Open Carry Yer Tunes in a Rusty Bucket

[Calara Driftsong]

It was a rainy evening, and the BlackShip rolled gently on the waves as she sailed quiet through open waters. At least, Calara would have said the rolling was gentle. But then again, she had been through worse weather in smaller vessels, and the argument could be made that her judgement on the matter was biased. Regardless, the otter was happy enough to be finished with her work for the day. It was all well and good to be soaked through the fur, but sometimes a beast just wanted to get her dinner and her ration of grog and enjoy the company of her shipmates.

Which was why she was making her way straight to the mess, her rudder leaving a soggy trail behind her as she went.

She could hear the hum of conversation before she stepped inside, and the sound started her heart glowing. This was half the reason she was a seabeast. Companionship and camaraderie. Nonsensical arguments and dice and card games. Tasty food.

The otter was all grins and friendly greetings as she passed between the messhall tables to get her rations from the galley.

"Soggy evening out there, isn't it? Nice to see you in here, mate. Did you see that sky at sunset? Bet we're in for better weather tomorrow, at least."

It didn't take her long to get a bowl of soup and a mug of grog. It didn't take much longer for her to finish both. And it didn't take long after that for the grog to, as the saying goes, make her heart merry. And Calara, like many, many otters and many, many seabeasts before her, was, under the circumstances, prone to singing. Unfortunately, despite Calara's skill in various other areas, she had never been a singer. Yet what she lacked in ability she made up for with enthusiasm, and a giddily off-key rendition of one of the Imperium's favorite shanties could be heard well beyond the galley.

"What do we do with a drunken seabeast?
What do we do with a drunken seabeast?
What do we do with drunken seabeast?
Early in the mornin'?"

 

[Cryle]

"Toss her in the sea and be rid of her," Cryle grumbled to herself, hunkered over a table with her hat pulled low over her head. Her bowl, empty of soup, was filled with tiny screws and bits of engineering, with her toolkit spread open beside her spoon, and half a pocket watch open in front of her, it's innards glimmering in the swaying lamplight whenever the ratmaid's hat shadow moved away.

She'd almost got the flint striker settled in, but the lack of fussy metal bits and machining tools on the ship meant she had to carve each cog wheel by paw out of wood, and such elemental conditions as rain and sea were not helping in keeping these the size they were required to be.

And she wasn't allowed to nip any gunpowder from stores to fill the detonation chamber, so even if she did get it working, her exploding pocket watch was just... a pocket watch that went click. When it worked.

Which it wasn't.

Because of the weather.

And now there was singing, on top of all the slurping and belching and why did she think this was a good place to work? Right, because the tables were temporary and swinging about in a hammock during times like this were not optimal, not at all... Where was that terrifying badger with his beautiful, soothing music, tonight?

Cryle sighed and bumped her head into the table with a soft thunk. Her teeth ached. She needed to gnaw something, or punch a sibling, or...

Korya plopped down next to her with a bowl of soup, and proceeded to slurp as loudly as possible, ending each one with a hearty, satisfied, Ahhhhh! and a smack of lips.

Cryle crumpled her hat brim at the sides and stuffed her ears with her paws, sobbing with a high-pitched, keening wail.

"Cryle? What's wrong?" Korya tapped her friend's shoulder, then shook her gently. "I'm just off shift, don't cry...le! We can spend some time together! Tell me about your stamp machine!"

"I'm going to go swimming," the rat muttered, stuffing her tools away and cramming the pocket watch and bowl-screws into their bag, where everything fell apart all over again. "Don't let the ship wait for me."

"Oh, wonderful idea!" Korya beamed. "I love swimming." She raised her voice, calling over the din of song and snacking, "Hey, Calara! You're an otter, want to go swimming with us!?"

Cryle tipped herself over on the bench and curled up into a little crimson-swaddled ball.

 

[Vilde Isdatter]

Having finished regaling a group of midship-mustelids with one of her tales of home, Vilde beamed at the cheerful otter, raising her tankard in greeting with some of the happier souls of the crew. Unlike many of her species, Vilde didn't mind the rain too much, particularly considering the amount of rainfall in her homelands. She tapped her foot to the Imperium shanty, eager to learn as many as she could.

The little chef cat called an invitation to the singer, drawing a chuckle from Vilde.

"I would not recommend going for a swim in this weather, friend. The waves will be rude and dance you away!"​

 

[Freya McFjorl]

The Crow's Nest was no place to be in a drizzle, much less a rain, as the rocking waves, while gentle at sea level, were many times more erratic planted on the end of a mast. While it may not have been Freya's first time on a ship, it was on one so large as the BlackShip. And so had a light nausea crawled its way into her belly, roiling for release in the second best way she could think of given the circumstances: a good cup of grog followed by a bowl of the endless stew. It wouldn't do to splatter the deck far below with the meager contents of her stomach.

