The arrival (closed)

[chrishawthorne]

There is something magical about watching a large ship sail into the docks. Rather you were one of the children running and playing around the docks. Pretending they are pirates and adventures. Or one of the harden dock works breaking your back loading and unloading one of the many ships you had to take a moment to stop and glance in amazement as the beautiful Black Queen sailed into the docks. The large Brigantine was built strong to withstand harsh battles and even harsher weather. The square-rigged sails blew in the wind along side the bold black pirate flags. The elegantly but study crafted war ship measured up to 80 feet long, weighed up to 150 tons and could carry up to 100 men and 12 cannons . Out of all of the vessels, Christopher had under his thumb his Black Queen was truly his pride and joy. The ship was loaded down with silks and spices, tobacco and other rare and exotic goods. The gold and silver coins and other treasures that were taken from towns and villages and ships had already been divided among the crew. Classy Chris may have been a cutthroat and sociopath but he did believe in sharing the wealth with his men. Rather it is food and drink riches or even women everyone shared as long as everyone did their part.



When the long wooden plank was slowly lowered, those black boots of Christopher carried his 6”6 frame from the ship and to the dock. As much as he loved the sea, it did feel good to sat foot on solid ground again. Sepia brown orbs scanned his surroundings with a cokey little smirk plastered on his lips which turned into a smile once he spotted the wanted poster nailed to a post “ Keita come over here lad and look at this handsome face on this flyer “ Keita who was a dark skinned 6”7 African just shook his head. Keita was Chris’s first mate. Standing there with a whip in his hand as a reminder to the few slaves, they had working on the ship the African watched as they unloaded the ship and prepared the goods to be taken to the market and sold. Meanwhile Chris and a group of his crewmembers set out to find the nearest tavern

[seraphim]

The ship had docked. It had made it out of the fray. Away from the English. To Skye. Without much damage. Unlike it's crew. The poor ship, if it had legs, would surely limp it's way into port. It creaked and settled against the dock, a few burly looking men moving slow, but precisely were tying it off and doing what they did best, sailor stuff.

The handful of people aboard quickly piled off, poor folks from Ulster that decided it was time to leave, whether they minded the English or not. They were gathered up before the real fight began, looking tired, but no worse for wear. They had left the port to find room and board as quickly as they scampered out of the waring ways. Seraphim on the other hand had stood on deck stock still for the entire journey, which was not as long as most thought it would be.

Blinking owlishly, she'd watch a fine ship cruise into port, her head cokeing lightly before blinking again and looking at her feet once more. The boots were caked in Irish mud. Her work pants were too, the doeskin brown slacks felt stiff from the mud and blood, flaking and dried on her lithe form. The white work shirt was a men's cut, though hung askew on her, the wide neck usually tied so tight was loose, showing off a fair amount of bronze clavicle. The white was splatted with mud too, blood, a rip in a flouncy sleeve held a larger mass of red fabric then the rest, the shirt tails half untucked.

Her usually covered head was bared to the wold, glorious a mane it was, thick and richly dark in color was matted from the fight, the strands were haphazard and wild, her face had a bit of mud smeared across a cheek as the other held a hearty bruise, a small cut marred the soft freckles that sprinkled across her nose. Her bottom lip was a bit puffy, making that wide mouth look fuller still. In her hand was a sword hilt, clasped loosely, the blade dirty from the skirmish was still naked, she had no scabbard, it wasn't her blade. The tip would trail behind her as her stilted steps began, carrying her from the ship's deck and down the plank towards the dock, all the while the the soft scraping of the blade's tip against the wood sounded.

Phim was a tall girl, man height, so the disheveled she drew attention that the woman never wanted. One foot after the other began leading her along the dock to the very edge where Skye's lovely water lapped happily at the wooden columns that held her up. She just stood there, of course she wasn't unobserved, the Jack'o'Lantern face of a shipmate would be watching, battered worse than her's, he'd stay perched out of the way, some food in his hand, gnarled teeth munching away.

[chrishawthorne]

Sepia brown orbs could not help but to glanced at the ship that looked just as tatter and worn out as its crew and passengers. Leaning against the door frame of the pub and crossing his arms a slight smirk flashed across the captain’s face as he watch the activities of sailors. It was a known fact that pirates were not known for their stylish dress or proper hygiene. Most of them wore over or under size dingy shirts and raggy looking breeches to match their missing teeth and dirty faces. Money that they earn was spent on liquor food and women. Unless you were, the captain Christopher took pride in his ability to be able to afford the finer things in life. In his mind, it was a real waste of time and not worth the risks of fighting and looting if you are not going to show off a bit. He stood there leaning his slender physique against the doorframe of the nearest pub. He was stylishly dressed in a double ruffle design shirt.


