Open Mettle

[Griblo Jankweed]

Griblo took Brasseye’s reluctant concession with an easy nod, his posture loosening just enough to suggest agreement rather than victory. He didn’t crowd the quartermaster, but he did step a little closer, peering at the clipboard with casual interest, tail giving a slow, thoughtful flick.

"Aye, that sounds fair ‘n’ square," he said lightly. "Didn’t mean t’ step on yer toes. Jes’ doin’ what I’m meant ta', same as you."

He glanced down the rows of crates, then back to Brasseye, voice dropping into something more companionable.

"Next time ye do a full count like that, give me a whistle, aye?" he added. "I’m purser, after all. Numbers work best when we’re lookin’ at the same page."

A crooked grin tugged at his muzzle.

"Else I’ll just come aroun' openin' doors again," he chuckled. "An’ we both know that ain’t ideal."

With that, he leaned back against a crate, clearly settling in rather than preparing to leave, eyes already drifting back to the stores as if this shared space were now simply… a given.

 

[Freya McFjorl]

Surprise overtook the Lynx's features as she noticed Calara stretch then gaze skyward, focusing on her position in the crows nest with sudden intensity. As her wave and salute followed, Freya felt a blaze of pride warm her chest. It could only bode well for the voyage ahead.

Then came the call out and suddenly she was higher than the mast could ever hope to place her. On the little boats, there was no need for such acknowledgements; It slowed things down, if anything, and everybeast already knew the other. But on these sorts of Ships of the Line, with hundreds of crew, it was like she'd personally gone and shook her paw among the throng of beasts working around her.

Soaring higher than a missertross gull, a rare, true smile slid onto her lips and she turned back to her duties with a renewed vigor.

 

[Herman Lasichin]

Herman made sure his calculations were correct, counted the crates again, and then moved along into a different part of storage where he saw that his job was far from done. If he wanted to keep track of the ship's supplies properly he would need a dozen more pages at the very least, using the shortest strokes he could write with his paw and read with his eyes. This was a far cry from his work at university. There was no knowledge he could deduce, theory he could apply, or a clever procedure he could make use of to get to the answer. He could only count, occasionally taking a shortcut by multiplying when the items seem to be arranged in a grid or equally distributed among shelves, which wasn't often the case.

He couldn't help but think about the past few days of his life as he tried to mentally rearrange the different barrels of powder in front of him. Now the decision to leave for the Vulpine Imperium seemed silly. He knew nobody there, he had no place to stay or work at. He might have as well gone to some other country he never heard of, and from what he heard he might have been safer there. But the imperium was his home, even if he never stepped paw in it until a day ago. His parents were from there, they told him stories of it, he learned so much about its history and language and culture, and he got into so much trouble for saying it out loud. His fancy had weakened now after so much writing and thinking, but he still believed he found the place he was meant to be.

He saw that the barrels came in 3 different sizes, and while he'd wish he could know their exact weights he guessed that the biggest held twice as much as the average ones and 3 times as much as the smaller ones. He began writing again, forcing himself to finish the report. He will need to step outside afterwards, if only to breathe in fresh air.

----

Once the weasel finished his work, he stepped out onto the deck, looking at the many different cruebeasts on board. He felt a little guilty to be so idle amidst so much work, but the pain in his writing paw convinced him that it wasn't so bad after all. He looked at the fading shore in the distance, at this point it was a faint line that only became fainter as time past, if it hadn't vanished completely and he was just staring at the horizon.

 

[Orion Bloodtooth IV]

Orion, who had been sitting silently at the bow, suddenly jumped up, whooping excitedly. "HEY! I CAUGHT SOMETHIN'!" He exclaimed to whoever was nearby, pulling back on his fishing rod. "Feels like a big one, too!"

Orion struggled with the rod, the line straining, until finally he yanked his catch up, falling backwards. Sitting up, he excitedly looked at the end of the line... only to see a glass bottle, the hook having gotten caught on the cork on the opening. There appeared to be a parchment rolled up in the bottle. Orion felt his face flush with embarrassment.

"N-Nevermind... It's just some junk!" He laughed nervously.

 

[Klemens of Clouds]

"Hmh... yes, this feels right. Certainly, certainly..."