As Frogear yowled the end of shift, thus came the end of her watch... and Calara's, by chance. The helmsbeast looked much more cheerful than Freya did, but for good reason. Excitement of the new post had addled Freya's mind, forgetting to bring her jacket into the Nest—and, in her defense, it hadn't looked like rain at the time.

And so, scowling and soaked to the bone, Freya ducked through the door to the mess as a towering, soggy mess. Her fur clung to her skin and bones in odd ways, making her appear more slender, hollow, and generally terrifying than she usually was. At least Calara's cheerful mood was already echoing around the space, songs of sailing history and present sung heedless of their original key.

"What do we do with a drunken seabeast?
What do we do with a drunken seabeast?
What do we do with drunken seabeast?
Early in the mornin'?"

Despite her scowl, she couldn't help her tail from bobbing to the beat of Calara's song. Doing her best to avoid the attention garnered by her entry, she made haste for the mess and procured her meal of choice, sitting back down a few seats from Vilde as she called out to the sad little ratmaid, Cryle—who looked like she was being trailed by the little wildcat again, Korya.

"Hey, Calara! You're an otter, want to go swimming with us!?"

"I would not recommend going for a swim in this weather, friend. The waves will be rude and dance you away!"​

From between mouthfuls of grog'n'stew, Freya nodded to the pair of young'uns.

"Da. Is too wet to swim... F'sh will gobble you up like fresh worm."

 

[Calara Driftsong]

"Swimming!" At Korya's invitation, Calara's otter heart agreed instantly, because when swimming was the question, the answer had to be yes. Fortunately, Calara's otter brain followed quickly behind with an entire lifetime's worth of examples of why one didn't do that in the middle of an ocean voyage. Whether she would have gotten there as quickly without both Vilde and Freya's comments as well was uncertain, but it seemed likely that whatever guardian angel (or, more likely, angels) watched over the crew of the BlackShip would have heaved a great sigh of relief for the presence of both felines.

"Ahh, seems we might be better served to wait for another time for a good swim. The waves and f'sh alike are rude tonight, make no mistake. Miss Cryle, perhaps we can find another way to cheer you up? Another shanty?"

And Calara began to search the tipsy depths of her memory for another likely verse to belt out with jovial enthusiasm.

 

[Cryle]

"Brrrpblts, I'd sooner dance with waves than a jack!" Korya cackled, and slurped loudly at her food once more. Cryle groaned and curled up into a tighter ball. "Besides," the cat mused, "how can it ever be too wet to swim... that's like... that's like saying... It's too dry to sunbathe... Anyway, we've got all these ropes, that's what my papa used to do. Tie a rope around me and toss me in the river. I'd learn to float like the chunks of ice that drifted off the mountain downstream..."

Cryle perked one pinkish-grey ear at that. For all her complaining, she did like hearing about Korya's upbringing. It was... unfair. They would have been perfect to have swapped places as babes. Although maybe the tossing in a river part was a bit much. But the isolation, the tutoring, all the things Cryle craved, Korya had rebelled against.

She let out another groan as more singing started up, and rolled off the bench and across the deck.

Korya didn't notice, and was belting along in an attempt at harmony to a melody that couldn't decide which key to be in.

Cryle crawled up to the inner wall of the ship, unbattened a hatch, removed her hat, and stuck her head out to let the rain pour in on her face. The fresh air and cold water felt awful, but less awful than the warmth and noise of the mess hall, and it wasn't until somebeast yelled, "Oi, she might really be trying to crawl out for a swim!" before she pulled back in and battened the hatch back down.

"'m gon' go lie down," she muttered to no one, barely heard over the rousing shanty, and pattered away. If the mess hall had been entirely quiet, the noise of her stomach gurgling would have been deafening. Maybe it was just her. It wasn't that any one thing going on was loud, or that she couldn't hear one thing over another; she heard everything, all the time, and that was the problem with ships.

Korya, thumping both paws on her table, was hollering some kind of mining song from the Northlands:

"In the mountain's soul there ain' no ore,
All a-glow an' we're poor no more!
So pile it up! Pile it up 'er tunnels!
Pile it up, my boys!
In the mornin' we'll be sore no more,
All a-glow with whiskey an' ..."

The little cat scrunched her face up. "Wait, am I allowed to finish that line? I'm old enough now, right?"

