• Graded • Night In A Storm [Wendell]

[Freya DuCarinos]

○ Common ○ Rakahi ○

92nd Vhalar 716

The Biqaj pirate was extremely cranky and had been for the last few days. She'd given her quarters to Wendell, the man she'd met from the Harlot 'n' Hound back in Rharne who was now a slave of hers aboard her ship. Due to unfortunate circumstances, to prevent her crew from rising against her and taking the man, she'd tattoo upon his neck the crest of her clan. A clan that was just established upon his arrival that he, nor anyone else knew anything about.
Freya never had the opportunity to speak with him about it, nor did she want to now, for that matter. His hatred radiated from him in palpable waves, crashing against her and, as it appeared, only her since she was failing so utterly to speak Common. He'd allowed her to finish the tattoo, albeit it was quite painful for him, and they exchanged no other words since. He didn't seem to mind staying within her quarters, though, she wasn't sure if he actually knew that was her private chamber.
Each day, she'd bring him food and water, water that they'd found stashed away somewhere in the storage hold. Then at night, she would settle down against the wall adjacent to her door with a small blanket, pillow, lantern, and a couple books. Sometimes it was her ledger and other times it was her practicing common and sentence structure. She wasn't doing it for him, Freya reasoned, but maybe it would help get her room back at least.
Haraji had approached her several times at the door, asking her why she'd sit outside it like a lost puppy.
“You and everyone else have deceived my trust... I cannot trust you not to kill him.”
“Why would I want to kill him?”
“Why would you want to hide him from me?” She'd counter.
His tongue stilled as his brow furrowed. “I was trying to protect you.”
“Well I did not ask for it. I don't need it... Leave me.”

On this particular night, the boat was rocking more than it usually did. There was a small storm outside that rained buckets down upon the deck and unfortunately, some of it had slithered into the area Freya sat at. The light of the lantern flickered and she cursed, removing the book from under her nose as she listened to the winds howl outside.
Tonight was a night she wanted her bed, or any bed for that matter. She was use to waking up on the floor now and that act alone was more pathetic than anything else she'd done on the ship. A captain sleeping on the floor so a slave could have her bed. Such a rookid situation, she was half tempted to kick Qyona and Gorroc out of their rooms but decided it was better dealt this way. At least no one would try to approach Wendell while she sat there guarding the door, and maybe that was the best right now.
Freya closed her book and laid her head back against the uncomfortable hardness of the wall, feeling exhaustion wanting to take her but finding no comfort to allow its sweet embrace. Sighing heavily, she shifted, then cursed again.

[Wendell]

The main trouble with sharing a boat with pirates, Wendell had decided, was their love of fish. He wasn't a fan of the soggy white meat, the texture, taste, or smell, and left it to go cold on the edge of his plate each night before working up the courage to eat it. With such a long journey ahead of them, Wendell knew he couldn't afford to be picky, as in only ten days, he had already noticed a few differences in his conditioning, weight, and the colour of his skin, which seemed a lot lighter than normal, but he would put that down to being seasick.

There wasn't much to do aboard the boat, and most of the books he had picked up were in the strange language of the Biqaj people. Every now and then he would try to decypher a few of the more basic looking words, but without anyone to confirm if he was right or wrong, he had soon grown tired of that task. During the day time he would reach up to one of the exposed beams in the ceiling and do pull ups until his arms gave out. Push-ups and sit-ups had helped keep him in shape too, determined to keep his strength up in case the big guy, Gorroc, decided to try and push him around again.

Wendell didn't quite understand who was in charge on the ship yet, but had noticed that most of the men reported to the woman he knew only as Freya. He heard her most nights sitting outside the door, and watched the crack below the door where the light from her lamp lit up part of the floor until it got late and finally went out. The small cuts on his face had healed well, as too had the gash on the back of his head, but his wrists had a way to go, and the headaches still seemed to come and go without warning.

