"I'm looking for transportation to Rodric's Cover and the Harbor Master said your vessel makes the trip regularly. Passage would be for myself and two others."
"Master Depuy?" he cocks an eyebrow. "I must say, that's not how most custom finds us. I assumed... Well, never mind," he shakes his head, as if dismissing a line of thought. "He's right; we often make the run, testing our speed. But the Cloud's not a passenger ship. Three men more aboard will make it cramped. Couldn't offer you more than a hammock and the opportunity to stay out from under our feet. Could take the three of you for 4 gold."
A lithe and moustachioed man, his dark hair tied back beneath a headscarf, appears at the railing, glances over, and then casually swings himself down to the pier on a rope. "Captain Josper Creesy of the Flying Cloud," he introduces himself, looking from one to the other inquiringly. "Dawkins said there was a Varisian asking about fare; I assume my business is with you?" he asks Malkith.
"I'd favor whatever you might tell me of those with interest in your boat's... methodology. It might be better I were informed of them more, against any future meeting, with their strongest not laboring up a rope. If there's more you might offer?"
"And, if I were approached regarding what I know, when I knew it, why I was here... How shall I shade the truth? With me mendicant? Or mercenary? Sheltered, and suddenly serving, or summoned, and steadfast and strong? Would you have them think you had prepared for them, and I was that preparation, or part of it? I don't like to lie, but I've made a study of shadowing the truth."
The captain rubs his chin thoughtfully. "The local shipwright has made increasingly less-subtle inquiries... but I wouldn't think he'd send a woman. Cas wouldn't be above getting one of the crew drunk and hoping they'd spill all or getting one of his halflings to sneak aboard and have a look around if he could get away with it," he explains with a grin. "That's all fair and aboveboard in his book. But Garundi witches...," he shakes his head. "That's another ship. Pirates, most like, or smugglers; those with an interest in increasing their speed either to catch or not be caught and no compunctions about how they manage it. Good news for us is that if we meet them in another port, we ought to recognize her at least: Garundi woman-sailors aren't a dime a dozen in Varisia."
"As for ... if you're recognized?" Captain Creesy ponders thoughtfully. "Best advice I'd give you is stay out of the wharves. Of course, I'd give you that advice whether there'd been trouble last night or not. Not a safe place for lubbers." He shrugs. "Not a safe place for sailors, either, but at least they know the business when they find themselves aboard a new ship serving a new captain." His grin fades as he returns to considering the question. "If you should meet your bearded trespasser or his oarsman again... I should say you'd be best off telling the truth, that it was a chance meeting and you've nothing to do with the Cloud. Otherwise, they might think you can tell them what they want to know, if you're working for me."
He assigns two sailors, Quincy Dawkins and another man, to walk with you to the edge of the Wharf District. "Look sober and formidable," he advises with a smile. "And Gristav," he offers a firm handshake, "if ever you're in need of swift passage, think of the Flying Cloud."
The sailors keep a watchful eye and their hands at their swordhilts, and the three of you make a daunting enough appearance to make it through the wharves unscathed. You are left at the steps of the Gas Forges with dawn about to break and the night shift primed to be released.
Gristav smiles at being called a lubber, and bows deeply, lamenting his missing hat for the feathered flourish. "Guilty, sir Quincy. I, Gristav, am indeed, no more conversant with orlop nor sextant nor tarries, mizzen, nor marlinspike, than you might be of phantasmic phoebic forces...", Gristav says, prestidigitating a faint puff of light. "But then, none of us can be all of us, eh? I'm glad to be aboard a ship tended by them as do know, orlop is the lowest deck. I shall avoid it entirely.", the peredhel says with a faint bow of commitment, a sort of physical Tien accent.
In response to the Captain's preforgiveness, Gristav scowls faintly. "I'd not leave a house invaded, Captain. I'll follow honor, and She might most likely stand Her ground here. Oh, I'm no paladin, make no mistake, but any who abuse my host, deserve to wake with a brand of RUDE across their brow. And their pockets empty. That's how you might tell me from the paladin. I'm the one countin' coins, not beads."
