Log: Wax On, Wax Off
IC: Day 23, month 9, turn 22 of Interval 10.
RL: 2010.05.12
After cleaning up the mess Bailey left in the cabin, Fremond joins her out on deck. The two trade information while working and a strange sort of bond starts to form.
Ah, the joys of being a deckhand again, particularly when one has to clean up after a whirlwind of destruction down in the cabin. The old man has been sweeping and mopping up since he came in from whatever misadventures distracted him on his off-hours. There's an almost sad look in his old eyes as he comes out at last, sack of rubbish in his fist.
Bailey’s busy. Busy, busy, busy! Or at least that’s what she wants anyone passing by to think. With a big container of wax nearby and a bundled up rag under her knees, she’s keeping a steady rhythm of wax-on-wax-off. Mr Miyagi would have been so proud! She catches movement in the corner of her eye and from under lowered lashes sends a surreptitious look over Fremond’s way. The brunette says nothing of his having cleaned up the mess her temper tantrum had resulted in, simply asking in idle tone as she works, “Meet any pretty little things while you were out and about?”
There's a troubled look given to Bailey, the work being done so seriously when she only recently fainted before him. "You might want to take a break." Off handed the remark as he sets the sack down, careful of the clattering from within, broken crockery. He rubs a hand over his jaw, scratching into his beard before cracking a smile, "I saw a few pretty things, but I'm not one to keep ahole of such baubles." His tone dry, the frown tightening a bit. "Going to tell me why you ripped up your shit?" Or broke-up really.
Head down and hair screening her face from Fremond, Bailey swipes the rag in her hand across the top of the wax container and continues on with her work. Silence for a while and then her voice floats out, low and slightly wry, “If I stop are you going to get over here and take over?” Leaning back on her heels, the wax rag is dropped and she passes the notion of a smile over to the older man, “You just don’t try hard enough,” to keep his pretties, “Maybe it’s because you don’t want to. Women are just so many kinds of trouble that you’d rather not have them messing up your life, aye?” Like her. Pale eyes meet the frowning look evenly, and she replies as she leans forward and sets to polishing off the excess wax just laid down, “Figured it was time to re-decorate,” a touch sarcastic.
Fremond's laugh is a dark, gutteral sound, "Women are like flowers. You pick them to keep them, and they just wither and die. Or they stick you with a palm full of thorns." A lanky shrug before he comes over to her, waving a hand towards her, "I made you a special tonic." A wave towards her cabin where he left it obviously. Sinking down to his knees he grumbles at the discomfort in his old knees and snatches up the rag.
Bailey’s turn to frown, though the curtain of hair might hide it, “Sounds like you must have been married to a hag at some time or another.” Not asking, just making an idle observation. Her head lifts as Fremond crosses the deck a wary look entering into her eyes, “What’s in it?” the tonic. Reaching out a hand to take up her task regardless of the fact that he’s clearly there to take over, she finds simply empty air as the old man reaches the rag first. Not one to sit around idly she offers a compromise, “I’ll put it down, you polish it off.”
Fremond nods his head, "oh, she was a hag alright. She knifed me more than once when I got her riled up." He remarks with a smirk tossed to Bailey. "Sure you don't want all the details of my late wife though. You've got a temper on you though--bet you'd cut a guy. Just the way women are." Bowing over his work he nods to her laying down the wax first, it's easy enough. "Just some herbs to calm the stomach. Tastes like shit, I won't lie, but it's good for you."
Her mouth quirks into a mirror of Fremond’s smirk, “Only man I’ll ever cut is one that lays an unwelcome hand on me or tries to harm someone under my protection.” Curious now, “Got any children?” A low chuckle is all that greets comment of her temper as her hand follows his, working in unison for a change. Leaning back on her heels again a glance is cast the way of the cabin, “Probably just make me throw up.” However Bailey pushes up to her feet and disappears for a moment or two, emerging with said tonic in hand. Leaning up against the railing she sniffs at it and fakes a dry heave. Or at least, one would hope it’s faked. “Shards and runner dung but this stuff stinks! What are you trying to do, kill me? A knife to the heart would be kinder.”