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

The galley was warm in the way only a ship’s mess could be. Heat pressed out of bodies rather than fire, steam rising from bowls and damp fur alike as the Blackship rolled gently beneath them. Song carried through the space in uneven waves, Calara’s voice bright and unbothered by key or consequence, laughter and slurps and muttered commentary braiding together into a single, living sound.

Griblo lingered at the edge of it for a moment longer than strictly necessary.

The novelty of the voyage had worn thin. The days had settled into repetition, the nights into the same low ache of damp boards and shared air. He felt it in his joints, and in the restless twitch between his shoulders. Worse, he’d caught himself missing softness. Space. Silk cushions and polished floors and a fox with too much perfume and far too many opinions. The thought irritated him enough that he pushed away from the bulkhead with a low huff, straightened, and stretched until his spine gave a faint, satisfying crack.

Enough of that.

He stepped fully into the galley, letting the noise swallow him, moving with the easy familiarity of a beast long accustomed to crowded rooms and narrower margins. He didn’t try to be seen. He didn’t need to be. Trades announced themselves.

A weasel drifted close first, sharp eyed and quick pawed, a wrapped hunk of preserved meat appearing from inside a sleeve with practiced ease. Griblo glanced it over, weighed the morsel once in his palm, then slipped a battered deck of cards across in return. The cards disappeared into the weasel’s coat. The meat vanished into Griblo’s. The exchange barely dented the rhythm of the room.

A few steps later brought him to his next mark. The rat didn’t speak at first. He was smaller than Griblo, shoulders hunched, fur still damp despite the galley’s warmth. He produced a flask with one paw, then hesitated. The other paw dipped into his coat and came back out holding a pair of socks. Clean, dry, carefully folded socks. For a heartbeat, he stared at them as if reconsidering everything that had led him here. His grip tightened, then loosened again. Slowly, resolutely, he extended them.

Griblo felt the pause hit somewhere just behind the ribs. He hesitated too, but only long enough to acknowledge the weight of the choice being made. Then he nodded once and passed the rum across. The exchange happened together. Socks one way. Flask the other. No words spent.

Griblo tucked the socks away with care before moving on, the warmth of them sitting heavier than cloth alone had any right to.

The galley swallowed the moment whole.

Near one of the tables, a vixen leaned in close, eyes flicking about before slipping a small pocket mirror into her palm. Griblo’s whiskers twitched. He passed over a tightly stoppered tin of cough-ee, its bitter scent cutting clean through stew and grog alike. They parted without ceremony, the room’s easy clatter closing ranks behind them.

Only then did he slow, eyes lifting as he took in the space proper.

Calara was still singing, Korya thumping out some half-improvised rhythm nearby, joy loud and uncomplicated. Cryle was gone, though the echo of her earlier frustration still seemed to cling to the table she’d abandoned. And a few seats away, Freya sat stiff-backed over her bowl, scowl carved deep, tail giving the faintest, unhappy flick with each roll of the ship.

Griblo angled his path accordingly.

He stopped near her without fanfare, leaning a hip against the table’s edge, gaze flicking briefly toward her bowl, then her face.

"Oi," he murmured, voice pitched to carry no farther than it needed to. "Yer lookin’ greener den de mold goin’ in de bilge."

"A small trade can get ye feelin’ roight as rai..." His eyes tipped upward for a moment as rain hammered the deck overhead, the corner of his mouth quirking, "er… a sunny, mild day in no toime."

Only then did he produce the bottle, setting it down between them with a soft, unassuming click.

"D’is ain’t jus’ the raw ol’ ginger root ye get in the infirmary," he went on, tone easy, confident. "Naw, mate. D’is is de good stuff. Fermented an’ consentrated. Got sugar in it too, so it goes down kinder than it ought."

He nudged it a little closer with one claw.

"Bit o’ bitters in there as well. Settles t’ stomach. Keeps t'ings inside where it belongs."

No pressure followed the offer. Griblo straightened again, already half-turned back toward the room, eyes drifting as he searched for his next mark. The song and chatter swelled around them as before, leaving Freya the space to decide whether tonight was one of those nights she fancied some trade.

 

[Freya McFjorl]

Already a puddle was forming under the Lynx where she dripped her excess moisture away, dry only at the expressive tips of her ears with their proximity to the lanterns and risen heat of the shared space. As Freya slurped and swallowed, her stomach beginning to settle somewhat with the addition of a proper meal, she listened to the little koshka as she talked.

"Besides," the cat mused, "how can it ever be too wet to swim... that's like... that's like saying... It's too dry to sunbathe... Anyway, we've got all these ropes, that's what my papa used to do. Tie a rope around me and toss me in the river. I'd learn to float like the chunks of ice that drifted off the mountain downstream..."