Gristav's cantrip draws a murmur of appreciation from the crew; their overnight guest might be a lubber, but he has talents of a different kind to bring to the table. Josper Creesy gives the half-elf a grin, then raises his voice to announce, "Right! First shoreleave crew, you're on watch. Second shoreleave crew, board quietly when you come back; I hear wizards are cranky if awakened." He offers Gris a wink.
As the guard changes, Gristav hops experimentally into his chosen hammock. It swings crazily beneath him at first, but as he cautiously settles in, it slows to a gentle rocking in tandem with the waves beneath the ship below. The skeleton crew are considerate, moving about quietly; a few settle into their own hammocks while Quincy Dawkins and a few others set up a game of cards on the quarterdeck with the lantern. Voices raised both in revelry and in anger can be heard from the taverns along the docks, but they are swallowed up in the steady sound of the waves and the soft creaking of the ship's timbers. It had really been a long day on the road....
"Friend," Captain Creesy replies, "my honest intention is to provide you with nothing more than what you were searching for: a place to rest for the night. If there's trouble and you stand with my crew, I'll owe you a debt of gratitude for it. If things should turn bloody and you abandon ship, I'd not hold it against you; it's not your ship, after all."
Gris clambers over the railing to meet frank gazes of curiosity but no expressions of surprise; those who preceded him up the ladder have already informed their shipmates of their guest for the night. Josper Creesy scampers up behind him and swings easily over the side of the rail, hopping lightly onto the deck. "Stay away from the orlop deck, and all will be well," he replies jauntily. "The weather's on our side in that. Warm nights like this we string up hammocks on the main deck. It's stuffy below in the cabin; as long as there's no rain," he glances up at a star-studded sky and raps his knuckles against the wooden railing, "you'll be far more comfortable in the open air. Puts our guard out in the open in case anyone's speculating about their chances of slipping aboard and having a look around, as well. Lads, this is Gristav," he introduces the half-elf to the rest of the crew on deck. "He'll be with us until the morning."
Looking around, Gristav can see that there are, in fact, hammocks strung from the masts and railings at any opportune location on the main deck. He sees no forecastle or cabin, just a slightly raised and uncovered quarterdeck. There are two hatches and a narrow flight of stairs on the starboard side which presumably lead down to the lower decks.
Gristav lifts his ale. "To more of such folk. And less of such laws."
"Aye, I'll drink to that," Captain Creesy accedes with a grin, raising his own mug before taking a swallow. "I've told Arnando more than once that if any tavern in Varisia deserves to be patronized by the Lucky Drunk himself, it's this one. I'm not a native, but speaking as a frequent visitor, it's a comfort to have a place to drink where the ale's neither watered nor spiked. Drink up your dinner, friend, and we'll make for the Cloud and a hammock to rock you to sleep."
"Expected?" he considers. "Nothing blatantly aggressive. We pay our share to the Overlord for protection; no one would dare board us openly in his own harbor. Wouldn't be surprised if someone tried to sneak on board and slip belowdecks for a quick peek, though. We aim to be the fastest ship in the Gulf, and there's plenty who could profit from a glance at our refinements, both captains and wrights."
Some significant glances are exchanged around the table at Gristav's line of questioning before the captain replies. "No cargo this trip. It's a test run. We're still making adjustments -- which leads to another word of warning about my 'hospitality.' It's ... possible the Cloud might have some unauthorized visitors before dawn. I don't expect trouble, per se, but we've made some innovations that others have, er, expressed interest in seeing for themselves. And I'd rather they not see," he grins. "So we're drinking in shifts tonight. This lot leaves here in a while to go relieve the crewmen keeping watch on board, and you'd go back with them. I don't expect you to put yourself in any danger to protect my interests," he assures Gris, "but an extra man with a stout cudgel," he nods at the ashwood staff, "they needn't know you're not in my employ."
The sailor offers Gristav a hand to shake. "Josper Creesy," he introduces himself, "captain of the Flying Cloud. I'm sure my crew will be happy to take advantage of your generosity," he glances around at the rest of the table. "I understand you're in need of a place to rest your head tonight. I can offer you a hammock on the Cloud, but we set sail with the morning tide so you shouldn't expect much of a lie-in."
