05-13-2018, 11:02 AM
"She's askin', didnae y'see'r lips go?" a voice from belowdecks answered, unhelpfully. Its owner staggered up the steps from below.
Apollonia lifted a bottle of brandy in half-greeting, half-threat to the girl in the brown cloak. The resemblance was actually not too far off, if one were about fifty feet away and myopic. Their hair color was similar, and she found herself only about an inch or so taller than the... swordswoman? She had to squint slightly to get the weapon at her side to come into focus. Yes, the differences started at the eyes, and continued on down to the rest of her. She stood at a perpetual slant, her left hand gripping her bottle and now resting on the battered tome case attached to her belt. The other clung to a quarterstaff that seemed like the only thing keeping the Ilian from toppling over entirely. What had at one point been a lovely blue robe was now stained with travel and travel-adjacent things, and her hair, though tied back, looked as though it had been done by someone with only a passing familiarity with hair and how it functioned.
It was not yet midmorning, and the alleged sorceress was already well on her way to being truly day-drunk.
"Cannae b'expected to lead 'nexpedition f'yer head can't wrap 'round a girly-girl 'n her ways 'n wiles," she continued sagely. Her thick accent, Ilian with more than a little Sacaen, mixed with the drink to create a truly formidable exercise in unintelligibility. She took a couple of deep swallows and wiped her mouth with the back of her arm. "Cap'n says y'r sparklers're 'bout secured, give'r take a couple chains'n wringable hands'n such," she addressed to Wratt.
The dark mage, for her part, had been found sprawled across a few crates of provisions when the crew were loading up. When asked, none too kindly, about what the hell she was doing using the Desire as her crash zone, she'd mumbled something about spooky islands and magic hands, hurled a fistful of silver coins to the sailors, and officially invited herself along for the ride under the job title of "'Fficial Liasoning Such'n'such Twixt the Folks What Run the Ropes and Us Blood'n'Guts Kids." In the 45 minutes or so since she'd blissfully ignored the ship captain's objections that he had not, and could not hire her himself, its duties seemed to involve butting in where a sauced witch wasn't called for. Such as right now.
Apollonia lifted a bottle of brandy in half-greeting, half-threat to the girl in the brown cloak. The resemblance was actually not too far off, if one were about fifty feet away and myopic. Their hair color was similar, and she found herself only about an inch or so taller than the... swordswoman? She had to squint slightly to get the weapon at her side to come into focus. Yes, the differences started at the eyes, and continued on down to the rest of her. She stood at a perpetual slant, her left hand gripping her bottle and now resting on the battered tome case attached to her belt. The other clung to a quarterstaff that seemed like the only thing keeping the Ilian from toppling over entirely. What had at one point been a lovely blue robe was now stained with travel and travel-adjacent things, and her hair, though tied back, looked as though it had been done by someone with only a passing familiarity with hair and how it functioned.
It was not yet midmorning, and the alleged sorceress was already well on her way to being truly day-drunk.
"Cannae b'expected to lead 'nexpedition f'yer head can't wrap 'round a girly-girl 'n her ways 'n wiles," she continued sagely. Her thick accent, Ilian with more than a little Sacaen, mixed with the drink to create a truly formidable exercise in unintelligibility. She took a couple of deep swallows and wiped her mouth with the back of her arm. "Cap'n says y'r sparklers're 'bout secured, give'r take a couple chains'n wringable hands'n such," she addressed to Wratt.
The dark mage, for her part, had been found sprawled across a few crates of provisions when the crew were loading up. When asked, none too kindly, about what the hell she was doing using the Desire as her crash zone, she'd mumbled something about spooky islands and magic hands, hurled a fistful of silver coins to the sailors, and officially invited herself along for the ride under the job title of "'Fficial Liasoning Such'n'such Twixt the Folks What Run the Ropes and Us Blood'n'Guts Kids." In the 45 minutes or so since she'd blissfully ignored the ship captain's objections that he had not, and could not hire her himself, its duties seemed to involve butting in where a sauced witch wasn't called for. Such as right now.