The sea was rough today and had once again made a fool of the man, who thought perhaps he was growing accustomed to the back and forth rocking of the boat, only to find that he was feeling ill again. The sudden rise and fall of the ship saw him race to the door and Wendell pulled it open, almost tripping over Freya in his mad dash to the rail. He threw up over the side and hated that he had gone through the torture of eating the fish, only to see it wasted. Wendell felt about as useful as a sack of potatoes, and held onto the rail for a moment as he spat the foul taste of stomach acid from his mouth.

After returning to the room, Wendell washed his mouth out with the last of the water he had been allocated for the evening, and sank down against the wall. He watched Freya, eyes burning holes in the back of her skull. It had all been a very confusing story. Her mark had supposedly freed him from a more torturous fate, but the way he saw it, it didn't matter what mark he wore, he was stuck with the lot of them until the boat hit dry land, however long that would be.

“Scab,” he called, “where is… R-ra-rahkos?” He couldn't remember what they had called the location the vessel was pointed. “What happens in Rahkos?”

[Freya DuCarinos]

○ Common ○ Rakahi ○

The ship hit a particular break in a wave and dropped down over a forming crest, the feeling of falling overcoming the body for a few short trills before the ship evened out on the wave. Freya heard shuffling in the room and quickly snapped her eyes open when a tall, burly man ripped the door open and clamored up the steps to the deck above. Thunder rolled across the skies as she sat still on the floor, waiting for him to return.
It'd been some bits since his wet form stumbled back into the bedroom. Freya could see from the dim light of the lantern that Wendell was a bit thinner, paler even, with much more scruff on his face. He probably needed that wash in the rain, though he didn't smell as foul as she expected him to. Had he been washing himself with the water she gave him?
A frown pressed to her lips. She should have expected he would. Beside her was a little black book which she opened— her ledger, and made a note in it to deliver him more water. Freya also noticed he left the bedroom door open, something that unsettled her slightly as she couldn't really see him inside the dark room and therefore, didn't know if he was watching her or not.
She felt eyes on her but tried to ignore it, however, the memories of his iron grasp around her throat snuffing the life from her made her more than a bit tense.
Even his voice made her heart beat faster with the gruff sound echoed from the darkness. 'Scab.'
What the sarding fates was a scab? It was becoming his name for her, and by the sound of it, the word was none too favorable.
“Yes, well I can call you weird names too, fod-sack.” She muttered under her breath, turning to the darkness of the room as he spoke again.
“Rhakros.” She pronounced in common. “I am not Scab. I am Freya. Freya.”
The snap of the ledger and the smack of its leather binding against the wood floor accented the anger on her tongue. She reached for the Rakahi to Common lesson book Haraji had given her and opened it up.
“No business of yours, Bartender. Read book if you no sleep. Storm is passing.” Then her eyes returned to the book , though her attention never left the darkness of the door, nor the man within it.

[Wendell]

“You're a farking scab,” he growled at her, “thief, pirate, scum,” he was really angry now, mostly because she hadn't told him what to expect in Rhakros. He had never heard of the place before, nor did he know where it would put him in the world of Idalos.

Freya was right in assuming that the man had used part of his water rations for washing himself. If he had learned anything working at the Harlot ‘n’ Hound it was the art of a whore bath, which most of them referred to the act of washing out of a sink rather than a bath. Lady Rose had told them all that as long as they scrubbed the skin hard enough, water would do the trick, and she wasn't wrong.

They hadn't returned his boots, belt, or shirt to him, and wearing the same pair of pants had become a little irksome. It was then he wondered how the rest of the crew kept their clothes clean, or if they just went about stinking like dried seal skins.

“I can't read your farking books,” he threw one across the room he had managed to snatch from the bedside table. “I'm cold, my clothes need washing, your food is foul, I have no woman, I'm locked in this farking room all trial, every trial, my neck hurts, my head hurts, my gut hurts, and I have no idea where we are going.”