"Got a pair of boys who took to the Seacraft." There's pride in his voice about that bit of news. "Haven't seen them since their mother passed on though." He polishes in silence, looking thoughtful but not particularly sad at the memory of a wife dead. When he looks up she's back with her drink, "Just some good herbs. It'll settle that stomach down. Believe me." He pats his own stomach, "Or put hair on your chest." Hiding his laugh by looking away to the polishing work.
Still leaned up against the railing, but not taking a sampling sip just yet, Bailey’s smile is genuine for the pride shown by Fremond for his boys and sincere for her next, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.” Peering down at her own chest, pale eyes widen, “I bloody hope not!” this to putting any hairs there. Still somewhat dubious the tonic is lifted to her mouth, her free hand coming to pinch her nostrils closed so that she doesn’t have to smell the vile concoction. One swallow, two and then the brunette is fighting hard against reflexive gags. Not a half second later she’s turning swiftly out over the railing and sending the meagre contents of her stomach down into the ocean below. Not pretty. Either the smell or the taste was simply too much for her. Wiping her mouth as discreetly as possible, the woman turns eyes still streaming with tears to the older man, croaking out, “If you thought I needed to lose weight, there are nicer ways of telling me.”
There's a shake of his grizzled head for Bailey's 'prying', "Eh, it's alright. Been a good number of turns now. I've got a good job now and kicked that gambling habit I had." He smirks a bit over that, "Some of that habit anyway, I'm an old dog, gotta have some...." A frown for the vomiting and he watches her, more concern now. "I got another kind you can try." The old man says, kinder this time, "Has a sweetness to it. Might be better." Old sea-dogs got his tricks.
Taking up the edge of her skirt, Bailey wipes at her eyes, shaking her head vehemently for the offer of more herbal concoctions at first and then slipping into deep contemplation. Finally, “My mama used to give me a kind of ground ginger tea when I was little and something upset my stomach?” putting a querying look over to Fremond. Perhaps that? Abandoning what little is left of the tonic she moves back over to where he’s working and takes up the polishing rag once again, “Do you still miss her?” his wife. Chuckling a little for the bit about gambling, “Been over the way of the Lucky Seven yet? Hear they have some good games going on sometimes. Might even have a go myself.”
"Might have a snip of dried ginger in my pack still." Fremond notes at her request, "But I've got an even better remedy. Something Cande taught me. You gotta give it a try at least." He's not going to let her get away with 'no' obviously. There's something crafty about the look he gives her but it's gone when she asks of his wife, "Sometimes I do. Not the fighting or the hen-pecking and not her squeezing me for my last mark. Women after her....well....they only get worse and worse." He shakes his head about the Lucky Seven. "I don't need those slick young pups taking my marks."
She's been at this wax-on-wax-off lark for quite a while already so it's no surprise that eventually with a tired sigh Bailey drops the rag and sits back on her heels canting another dubious look over Fremond's way, "If it makes me throw up again, I'll be sure to do it in one of your boots!" Which isn't exactly a 'no'. Tipping her face up to the sun and then rolling her head from side to side in a bid to stretch the cricks out of her neck she listens as the old man speaks. Guessing, "So now it's just about a bit of company and sharing a warm bed here and there, aye?" His comment over the Lucky Seven is accepted with a quiet chuckle and then she's revisiting a question asked before, trying her luck once again, "What happened to his wife?" No need to put a name in there.
Fremond spreads his hands in a picture of innocence, "Boots will wash off." So much for concern that it'll happen. "Eh, could be more than a bit of company, but I'm not exactly easy to live with and most ladies who are sane don't favor a guy taking off ship-board for months at a stretch." He taps a finger alone his missing eye, "Last lady I got close enough to think about marrying..." A low whistle and shake of his head, "Crazy as a fruit-bat." When she brings up the question about other dead wives his lips squeeze closed tightly, "She died." Period.
