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@Mordecai

The Maritime Effect;

roleplay between Mordecai and ArcticJunky.

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mar·i·time


[ˈmerəˌtīm]


ADJECTIVE:


(adj) connected with the sea, especially in relation to seafaring commercial or military activity: the navigation of the ocean.




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​

An unprecedented idea of ocean exploration was always something that the French have been known for. In the time that the Portuguese and Spanish had become the self-proclaimed masters of oceanic commerce, and ever sense the fabled fool Christopher Columbus had stumbled upon the Americas a time ago in 1492, it was safe to say that the entire globe had its hungry eyes and waving sails set on new land- and the promises that it seemed to sing out. The unknown riches of foreign land left many European monarchs wide-eyed and lusting for the gold that they believed to be out there. The nation of France was undoubtedly no different. As if its rival, England, was making much of a stumbling yet obvious step, the French republic was admittedly still crawling among the admittedly more advanced nations when it came to sea travel. The Portuguese, (along with the ideal Spanish explorer Columbus' findings,) had already pushed out a broad assortment of naval ships full of skilled sailors on a feverish search for gold, riches, fertile land, and other valuable findings. It was the Gold Rush of the 16th century.


Now, the current spectre of the European nation of France; and the plaguing burden bestowed upon King Henry XIV- a pressing matter of whether or not to send an aloof team of sailors out into the ocean blue as a following to the rest of its European brethren. Franco migration would possibly become a good thing to the populated France, and no one could deny the need and desire of the nation now that the Spaniards were now holding riches in their hands. The new world was ripe for the taking, and yet, was it worth it to pull forth the challenge?


It did come to be so, one somewhat brisk autumn morning as the townspeople of Paris swarmed around the harbour of their town. The air itself was electric with activity, despite the dull and otherwise diminishing clouds up above which migrated in packs across the sky like herds of buffalo. The grey itself was swollen with the prospect of rain, however, this minor drawback could not deter France from its excitement. They were to discover land- and perhaps, bring back tales and unfathomable riches that would come to be the uplifting factor of the country. France was gaining power like a swelling totalitarian empire, and it seemed that was the only intention the country happened to bestow. There was danger to the exploration of his sailors, oh, yes, however, Louis XIV was whole-heartedly confident with the abilities of the men he was to dispatch on the large naval ship that was known as the Frigate, who stood tall and proud in the rolling briny blue waters of the Atlantic as the people of the Franco republic stood grinning and talking as their sailors began to climb aboard their ship.


Charlemagne de la Francoeur couldn't help but swell with pride as he overlooked the crowd of eager French from the ramp that led to the boat deck of the Frigate- who would become his ship in just a few moments time. At the age of twenty-nine, he was the pronounced leader of the large sailing ship- a sailor who could, at least, to his mindset rival the ability of the famous James Alday himself. This was albeit his excitement thinking for him as he looked down at the people below him; having to combat the desire to bask in the excitement as if it were the first hints of warm sunshine after a long winter. There were thirty men on the large ship, and all of them were under his command. It was a position that had belonged to his own father, however, now, it was his; bestowed upon him by the King himself. Charlemagne would be the first to steer her over the Seven Seas- the Frigate was a new ship- as new as the French happened to be during this age. She was equipped with trained men, and weaponry that would leave a naval combatant envious. France was a world power- and it was not going down without a fight. Charlemagne would definitely try to ensure that.


His crew hauled their trunks and belongings jauntily behind them, and Charlemagne could hardly hold back the bubble of pride that threatened to burst in the middle of his chest. The bustling activity going on below them was due to them- the sailors and men of France who intended whole-heartedly on sailing and braving the Seven Seas- it was almost incredibly unfathomable. Now, Charlemagne was almost unable to look away from either the horizon, or the people whom he would be trading for it. This wasn't the first ship being sent out with high hopes- and it wouldn't be the last, but he wanted to make sure that the Frigate would bring home with her stories of success.