Klemens was still getting used to the view. The shoreline had vanished almost entirely, but maybe it was just the fox's eyesight being a bit too blurry. Still, he observed the horizon for no particular reason despite that. Klemens had always thought that those who had been born on land had never belonged to the sea completely. He once dreamed of encountering a real, genuine aquatic beast, but those certainly exaggerated tales of the so-called Beast of the Lake from a distant land that had never even been were the only bits of information he could find, and the tales in question weren't detailed enough to feel exciting. How quaint. "But he is fair and unclad... and he's seen kingdoms rise and fall...". Sure, sure.

Klemens began to wander around the deck, but very carefully, because immense damage to the cranium caused by slipping was something he, a sane beast for sure, was afraid of and avoided at all costs. He stopped for a bit just to lick his slightly aching fang and check on the marvel... the marvel that was, quite obviously, his instrument. Klemens was oddly attached to this old piece of wood that had been a part of him for decades. The only thing he forgot about entirely was how he had acquired the hurdy-gurdy. Memory, memory, it fooled him a lot... or the lack of it did, really.

Be a dear and move slowly, slowly...

 

[Tanya Keltoi]

Who would ever have guessed that raising squabbling kits would put her in good stead for crew management? Once she might have entertained the notion of letting the two spar it out and be done, albeit going by Friedrich’s towering frame that would itself have proved a one-sided solution.

Tanya’s expression revealed little of her opinion on the matter, of Frogear’s rattled handling of his authority nor Friedrich’s supposed attempts to challenge such. It surprised her that such a conflict would arise so swiftly on the day of departure for matters like this usually began to bubble with the onset of time and hours in close proximity. Still, this seemed a crew eager to challenge her preconceptions at every turn: good to keep her on her toes. She raised a paw to still the rat from further explanation. “I see. And how, then, do you inte-”

"HEY! I CAUGHT SOMETHIN'!"

The Admiral flinched in surprise at the excited call, turning to stare in bemusement at Orion. She’d wondered what activity the todd was doing up there on his lonesome before: now it was abundantly clear. “’Scuse me, gents,” she murmured to the pair before turning her head back in Orion’s direction. For the advances of the years, she had not lost the ability to project her voice.

“Orion, good catch!” she called to the other fox, amusement in her tone. “Not that we’re at the stage of eatin’ glass this early on, but per’aps you could pop yourself to the galley and see if Korya can use a paw to whip somethin’ up, eh?”

Were it not for the duties of her station she’d have liked to have a further word with Orion, curious – or nosy – as ever to the goings-on on the deck, but there was still the matter of this dispute to attend to. The distraction had offered a moment’s mental respite to shuffle her priorities. “Now then…’Fore I say anything else I think it’s best to hear what you think’ve the matter, Nähenerv.”


@Orion Bloodtooth IV @Friedrich Nähenerv @Jeshal the Ironclaw

 

[Vilde Isdatter]

"A worthy quest!" Vilde cried. "I will return!" She rushed off to claim a spare bucket that she could rope down to the sea, keeping her ear out for orders on sail adjustments.

@Corda LaConte / Cordan LeConte

---

Brasseye rolled his eyes at Griblo, though with better humour than before. "Fair nuff. I'll let yer know. Me assistant, Mr Lasichin's, around here somewheres, too. I sent him down ter check the shot an' powder counts. Sure you'll cross paths soon enough if yer ain't already. Seems to actually like the numbers, that one."

@Griblo Jankweed​

 

[Corda LaConte / Cordan LeConte]

Cordan beamed as his new companion cried her enthusiasm to join his quest, and he refocused his enmity upon the stubborn stain before him. "Count your hours, blaggard," he warned, "for the reckoning of your misdeeds is close at paw! Ne'er again shall ye besmirch our beloved vessel!" He stabbed once more at it with the mop, to exactly no effect.

 

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

Oblivious to the extent of Cryle’s plight, though discomfort itself had been noted, Jeshal waited for her return. Maps were prepared for her, which he quietly observed her choosing between, curious to see her methods. He nodded at the majority of her suggestions.

