Of Spirits and Fire

Some had seen the young woman clad in authentic furs of the north and mud-caked boots to her knees, passing through the city of Old Tarantia in a gliding blur of juvenile and foreign curiosity. Her face was since becoming a regular at the Green Man Tavern, especially on those nights when bards and troubadours, regular patrons or just those merely spending the odd night, would share a tale or two. There, she would sit by the familiar warmth of the crackling hearth, with an ale mug on her lap, and a stranger by her side.

“Practice,” the elder shaman of the Broken Leg Glen had said. “Watch. Listen. See what cannae be seen. Hear what cannae be heard. Be guided yet nay by yerself.”

And so she would do just that, on what became her little pilgrimage. She saw both bright and dull and faded colours surrounding those who let her see. She heard words layering words; and felt what was true and what was merely a fancy tale. Yet now, she had followed her nose, to the early dawn fisherman preparing their nets and casting sails up high. The docks were always so fascinating; for the water was so deep and the smells so strong. Salt and piss and ale and sweat. She wrinkles her uppity, lightly freckled nose and walks on by; past a large woman beating out a rug, then an elderly beggar laying on the cobbled path.

“Watch it, girl!” Snaps a passing fisherman, carrying crates stacked up high. She steps aside, onto wooden boards that echo and thud with each step. Something smells nice. A mixture of strong whiskey and a fishy, charcoal scents. Something cooking, frying in strange oils. She sniffs, then pulls a face like some child forced to eat vegetables for the first time. Yet this is not a vegetable, and so she follows her nose further, until sky-blue eyes settle on the iron contraption over burning coal, and flames licking over morsels of pink and white flesh. It’s not in her custom to ask politely, or seek a merchant. Simply, she reaches out with her dirt smeared little hand, in an attempt to pluck one of the cooking creatures from the grill.

Until the flat of a dagger blade taps across the back of her hand, stilling her movement instantly. Eyes snap up to the disgruntled dock worker, glaring as though he is the guilty party.

“Pretty hand you got there,” he leers, as he snatches swiftly at her wrist to tug her closer. She snarls silently, narrowing eyes in threatened temperment. “Hows about… a couple o’ coppers if you want t‘keep it.”

“Bought some…rat trap pie fer couple o’ tin.” She snorts adamantly, and tugs her hand nimbly out of his weak grasp. “’ow’d I be knowin’ ye ain’t cookin’ some fancy rat or… or some mouse ye gone an‘ found ‘ere?”

He shortly chuckles and grins; perhaps at her thick northern accent, or perhaps a mixture of that and her childish ignorance laced with stubborn albeit rude curiosity.

“Why catch a rat when we got fish down there.” Following the rhetorical question, he skewers one of the morsels with his dagger tip, and offers it. Eyeing him a moment and how he nods encouragingly, she plucks the creature from the dagger, and ignoring the scolding pain at her skin, tears through soft meat with strong, off-white teeth. Chewing a moment, there’s an undeniably satisfied look on her oval-face, which causes the sailor to evermore grin. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Bjornia.” She answers with her chin raised proud and high, swallowing the morsel down and reaching in her breeches pocket to flick a copper coin in his direction. He catches it, bites into the metal, and then pockets it approvingly. "I be from tha' bear an' snow lands see?"

“Heh. So I see. And where’d you be off to, Bjornia?” He asks, skewering another morsel. In a flurry of patting at her wide belt, she finds the scroll tucked behind her cloak, and tugs it free, somehow not tearing it. Handing it over for him to inspect, she chews on the next offering as she explains.

“Somethin’ ‘bout a daft lad wantin’ folk with sword an’ all that like. Says ‘e went an’ lost somethin’ in that there choppy’chef.”

“Five whole silver,” the man coos as he reads, whistling in approval. “Ain’t bad. Mind yourself in that Khopshef though.” He eyes her up and down, lingering on thick hide breeches and tanned leather vest covering a modest chest. She looks so young with her short height and petite, pear-shaped form; yet there’s no mistaking the heavy weight of the hammer across her back that she carries with such ease. “You don’t look like you’ve set foot further south.”

“I ain’t,” she admits so carefree, tucking strands of strawberry blonde waves that catch the shine of the sunlight, behind a slightly sticking out ear. “Only I be thinkin’ it cannae be nought worse than ‘ere like.”

