"Come on you fucking bloats, if we're gonna be keeping pace in this wind im gonna need a crew, not a gaggle of hens! Keep 'er steady afore I flay you from the wrist down and give your hands to the cook for tenderising!"
Sam took hold of the running rope trailing from the yardarm and pulled hard. The day's sailing was winding down with the evening and they were only a week out to sea aboard the Razor's Edge, the boatswain's tone being a touch harsh considering the ship's pace, but Sam refused to let himself look like a slacker on his first voyage on board the vessel. Sailors would kill to be in the crew of the ship captained by Fisher Fairweather, scourge upon the Sea of Stars, the Sea-Shrike, most notorious killer and fiercest mortal woman to ever take the helm of a boat in the past century. The kind of captain that would not likely take kindly to slackers on her ship.
Sam had heard stories of her for years while working the docks, how she was Cabin Girl on board when the 8th Deepfathom Queen convinced the sea itself down into the fires of the Nine Hells to steal from Mammon himself, to how she tricked a spirit of gold and oak into building her the finest ship that would ever sail in a game of knives and nines. To see her on deck was only slightly humbling, as even though she spat no lightning and followed the sea's whims like any other captain, she commanded a complete and utter respect in her crew that Sam had never seen in all his years on the docks.
Suffice to say Sam was anxious about being aboard. Over the days of rigging and swabbing he had realised he was a standout aboard the Razor: he was a head taller than most of the sailors, just as big though he had much more pudge than the rest, and he remained focused and busy while they idled and chatted until an officer came and cuffed them hard enough to knock them back to their posts. He knew a few of them found his dedication an annoyance but that didn't matter, their seniority probably lent them lenience in their captain's eyes. All he had to do was stay focused on his work, and show his worth when the time came to go over the railing with a knife in your teeth, and he'd make his way just fine-
"Aye, Shallows!" came a call up on the poop-deck. Startled out of his thoughts, he took a moment to look up from tying the rigging; Shallows was the name given to him as the newest deck swabber on board, and Sam was still unused to it.
The voice was the ship's boatswain Nils; a sea-ravaged man who seemed to perfectly embody the epithet "nasty" the crew referred to him with and that was before you saw his temper flare. From the look of the tattoos ringed around the crown of his skull Sam guessed he was from the northeast, Nargi or somewhere. Nasty Nils jammed a finger directly below him over the railing and said "Cap'n wants to see you in her quarters. Now. The rest of you-" he swept the arm broadly over the deck, "get your asses below decks, we're done for the night."
Sailors around him broke out into the snickers and chuckles of schoolchildren leaving the kid who had been asked to be "seen after class". While he finished securing the rigging and hustled to the cabin door, Sam felt his blood run thin. What was this about? Had he overstepped a boundary or failed to meet expectations? The worst he could think of was his occasional gamble of his rations on cards for a nice bauble or the chance at a boarding axe stolen from the quartermaster, but who can fault a man for that?. Sam pulled himself up straight, including the guts that had sunk in despair, and opened the door.
The Captain's Quarters was lit faintly by the light of real, burning fire. The captain spared no expense when it came to outfitting the deck with Ghostlamps that no wave could quench, but she claimed she appreciated an authentic feeling to her room. A well-built cot sat in the corner farthest from him. The opposite wall of the cabin was taken up by broad windows that had shutters closed and shut tightly with a solid locking mechanism. To his left: a small wine rack, a full body mirror, and a decently sized bookshelf full to the brim. To his right: a large chest beneath a dining table set for two with a small basin of water for drinking, and a rack of immaculately kept guns and blades. Both walls were decorated high and low in spectacular treasures of her conquests; from severed jawbones of sea serpents to stolen (possibly magic) scepters.
And behind the enormous lacquered wooden desk in the centre sat Fisher Fairweather. The huge desk dwarfed her, but he knew she was about his height. Her so-brown-they're-black eyes stayed centred on the quill scratching away at papers on the desk. Shoulder length red hair swirled about her face beneath a suspiciously plain tricorne. From behind the desk, that was all she appeared to be wearing. Her usual rich brocade jacket and silk shirt were slung over the back of the chair revealing her chest and arms as defined and muscled as the stories said, the latter dotted with a great many scars that stood out intensely against sun-battered skin. Tattoos webbed across her torso depicting great triumphs of the 8 Greatfathom Queens of old.
She nodded at the door. "Close the door, lad". Her voice was coy yet powerful. "And try not to freeze up, I promise ye that the rumors about me are far overblown." He did as she commanded.
A soft click signalled her putting the quill in its inkwell, and setting her work aside to look at him directly. "I don't suppose Nils told you why I asked you here, Shallows." Sam swallowed the joy of the captain already knowing his (nick)name, and gave a grave nod. She chuckled and gave a curt hand gesture. "Well at ease, sailor," she snarked, "you've not earned my ire today."
Sam relaxed visibly, but not entirely so. Fairweather laughed. "In fact," She leaned back in her armchair and curled her index finger toward him as an invitation. "You may walk out that door and return to your bunk and mates for the evening and you will receive no punishment, but if you'd indulge me I have a request for our newest crew member."