“Very good. Hugging the coast ter Bunk Pointe, paying mind ter the reefs. We’d be best avoidin’ a landing at Merith without appointment. Otherwise, it be fine work, Rascallo. When we reach it, we’ll supply at Pricklee and ride the current back.”

There was no trace of a lie in the Ironclaw’s voice despite how many he was already telling his crew on this voyage. The BlackShip wasn’t going to arrive at Pricklee Pointe this time, one way or another.

"Plot a course and we'll inform Driftsong to adjust accordin'ly."

@Cryle ​

 

[Cryle]

Cryle's ears fluttered a moment, threatening to flatten and droop with sorrow, but perking right back up when her brain had finally processed "very good".

"Yessir," she squeaked, and began rolling up the maps. All except for the big one, her own, which she decided to use for charting. It was her first voyage as navigator, it was important that she get all the specificity right, on her own personal map. And all the little finicky bits were going to be so fun! Checking the compasses, measuring distance, time, heading, speed, informing the helmsbeasts of any minor adjustments ... erk.

Okay. Mostly fun. A little terrifying.

She made the appropriate marks on the chart with her pencil, nodded briskly to the Captain - perhaps a bit too much nodding, as the world bobbled up and down and her hat came loose briefly from the speed of it. And then she scampered out. Because she had to make sure things got started right. The longer she waited in the cabin - and oh how she wanted to linger away from the crowds of crewbeasts! - the more off-course things would be...

The ratmaid gulped hard as she approached the otter at the helm.

Why did it have to be an otter... bloodthirsty, cannibal, thick-tailed, entirely too happy about everything all the time, too many whiskers, tiny beady eyes. You know where you are with a stoat's beady eyes, their heads are the right size! Otters? Otters are just fluffy, oily rudders that fell off a ship and they've got too much forehead. And their ears are too tiny. And they always smell like beetroots somehow. They would probably get along with Korya.

"Er, here," she muttered, carefully folding the chart and showing it to Calara. "This route. That's..." She scanned the binnacle, eyes sparkling as she beheld, once again, the gimbals. She placed a reverent paw upon the glass. And then she pointed slightly off to the side of the way the ship was already heading. "...that way."

She pulled her hat down and began noting down everything else - time in the hourglass, compass direction, sun's position from the horizon, day of the month, season, weather, wind direction... And in that little world of pencil scritching and numbers and variable facts, Cryle was a happy little rat once again.

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

Griblo gave Brasseye a long, measuring look before letting the tension slide off him like water off an otter’s back.

"Fair nuff," he said, easy as ever. "Long as we ain’t steppin’ on each other’s paws, I’ve no quarrel."

He rolled his shoulders and cast a contemplative glance at the ceiling.

"Lasichin, eh? Beast who likes the numbers?" A faint glint entered his eye. "Good. Always noice t’ have more eyes countin’. I’ll find ‘im soon enough."

His gaze drifted once more across the shelves — barrels, crates, powder, preserved fish — taking it in not as cargo, but as duration. As time measured in mouths and bellies and burned oil.

Something about the balance still felt… snug.

"Roight d’en," he said lightly, pushing off the crate. "You keep yer inventory tidy. I’ll keep me numbers t’ match."

With that, he slipped out of the storeroom, leaving Brasseye to his tallies.

The passageway outside immediately felt cooler, less stuffy — the air no longer thick with territorial pride. A few turns down, Griblo ducked into a narrow compartment hardly more than a bulkhead carved into reluctant usefulness. A small desk was bolted to the floor. Shelves leaned slightly where the hull had settled over decades. A crusty stool waited beneath the desk, heavily worn and wobbly from decades of use.

The official office of the BlackShip’s Purser.

He shut the door behind him and unrolled his ledger with deliberate care.

If there was one thing Griblo Jankweed trusted, it was numbers. Beasts blustered. Beasts stole. Beasts guarded their corners like alley cats over scraps.

Numbers just sat there, waiting to be read properly.

He thought briefly of Ruffano — of rent due on his condo, and the promise made in a half-lit room to help keep it paid. This voyage needed to go clean., and to pay out.

With a quiet sigh, he leaned back against the inner hull and rubbed at his eyes.

Whatever was making the stores feel snug, he’d find it in ink before there ever became a need for half rations.

As Purser, that was his duty.