Narrowed the look in response to that supposed innocence coming off of Fremond, but she leaves that alone for the time being. Leaning in close to squint her own eyes in open study of his fake eye, morbid curiosity peaking, “Can I touch it?” she even lifts a finger as if to poke at it. Wrinkling her nose Bailey puts a sad little look the old man’s way, “I think you should have someone nice for a change that won’t come at you with a knife, or that has her own job and won’t drain you of all your marks.” Idealist or simply trying to be nice? Tacking on, “We’re not -all- that bad, you know.” The brunette’s mouth fixes into a stubborn line at first when yet again, he refuses to answer, coming back at him with a sardonic, “Aye, I kind of got that the first time he yelled it at me.” Shifting so that she’s sitting cross-legged now she’ll try another tack, “They have any children?”
Fremond barks out a laugh, "That's such a rare womanly beast you paint that I don't think an old coot like myself will ever catch one. Just as likely pull up a singing shipfish, or a mermaid." He cackles at her, and actually pops out his eye to let her see it all up close. When she continues on the questioning he looks at her, one sharp eye, one empty socket, "Nah. That bitch never wanted any kids. Said it would ruin her figure." A slightly lowered tone of voice, "The way I hear it, Cande can't have any children. He was married seven turns or eight? Never even quickened that frosty queen of his." He wipes a hand over his jaw, "I hate to speak ill of the dead, but that woman..." He shakes his head angrily.
Bailey’s mouth pulls into a grin for his laughter and then a shrug of slightly shy proportions as she says, “I like you. You remind me of my Da, only nicer.” Nicer? “Just figure it would be nice if you found someone that makes you happy is all” She holds out her hand, palm cupped for him to drop his eye into and almost pulls it away at the last moment as morbid fascination battles with the ‘ew’ factor. Fingers of the other hand pluck it up, turning the glass eye over and giving it thorough inspection. Handing it back to Fremond, “Does it hurt when you put it back in?” The brunette surreptitiously wipes her hand against her skirt trying not to show too much reaction to what the old man says of his employer’s dead wife. It doesn’t last long for something he says draws the edges of a smirk from the woman which she covers over with a stab at humour, “Daughter of the hag you ended up with?”
The eye is a nice piece of workmanship, gross as it is. Warm from being in the socket and all that. "Nice? Me? Pah." A small snort as the old man casts a look around, "Don't let that get around. And who knows what's in the cards. I'm just not holding my breath." He accepts the eye back and gives it a cleaning against the inside of his vest before putting it back in. Missing whatever reaction Bailey might be fighting with. "Nah, would keep my hag and let Mina alone. But, with arranged marriage you don't get much chance. You know he was only like fifteen turns or something when he got hitched?" Or so the gossip says.
A warm smile, probably the warmest Fremond has seen from her thus far fits onto him as she nods firmly, “Nice.” With a crooked grin, “Have you seen the head laundress from the Weyr? Not a bad looking woman for her age. Though she does look a little stern, sometimes.” Bailey lifts a brow, “That bad, huh? Sounds like the witch one of my brothers married. Worst part is, he chose her,” a brittle and mocking little laugh coming out for that. Frowning now as eyes follow fingers tracing idly along a pattern in her faded skirt, “Only fifteen turns? That’s mighty young to be set up for something like that. A person doesn’t even really know who they are or what they want at that age, let alone…” A deep breath cuts off the soapbox she looked set to climb up on. Turning to gather up the rag she’d been using and lid the container of wax her face is conveniently turned away when asks, “Did he want them?” children.
Fremond shakes his head, "Ain't see no one from the laundry and...hey, don't you start getting that 'look'. My sister gets that look when I go see her." He scowls for her warm look, easier to deal with someone being mad at you for this old guy. "Pretty bad. Spoiled. Fucking spoiled. Wwoo...her daddy was a well-to-do traider and farmer up north, all manner of connections to weavers and they did all sorts of work together--her father and Cande's. So, they thought keep it in the family and forced them together. Gotta do that thing young, before you get thoughts in your head like, 'huh, I don't like this crazy bitch'." He scowls over it, looking up at her again when she asks about kids, "He wanted them pretty fierce. Was something that caus...." He frowns darkly at her, "Shards woman...you really want to know about him don't you?"