In that brief moment of silence as they exchange looks; hers being an expectant glare for him to correct or agree with her, and his being a look of awe for such a strange little madam, wandering so contently onto his boat and just, helping herself to his shrimp breakfast. In that brief little moment, the anchors are suddenly lifted, as the captain calls for the sails to be set. Yet she rambles on, oblivious to the shouts around her.

“An’ I gots only a few more moons ‘fore I be missin’ tha’ callin’ for merc’ ‘ands. An’ …. an’ I cannae be goin’ back up tha’ mother mountain ‘til I be seein‘ what cannae be seen, an’ all that like.”

“Mmhmm?” Nods the bearded sailor chef, scratched the rough, sandpaper hairs on his chin as he listens to her fast speech and tries to comprehend what in tha name of Hyboria she means by it. A quick jerk of the boat then, and men rush by to push their temporary home out from the dock. The northern lass, wide-eyed and confused, doesn’t quite realise what’s happening, until ropes are being tossed aside, and her balance is shifted to the momentum of moving, but not walking.

“Oi!” She blinks, unsettled by this strange experience, and reaches out to grasp the side of the boat to steady herself quickly. The bearded man laughs, tossing a bucket of sea water over the coals, and shoving the final morsel into his wide mouth.

“Seems the winds favour you! Put your… hammer thing there down, and come give us a hand or two. You’ll be seeing Khemi soon. Mark me words on that!”

There was something wrong with his boot. It had started squeaking even before he stepped on The Estrella Plata that misty Zingaran morning a few weeks prior. Stepping off the gang plank and onto the baking stone pavement of the docks, he frowned and peered at the newly opened hole in the side of the ‘high quality leather’ where it met the sole. No doubt, the salty moist of ocean travel had caused that. The shoemaker had called them “lucky boots”, an irony that wasn’t lost to their now disgruntled owner.

The Estrella Plata was one of Zingara’s proudest ocean merchant vessels, crewed by a good two hundred sailors plus a hired company of fourty armed marines, and she was now safely secured to the docks of the Khemi Foreign quarters. Deckhands were still busy unloading massive crates of finest worked leather, steel, rum, foodstuffs, oils, dyes and even a few wide eyed shemite slaves were sent stumbling ashore, still cast in their iron shackles. Shouts and Zingaran jests and curses were thrown back and forth between the working men and bursts of rumbling laughter echoed across the busy harbour. The men were expectant, for everyone knew what the night would hold. Plenty of wine and exotic, warm beauties for them to spend their pays on. For a cheap coin, a man could feel like a king in one of the many pleasure houses beyond the Souk.

Devan shifted his frame. Felt his coin pouch, carefully tucked into a pocket inside his sailor’s vest. The pay had been decent, for the captain had appreciated the daring Zingaran’s nimble feet and hands in the rig. The contract had only been good for the trip to Khemi, by Devan’s wish, and the captain had known better than to ask the shifty eyed young man of his business there.

Truth be told, Devan had no idea why he had taken the one way trip to Stygia. Lately, he had walked where the wind had carried him. Made some coin. Survived. Stayed away from Kordava. Words among the sailors had it that Khemi was a melting pot of mercenaries and shady people like himself. As much as he distrusted the southern folk, he was not above working for a coin wherever the pay was best. And there was the small voice nagging deep inside of him. He needed leverage. A hold on the one person whom he had sworn to kill.

A note caught his drifting eye and drew him out of his reveries as he walked up the harbour ramps leading up towards the clamouring foreign quarters. Ignoring the irritated pushes and shoves of people hurrying past him, he stopped to read the scroll, nailed to a wooden board.

Mercenaries needed

The respected Sir Calvio III Faustinos hereby commissions the expeditionary search for valuable family heirlooms lost to his line for generations. Interested parties may seek out His faithful servant Ramerio in Khopshef village, Stygia.

Payment will be set to five silver shards, upon completion of mission.

“Khopshef, eh?” Devan muttered.

He had poked at his fellows on board during the last weeks. Asked them all he could think of about the strange desert land he was about to explore. He had learnt not to step on a snake. Not to look the light skinned nobles in the eye, and that the finest whores in Khemi shaved all their hair and demanded their customers do the same. He knew his fellows were taking joy in telling him fantasy tales about the strange land, but the whore thing sounded like it could be true, he mused.