This double ruffle had one layer of opaque material, and one of elegant lace. It was tailored just for him and found nowhere else. It had a nearly 6 inches of ruffled cuff at the end of the sleeve and a grommeted lace-up neckline. An elegant frock coat was worn over the shirt. The front hangs open to allow his ruffled shirt to show. The back has two flat front pleats at back corners, and a center vent. The back vent allows his scabbard to exit without tucking up the hem. A silk red bandana was worn over black locks of braided hair that hung down to his shoulders. A black hat trimmed in gold with a red feather rounded out his outfit. Fingers were wrapped around the handle of a tankard filled to the brim with ale. Taking deep sips Christopher scanned the docks allowing his orbs to fall on each face for a moment before moving to the next. His sepia brown colored orbs finally landed on the tall woman standing by the weak looking ship. Downing the last few sips of his ale the tankard was place down and black boots carried him across to her. If he was anything, it was bold. He allowed his deep low voice to filled her ears” Patron me for saying but you, your crew and that ship has the looks like its seen better days “

[seraphim]

Seraphim's hazel hues flicked over the waves a minute, she hadn't moved from her spot at the end of the dock. And then a voice, male, deep. She almost looked up, which would be lovely, since she knew few men that were taller than her. She could count them on on hand. Her hand twitched, as if she was about to count them, but that hand was still wrapped around the dirty hilt of the dirty sword.

"Yoh." It was very odd for her to even speak in yiddish, even the small word of 'yes' since she left home years ago. But then again, she didn't even notice it. That was it for now, from those lovely beaten/swollen lips. No one else probably picked it up either. It for now? Why? Because he knees finally gave way, blue-hazel hues rolling heavenward under those heavy laced lashes, her head falling back as her body crumpled. The sword hit the dock with a clatter before she would. Here's hoping she wouldn't fall into the drink.

Jack, the mate that was watching her, stood, but he was sure the large man would catch her, or at least knock her onto the dock so he could collect her, shaking his head. The girl worked her fingers to the bone days before the battle, no sleep, no food, and then the battle itself. No one knew what happened in the last few hours before they were found. It'd come out eventually, right?

[chrishawthorne]

Christopher flashed her small little smile rejoicing to him in the fact that he had finally seen a woman who high and build could match his very only tall physique. His lips parted as he begins to speak but before he could get the words out, he watched as beautiful blue eyes rolled into the back of her head. Christopher may have been a murder, a thief and even a bit of a sociopath but he was not the type of man to allow a woman to fall helpless into the cold deep ocean. Reaching over almost stumbling himself to catch her in time He reached out to grab the poor girl in his long arms. Holding the girl and slowly making his way off the dock and to the street he could not help but to notice her swollen and beaten lips. He took notice of how thin and bruise she was. Christopher knew all of the signs of war and starvation with exhaustion mixed in. New to the city, he the way to a small inn was pointed out. The inn wasn’t lavish in fact it was a bit dirty mainly use as a place for the sailors and drunkards to sleep off hang over or spend the night before boarding their ships in the morning . The place even thought it smelled of salt water and cheap ale had soft beds and hot food.




A small pouch of gold coins paid for a food and board for as long as it was needed. The Yiddish woman was place into bed after a few of the inn’s house cleaners stripped her dirty, bloodstain clothes, and replace them with a gown. Her wounds was tended to while she got some must needed rest. A bowl of hot mutton stew would be waiting for her once she came to. A warm cloth was lying on her forehead. Christopher stat in a chair by her bed. His long leg crossed over its mate and a pipe between his lips

[seraphim]

It was all black. Everything looked gray when her eyes were open, why not black when they were shut? Time lapsed and that long, heavy, limp form was found in a bed. The floor was not swaying, though the sea sounds were not far. She'd part her lips before her eye lips, a soft groan and her hand would lift, she'd wince as she pressed fingertips to her eyelids.

And soon her eyes were open, blinking a a foreign ceiling and she'd take a deep breath. Pipe smoke? She knew few that smoked around her, she knew few who were ever around her. Her head would turn and pounding head would shift to look at the stranger ...no..well, yes..but from the dock. That long, awkward body would slowly start to curl upon itself as she started to sit, but she ended up leaning heavily into the bed on her side, eyes shut once more.