​

 

[Mordecai]

The day was so bleak and grey it was as if the sun had never really risen at all, though she supposed it only served best to be cloudy as it reflected her mood. The lucid morning sky had perhaps been the most attractive one that she had seen though, despite the overcast nature, she noted from the windowsill of her quarters aboard the grand gold-filligreed royal English vessel, The Interceptor. She overlooked the burnt cerise and vivid amaranth clouds that had been smeared artistically over icy air painted coal grey that appeared pregnant with rain. What little bit of light managed to break through the thick curtain of clouds filtered in through the blinds in dusty beams. A cool breeze followed the light, sending the burgundy silk drapes waving idly into the sleeping quarters aboard the gorgeously articulated and gold-filigreed vessel, the Interceptor, as it trolled into the central Parisian port. The dormitory was cloaked in the golden light of morning, creating the most interesting shadows that danced through the room while one of her three ladies in waiting that accompanied her on the short two-day voyage from London to Paris tightened the corset about her center.


The laces made soft purring noises as they were pulled taut through the metal loops, drawing in every inch of skin and weight that could be seen as ‘out of place’ into a neat little impossibly thin package. Breathing was clearly not meant to be a part of fashion, and Florence couldn’t help but expel a pained snort through her nostrils as the bents reamed into her ribs and gave her figure artificial structure. “You look so lovely, miss,” the lady in waiting, a young, bat faced girl named Isabel cooed lovingly as she helped Lady Florence of Shelley slip on the hoop skirt over her slip. This preening had been ongoing for several hours now, long before the sun had come up, in preparation for the big day. “Your fiancé is sure to be thrilled when he sees you,” she continued, though Florence made no move to respond and instead allowed Isabel to brush some of the lavish, copper red spindles of her hair from across her shoulders.


“I hear he’s very handsome, the Duke of Montbazon. You two shall be a beautiful couple, m’lady.” Isabel had been saying such things all morning as she rolled the Lady Duchess from her bed several hours prior, preparing her for grand arrival in Paris. In only three days time, she’d be wed to French nobility, Henri of Montbazon, and begin the life she had prepped for since birth: the blue-blooded wife. The concept wasn’t really all that hard to grapple with as there had never been any other options for her as this was her life duty and when her eyes finally peeled away from the open window looking out over the sea, finding the mirror, she was pleased with what she saw before her. The floral print of her dress against the royal blue background, as heavy as drapes, caused her skin to fade into ghostly white. The pop of her bright red hair drew out the flecks of green in her eyes, darkened by kohl and warmed by blush. She looked like a noble bride ought to and with everything complete, Isabel took her arm and guided her through the ship to the deck, where they disembarked.


Breakfast was not an on the agenda as she was whisked off the ramp down into the bustling, busy port streets. A coach was meant to meet them and transport her and Isabel to her fiancé’s estate, but everything was so confusing and congested, it was hard to keep up with anything at all. Knowing she would be wed to a Frenchmen after coming of age, she had learned the language in her youth, but hearing it all around her overwhelmed her senses. Before, she had only heard it and spoke it with her tutor, but now, in Paris, with all the lights and the warm smells of baking bread mixing with the brine, all that had practically flown from her memory as she fumbled and tightened her arm around Isabel’s, like the slightly older woman at her hip was her very last lifeline.


“Wait here, m’lady,” Isabel instructed, momentarily dropping her arm, “I believe that is our coach across the way, but I will go inquire at once.” And like that, Isabel disappeared; though Florence had watched her until the last bouncing blonde curl had vanished into the crowd. Florence had meant to obey the orders Isabel had given her to stay still, but she was so wrapped up in the world around her that she had hardly realized her feet had begun to move at all. The fanciness of her dress stood out some amongst the visitors of the port, but no one seemed to really think much of it. All her days had been spent as an ornament piece, a decoration in a room—like a painting or a sculpture—and to feel like she was blending into a crowd was exhilarating. She hadn’t meant to wander far, but when her chestnut eyes found the glossy ship blessed with the name Frigate, she couldn’t help herself. Call it free-will or travel lust, but she was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.


“What would one small minute hurt?” she asked herself as she found herself toe to toe with the ramp separating the dock from the ship’s deck. “In a few days time, I will be a wife about to start a family, one little adventure won’t harm me none,” she clucked her tongue, giving herself the encouragement to take the first shaky step on to the wooden board. The rest were easy, and moments later, she found herself aboard the grand ship. It was lovely, elegant and equipped for war in all the ways The Interceptor was not. She found the hardened wood and the lack of decorative filigree to be quite attractive and with no one on board to prevent her from exploring, she found herself sweeping below the deck for even more of an escapade.