He hadn’t thought to ask much about surrounding lands; but Khopshef had been mentioned by his fellow crewmate Tomaro, who claimed to have met a twin couple of young Stygian beauties from that place. The toothless old man had mumbled about some Der-keito and then gone off in another blissful slumber. Devan did not know who Der-keito was, but the image of two young girls hounding a smelly old sailor, without asking for coin, was a strange enough image to him that the name 'Khopshef' stuck.

“Khopshef it is”, he muttered again to himself, only to be brutally interrupted by another shove against his back by one of the hurrying people.

“Ey, watch where yer going!” he shouted out in irritation and spun around, arm raised defensively.

He stared into a pair of sky blue eyes framed by a wispy strawberry blonde hair, still tousled by the breeze that carried across the harbour and funnelled into the busy streets leading up to the Souk.

And his boot made another sqeaking sound.

“Watch where I’m going? You watch where you’re going!”

The words are not spoken out loud, yet they are clear to read in the eyes of that piercing, calculating glare, so adamantly fixed on the oddly golden, tanned face of the youth in front of her. It was hardly her fault that he decided to so randomly stop and stand around in the middle of where she needed to aimlessly walk. Or that the hustle and bustle of the busy docks was making her task of finding her way around even more irritating.

Ah yes. Several days travelling down an odd river thanks to a rather smug sailor, had hardly put her in a grandiose mood either. First there was the unsettling, sickening motion of the boat at first, and then the hard manual labour required to earn a rightful place on the ship for free. The evenings brought the swatting away of ale-sweetening attempts. Luckily, this northern lass knew how to handle her ale far better than the lightweight sailors; who sung merry little tunes about maidens with long hair and fishtails, luring men to sea with their exotic beauty and pretty voices and golden harps. The little shaman found the stories rather intriguing, and in exchange, told a tale or two about the lands of the white bears and great snow mammoths, roaming wild and free.

So naturally, with all things considered, the furrowing of rather irritable brows was very understandable. But that was not all, and not even half. For it was soon accompanied by only the simple upwards tilting of a stubbornly jutted chin, and even in her far shorter height, it was clear to anyone how she was now squaring up to the young man.

“Oi…”

She starts, not only verbally as if about to pick a fight, but her hand also lifts to point her finger at him, at threatening inches away from probably jabbing at his chest in a quick poke or two. At first she is quite hesitant though; her northern accent sticking out like a sore thumb, and her tone stern yet far too sweet to follow the southern stereotypes of a hammer wielding Cimmerian. Perhaps such snobbish, eavesdropping southerners smirk at how the ‘barbarian’ struggles for the right words. And all the while she seems to eye the strange man up and down, in some disapproving manner. Or perhaps this is the misunderstanding, while she is actually merely curious and spontaineously thoughtful. Regardless, those temperamental, light blue depths narrow under a veil of straight lashes, and the skin of her nose wrinkles as if she just smelt something incredibly foul.

“I be thinkin’…”

Then, as the conversation takes a rather odd turn, rather than jabbing or punching or taking a swipe at him; her one hand instead, finds the swell of her hip. Her small waist made even more prominent by the nipping of a rather thick, leather belt. Far too heavy for the southern climate, as already seen by a slightly shimmering forehead where locks of dawn rays stick in waving wisps.

“Since ye ain’t got nought better ter be doin’, than standin’ 'ere in folks way like…ye daft…”

Yet she trails off before the insult is complete, to instead shake her head a little while the corners of her rosy pout very vaguely lift. The workings of a smile, trying to form a smug little smirk, yet not quite completing the simple formula.

“So ye be showin’ me ‘ow ter reach tha’ ... tha' Cho-Chopy’ch-chef… An’ ...mmph. Mayhap ye be getting’ a coin fer it. Mayhap... Aye?”

The other hand finds the opposite hip, completing her victorious stance as she eyes the youth expectantly. Silence befalling her quite awkwardly as she merely waits for the boy to comprehend her words and pretty much… get to it.

Unbelievable!

His mood was already terrible, and this snotty nosed northern brat thought she could just come here and domineer him like he was some serf! Who in old grumpy’s salty beard did she think she was? Not only had she been rude enough to not watch where she was going, she had the gall to blame him for it!

