The Seafarer

[Airan]

Name: Bise
Species: Rook
Gender: Female
Age: 22

Skrrch. Bise winced and scrabbled to avoid the salt-warped wood and patinated bronze of the ship's forecastle railing -- the perils of landing on a new boat in the dark.

"Welcome back, Blackbird!"

She looked down to the main deck, where a ferret waved to her, her 'recruiter' to this miserable tub of splinters.

"Splitshank. You're out late."

He grinned and pulled a lapel open a little wider, showing off a splash of red fabric under his tunic. "Just got done finally meetin' with the captain. Gave me this. S'pose I should thank you f'r it."

Bise clacked her beak once but kept her voice controlled and level. "You got freed from your contract becau-"

"Aye, winning you off yer old boss earned me my cuhmishin'," he said with a chuckle, a puff of breath obscuring his grin. "Oh, and if yer ever allowed on leave again, don't bother checking in on 'er. Couple o' the lads are keeping an eye on 'er until you've worked off her debt."

Bise stayed silent. Her own scarf, brown and rough-spun burlap, tied to her left leg like a shackle -- a reminder of the full 6 seasons she still owed. That Floris sold me for. She and I are gonna have a long talk when I get out of --

"Best not keep the captain waiting," Splitshank said as he sauntered past, interrupting her sulk. "Ye wouldn't want him to add another season to yer term f'r idleness."

She hissed a curse under her breath and waddled towards the flickering lantern light of the cabin. Inside, the owner of the Pheasant's Plume, the right dishonorable Captain Dregg sat in a cloud of charcoal dust and stale wine-stench.

"Bird. Back from the southern straight already?"

"Aye, cap'n. Ready to report and update our charts."

He leaned forward in his chair and indicated the table before him. "Go on, then. Show me you're worth more than the coin I could've sold you for."

Bise ignored the jab and traced a claw along the parchment.

"Look there. This chart shows a straight line of cliffs, but the coast juts out a good three ship-lengths, then smooths out to a small beach. Enough to land all the longboats, but not sure I'd trust it to beach the Plume the water looked too light, like shallows. The town there has shrunk to only a few shacks. And a new fishing village has sprung up just off... this peninsula."

The rat across from her sketched in her directions with a ragged old quill. "Hmm. Anything else?"

"No. Shall I wait in bunk 'til you need me, cap'n?"

"Aye." He waved her away without looking up, his narrowed eyes focused on the maps that scattered his cabin like so many leaves from a summer squall.

The morning's mist nipped at her cheeks but still felt warmer and more welcome than his cabin had. She spread her wings and hopped into the air, letting a light current take her the long way up to her 'bunk': now, literally, the crow's nest. Most of her belongings were stowed below, with the cargo, so it was nothing but old sails and an older layer of discarded down that kept her from the nigh-frozen wood around her.

Still, here she could enjoy the sun's rays before any other beast. She could catch a glimpse of -- and land on -- shore before anyone else. She could watch the morning fog burn away with the last of the twilight's stars.

It was the closest thing to freedom she could lay claim to.

[Airan]

Name: Dawl Dredgemast
Species: Sea Otter
Gender: Male
Age: 18

The sun hung low and golden over the harbor when Dawl Dredgemast finally returned to his family's ship.

His ship. He snapped his head up, the tired muscles in his neck pulsing. It didn't matter if he was tired, though. He needed to be firm with himself or everything would fall apart. The ship was his, now – so was all the responsibility.

The fishing boat was still moored at the end of the dock where he'd left it. The sight of it, and of the thin haze of smoke rising from the chimney, eased a worry that had nagged him since dawn.

Then he noticed the rope ladder hanging down. He scowled as he hauled himself up on deck, expecting to find it unoccupied. Tilly would be down below, blithely burning dinner with her back to the open door. That, or she'd gone exploring again, even though he'd told her-

Instead, she sat against the aft mast, a bowl of stew cradled in her paws. As big as Dawl was for his age, his sister was small. She might technically be fourteen now, but she looked no more than twelve. Short and stubby in her limbs and tail, like a giant fluffy baby. She watched him with her usual blend of skepticism and annoyance.

"I saw yeh coming," she huffed, "so don't even start in about the ladder."

Dawl gritted his teeth and pointedly pulled the ladder up behind him, dumping it in a heap at the gunwale. "Aye, and what if somebeast else got here first?"

"Cripes, Dawl. I might've had to speak with somebeast who ain't mah brother." She gaped at him in mock-horror, then jabbed her spoon at a second steaming bowl waiting at the base of the helm. "I used up the last of the hotroot, by the way. We'll be needing more."