His complaining never seemed to get him anywhere here, but until Freya shut the door she was going to continue to get an earful. “Can I brush my teeth? Can I eat something other than farking fish?” Wendell threw another book and bowed his head, combing burly fingers through his greasy hair to try and fight another heave of his stomach, not sure there was anything left to throw up.

[Freya DuCarinos]

○ Common ○ Rakahi ○

With each insult pushed from his mouth, Freya grew angrier. Her back rippled with pain from the wooden floor of the ship, her head pulsed with an ache that cried for a bit of comfort, even her legs asked for some relief from the cruel, flat surface of the ground. There was none and Freya didn't ask for any other than the blanket and pillow she'd borrowed from Haraji. Having been born and raised in Ne'haer, Freya was taught to reject the idea of slavery, to even respect them for the burden they'd carried. Even now, Freya was following the ideology she was raised on, however, Wendell was making it extremely difficult for her.
The straw that broke the camel's back was when a book came flying at her, the binding smacking her square in the cheek as the man—nay, the wench, took another and threw it from the darkness toward Freya. This one luckily hit the wall beside her, the smack of the book hitting the wall dull against the howl of wind from outside.
“Enough!” She shouted, hissing out the words as she threw the blanket aside and shot from her spot across the door, bounding into the darkness with new found courage that had Freya up in Wendell's face.
“I am no thief! I am no scum! I am no pirate! I am NO scab!” Her voice yelled over the wind. “I no want you here! My ship, YOU do not belong! I no want you taken but taken are you, so what to do?! NO, no Rharne! We no go to Rharne, we go to Rhakros! Plan it is, time it is, money it is, life it is! You are not plan! This is not plan!” She heaved, gesturing to the space around them. “We no break plan to fix mistake, mistake is done! What to do now, Bartender?! You are own prisoner, no prisoner to me! You want sarding clothes? You want sarding clean clothes?! Go to storage! Get clothes, I no sarding help you no more! My room you give back!”
The woman grasped his wrist to pull him out of the room with a firm yank only to recoil when she realized his wounds were still healing. Freya gasped and cursed, stepping briefly into the lantern's light to see specks of blood on her fingers.
A great silence bloomed from her as wrath built within her like the storm upon them. Rakahi blasted from her mouth as she stormed out of the room, throwing the door further open with rage before she stalked down the dark hallway and out of sight, her voice the only thing heard. Several bits passed before she returned, though she had more than just clean bandages and water.
Freya threw a half filled bucket of water down by the end of the bed, disposing of a fresh change of clothes, his boots, belt, a tooth brush, soap, bandages, and several apples. Then she produced the smallest knife and pointed it at him, her lips pressed into a line of rage while she came closer. Then she pushed the side of the blade against his chest, offering it to him.
“You... You not hurt me.” The statement was a threat. “Kill me and die, not my hand.” She pointed beyond the door. “I protect you from scabs. Remember it.”
Freya left the knife in his grasp and backed away, toward the door. Her angry red eyes watched him the entire time till she grasped the knob of the door and slammed it shut, thus ending their conversation and providing much needed space. Pausing briefly, curses spelled from her mouth once more in deep Rakahi before she turned back to her spot of the floor and slid down into it, regretting that, once more, she didn't have the moral corruption to kick him from her room.
She threw her fist against the floor, then winced at the pain it brought. Her face still stung from where the book hit her and she rubbed it gently, sighing. How did she get herself into this mess? Why was she even trying to remedy it..?

[Wendell]

Wendell hissed as Freya pulled on his wrist, undoing the healing that had taken place in the last few days. He recoiled, drawing his hand against his chest as she paused and left the room again. The woman returned with the things he had requested, but not without a few choice words for him. This was her room? Wendell hadn’t known. He watched her leave without a word, mouthing his inaudible gratitude as the door was slammed.