Bailey’s eyes widen and she arranges her features into the perfect picture of a ‘Who me?’ expression. Chuckling she comments, “I’d like to meet her one day,” his sister, the scowl rolling right off of her. Grimacing as Fremond describes Mina, “You know, the more I hear about her, the more I’d like to roll her around in honey and leave her out for the wherries to find!” Adding after a stint of dark glowering, “My eldest brother married a woman like that, except she didn’t have the marks to go with the attitude. Thought I was her personal drudge and tried to make me clean the latrines,” smirking a look over to the old man, “Until I dumped a bucket of it in her bed. Got the whipping of my life, but it was so worth it!” Busy. With the wax container, see? Not looking at him she tries to shrug her questions off, “Just curious.”
"You can't go meet my sister." Fremond states gruffly, "She'd likely try to hook you up with one of my sons. Or her sons. She's a matchmaker that one. Not in a good way neither." Watching her scrubbing for a moment he offers a quiet, "Some women just get their way too much and have just those moments of being sweet to lure a guy back in. And see, your brother puts up with it yeah? Just what us guys do." A small shake of his head about the whipping but he doesn't remind her of his threats of spankings either.
Grinning widely now as she teases, “Any of them as cute as their old man?” That slips off and Bailey puts all her concentration to the task at hand, nodding to what Fremond says despite the tucking of lips into a tight line. Something sets her off and the rag gets tossed viciously aside as the brunette stands and stares out to sea. Repeating in a low tone, “Just what us guys do…” quiet for a bit longer and then stating flatly, “Well I guess that makes it all alright then.” Quite what is left unclear for the woman is soon scooping up the discarded rag and saying, “I’m starving. Going to go find something to eat.” Without another word she turns, dropping the various items she’d been using into a crate on the deck and then heads down the gangplank and onto the docks.
Fremond coughs, "No one is as ....." But then she's swinging moods on him and he recoils back with a frown, "Fine then. Fine. Shards and shells. Not all us guys are the good type either." He doesn't get up, instead his baffled expression stays on her as she moves to depart from the ship. Both wary and curious. After a moment he finishes up and silently follows after her, a ghost just behind her, silent as a shadow. Ninja Fremond.
RL: 2010.05.12
After cleaning up the mess Bailey left in the cabin, Fremond joins her out on deck. The two trade information while working and a strange sort of bond starts to form.
Ah, the joys of being a deckhand again, particularly when one has to clean up after a whirlwind of destruction down in the cabin. The old man has been sweeping and mopping up since he came in from whatever misadventures distracted him on his off-hours. There's an almost sad look in his old eyes as he comes out at last, sack of rubbish in his fist.
Bailey’s busy. Busy, busy, busy! Or at least that’s what she wants anyone passing by to think. With a big container of wax nearby and a bundled up rag under her knees, she’s keeping a steady rhythm of wax-on-wax-off. Mr Miyagi would have been so proud! She catches movement in the corner of her eye and from under lowered lashes sends a surreptitious look over Fremond’s way. The brunette says nothing of his having cleaned up the mess her temper tantrum had resulted in, simply asking in idle tone as she works, “Meet any pretty little things while you were out and about?”
There's a troubled look given to Bailey, the work being done so seriously when she only recently fainted before him. "You might want to take a break." Off handed the remark as he sets the sack down, careful of the clattering from within, broken crockery. He rubs a hand over his jaw, scratching into his beard before cracking a smile, "I saw a few pretty things, but I'm not one to keep ahole of such baubles." His tone dry, the frown tightening a bit. "Going to tell me why you ripped up your shit?" Or broke-up really.
Head down and hair screening her face from Fremond, Bailey swipes the rag in her hand across the top of the wax container and continues on with her work. Silence for a while and then her voice floats out, low and slightly wry, “If I stop are you going to get over here and take over?” Leaning back on her heels, the wax rag is dropped and she passes the notion of a smile over to the older man, “You just don’t try hard enough,” to keep his pretties, “Maybe it’s because you don’t want to. Women are just so many kinds of trouble that you’d rather not have them messing up your life, aye?” Like her. Pale eyes meet the frowning look evenly, and she replies as she leans forward and sets to polishing off the excess wax just laid down, “Figured it was time to re-decorate,” a touch sarcastic.
