Regulus had left his world through water and had arrived in this one drenched the same. When he’d breached the surface, it was a blinking few seconds before he’d counted the differences: the natural light of the sun, no cursed undead dragging him under, air in his lungs. The last was only achieved by copious amounts of coughing up water, but all the same, not something he would have accomplished in the circumstances of his departure.
To say he was thoroughly confused by this turn of events was an understatement and was really in no position to argue or bargain for something better when Karsa found him. He kept all objections or questions about anything—the conditions of his rescue, this funny communications device, his present state of alive-ness—to himself until well after being transferred to the larger vessels.
He kept his expression unreadable but ears pricked for information gathering as it was becoming quickly apparent to Regulus that things, for him, had gone awry.
It was finally on board that he made his first objection: manual labor? Him? Oh no, no, no, no. Polishing the deck or cleaning canons were simply not to be born for this high society, in-bred snob. . . until he’d sassed the wrong sailor and found that their anger resulted in extra-judicial imprisonment with no food or drink or comforts of any kind. And worse of all, somehow the negation of his magic.
How rude.
After one 24-hour stint, he sang a different tune- he assessed his situation and adapted. Repair sails? He knew how to mend fabric, even at great heights, the masts did not scare him. Count loot? He was excellent with numbers, he could make a game out of it. Banish seagulls? He had a spell for that. Read to the sailors? He didn’t even mind the trash they wanted to hear, why would he begrudge them salacious indulgences?
Guard the deck, however? He was dispassionate enough for that, but who was willing to put up with his nonsense to guard with him?
[OOC: Feel free to start up at any point in this section]
That Son of a Biscuit Eater
Regulus should have been prepared for the knife, given his newfound surroundings. And yet, when the assailant lunged for him, he was shocked- shocked! that he would be the target of an attempt on his life. Mainly because he was damn well certain he’d done nothing this time to deserve it! He hadn’t said anything (which was what usually landed him in hot water with most people he interacted with).
He jumped to the side just a little too late and the tip of the knife sliced his left upper arm.
He was more distraught over the tears in his clothing and the blood staining around the tears than the cut on his arm. Priorities!
“Look what you’ve done, you fucking bastard!” He gestured at his arm, thoroughly put out. Skin could mend, but-- “Do you know how hard it is to get blood stains out of a white cotton shirt?”
Regulus did, he was well practiced at it, after all, but the work he would need to do, even with magic.
His complaint phased his assailant a moment, but only for the sheer surprise it must be to injure someone who did not worry at the pain inflicted, but the rent clothing instead.
Insulted by his indignation, Regulus was slow to realize the wholesale assault now being launched on ship.
Mollywick
Regulus huffed in exasperation as the blueberry burst between his fingers, staining his skin further. This was not the first time this excursion that he had damaged the thing he was supposed to be gathering.
Oh, of course he’d tried using magic to pick the berries, but his rate of success was far more dismal with his wand than with his fingers.
And if he wasn’t accidentally pre-juicing the berries, he was scratching his arms on the branches.
It was carelessness and a lack of practice at anything close to manual labor.
He scrunched up his nose at the damaged mess between his fingers and dropped it into the bucket. Whoever worked with the contents of his bucket would just have to deal.
He inched over to the individual working nearest him to peer into their bucket to see how their levels measured against his.
Regulus Black | Harry Potter | Tourist
To say he was thoroughly confused by this turn of events was an understatement and was really in no position to argue or bargain for something better when Karsa found him. He kept all objections or questions about anything—the conditions of his rescue, this funny communications device, his present state of alive-ness—to himself until well after being transferred to the larger vessels.
He kept his expression unreadable but ears pricked for information gathering as it was becoming quickly apparent to Regulus that things, for him, had gone awry.
It was finally on board that he made his first objection: manual labor? Him? Oh no, no, no, no. Polishing the deck or cleaning canons were simply not to be born for this high society, in-bred snob. . . until he’d sassed the wrong sailor and found that their anger resulted in extra-judicial imprisonment with no food or drink or comforts of any kind. And worse of all, somehow the negation of his magic.
How rude.
After one 24-hour stint, he sang a different tune- he assessed his situation and adapted. Repair sails? He knew how to mend fabric, even at great heights, the masts did not scare him. Count loot? He was excellent with numbers, he could make a game out of it. Banish seagulls? He had a spell for that. Read to the sailors? He didn’t even mind the trash they wanted to hear, why would he begrudge them salacious indulgences?
Guard the deck, however? He was dispassionate enough for that, but who was willing to put up with his nonsense to guard with him?
[OOC: Feel free to start up at any point in this section]
That Son of a Biscuit Eater
He jumped to the side just a little too late and the tip of the knife sliced his left upper arm.
He was more distraught over the tears in his clothing and the blood staining around the tears than the cut on his arm. Priorities!
“Look what you’ve done, you fucking bastard!” He gestured at his arm, thoroughly put out. Skin could mend, but-- “Do you know how hard it is to get blood stains out of a white cotton shirt?”
Regulus did, he was well practiced at it, after all, but the work he would need to do, even with magic.
His complaint phased his assailant a moment, but only for the sheer surprise it must be to injure someone who did not worry at the pain inflicted, but the rent clothing instead.
Insulted by his indignation, Regulus was slow to realize the wholesale assault now being launched on ship.
Mollywick
Oh, of course he’d tried using magic to pick the berries, but his rate of success was far more dismal with his wand than with his fingers.
And if he wasn’t accidentally pre-juicing the berries, he was scratching his arms on the branches.
It was carelessness and a lack of practice at anything close to manual labor.
He scrunched up his nose at the damaged mess between his fingers and dropped it into the bucket. Whoever worked with the contents of his bucket would just have to deal.
He inched over to the individual working nearest him to peer into their bucket to see how their levels measured against his.