The apple went down core and all. He had never felt so hungry. A wash with soap was a luxury he didn’t deserve, but took up without question, ditching his well-worn clothes in favour of a cold, soapy cloth. Dry and dressed, the man drank enough water to sink the ship, or so it felt at the time, and tended to his wrists, cleaning them with care, he chose not to bandage the wounds, hoping some fresh air would speed up the healing process.

The lamp light lit up one corner of the room, with the rest falling into dim shadow. Wendell bent to collect the books he had thrown and returned them to their rightful place before bundling up his old or dirty belongings and setting them aside with the water and food that remained. A second apple was demolished with little care for what tomorrow might bring. He knew he had been at sea at least ten days, though the first few were still a bit of a blur. Apples weren’t known for their longevity, and as the two he had demolished tasted a little flowery, he was going to enjoy them before they went bad.

There really was nothing that made him feel as good as he did when his teeth were clean, and Wendell brushed and brushed them as if he expected the toothbrush to be taken from him after he was done. To him, it was more valuable than the knight she had left. The small, sharp blade was used to trim the longer part of his rough facial hair, and feeling a lot more like himself, Wendell felt some of his initial anger subside. It didn’t take much, a full belly, a clean mouth, and a fresh set of clothes. For a time, he even forgot that it was stormy outside.

Half a break had passed and with no more noise from beyond the door, Wendell stashed the knife, in case he one day needed it, and went to the door. He opened it with a lot more care this time and looked down at Freya. “Your common is terrible,” he told her, and knew if she didn’t snap at him then his words would at the very least earn him a snarl, or hidden eye roll. “Freya,” Wendell reached out to offer her a hand up, deciding to use her name for a change.

If she was stubborn, he would drag Freya to her feet and pick her up, but if she came willingly, he would point to the bed and tell her to take it for the night.

[Freya DuCarinos]

○ Common ○ Rakahi ○

Freya was seated by the door still, having picked up the Rakahi to Common lesson book to distract her from the overwhelming anger she felt towards the man in her chambers. He was acting less like a man and more like a child throwing a fit now. Freya knew he had every right to be upset. She would be too in his situation and tried her best to keep that knowledge at the for front of her mind with thinking about him. But Wendell was ungrateful. He was not a slave. The slaves that came into Ne'haer were humble, grateful, if a little scared and unapproachable. They were still thankful.
Wendell was a greedy bastard who fancied insulting people he knew nothing about. Again, her anger rose but she kicked it back. Freya had to or else she would make even more mistakes. Sighing softly, she closed the book and settled in for the night, though there wasn't much 'settling' to be done. Her back groaned in protest just as the bedroom door open.
The same gruff voice insulted her again and she promptly told him to sard off, balling her fists. Then, to her surprise, he called her name. Turning and looking up at the sound, she saw his extended hand and, in the lamp light, his trimmed face. He seemed like he gained a bit of life from their last encounter and for this, Freya wasn't sure what to make of it.
“What would you like?” She asked as this was a common phrase she used a lot at the Crest Break back in Ne'haer. She'd rehearsed it so much that it wasn't laced with her accent as thickly as the rest of her words. He was inviting her back into her room and to her bed, something she felt extremely hesitant about.
Freya just armed the man with a knife. He would easily cut her throat in the middle of the night if he wanted to, then turn on the rest of the crew— not that Freya cared for half of them. Though Wendell would be screwing himself if he didn't know how to stir a boat, much less navigate... Even so.
“No, you sleep, Bartender. Go.” She dismissed him, hoping he would slam the door in a huff like she expected. Instead, she was suddenly grabbed into thick arms and lifted into the room, carried, and the disposed of on the bed. “No touch!” Freya snarled, stiff on the bed as she watched him with green eyes. Biting back the fear, the color quickly shifted to molten gold.
Her fingers pressed to the cushion of the mattress, exhaustion so inviting at this point. “No, I stay at door, no one come in.” The woman tried to argue. “You stay in room, I can protect. No understand what I say?”
Her form slid unwillingly to the edge of the bed and she paused to enjoy the soft cushion a little longer before moving to stand.

