts the mug in toast, smiling wryly, “Not planning on killing you, old man. I need the free labor,” crooked the grin and attempt at humor.
The rest of the afternoon will pass alternating between the drinking of rum and going over the work in need of doing on the sloop to restore it to its former glory. The brunette however, doing very little of the drinking and in fact, passed a sip or two, doesn’t even finish the initial pouring into her mug but instead finding that it still turns her stomach, spills it overboard when the old guy’s back is turned.