AHOY! SCALLYWAGS Faolan takes to his situation as well as he can, which is to say with begrudging acceptance. He has at least been on sea voyages before, many times on the journey between Dalriada and the land of the Priteni, and these ships are not that unfamiliar with the vessels he has traveled on. Unfortunately, for the most part everything else is uncannily foreign. Even the crew, and the others he has found himself stranded here together with -- Karsa explained they are from another world, but it is more than that. There is so much here that Faolan has never seen before, and he gets the feeling, as he quietly observes the others aboard both ships, that is not entirely the case with most others.
Still, he does his part. And he secretly prides himself in being one of the only other outsiders canny enough with the lines to be allowed to help haul the ropes with the crew. He puts his head down and works without complaint, making certain not to stand out too far -- an admirable member of the crowd.
It is at night, when the crew is drinking and gambling and singing and entertaining, that Faolan doesn't quite know what to do with himself.
What does a guard dog do with himself when he has no one there to guard?
Wandering the deck with a mug of stew in hand, he spots someone else who seems to have made a similar escape as himself.
"Not enjoying the festivities?" he asks.
THAT SON OF A BISCUIT EATER Faolan supposes that it says something -- a lot, really -- about himself, that when word spreads of the potential for conflict, he feels almost relieved to have something to break the monotony of the sea voyage.
He supposes that it was something of a selfish thought, especially understanding how unlikely it is that some of his fellow otherworlders are indeed prepared for such a combat. He is a spy, an assassin, among other things. He has been killing people for quite a long time now, and he is really quite good at it. There is a reason that people like him exist, and it is so that people like -- well, some of them, do not have to do such things.
Ah, well, he thinks, drawing his daggers at the first sound of cannon fire. It cannot be helped. He can do his best to keep them alive through this, provided they don't get themselves killed.
"Can you handle this?" he asks, as the ship rocks slightly under the boom of yet another bombardment.
THE CROSSING This strange otherworld only seems to get stranger to Faolan. Not a very social man -- a hazard of the job, he tells himself -- when not on duty he has taken to spending most of his time up on deck, away from the majority of the passengers and crew. Down below, it is... Too much for him. Too many people, too much merriment. Someone has an instrument he does not know the name of and has taken to playing it in the evenings and that especially is too much for him, on these nights where he feels so entirely out of place. So lacking in purpose.
He will not allow himself to consider the idea that he might be lonely, for it is a foolish thought, and a man like himself cannot be afforded such emotions, but. He has been a tool, honed for a specific purpose, for the majority of his adult life. Without Bridei here -- which is a foolish thought, for of course he isn't, and for that he is grateful -- he does feel rather like a blade left to rust in the sun.
It is in the midst of these idlings that Faolan nearly, very nearly misses the sight of a man, climbing on board the ship. But of course that's ridiculous, because this vessel is actually quite large, and how in the name of the gods would they have gotten up here?
And then there comes another, and he realizes quite suddenly that there's something exceedingly wrong with the pair of them.
"This is kinder," the closest one rasps, swiping for Faolan, to which Faolan replies by drawing his dagger and stabbing the man in the chest.
It doesn't do a damned thing.
Faolan's eyes widen slightly, staring at his dagger protruding from the man for a second too long. Just long enough for the man to grab at him, with startling strength, and tackle him to the deck.
"Holy-- Over here!" Faolan calls, wrestling with the larger -- why does everyone seem to be larger than him here for that matter -- undead man. "A little help?!"
Faolan | The Bridei Chronicles | Tourist! (action or prose is fine!)
Faolan takes to his situation as well as he can, which is to say with begrudging acceptance. He has at least been on sea voyages before, many times on the journey between Dalriada and the land of the Priteni, and these ships are not that unfamiliar with the vessels he has traveled on. Unfortunately, for the most part everything else is uncannily foreign. Even the crew, and the others he has found himself stranded here together with -- Karsa explained they are from another world, but it is more than that. There is so much here that Faolan has never seen before, and he gets the feeling, as he quietly observes the others aboard both ships, that is not entirely the case with most others.
Still, he does his part. And he secretly prides himself in being one of the only other outsiders canny enough with the lines to be allowed to help haul the ropes with the crew. He puts his head down and works without complaint, making certain not to stand out too far -- an admirable member of the crowd.
It is at night, when the crew is drinking and gambling and singing and entertaining, that Faolan doesn't quite know what to do with himself.
What does a guard dog do with himself when he has no one there to guard?
Wandering the deck with a mug of stew in hand, he spots someone else who seems to have made a similar escape as himself.
"Not enjoying the festivities?" he asks.
THAT SON OF A BISCUIT EATER
Faolan supposes that it says something -- a lot, really -- about himself, that when word spreads of the potential for conflict, he feels almost relieved to have something to break the monotony of the sea voyage.
He supposes that it was something of a selfish thought, especially understanding how unlikely it is that some of his fellow otherworlders are indeed prepared for such a combat. He is a spy, an assassin, among other things. He has been killing people for quite a long time now, and he is really quite good at it. There is a reason that people like him exist, and it is so that people like -- well, some of them, do not have to do such things.
Ah, well, he thinks, drawing his daggers at the first sound of cannon fire. It cannot be helped. He can do his best to keep them alive through this, provided they don't get themselves killed.
"Can you handle this?" he asks, as the ship rocks slightly under the boom of yet another bombardment.
THE CROSSING
This strange otherworld only seems to get stranger to Faolan. Not a very social man -- a hazard of the job, he tells himself -- when not on duty he has taken to spending most of his time up on deck, away from the majority of the passengers and crew. Down below, it is... Too much for him. Too many people, too much merriment. Someone has an instrument he does not know the name of and has taken to playing it in the evenings and that especially is too much for him, on these nights where he feels so entirely out of place. So lacking in purpose.
He will not allow himself to consider the idea that he might be lonely, for it is a foolish thought, and a man like himself cannot be afforded such emotions, but. He has been a tool, honed for a specific purpose, for the majority of his adult life. Without Bridei here -- which is a foolish thought, for of course he isn't, and for that he is grateful -- he does feel rather like a blade left to rust in the sun.
It is in the midst of these idlings that Faolan nearly, very nearly misses the sight of a man, climbing on board the ship. But of course that's ridiculous, because this vessel is actually quite large, and how in the name of the gods would they have gotten up here?
And then there comes another, and he realizes quite suddenly that there's something exceedingly wrong with the pair of them.
"This is kinder," the closest one rasps, swiping for Faolan, to which Faolan replies by drawing his dagger and stabbing the man in the chest.
It doesn't do a damned thing.
Faolan's eyes widen slightly, staring at his dagger protruding from the man for a second too long. Just long enough for the man to grab at him, with startling strength, and tackle him to the deck.
"Holy-- Over here!" Faolan calls, wrestling with the larger -- why does everyone seem to be larger than him here for that matter -- undead man. "A little help?!"