Now that was a familiar memory, albeit in likely more northern waters. Or perhaps not? She would have to get to know her a little better.
With a flick of one of her ears, Freya attempted resetting her expression to something humored—but found that instead of responding in kind to Korya's comment as she intended, her table had welcomed to it a lean and lanky hob.
The assistant purser, his name was... Griblo? What was he doing here?

She glanced up at him, though not having to look particularly far up to do so. As the beasts sang jovially in the background, hand- and foot-paws thumping away, Griblo began to speak and Freya's eartips flicked forward with her sudden unabated attention.

"Oi, yer lookin’ greener den de mold goin’ in de bilge. A small trade can get ye feelin’ roight as rai..." His eyes tipped upward for a moment as rain hammered the deck overhead, the corner of his mouth quirking, "er… a sunny, mild day in no toime."
Only then did he produce the bottle, setting it down between them with a soft, unassuming click.

Her ears twitched again at the tap of the bottle and with his humored smile her expression fell back into neutrality; a scowl, in other words.
Now this was an interesting development, her mind raced as the familiar sound of Northlands shanties started behind them, Was this from the purser's own pocket...? Or was he slipping a paw into the stores as well...?
But, having not seen the earlier trades nor having access to the logs, the Lynx looked down with intensifying interest and regarded the bottle that might settle her stomach.
Or... someone else's.

"D’is ain’t jus’ the raw ol’ ginger root ye get in the infirmary, naw, mate. D’is is de good stuff. Fermented an’ consentrated. Got sugar in it too, so it goes down kinder than it ought." He nudged it a little closer with one claw. "Bit o’ bitters in there as well. Settles t’ stomach. Keeps t'ings inside where it belongs."

That... might just do. Granted, she was no beast of medicine.
Looking at the bottle for another long second, she shifted onto one hip to access the leather pouch at her other. Rooting within it for a few moments, in which the knife sheathed directly beside the pouch jostled and bounced in worrying ways, she withdrew a pair of objects: honest-to-goodness gilders and a small wax-cloth bundle. After transferring the gilders to the table, she opened the bundle to reveal several fresh cuts of raw tuna, caught sometime earlier today by the looks of it. Setting them out before her, she quirked her head up at the hob.

"Vill either do?"
@Griblo Jankweed

 

[Vilde Isdatter]

Though she did not want to come across as staring — sometimes that was considered a method of challenge back home — Vilde noted the great sodden figure of the lynx as she made her way moodily to the end of their shared table. Intimidating though Freya was, Vilde's glances were of admiration, perhaps a touch of amused commiseration at her state. When Freya spoke, Vilde again heard the difference in her accent and found herself all the more curious.

Calara called for another shanty and Korya belted out another unknown reel, possibly inferring something rude in the unfinished line. Vilde beamed, just as she caught sight of the actiing Purser suddenly arriving beside Freya. Vilde could not hear what was said between them but there looked to be some sort of exchange. So long as it caused nobeast any harm, she simply kept half an eye while she sipped her grog and did her best to pick up on what music she could learn.​

 

[Calara Driftsong]

"Ha! If you don't finish it, then I will! I think I can guess it as well as anybeast here."

Calara's blue eyes were positively glittering with happiness now, and her chest and belly were full of the bubbling joy she had only ever found aboard sea-going vessels. Never mind the fact that she wasn't actually certain how the line was supposed to end, it was bound to be at least as funny if she guessed wrong.

It was another few moments after that for her to register Cryle's departure. It wasn't exactly a feeling of guilt that followed after that, though it must have been something related. It felt related. And it took her another moment or two to recall it, but she had seen the look of overwhelm on the navigator's face. The otter glanced at the doorway through which the rat had disappeared. Perhaps an apology--

But at that moment the ship gave a particularly wide roll, enough to send the mess hall dishes sliding a few inches across the tables and even the most seasoned of seabeasts swaying on their footpaws. And that was enough to pull the otter straight back to the present. She snatched her mug, empty though it was, before it had a chance to make its escape and slammed it down on the table with a whoop.

"I'd say that means the sea herself is dancing to our singing! Shall we give her another song? Who knows one?"

 

[Korya]

Korya let the sea and ship send her reeling across the bench, colliding into Vilde. She slumped there against the larger feline, enjoying the warmth - both Vilde's and the growing fuzzy feeling in her belly that told her the grog and soup were mixing into something wonderful. It was starting to make the edges of her senses fuzzy as well, something she found she enjoyed. All the fears and worries melted away, and she felt as though she could dive headfirst into an arctic river and swim out to sea feeling toasty and cozy as though it were her own bed.