Fremond's laugh is a dark, gutteral sound, "Women are like flowers. You pick them to keep them, and they just wither and die. Or they stick you with a palm full of thorns." A lanky shrug before he comes over to her, waving a hand towards her, "I made you a special tonic." A wave towards her cabin where he left it obviously. Sinking down to his knees he grumbles at the discomfort in his old knees and snatches up the rag.
Bailey’s turn to frown, though the curtain of hair might hide it, “Sounds like you must have been married to a hag at some time or another.” Not asking, just making an idle observation. Her head lifts as Fremond crosses the deck a wary look entering into her eyes, “What’s in it?” the tonic. Reaching out a hand to take up her task regardless of the fact that he’s clearly there to take over, she finds simply empty air as the old man reaches the rag first. Not one to sit around idly she offers a compromise, “I’ll put it down, you polish it off.”
Fremond nods his head, "oh, she was a hag alright. She knifed me more than once when I got her riled up." He remarks with a smirk tossed to Bailey. "Sure you don't want all the details of my late wife though. You've got a temper on you though--bet you'd cut a guy. Just the way women are." Bowing over his work he nods to her laying down the wax first, it's easy enough. "Just some herbs to calm the stomach. Tastes like shit, I won't lie, but it's good for you."
Her mouth quirks into a mirror of Fremond’s smirk, “Only man I’ll ever cut is one that lays an unwelcome hand on me or tries to harm someone under my protection.” Curious now, “Got any children?” A low chuckle is all that greets comment of her temper as her hand follows his, working in unison for a change. Leaning back on her heels again a glance is cast the way of the cabin, “Probably just make me throw up.” However Bailey pushes up to her feet and disappears for a moment or two, emerging with said tonic in hand. Leaning up against the railing she sniffs at it and fakes a dry heave. Or at least, one would hope it’s faked. “Shards and runner dung but this stuff stinks! What are you trying to do, kill me? A knife to the heart would be kinder.”
"Got a pair of boys who took to the Seacraft." There's pride in his voice about that bit of news. "Haven't seen them since their mother passed on though." He polishes in silence, looking thoughtful but not particularly sad at the memory of a wife dead. When he looks up she's back with her drink, "Just some good herbs. It'll settle that stomach down. Believe me." He pats his own stomach, "Or put hair on your chest." Hiding his laugh by looking away to the polishing work.
Still leaned up against the railing, but not taking a sampling sip just yet, Bailey’s smile is genuine for the pride shown by Fremond for his boys and sincere for her next, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.” Peering down at her own chest, pale eyes widen, “I bloody hope not!” this to putting any hairs there. Still somewhat dubious the tonic is lifted to her mouth, her free hand coming to pinch her nostrils closed so that she doesn’t have to smell the vile concoction. One swallow, two and then the brunette is fighting hard against reflexive gags. Not a half second later she’s turning swiftly out over the railing and sending the meagre contents of her stomach down into the ocean below. Not pretty. Either the smell or the taste was simply too much for her. Wiping her mouth as discreetly as possible, the woman turns eyes still streaming with tears to the older man, croaking out, “If you thought I needed to lose weight, there are nicer ways of telling me.”
There's a shake of his grizzled head for Bailey's 'prying', "Eh, it's alright. Been a good number of turns now. I've got a good job now and kicked that gambling habit I had." He smirks a bit over that, "Some of that habit anyway, I'm an old dog, gotta have some...." A frown for the vomiting and he watches her, more concern now. "I got another kind you can try." The old man says, kinder this time, "Has a sweetness to it. Might be better." Old sea-dogs got his tricks.
Taking up the edge of her skirt, Bailey wipes at her eyes, shaking her head vehemently for the offer of more herbal concoctions at first and then slipping into deep contemplation. Finally, “My mama used to give me a kind of ground ginger tea when I was little and something upset my stomach?” putting a querying look over to Fremond. Perhaps that? Abandoning what little is left of the tonic she moves back over to where he’s working and takes up the polishing rag once again, “Do you still miss her?” his wife. Chuckling a little for the bit about gambling, “Been over the way of the Lucky Seven yet? Hear they have some good games going on sometimes. Might even have a go myself.”