"Well we can't have more," Dawl barked.

Her eyes flashed up at him, suddenly uncertain. It ate at him, that look. He stopped glowering long enough to scrub a paw through his headfur and roll his eyes skyward.

"I'm taking care of it, but we don't have coins to spare for luxuries, Tilly."

This was true, but only in the loosest sense. Dawl wasn't making enough money laboring on the docks to buy the supplies they needed. He had, however, scrimped enough to pay the harbormaster to keep an eye on his sister and the ship while he pursued more lucrative work. The kind of work a beast could easily find if he had the stomach for shedding blood – or at least the appearance of it.

In that, Dawl was well-qualified. He was tall and burly and his paws and forearms were scarred from fishing and pearl-hunting. He could swing a cudgel well enough, and he could wrestle most anybeast into submission.

But killing... Dawl had never. He wasn't sure he could.

Tilly – oblivious to his turmoil – shrugged, a petulant twist to her whiskers. "Bland soup is fine. Just don't call me that."

Dawl hesitated, forgetting for just a beat too long. Tilly dropped her bowl on the deck and scrambled to her footpaws, glaring up at him, eyes already bright with a promise of tears.

"My name is Till. You might be in charge until we find Mum and Dad, but yeh don't get to tell me who I am."

"Until we find Mum and Dad, who yeh are doesn't matter."

Her tears fell and she ran below like she always did, but Dawl still spat out the words. Still meant them.

"The only thing that matters is I keep you safe."

[Airan]

Name: Novak
Species: Pine Marten
Gender: Male
Age: 42

"Coincows on the beach! Greenie Harlan, fetch the bait and rose oil."

Captain Novak surveyed the distant prey as his stoat deckhand disappeared into the ship's hold. Twenty head of sealion basked in the sun's rise, one bull over a harem of cows. No pups in sight, but the mass of sealions might hide a few between.

Pups meant more mothers on guard, more rope to run, more...

Novak spat upon the deck to stop his doubts cold. The fat of ferals would see the crew paid and his new title earned.

Harlan staggered topside with the fish and cask.

"Hook the fish and drag em." Novak opened the cask and reached in shoulder deep. The pink slurry worked into the marten's pelt and assured him of the fisher's dance. "Oil up and dive after me once you're done."

"Pardon, cap'n, but it stinks of poets!" Harlan pinched his nose. "Are we wooing the lions?"

"The oil saves our fur from the brine; the scent masks our own from the ferals."

"Ay, but rose? Seems wasted on lowbeasts."

"Last captain used clove, but rose gives us a port worth remembering. I'll change little else of what he taught me." Novak removed his overcoat and longcap and recited his former captain's words. "'Follow orders and we'll stay wealthy. Ask questions and you're in for grim work.'"

Novak dove into the black sea. The rope about his waist, and the club at his hip, dragged heavier today. Heavier still as the northern chill breached his pelt, as he waited in vain for the 'Move or freeze, greenie!' from his former captain.

The nameless ship - now my ship, Novak remembered - sped along the coast, and most of the sealion colony swam after for an easy meal.

Only a nursing mother and her pup remained on the beach.

Novak swam ashore and recalled the steps. The rose oil kept the marten hidden until the meters between them thinned. The mother bellowed once the sun's glint no longer hid the fisher marten. Novak's paws entered the inherited dance, and knotted a lasso which found her neck. He dodged from spot to spot as the slower sealion charged, letting her tangle to an exhausted halt by the rope he trailed behind.

The pup came next, and Novak eclipsed the lowbeast.  His captain had always handled the pups, and promised they would not move or feel anything.

Novak closed his eyes and raised his club.

"M-ma-"

Novak dismissed the noise as the tide's ebb.

"Ma!"

Once more it sounded from the pup under his shadow. A completed word, a cry for help. Pictures of fish etched upon the sand Novak's once-closed eyes missed. A pile of glittering seastones stacked as a game beside the pup.

The grim truth came as questions flooded the marten's heart and mind.

"They can speak? Did he hide it...am I dreaming?" Novak's throat tightened. "But he said, he said they weren't-"

"What moves, cap'n!"

Novak spun and found Harlan by the trapped mother's side, still dripping from the swim.

"Never seen a greybeast prance so fancy; must be the rose!" Harlan unfastened his club and raised it high. "Oil for me from here on out, ay?"

The stoat's club slammed home.

The nameless ship found port once more, and Novak disembarked before any cargo could. Merchants lined up for their part in the dance: the butcher for the fat, the carpenter for the ship, and the florist with a replacement cask of rose oil.

Novak stormed past in search of answers.