"I can play music," she said, tapping the table with her fingerpads. "On a piano... harpsichord... anything with keys like that. Do we have one!? I know songs. I keep them up here." She tapped herself in the side of the head and got her claw inside her ear, which made her wince and twitch. "Urff... I need a scritching..."

She sat up straight enough - nearly standing, really - and threw her upper half across the table to a clatter of dishes and an annoyed "Oi!" from the other side, where she'd nearly knocked a soup bowl into somebeast's lap. She dramatically spread her arms wide and raspberried into the wood.

"I'm itchy!"

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

Griblo’s eyes flicked first to the coins, bright and instinctive, the reflexive glimmer of a beast who knew their weight and worth too well. Then his gaze slid sideways, catching on the pale pink of fresh tuna laid out on wax-cloth, the clean scent of it cutting sharp through the stench of wet fur, grog, and stew alike.

His stomach answered before his mouth did. He huffed a quiet, amused breath through his nose and nudged the gilders back toward Freya with two claws.

"Naw," he said, low and easy, already reaching for the fish. "Coin ain’t no gud ’ere."

He didn’t bother with ceremony. The tuna was lifted, bitten into immediately, the texture and freshness enough to draw a faint, involuntary grunt of enjoyment from his throat as he chewed. Gods above. Actual fish. Not salted. Not dried. Not soaked half to death in brine.

"D’is’ll do jus’ fine," he added around the next mouthful, whiskers twitching with something dangerously close to gratitude.

He lingered there a moment, leaning against the table as the ship rolled beneath them, rain drumming steady overhead.

"Hell of a noight," he remarked mildly, gesturing with what remained of the fish. "’Least we’re ’oled up ’ere ’n’ not in de riggin’, aye?"

He finished the last bite, wiped his claws on a scrap of cloth, and shifted back, the brief pocket of attention between them already dissolving into the galley’s wider hum. As he moved, his knuckles brushed the bottle once, nudging it fully onto Freya’s side of the table without comment.

Griblo’s gaze drifted back to the room at large, already tracking the flow of bodies and sound as the song swelled again, scanning for his next target.

@Freya McFjorl

 

[Freya McFjorl]

Expediting the gilders travel back to her pouch, Freya watched with interest as Griblo took the offered slices and dug right in. There was something about his little growl of appreciation that brought a smile to her lips—and it was actually a smile! Wasn't it only natural to enjoy a good meal after a miserable night on duty? Especially a fresh one.

"Da." She responded softly to both statements before, gathering up the bottle as he pushed it her way, she gave a thoughtful listen to the staccato of the rain and the groan of the BlackShip as she rolled below them. "Iz bad night for it. Truzt me."

Taking a moment to pop out one of the ginger candies from the bottle for herself, her tastebuds were delighted with the sweet and spice-laden bite, appreciation clear from the moment of first chew. Grin still ringing true on her muzzle, she tipped her head towards him as he began to depart.

"—And let me know if you ever get hungkry. Varmer vaters have plenty of bounty for everybeast."

Then her attention was elsewhere, focused on the little wildcat as she proclaimed her discomfort and looking for the ill ratmaiden—who seemed to have slipped away. Oh. Well, it shouldn't be a problem...

Chuckling, she tipped back the last of her stew and grog with a reclaimed vigor, stuffed the little bottle into her pouch, then rose to her footpaws. She was most of the way dry by now but shook off the excess water dripping from her ends, startling a surprised squawk from the beasts around her. Slipping across the distance between her table and Vilde's, she approached Korya from behind and laughed a booming, slightly intimidating laugh.

"HAH! Little koshka iz itchy!" She narrowed her eyes playfully down at Vilde and offered her shoulder a bump, dramatically posing her paws above Korya's head. "I. Say. Ve. Itch!"

Quietly enough for Korya to hear, she asked a quick— "Iz okay if I itch, da?" —before descending with scratches galore on the little wildcat's head and back.

"Anyone know itching song?!"

 

[Vilde Isdatter]

Vilde was nothing short of delighted at the tactile behaviour of her comrades, glad of being bumped against, feeling alive and connected. She laughed heartily, from small cat's complaints to the arrival of the larger cat and her mischievous response. The wildcat grinned and glanced across at Calara before threatening her own claws near Korya, not that she could see them.

"Ja! I know a song! How does it go?

Tre små kattunger i nesleåkeren
nesleåkeren, nesleåkeren
Tre små kattunger i nesleåkeren
De klør klør åh!

Three small kittens in the nettle patch
The nettle patch, the nettle patch
Three small kittens in the nettle patch
They scritch, scratch, ow!"​