Growing up, her father had always scolded her for her unfeminine inquisitiveness, warning her that no good man would ever appreciate such an ugly trait in a woman. He was probably right, but she was as much a victim to her personality as everyone else.

 

[Mordecai]

No amount of preparatory education could have prepared her for the proper way to handle the very unusual conundrum she found herself in. Naturally, she could tell you exactly what fork to use with what course during the evening meal, or the proper way to bend at the waist to bow when greeting your husband, or even the way to make idle conversation that was deemed feminine enough for a woman to discuss whilst in the company of men. She had mastered the art of batting eyelashes, giggling softly, and forgoing the need of oxygen when dressed in her Sunday best, but this… this was not something any tutor had ever explained how to handle. Then again, no woman with her breeding should have ever been caught dead on such a crude example of a ship, let alone completely unaccompanied by a male escort of some kind. The idea of being alone on a ship, an exploratory ship, was probably enough to cause her ancestors to begin rolling in their Scottish graves.


Setting sail was not something difficult to miss. The idle listing of the vessel had been transformed with forward momentum, making the rocking of the ship a motion of back and forth as opposed to side to side. At first, she had been reluctant to show her face when the first sounds of boots clattering above her head had occurred, but now they were moving and she knew she was in trouble. Cursing her own stupidity with words her father would have fainted upon hearing come from between her lips, Florence rocked back on her heels. She was standing in one of the many long, winding corridors in the bowel of the ship. Dozens of doors lined either side of the narrow passage, illuminated by flecks of light coming off the oil lanterns tied to the dark oak walls. She had half a mind to run up to the deck in that moment and demand she be taken back to shore at once (for she was of noble blood after all), but felt a twinge of apprehension clench her gut like an iron hand.


Plus, she didn’t even remember how to get back to the deck if she had wanted to. Her wanderings had gone on for so long that she had gotten herself lost in the tumble of passageways of the quite large vessel. Never before had she the pleasure of exploring what a real ship looked like. Sure, her father owned a fleet back home in London, but the few times she traveled on them, all of her time was spent in her quarters. Her food was brought to her and the ladies in waiting took care of anything else she needed, keeping her busy with gossip and stories. Reading was not a social norm for woman of her status, but she had been blessed with a nanny who had found literature to be enjoyable, and had passed her ability to read down to Florence. Books were not permitted in her possession, but it was staggering the amount of things she could sneak in the folds of her hoop skirts.


Stepping back, her eyes followed the sounds of boots clattering across the deck above her that she hadn’t even bothered to hear the pair coming up from behind her until the sound of the man’s voice cracked through her like a bolt of lightening. “Aye!” he spoke, his voice smothered in the French accent and causing Florence to nearly leap from her skin, “What are you doing here?” he asked, though it took her a few moments to collect her French vocabulary again. She probably stood there with a simpleton look on her face for quite a while before she had the mind to respond.


“I-I am lost, sir,” she responded, “Please, I need to return to Paris. My wedding, I must meet my fiancé for the first time today. He is expecting me.” The man, a sailor in a deep blue uniform, seemed unamused and took her arm firmly, an action she was not familiar with and caused her to yelp out in surprise. In her caste, men were gentle and treated women like flowers, but he gripped her tight and led her through the corridors at a brisk pace, her legs barely able to move fast enough to keep pace from underneath all the bindings keeping her form proper.


“I will see you to the Captain, miss. Awful bad luck—having a woman onboard,” was all he said, muttering the bit about luck over and over again as they walked, his hand clamping her arm even when she tried to wrestle away. The sound of blood pounded in her ears as they ascended the stairs on to the central deck. Every pound of her flesh desperately regretted her poor decision-making. Of course her father had always known best, warning her never to follow her impulses because women were irrational.


“Captain!” The man called, “I have a problem!”


As they hit the deck, she glanced around for the Parisian port that was already out of sight and her heart sank and the stark realization.