She wasn't a talker, or at the moment a thinker. Her beaten body protesting against moving, light, and breathing. Wide hazel-blues would open once more to look at the man. Usually she would be uncomfortable to be alone in a room with a man, but at the moment, she was uncomfortable being alone in her head and form. Phim would simply stare at him, waiting for anything.

[chrishawthorne]

Christopher was not the type of man that normally cared about the well-being of people. It did not matter to him if someone were sick or hurt. Hungry or poor he just took what he wanted or needed and went by his way. In his mind, people were only trying to use him so why not use them first. However, for some reason this dirty face beaten down stranger had Classy Chris spending a sober night in a rocking chair by her bed. What was it with those women? That beautiful but wounded women. Rising from his chair to stretch those long legs of his he paused and glanced over to the women watching her struggle to wake up. Stepping back over to her bed. Those mocha colored orbs looked over the women as his lips parted to speak “I bet you are scared waking up in a strange bed with a handsome stranger looking over at you. Don’t worry lass you just fainted and I brought you here. I am Christopher Hawthorne and the healer said if you are strong enough when you wake up, I got to try and fed you. Do you want some food?” Christopher was use to sick and wounded people. Many of his crewmembers fall sick or hurt doing battles and long journeys. However, Chris never had to tend to them personally. However, how hard could it be to nurse a sick person back to health? Part of him felt like he done more of his duty he paid for her food and board and even a healer.


However, for some reason he just could not help himself. He just could not leave her laying there nor did he really want to

[seraphim]

Phim's eyes were finally focused, looking at the man that moved about the room now, then suddenly close to the bed and her, heart giving a terrific THUD against her breast, then subsided into that black placid state of not knowing if it was actually beating or not. She was not used to being cared for, well, she knew Jack would of gotten Fafnir or someone to drag her back onto the boat, or at least sent someone into the water to fetch her...they had too, duty and all.

Her throat was dry, her breathing not terribly easy as bruised lips were whetted a moment. Introduction, food..water..But..the calendar date..how long had it been, was it fasting or festive? Her eyes had drifted to the bed she laid on, the muddy and blood sleeve that encased her arm, long fingers flexed a moment, a long healed burn on the back of her hand was a bit shiny in the dim light, the flesh whiter than the bronze around it.

She'd look back up to him with another rib rattling THUD, her voice was warm, soft, for she felt like she was screaming in the quiet that was not her smithy, an odd accent for these parts paired with it, "Seraphim Smiðr, Sire." The voice lied, for it was welcoming, though her stoic and beaten look did not relay that warmth, "I have..some coin to repay..Speak to Fafnir or Jack on the battered boat, Sir." Her eyes shut again as she put her head back down, though they stay closed for only a moment this time, opening again to look up at him.

[chrishawthorne]

Mocha colored eyes rolled as if he was insulted. They met her tried but beautiful and a little smirk crossed his lips as a hand stroked loose hair from her face “I don’t recall asking for any coin. However, I will give word back to your ship “He rose from the seat and made his way back over to the table across the room. He spoke again as he started to pour her a glass of fresh water “You and your shipmates look like you have seen the wrong end of a battle if you don’t mind me saying?” He brought over the cup of water and retook his seat by her side. Bringing the water to her lips “Now drink this slow and we will see about getting some food into you. The healer will come back before nightfall to check on your wounds but for now, we have to build your energy back “He started to lower the glass to her lips helping her drink the much needed water

[seraphim]

She hadn't cared if she insulted him, watching those dark eyes roll about in their sockets. She was a poor looking thing at the moment. Even more so as he reached out to touch her face, pushing those heavy haphazard locks from her face, she'd shrink back from the hand, then wincing at the motion of moving away. Long limbs curled towards herself a moment before she'd sigh heavily, eyes shutting as the man stood and walked away. Still talking. Her heart ached, her chest burned, her limbs protested movement, her head swam with pain. None of it equaled the dismal thoughts in her head.

Water? Her lips parted to speak, but were met with the glass, eyes opening in a wide blink, dark lashes fluttered a moment, trying not to choke herself as she was drowned in the bed. Her hands came up, cupping the glass around his and taking a slow drink before leaning back and away from him again, her hands quickly leaving his. The palms were burning, the fingertips freezing, tanned cheeks were flushed.