Drawing himself up and subconsciously hoisting his sagging sailor breeches into place, he kept his thumbs tucked inside his belt to give her pointed finger a proper glare. It was important to show that he didn’t even bother to think of her as a threat. He’d heard from his mates how you don’t piss off the northeners, but he’d be damned if he’d let this one just sit on him!

”Are ye quite done yet, love?” he sneered in a voice full of tilted and drawn out vowels. “Better watch where ye stick that finger of yers, or it may get cut off!”

As an afterthought, he added “And even if I happen to know where yer...” he shot his prominent nose up, wrinkled it, and mimicked her feminine voice “...Choppy-chef...” and slipped back just as easily to his Zingaran slur, "... do I look like I need yer coin, eh?”

Crossing his arms and shifting his feet into an equal victorious stance to match and challenge hers, he pretended as if nothing when his broken shoe betrayed him again.

Squeak.

Eyes narrow and focus fully on the boy as he opens his mouth to drawl in some rather strange accent, unheard before by the northern girl. Yet she's not stupid enough to miss how he mocks her. Drawing a very deep nasal breath to fill her modest chest out with hot air; his difficult declining of her offer easily insults her, since she'd been so gracious as to make the offer in the first place. Parting her dry pout with the sole intention of retorting about how he can just stuff the coin where the sun doesn't shine, she instead pauses however, to furrows brows evermore so at the odd little squeak.

"Eh?" Then as distracted eyes snap to the side in search of the source of the little sound, it seems to be some miracle or other, that she just so happens to notice the familiar piece of writing pinned so conveniently behind the stupid boy. With no regard for whatever he just said, which by now, pretty much went through one ear and out the other; she shoves her way past with a hand swatting at his side, giving herself room to squint her eyes at the scrawl of ink across dried papyrus.

"Oi!" The northerner suddenly and rather oddly declares, and in a quick motion, snags the rolled up parchment free from the back of her belt. It's almost as though she's entirely forgotten the presence of the Zingaran, as she unrolls her stolen copy of the poster and matches it up against the other. She doesn't need to waste time reading both of them, for there's no mistaking it; the writing is the same, the patterns of words and the mention of 'Khopshef', 'Ramerio', and more importantly, silver. With an odd little giggle, she tears this poster off the wall too in a very quick whipping motion. Now, far warmer eyes flicker back to the sailor-dressed boy, and a little grin really does light up her freckled features.

"Oh aye? An' if ye ain't wantin' coin why ye be lookin' 'ere like?" Holding the poster up right infront of his face, this time she really does poke the tip of her index finger against the flesh below his collar, regardless of his prior warning.

"An'... an' if ye be goin' ter tha' Chop'chef any'ow, well... all I gots ta be doin'... is ter jus', follow yer shadow!"

And there it is again, that victorious little grin, so sure of herself and, could it even be she's enjoying the little battle of words?

A hand comes up with a speed resembling the many vipers hissing down the alleys in the deeper recesses of the city. With a quick, minimal touch with the side of his palm, he swats her poking finger aside rather brusquelly as he takes a step back. Eyes flare in anger mixed with astounded surprise at her blatant insult to his personal space.

"Ye got some nerve, sweetheart! I told ye to keep yer hands off!"

With a grumbling frown, he follows her indication towards the post he had been reading. He shifts his head to look back to her, his eyes narrowing somewhat but his mouth curling up in reluctantly amused admission.

"Clever, aren't ye."

Her giggles and victorious demeanour seem to only further set him in stubborn grumpyness. Nevertheless, he adjusts his sailor's bag over his shoulder and starts walking up the ramp, not bothering to see if she follows, and muttering to nobody in particular.

"Maybe I don't like taking coin from little princesses who think they'll walk all over ye, eh?"

Stopping then to peer at her sourly over his shoulder, he adds, "Come on then, but keep yer hands off!"

He sets a rather quick pace, making good way as he dexteriously slips between myriads of gesticulating merchants and weary travellers, dusty mercenaries, colourful nobles and mouse faced slaves all along the busy, sun baked streets.

Unknown to the girl behind him, Devan struggles to keep down another amused smile as he mutters newly. "So rude..!"