 

[Mordecai]

Clearly, someone hadn’t done his job checking the ship before departure, and how could she be put in blame for that? It was a far-fetched idea, but as they came before the Captain, Florence promptly ripped her arm free of the sailor’s grasp, but not first without shooting him a rather vexed look, something that was sure to wrinkle her skin prematurely, but he damn well deserved. “I pardon your language for I am hardly a stowaway, and I didn’t sneak so much as I… stumbled upon your ship,” Florence corrected with conviction in her tone, her tongue probably a bit sharper than it ought to be. She took a moment to straighten the heavy cloth of her dress, though it was a moot point, for the light drizzle, which had been a nigh mist when she first arrived on deck, was ripping her appearance apart. Her vibrant red locks, that had been so delicately curled into a elegant knot at the nape of her neck were beginning to disassemble and were instead sticking to the pale, exposed skin around her neck and collarbones. Drops of rain spilled from her jaw, cheeks, and off the tip of her nose, causing her to brush them away irritably.


The Captain was a handsome made with bright and defined features that reminded her of those fancy hunting dogs her father owned back home. Occasionally, she’d see them when he and his friends went out on foxhunts and while she had never interacted with them directly, she imagined them to be quite stoic and intrepid animals, not at all like the friendly housecat they had roaming about their estate. “My name is Lady Florence of Shelley of England, daughter of the Duke and Duchess Shelley. I have come to Paris to wed my fiancé, the Duke of Montbazon, are you insinuating I’m spying on you?” she inquired, a slender raising up when he questioned whether or not she had more like her floating around. “Honestly, all I wish to do is return to Paris at once, please. This was all a terrible mix up, I’m afraid. I am so deeply sorry for any trouble that has been caused, Captain.”


Whenever in doubt, her tutors had always told her to be polite, as good manners solved most things, though she wasn’t expecting him to actually disagree with her. More often than not, she got exactly what she asked for, and she was confident that this Captain would be no different. After all, he couldn’t just hold her hostage from the Duke of Montbazon, could he? While the Duke was no king, he was a vital participant in the nobility of France, and rubbed elbows with the king himself. As his fiancée, she was important by mere affiliation and while she was sure Isabel would be livid by her current appearance, noting that all of her hard work had gone to waste, everyone would just be happy to have her back in Paris where she belonged. Her English accent probably smothered out her French, and she was sure he’d have no trouble identifying her nationality. Sure, she spoke their native tongue, but awkwardly, like she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the sounds in her mouth.


A shiver rippled through her and while her dress might have felt thick and heavy, it did little to fend of the rain, even in the little drizzle. The cool drops seeped across her skin causing the autumn breeze to bite in to her just that more fervently. In no part she did she plan to admit guilt for what she had done and it was easier to assume the role of the dumb, confused noblewoman than to accept that she had gone onboard this ship of her own choice due to her unquenchable curiosity. Eyes were on her though, and she could feel them burn into her. Most had looks of curiosity or disdain, though knowing that did nothing to make her feel any less exposed in front of them. She was a metaphorical fish out of water on this deck, surrounded by sailors all probably twice her bodyweight or more. It was all good chance that she couldn’t really breathe in her corset because it at least gave an explanation for her lack of breaths other than just mortal fear.

 

[Mordecai]

Hearing the words ‘no’ though in dozens of more words came as a blow to her morale but even with her rather uncanny sharp tongue, she was still a trained docile woman. As a child, she had been quite the little firecracker, but years and years of training and grooming had tamed her. The little glimmer of adventure still lived somewhere deep inside of her, as it had been that flare that had convinced her to believe exploring an unattended vessel was a good idea. Nevermind that she could hear and understand the lewd comments being shot amongst the soldiers, though she tightened her jaw, pinching her lips together, and refused to let it dig any deeper into her than it already had. To say that marrying Henri was what she wanted for her life was a lie, but she had accepted it. She had gotten to a point where she had been fine with it because that was how one coped with things that weren't ideal. Growing up, she had always dreamed of something exciting, an adventure just like this one, but those were all from stories her nannies used to tell her. Harrowing stories of beautiful heroines and dashing heroes were just stories meant to amuse, they weren't real life. A sigh expelled from between her lips, coming from deep within her core, as she gazed out over the murky water just beyond the Captain's shoulder.