She felt as if she should get up, move, leave, but all she did was sit and stare at him, a hundred thousand words could of been said, but nothing formed on those battered lips.

[chrishawthorne]

The cup was taken from her and place on the nightstand. He did not want to choke the poor girl but he felt like she needed some water and food. Not sure if he should give her any thing to eat, he chooses to wait to see what the healer had to say about that matter. He leans back in that rocker-crossing one leg over its mate he glanced down to her. All of his questions just fell on deaf ears but Christopher were the type that did not really need someone to listen to him in order to talk. Re lighting his pipe and puffing hard on it to get it to light he kind of laughed a bit to himself as he spoke “ We have been here for a few days now and so far I have went with out a drop of alcohol. I say after your wounds have heal and you are able to move around we go to a tavern eat a slab of meat and drown ourselves in liquor “He rose up and grabbed the bowl of soup that was sitting on the table. Taking his seat back he takes some of the soup and place it to her mouth “ Well I guess for now it’s chicken soup “

[seraphim]

Question? What question? She'd slowly sit up on the bed, her head spun, she craned to look out a window, a hand coming up to push back the waist length locks from her face, the heavy inky tresses looked a mess, she looked a mess. "Days?" She missed the fasting, the soup at her lips, eyes crossing to look down at it. Her actions were always slow, deliberate, his were so quick, or it might of been because she was just so out of it..lips parting, she'd take the offered soup before leaning back a bit, still flushed.

"Ah.. I do not..drink.." And as the words were said, she thought about it..why not? Tradition. Morals. Religion. Culture.. She was in a room alone with a man not her husband, not her..and tears started sparkling in her eyes, rounding out to tremble at the edge of her eye lid. She held her head back a bit, her eyes so wide so they wouldn't spill..her hands shook a moment before she'd clasp them together against her stomach and breathe out. THUD went that dead heart again, causing the tears to shake a bit harder, though not flowing over.

[chrishawthorne]

Didn’t drink! Was it such a thing as a person who did not drink not even a timble full of wine? Christopher just kind of smirk a little bit, as he sat there feeding her soup. Keita His crewmembers who were all out drunk and chasing the maidens around would have laughed if they had seen Chris sitting at a woman bedside feeding her soup. However, something inside of him just could not leave the woman alone she reminded him of someone about her reminded him of someone from his past. “You been here I’ll say three days now. You had a fever and many battle wounds. My crew’ healer was able to break the fever and clean up most of your wounds but he just an old saw bones. A real healer is traveling here and should be here by nightfall if he or she left right away and did not have any trouble. “ After feeding the girl her fill of soup he place it back on the night stand and stood there by her side “ You have to forgive my crudeness but it’s been a while since I have spent time in honest society so if you wish not to be alone with a strange man I will leave and come back in the morning?” He really didn’t want to leave her but at the same time he didn’t want her to feel like she had to be on her guard Chris knew what a lot of his crew members and even himself in the past would do in this situation but Chris wasn’t about to do that to this young women or allow any harm to come to her.

[seraphim]

She counted in her head the days, surely Jack had been watching. He was probably living it up drunk in a tavern himself, eyes narrowing a bit at the thought. But she'd relax her features into the pleasantly blank look she was so good at. Swallowing the last bit of soup that was forced down her throat, she'd slowly curl her legs towards herself, tucking them under as she took inventory. As he spoke of "Honest Society," she would spot the wide neckline of her man's work shirt. The laces undone, a good deal of collar bone was visible. Not that she was as curvy as the ladies her friends chased after, but she did feel a little..exposed.

Her hands would lift and gently begin to draw the loose laces through the holes allowing the shirt to be closed a bit more, her head bowed over her work, white teeth biting at her bottom lip. This brought a squeak from her, her fingers leaving the work of making herself modest to touch her lip. Her hand would fall then, to her leather clad lap..a light sigh as she looked to him again at his question, "Are you..pirate then?" A dark brow would rise, the effort in that, at least, did not cause too much pain for the fading black eye. Her answer would be weighed on this, slowly she'd slide onto her side again, giving up on propriety at this moment, for she was too sore and tired. She did not believe he would harm her, or attempt to do anything but stuff her full of water and soup,"..stay if you wish." Her answer was given before he could even stop to think of answering her question. She knew a pirate once, he was dead..

[Queen Beathag Aberdeen]

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