The desert that stretched beyond Khopshef itself and the lush greenery of the Styx’s immediate vicinity, was wild and full of creepy, crawling things that made the north-woman all jumpy. It wasn’t hotter as such than a Kordavan afternoon on a windstill summer day, but it was dry. Somehow the sun blistered and parched even Devan’s tanned skin, dried his lips and made him thirsty. Possibly grumpy too.

But he had a right to be, indeed! For the north-woman, who called herself something strange that Devan could barely pronounce (Byeerneea?), was a nuisance and even ruder than the desert. The sun was burning her even worse, and despite his attempts to tell her to wear something to cover her skin, she had refused at first. Just given him that stubborn glare and raised her chin as if he had insulted her intelligence. Even as the sun made her all red and blistered, did she refuse.

She took it out on him too. Somehow made everything his fault and somehow he had found himself arguing with her most of the trek through the desert, accompanied by the almost as annoying whine of the stubborn pack mules they dragged behind them.

"Ye could learn a thing or two from these here animals, eh", he’d grumbled at her. "They’re angry at the land and this stupid sand! Not at their company!"

And she’d snapped back, and so it went on. Until they’d reached the darkly looming pyramid standing at the tallest point of a strange rock landscape full of eroded stone formations older than time itself.

They stand in the shadow of the structure, and the other mercenaries in the group stare at them, but keep mostly to themselves. Devan can’t blame them. No use getting involved a war of words fought by two strangers. They do give him an odd look however. One of the men, an ornately armoured and finely haired man from Aquilonia, scratches his cheek at the Zingaran’s equipment. Or more precisely, his choice of weapon to fight whatever dangers await inside the old pyramid.

“A dagger? We had better hope it’s as sharp as your tongue!”

There is some laughing among the group, even the red woman from the north smirks and Devan thinks he sees a glint of expectance in her eyes. He laughs back as he holds up the runed blade in front him. "It’s dull as yer wits, mate", he grins himself up and tilts his head at the man. A thin lick of flames suddenly erupts along the stunted steel blade, much to the surprise of the Aquilonian. "But don’t ye worry, it’s enchanted and it burns like the rash in yer crotch every morning so it’s all good, eh?"

Everyone laughs again and eyes the dagger curiously. Devan, still grinning devilishly all over his sand blistered face, sheathes the dagger and turns towards the north-woman. Narrowed eyes landed on her hammer then as his grin fades into an all serious frown. "And yyyou! Are you bringing thaaht thing in there?"

He gestures ridiculously at her weapon and wrinkles his nose in a sceptical manner, his voice turned into a grossly overdone Aquilonian noble’s accent. "Plahnning to bring the place down over our heads, are yoouu girl? I have a hairdo to think of!"

He sweeps a hand dramatically over his blonde locks, as if adjusting them, before setting his hands to his hips to hold her with a challenging gaze full of humour.

Possibly for the first time since stepping foot in these damn heat forsaken lands, it was finally at the steps of the great monstrosity of a structure, that the 'rude' Cimmerian woman vaguely smiled. It was an odd little smirk, slightly lop-sided to the right, and very subtle. The reason for it? She quite enjoyed the little tit-for-tat of the mercenaries, especially as they picked on her travelling companion. She even barked a little "hah!" as one mocked his dagger. But then, light blue eyes widened as foul sorcery suddenly engulfed the steel, and with a little gasp, she inwardly retreated despite feet being transfixed on the black onyx steps. It was the first time she'd seen such a trick, but he'd called it enchanted and so, now she was very confused! And intrigued! For he didn't look like a sorcerer, and didn't smell like one either. She'd heard they stunk of rotting eggs and could stop your heartbeat with a single glare. Never, ever look a sorcerer in the eye, a wise man had once said. No, he looked more like a beggar or simple street rat, perhaps even a sailor. Then came his witty retort back, and she really had to bite her lower lip hard before he could see the lifting of her pout. What an odd lad! And then he had the nerve to turn to her and she, very quickly, frowned. What now? Don't look in his eyes, she warned herself, just incase, and so puffed her chest out and looked to the side. It didn't work. The little shaman was glaring back at him in no time, and huffing a breath at his tomfoolery.

"Mmph... best I be makin' sure it be fallin' on yer thick skull, aye?" There it was again, the little smirk betraying her. Not wanting to give him time to answer though, she strode forwards up the steep steps, and their first adventure began.