It was the color of coins: a deep, murky grey that bubbled with choppy waves that smashed against the sides of the vessel like a handful of pebbles might have done, violent and uneven. For a moment, she considered just breaking down in to tears, mostly out of her own trepidation and self-loathing, but tears were just a mean to an end. “Thank you for your hospitality, Captain.” He hadn’t given her a name and she didn’t honestly want to hear it. On the vessel ride over, she could think of nothing more dreadful than having her take the title as wife to the Duke of Montbazon, but now it was the thing she craved for so deeply. It was safe there. It was safe in the places where she could quietly lock herself away in large quarters on some estate guarded by the military’s finest. But these men looked at her like starved dogs to a rabbit carcass, which only served as a reason for her to cross her arms across her chest, though she pretended to do it out of cold, her fingers wrapping around her shoulders. With eyes lingering on the Captain for as long as possible before the two men he instructed to see her below deck approached her, ushering her down the stairs from which she had come, Florence really reflected on the predicament she had gotten herself into. This was real trouble. There was no protection here and if she so happened to go overboard, whether pushed off or having fallen off, no one would ever know.


She had simply disappeared from Paris without a trace, possibly never to be seen again and the thought was dizzying. She hadn’t even an idea of how long she’d be trapped aboard this ship, the Frigate, as it were. Days? Weeks? Months? They led her down the steps, one of the sailors graciously bracing her shoulder so she wouldn’t slip in the pools of water they left behind before directing her down the halls. It was a short jaunt before they came to a door, pausing as one of the men unlocked it for her and swung it open. It was a small room, considerably smaller than her bath house back home even, but it had a small bed and a bedside table, both of which seemed to be nailed into the floor to prevent them from shifting during times of rough water. There was very little else: a small port window, letting in some of the foggy morning light, and an oil lamp on the table that was currently not lit. The two sailor waved her inside, and she obliged them, glancing about the dusty room constructed mostly of wood. In three paces she could cross the entirety of it. A farcry from the marital room she should have been enjoying that week, Florence glanced back at the men with a humble half-smile. “Thank you,” she said in French, though they seemed unmoved by her politeness.


“We’ll drop off some clothes for you in a bit, lass.” The taller, skinnier one on the left said, taking a stab at speaking English. Lass. The reference almost made her physically cringe but she kept her composure. Lady or m’lady would have been more appropriate, even Miss would have been acceptable, but Florence was living at their mercy and she was not about to pick fights over propriety. “Thank you,” she responded once more in a pleasant tone, as pleasant as she could muster as they stepped away from the door, leaving her to her own devices. With the door clicking shut and the tight, dark space closing in on her, Florence reached back to try and untangle the silk strings of her corset, but they had been pulled so tight she didn’t have the dexterity to do so. Over and over she tried to reach them, to slip them free of the knot Isabel had tied them into, but every time she failed. It felt suffocating and the more she tried, the worse it became until tears collected at the corner of her eyelashes in equal parts frustration, fear, and confusion. All at once the even demenour she had been wearing since leaving her home in London unlaced in all the ways her corset refused to. A painful sob clenched her chest as she threw her back against the wall and fell down against the floor with hot tears streaking her cheeks, smearing the kohl down her light skin.


“Bastard,” she whispered at once, feeling the instant relief cussing had brought, “Bastard, bastard, bastard!” Well, if her ancestors weren’t rolling in the grave before, they certainly were now, but god, she needed it. Like a needle to a balloon, cussing seemed to ease her tension.

 

[Mordecai]

Having picked herself up from the floor, dusting off her skirt, and glancing at what little reflection she could make out of herself in the glass port window, Florence made an effort to wipe away the smudged kohl from her eyes, lifting the fabric of her skirt to her face to peel away the thick layers of white talc from her face. As she scrubbed it clean, the galaxy of blonde freckles that Isabel had done everything she could to hide began to reappear across the bridge of her nose. The red dye of her lips also smeared away, leaving behind the peachy colour of her natural flesh. Even without the makeup, her skin was still quite pale, ideal and sought after for woman of her time, but her freckles were something to be hidden. There was no one onboard this ship she particularly had to impress, or even wanted to for that matter, and makeup was an itchy and uncomfortable mask to wear. Next, she combed her fingers through the long locks of hair, doing her best to manage it and tame it back into the pins from which the wind had ripped it free. Satisfied, but not yet ready to give up on her corset, Florence began rummaging through the drawers of her nightstand. Just as she imagined, there wasn’t much but a few scattered belongings of whoever had taken residency in this room before her. Amongst a few pins, she found an old compass that was cracked down the middle, a few pairs of eating utensils that were in various states of rust, a small journal that hadn’t been written in, and a small knife. It was no longer than four inches and the blade was dull as a doornail, but maybe, maybe it would prove to give her just enough leverage.