[Wendell]

Freya got to her feet and Wendell pushed her onto the bed again. He wasn’t gentle, he never had been. “Sleep. Understand me?” He hissed at her and went to the door to collect her pillow and blanket.

The edge of the pillow was wet, but nothing that wouldn’t dry out in time. Wendell shut the door and moved the lock closed before fixing the same chair against the handle that Freya had used previously to bar anyone from entering. He looked like a wolf in the dim light near the door, watching her with eyes the colour of the ocean. After rustling around in a chest he had found at the base of the bed, Wendell took an old hammock from the dusty container and hung one end from a hook on the ceiling before tying the other off against an exposed beam he had tested his weight against countless times over the last ten days.

Freya’s blanket was thrown across the hammock and the pillow was stuffed awkwardly behind him as he attempted to climb in. Wendell had never considered himself a man with balance issues, but for a few brief seconds on that hammock, he wasn’t so sure. When the hammock had finally stopped rocking and the creak of the weighted rope quietened down, Wendell sat in silence for a while before deciding to speak up. He didn’t turn to look at Freya, knowing he had probably already scared her half to death with his shove and manhandling her, but his tone was even and lacked any of the anger it had harboured half an hour ago.

“I’m not a bartender,” he told her. “I’m…” he tried to think of the right word. “A companion, like a courtesan,” Wendell did his best to explain, “that’s why your crew took me, I make a lot of gold for Lady Rose, two hundred a night,” he admitted, “the bar work… that’s just how we find our customers.” Two hundred gold was a season’s wage for most of the common folk, so for the season of Vhalar, Freya’s crew had taken almost twenty-five thousand gold worth of profit from the owner of the Harlot ‘n’ Hound. That was the minimum he could have pulled, without pouring drinks, stripping, or dancing for private functions. “She won’t be happy,” he didn’t say the words as some kind of threat, only as the truth, they had stolen and marked her golden boy.

[Freya DuCarinos]