If anyone told the Cimmerian woman, that this would be the start of something quite beautiful, she would've surely laughed in their face. But now, a year had passed, and she, Bjornia, sat in the rickety and creaky rented ship cabin, reminiscing to herself while staring at a large map painted on an old scroll. A simple, red cross, marked their next destination. A small finger with a stubbed nail, traced the line that marked the Shirki River down south through Aquilonia, into the borders of Zingara, until it joined with many other rivers. It was such a long way to Kordava, and she felt an odd tightness in her gut just staring at its marking on the map. What would she find there? Had she done the right thing, pushing her man back into the depths of his shadowed past? Front teeth pressed on the cushion of her lower lip, dragging over the raw flesh and pinching harshly.

The map was tossed to the side as she stood and stretched her numb limbs, lifting her arms with a mighty yawn any lazy bear would be proud of. It was Devan's turn to earn their supper up manning the sails, offering a spare pair of hands for the various ship tasks. Hers were still blistered from yesterday's rough tugging of ropes. Pausing a moment to rub a fresh layer of stinging healing balms over her palms, she briskly strolled out onto the main deck. A warm breeze instantly caught tendrils of waving strawberry-blonde, teasing in swirls of free-flowing ink writing shapes in the air. They swam around her, until she was forced to tuck them behind her ear. Lifting a hand to shield her eyes, she looked up to the high sails, to the fearless blonde. The sight of him working away, seemed to ease the knot in her stomach, erupting in butterflies from a cocoon of anxiety. A little smile tugging at her peachy lips, before the romantic facade was broken by a rather loud, rather common...

"OI!"

The marlinspike went through the splices of the rope, as Devan widgeted the thin, sharpened steel tool further in and through. His tongue licked his upper lip as it usually did when he did some tricky work with his fingers. With a sudden force of release, the spike was through, and he quickly caught it on the other side to pull through the splices of the attaching rope he had brought up the rig with him.

With a wipe across his brow, he allowed himself a moment’s pause. Drawing in a deep breath, he smiled at the heavy salt smell, mixed with tar, hemp and wood.

If the worst part of this job was the splinters in his hands, the best part was the view. With a dreaming gaze, he stared outwards across the wide open seas and the distant horizon in the direction of their course. There, if he squinted his eyes against the wind and the distant haze, he could perceive a thin line of deeper blue; a line of land.

Zingara.

He had been prepared for it. Determined even. Ever since Bjornia had challenged him to deal with his past, on that night they had spent talking on the garden stairs in Tarantia, he had not stopped to think about the decision. And now that it was so close, he still could not help feeling a strong tug in the guts. A nervous anticipation. Not only would he be dealing with Rallio once and for all. But for better or worse; Bjornia would be with him. She would see his past laid bare. Perhaps Rallio would tell her details Devan would have spared her. What would she think after she heard such things? He trusted her though. She had assured him, and he trusted her. She had not made him deal with Rallio to test him or to get her own personal peek into his past. She’d done it for his sake, and he trusted that intention completely. It was time to stop running.

A sudden warm breeze shook him out of his reveries, ruffled his sailor breeches and shook the blonde hair over his naked shoulders. He curled his bare toes over the rounded beam he was stood upon and held onto the arcing bow of heavy rope he had been splicing. As the whole ship dipped into the water with the new surge of energy forwards, Devan laughed and stuck the marlinspike into his mouth to hold on to the ropes with both hands.

"OI!" Came a clear shout from far below, and he bent himself to peer down there. A little figure stood there, hands on hips and and red hair swirling in the wind. It was too far down to see, but he felt her smile all the way up. His worries and thoughts all vanished and drifted southwards with the carrying wind and his heart skipped a beat at the sight of the rude little redtop down there.

Yelling back through teeth still clenched around the spike, his smiling grin matched hers. "YER MISCHING SHE FINECHT FIEW ON SHE SHIP!"

Carried by the sea breeze, was a warm flow of carefree giggles sung from a broad grin, as the little shaman gazed up from the shielding of her hand, to the figure shouting muffled words.

"Eh!?" She countered, wondering if he'd slipped into his Zingaran tongue. Often the sailors sung odd words from their cheeky lips; the dialect so warm and enticing and her own Zingaran would just grin along with them. Bjornia wondered what they were saying, especially when eyes looked to her, but she wouldn't give them the benefit of asking and doubtly they would answer clearly without riddles or more merry teasing. So she merely wrinkled her nose and lifted her proud, stubborn chin defiantly. Besides, she liked it best when Devan spoke in his mother tongue; for he made it sound most intriguing of all as he carried his vowels over and seemed to elongate other words that just merged to form a long trail of musical sounds...