"Might have a snip of dried ginger in my pack still." Fremond notes at her request, "But I've got an even better remedy. Something Cande taught me. You gotta give it a try at least." He's not going to let her get away with 'no' obviously. There's something crafty about the look he gives her but it's gone when she asks of his wife, "Sometimes I do. Not the fighting or the hen-pecking and not her squeezing me for my last mark. Women after her....well....they only get worse and worse." He shakes his head about the Lucky Seven. "I don't need those slick young pups taking my marks."
She's been at this wax-on-wax-off lark for quite a while already so it's no surprise that eventually with a tired sigh Bailey drops the rag and sits back on her heels canting another dubious look over Fremond's way, "If it makes me throw up again, I'll be sure to do it in one of your boots!" Which isn't exactly a 'no'. Tipping her face up to the sun and then rolling her head from side to side in a bid to stretch the cricks out of her neck she listens as the old man speaks. Guessing, "So now it's just about a bit of company and sharing a warm bed here and there, aye?" His comment over the Lucky Seven is accepted with a quiet chuckle and then she's revisiting a question asked before, trying her luck once again, "What happened to his wife?" No need to put a name in there.
Fremond spreads his hands in a picture of innocence, "Boots will wash off." So much for concern that it'll happen. "Eh, could be more than a bit of company, but I'm not exactly easy to live with and most ladies who are sane don't favor a guy taking off ship-board for months at a stretch." He taps a finger alone his missing eye, "Last lady I got close enough to think about marrying..." A low whistle and shake of his head, "Crazy as a fruit-bat." When she brings up the question about other dead wives his lips squeeze closed tightly, "She died." Period.
Narrowed the look in response to that supposed innocence coming off of Fremond, but she leaves that alone for the time being. Leaning in close to squint her own eyes in open study of his fake eye, morbid curiosity peaking, “Can I touch it?” she even lifts a finger as if to poke at it. Wrinkling her nose Bailey puts a sad little look the old man’s way, “I think you should have someone nice for a change that won’t come at you with a knife, or that has her own job and won’t drain you of all your marks.” Idealist or simply trying to be nice? Tacking on, “We’re not -all- that bad, you know.” The brunette’s mouth fixes into a stubborn line at first when yet again, he refuses to answer, coming back at him with a sardonic, “Aye, I kind of got that the first time he yelled it at me.” Shifting so that she’s sitting cross-legged now she’ll try another tack, “They have any children?”
Fremond barks out a laugh, "That's such a rare womanly beast you paint that I don't think an old coot like myself will ever catch one. Just as likely pull up a singing shipfish, or a mermaid." He cackles at her, and actually pops out his eye to let her see it all up close. When she continues on the questioning he looks at her, one sharp eye, one empty socket, "Nah. That bitch never wanted any kids. Said it would ruin her figure." A slightly lowered tone of voice, "The way I hear it, Cande can't have any children. He was married seven turns or eight? Never even quickened that frosty queen of his." He wipes a hand over his jaw, "I hate to speak ill of the dead, but that woman..." He shakes his head angrily.
Bailey’s mouth pulls into a grin for his laughter and then a shrug of slightly shy proportions as she says, “I like you. You remind me of my Da, only nicer.” Nicer? “Just figure it would be nice if you found someone that makes you happy is all” She holds out her hand, palm cupped for him to drop his eye into and almost pulls it away at the last moment as morbid fascination battles with the ‘ew’ factor. Fingers of the other hand pluck it up, turning the glass eye over and giving it thorough inspection. Handing it back to Fremond, “Does it hurt when you put it back in?” The brunette surreptitiously wipes her hand against her skirt trying not to show too much reaction to what the old man says of his employer’s dead wife. It doesn’t last long for something he says draws the edges of a smirk from the woman which she covers over with a stab at humour, “Daughter of the hag you ended up with?”