○ Common ○ Rakahi ○

Another curse in Rakahi was thrown at him when Wendell pushed her to the bed. Again, her eyes sparkled a brilliant green mixed with blood red and gold. Though, she said nothing else when he moved toward the door to retrieve the pillow and blanket. She was going to say something to him then, reminding him that it wasn't wise to venture about the boat without her, but instead, snapped her mouth closed when he pushed the door shut, locked it, and barred it with the chair.
Her eyes widened ever so slightly as her body tensed. Wendell turned and watched her like a predator and the look he gave made her heart thrash in her ears. There was also a tightening in her gut, something that both alarmed and sickened her. Freya was attracted to this awful, selfish man and the realization had her backing slowly to the wall of the ship the bed was nestled against.
Was he going to try something? This was such a bad idea, a terrible one. He'd tried to kill her, he detested her, and now he wanted her to sleep? She wouldn't be able to, knowing she could wake to his hands around her throat. Freya was all for risking in the business of money, but this was of no relation and therefore, she wanted no part of it.
But instead, Wendell found her chest and stash of items from her old boat. Had he gone through her things in the ten trials he'd been in here? She supposed he needed something to pass the time but the invasion of privacy irked the woman and she frowned. He removed the old hammock she kept tucked away and hooked it up awkwardly from the beams above. Surprisingly, they held him and it up with little more than a small creak of noise.
Thankfully, that had provided some relief for her. He was hung up in his own sleeping quarters and faced away from her, staring into the darkness. It was quiet between them for a while and so, Freya took the blankets left in a lump on the bed and pulled them to her body. The cloth smelled of him— of a man. It wasn't necessarily bad but it made Freya want to wash it to claim it with her scent again, the sweet, creamy scent of lavender and vanilla.
The soft cushion of the mattress with the pillows bunched against her back called sleep to her eyes. All Freya wanted to do was curl within the pillows again and sleep but there was a strange, wrathful man in her chamber that she didn't trust.
His gruff voice snapped her awake with a jolt when he began to speak. Did she start to nod off so quickly? Freya's attention encompassed him completely now and she noticed that he didn't sound as angry as he usually did. Was she sleeping?
“W-what..?” She asked hesitantly.
'I'm not a bartender,' he'd said to her. If he was no bartender then what was he doing at that Tavern she'd gone to? A companion he said. Companion? He made a pretty foul one if that's what he did as a living.
“Mean companion, are you.” She retorted quietly. Her voice lacked insult, even energy. Sleep was overtaking her against her will. The bed felt so good on her back...
“Coureshan?” She mimicked. “What is coureshan?”
When he corrected her and explained, she'd simply answer, “Oh.”
So he was a harlot?
“You are hooker?” Her innocent question called.
And then he began to explain his profession, or more precisely, the money he made. By the fates! If Freya had the strength to serve up her dignity, she wouldn't mind becoming a prostitute for that amount of gold. However, it made sense now why Qyona and Gorroc took him. If he was as good as the money made him look, he was certainly a golden egg among ashes.
“Is Rose Companion's woman?” Freya pressed lightly. “Companion says missed woman before. Is this woman you mean?”
Wendell was indeed correct. If he was making such money at the Tavern, someone was bound to notice his absence and there in lay the problem. Someone might come looking for him. Someone with execution papers for her if they found them with drugs. Freya sighed and pressed her hand to her temple, a headache arising as she fought sleep.
“Companion will return to Rharne... This is promise on breath.” Freya tried to convey tiredly. “But hardship face you here... hardship always face you by mark on neck, now.” Her voice grew quiet as the wind howled outside.
“Ne'haer I from, place free from slaves... Slaves are free from chains and Ne'haer.. we.. well.. comes?.. free... free place for all. I serve slaves as barmaid in Ne'haer. So silent is slave, but I smile and feed slave and they smile. They smile like... like baby to mommy. Happy. Real happy. And I think... why? I see mark and pain with mark on slave and I know chains no leave slave. Ne'haer, slave free but mark is chain and I hate... Life more than chains, yet chain is mark. Always chain... I no live by chain, chain is fate.. is fate much bad death? I die before chain. Companion... no suffer chain from mark... I no let.”
Freya was rambling softly, sleep taking her as finally, she allowed her body to curl within the blankets and pillows and seize to the warm, welcomed embrace. Before she slipped into dreams, Freya muttered one final thing, something she hopped later she had said in a dream.
“I am sorry, Companion...”

[Wendell]

“Sure, I'm a hooker,” he snorted and punched the pillow behind him with his elbow. Wendell tried to get comfortable and settle for the night, but he had a feeling he was going to miss that bed. “No, Rose is not my woman,” he glanced at Freya. “My woman is gorgeous,” he smirked at the memory of her and closed his eyes, picturing the last time he had seen her. “Big,” he held his hands to his chest to insinuate that indeed his woman had sizeable breasts, “not like you,” he scoffed, as if he held little interest in entertaining the thought of seeing her undone.

Still, there had been some attraction, not one he would ever openly acknowledge, but there all the same. Freya did have beautiful eyes, and there was something about her much smaller frame that he found rather enticing. Wendell glanced over at the captain again only to find that she had drifted off. It would be all too easy to cut her throat, or break her thin, little neck, and he was almost insulted that she had been able to fall asleep so readily in the same room as a man who had tried to kill her only days before.

Unlike Freya, sleep didn't come so easily to Wendell, but he was able to rest his eyes at the very least, content in the knowledge that he was clean and fed. He didn't like being referred to as a slave, nor compared to them, or expected to be grateful just because they hadn't slit his throat yet. They were still learning each other, he just hoped she caught on quick that he wasn't the kind of guy that bowed without a fight.