- Markshire PCs:
“Blimey! There she goes…again!”
Thrakh shook his head. “Doesn’t look like her little elf-skin could hold all that, does it, Lars? At least she did it over the rail this time.” He paused, nodded towards the retching girl. “What you think?”
“Hells, Cap’n, we’re barely out of port—what if we hit some real chop? And the crossing? I just don’t know…”
“Well, looks like she’s got Marco trailing after her like a puppy; he’ll keep her safe for now. That’s not what I meant, though, Lars, and you know it.”
“Yeah…well…the men are okay with it for now, I think. You said the right things to ‘em. Old Snargill—he’s always a troublemaker, you know—grumbled something about how Marco’s not the only one she’s got wrapped around her finger.”
Thrakh looked sharply at his mate. “Oh? He meant me, huh?”
Lars laughed. “Yeah, but don’t worry about it. The rest of the crew ‘t was on deck’s right there with you. And Jacobssen whacked Snargill good with a belaying pin t’ moment he said it. No problem there.”
Thrakh grunted, which Lars knew was his way of showing satisfaction. Despite what he’d said earlier, he hated to flog his men. It was much better if they disciplined themselves—and Lars was the perfect one to make that happen, as his back still bore the lashes he’d taken from a sadistic captain years ago. “’E hit ‘im hard?”
The two stood quietly by the tiller for a few minutes, happy to be back at sea. Still, Thrakh thought to himself, best to keep clear of the girl, put an end to that kind of talk—rank did have some privileges, but he wasn’t the kind to flaunt those in front of the men.
“There is, one thing, though, Cap’n.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“She’ll never get all the canvas patched if she’s always at the rail—there she goes again! It’ll take her forever to earn the passage!”
Thrakh grunted once more.