The eye is a nice piece of workmanship, gross as it is. Warm from being in the socket and all that. "Nice? Me? Pah." A small snort as the old man casts a look around, "Don't let that get around. And who knows what's in the cards. I'm just not holding my breath." He accepts the eye back and gives it a cleaning against the inside of his vest before putting it back in. Missing whatever reaction Bailey might be fighting with. "Nah, would keep my hag and let Mina alone. But, with arranged marriage you don't get much chance. You know he was only like fifteen turns or something when he got hitched?" Or so the gossip says.
A warm smile, probably the warmest Fremond has seen from her thus far fits onto him as she nods firmly, “Nice.” With a crooked grin, “Have you seen the head laundress from the Weyr? Not a bad looking woman for her age. Though she does look a little stern, sometimes.” Bailey lifts a brow, “That bad, huh? Sounds like the witch one of my brothers married. Worst part is, he chose her,” a brittle and mocking little laugh coming out for that. Frowning now as eyes follow fingers tracing idly along a pattern in her faded skirt, “Only fifteen turns? That’s mighty young to be set up for something like that. A person doesn’t even really know who they are or what they want at that age, let alone…” A deep breath cuts off the soapbox she looked set to climb up on. Turning to gather up the rag she’d been using and lid the container of wax her face is conveniently turned away when asks, “Did he want them?” children.
Fremond shakes his head, "Ain't see no one from the laundry and...hey, don't you start getting that 'look'. My sister gets that look when I go see her." He scowls for her warm look, easier to deal with someone being mad at you for this old guy. "Pretty bad. Spoiled. Fucking spoiled. Wwoo...her daddy was a well-to-do traider and farmer up north, all manner of connections to weavers and they did all sorts of work together--her father and Cande's. So, they thought keep it in the family and forced them together. Gotta do that thing young, before you get thoughts in your head like, 'huh, I don't like this crazy bitch'." He scowls over it, looking up at her again when she asks about kids, "He wanted them pretty fierce. Was something that caus...." He frowns darkly at her, "Shards woman...you really want to know about him don't you?"
Bailey’s eyes widen and she arranges her features into the perfect picture of a ‘Who me?’ expression. Chuckling she comments, “I’d like to meet her one day,” his sister, the scowl rolling right off of her. Grimacing as Fremond describes Mina, “You know, the more I hear about her, the more I’d like to roll her around in honey and leave her out for the wherries to find!” Adding after a stint of dark glowering, “My eldest brother married a woman like that, except she didn’t have the marks to go with the attitude. Thought I was her personal drudge and tried to make me clean the latrines,” smirking a look over to the old man, “Until I dumped a bucket of it in her bed. Got the whipping of my life, but it was so worth it!” Busy. With the wax container, see? Not looking at him she tries to shrug her questions off, “Just curious.”
"You can't go meet my sister." Fremond states gruffly, "She'd likely try to hook you up with one of my sons. Or her sons. She's a matchmaker that one. Not in a good way neither." Watching her scrubbing for a moment he offers a quiet, "Some women just get their way too much and have just those moments of being sweet to lure a guy back in. And see, your brother puts up with it yeah? Just what us guys do." A small shake of his head about the whipping but he doesn't remind her of his threats of spankings either.
Grinning widely now as she teases, “Any of them as cute as their old man?” That slips off and Bailey puts all her concentration to the task at hand, nodding to what Fremond says despite the tucking of lips into a tight line. Something sets her off and the rag gets tossed viciously aside as the brunette stands and stares out to sea. Repeating in a low tone, “Just what us guys do…” quiet for a bit longer and then stating flatly, “Well I guess that makes it all alright then.” Quite what is left unclear for the woman is soon scooping up the discarded rag and saying, “I’m starving. Going to go find something to eat.” Without another word she turns, dropping the various items she’d been using into a crate on the deck and then heads down the gangplank and onto the docks.
Fremond coughs, "No one is as ....." But then she's swinging moods on him and he recoils back with a frown, "Fine then. Fine. Shards and shells. Not all us guys are the good type either." He doesn't get up, instead his baffled expression stays on her as she moves to depart from the ship. Both wary and curious. After a moment he finishes up and silently follows after her, a ghost just behind her, silent as a shadow. Ninja Fremond.