Sighing to herself, and with the amused shake of her head, the Cimmerian tugged the thin rope securing the waist of her over-sized breeches tighter, and then licked her lips as eyes fell on the mast ahead of her. She'd gotten the hang of climbing these poles fairly quickly; it was a little like climbing a tree really, and she certainly had the trained muscles to hoist her body up with ease. The struggle was always getting right to the top though, where her feet always slipped a little and she ended up grabbing onto the nearest leverage. This time was no different, as with a little gasp, her hands luckily gripped hold of a hanging rope before she lost her footing altogether! With a relieved little chuckle, she was standing by the fire rat in no time, presenting him with a rather large grin, proud of her little climb. One fist finding the prominent curve of her hip, while the other gripped tightly onto that rope still. Balance had always been her weak point, and these south-western winds proved to be a mighty challenge!

"Mmph! Ye gone an' skipped yer lunch 'gain, dinnae ye!" She exclaimed without a single question in her tone, and digging a hand in her pocket, produced a large biscuit all the sailors liked to munch. "Open up!" Though not giving Devan much time to do so, the biscuit was forced at his mouth in a matter of childishly giggling seconds. Only then did she cast sky-blue eyes out to the horizon, where 'land-ho' could finally be seen. Leaning forwards with leverage at the rope, and the wind beating at her baggy shirt, she trusted the Zingaran enough to catch her if she threatened to fall. And, since he'd taken to no longer wearing his shirts onboard the ship, she'd borrowed this one. It vaguely smelt of him still, and she liked to carry his scent. It eased her. Though, not enough to combat the first sights of Kordava ahead. It was impossible really to make anything out yet; only that their next adventure was rather imminent.

"We... be there, already?" Licking lightly chapped lips, Bjornia's sun-kissed face turned to cast slightly anxious eyes on golden-brown orbs. A light twitch of a frown, immediately followed by a re-assuring twitch at her lips. "What ye bleedin' doin' up 'ere then... paintin' yer nails? Get them sails ready!"

He licked his upper lip to catch that last crumb of the cracker she’d fed to him, and just laughed heartily at her so obviously unfair accusations! He had been working on that sail before he’d spotted her down there, and he was almost ready with his work. This was how they always bantered, and he always pretended to be grumpy just to make her even merrier. To see her laugh warmed his soul.

This time, intoxicated by the high air and her presence, he just gave her a wild kiss on the lips, mumbling with a teaseful smile. "My nails? Noo, I can’t be prettier than ye or the marineros will start chasing me instead with their lusty eyes, eh?"

The wind tugged at his borrowed shirt as it covered her smaller frame, making it flap almost like a sail of its own. Holding them both safe with a steady hand on the ropes, Devan wrapped his arm around her and gazed forwards, to land.

"Yeh, almost there now. Beautiful Zingara." He said the last words with a light tension to match hers, and only a small hint of sarcasm.

There was still a love for his homeland there, even though she had treated him badly and finally spit him out like a bad fruit. Perhaps, he mused, Bjornia wanted him to find that pride again. Just as she took such pride of her home, her origins. She was so pure, so strongly bonded to her home and nature. And somehow she had understood that was what was missing in him. Sometimes he caught himself being surprised at her wisdom. How those sweet pouty little lips, the sky blue eyes and almost innocently rude demanour could hide such great clarity of thought.

And then, like a little tiny claw scratching at his hungry insides, he was reminded of what else she had said.

"Lunch!"

As if having received a kick up the arse, the Zingaran abruptly let go of his woman and started on the rope works again. Tongue once more firmly planted along his upper lip as he concentrated, he ran the marlinspike the last few laps through the splices. Finally, he handed Bjornia one end of the thick rope with an encouraging nod.

"Tug it, girl, we need to test it!"

As soon as both their hands were firmly on the rope, Devan’s eyes glimmered with full and unleashed mischief, and with a happy howl he tried to grab the little shaman and launched himself backwards off the rig to let the rope swing them far outside the sides of ship and then downwards in an insane, spiraling ride.