Taking the butt of the blade into her left palm, she reached her arms around her back and wiggled her fingers towards the corset laces. After several attempts and a painful creaking in her shoulder, Florence managed to snag one of the lines around her pointer finger and slide the blade up to meet it. It cut easily, causing the corset to pop open with a snap. Air flooded her lungs as she took several gulping breaths, tossing the blade onto the bed for now. The rest was quick work, pulling the corset just loose enough to feel her sides expand. She was a petite woman as it were, but was not nearly as flattering to the eye without the corset that pinched her waist into impossibly small measurements. Clenching her hand to her chest as a knock came at her door, she carefully peeked out, staring back at the two men who had escorted her here in the first place. They extended a dress out to her that she took with a feigned smile, thanking them both once again before sliding back into the room and closing the door quietly behind her before clicking the bolt lock closed—just in case. Back in privacy, she examined the dress briefly. It was light and silky to the touch, made of a lovely deep red fabric, though had clearly come from a woman of a lower class than herself as it was not ornate but was lightweight, meant to be used for working women, not for women of nobility.


Still, it was a blessing. She slid the heavy gown, soggy with rain, she had been wearing off until she was in nothing but her slip and slid the new dress over herself. It settled neatly across her shoulders, pinching her waist with a small lace up on the front. Now in more comfortable dress and feeling the first twinge of pride for accomplishing something, Florence tucked the blade into the waist of her garments, hidden from view, and made for the door. Sure, a sense of adventure had gotten her into this mess in the first place, but if she was stuck aboard this ship now, what harm would an addition spot of adventuring do now? She had never seen a ship like this and she figured she might as well keep entertained if she was going to be stuck aboard. Quietly closing her quarter’s door behind herself, she went the opposite way of the way the men had led her, deciding to see what lay deeper in the ship. The heavy listing caused her to stumble a few times, forcing her to place a hand on the wall to steady herself, but it didn’t seem to deter her. It wasn’t beautiful, no, but there was history here, she could practically smell it.


Still early in the day, most of the crew was either settling into their quarters or up on deck, so she had yet to run into a single soul, though that didn’t stop her from peeping into open doors and doing all the things her tutors had told her never to do, but she was aboard an exploration ship, surely none of these men could distinguish good manners from their arse anyhow.

 

[Mordecai]

Having explored most of her morning, she discovered a great number of things, like the gallery and storage, but found a great deal of pleasure in emerging back on to the deck. It was buzzing with life as men toiled to keep the ship in good working order, though in this weather, the vessel seemed to be practically sailing itself. White sails cut through the endless expanse of sea around them, which had miraculously turned the most glorious shade of blue. The skies had begun to clear, sunshine bursting through in thick beams while tiny wisps of clouds floated by on the horizon, like lost sheep scattered out in a field. Slowly she let her resolve begin to erode, before giving up a few steps across the deck and letting the cool embrace of the salty, autumn breeze take over her. It was that time of year when the days were warm, but the evenings were cool, and under the intense sun, crawling now towards midday, Florence found herself beginning to dry out from the morning rain. Her hair was wispy, drifting around her face as it fell loose, once again, from the messy bun she had tried to clip together to control it. Isabel surely would have been in hysterics at the sight of her, but the truth of the matter was that she was an awful long way from Paris.


Something about fighting her own battle… nice. It made her feel capable of functioning as a human being, strong and in control of her own life circumstances for once. To think, she never would have even considered being capable of removing her own corset without help from Isabel or another lady in waiting. She hadn’t really done anything miraculous but god, it felt wonderful to have something she could cling to and be proud of. Her life had been a long string of limp conversation and tea parties, leaving a whole lot to be desired in her life. What was to say she couldn’t enjoy a little bit of liberty while aboard the Frigate and, when she finally was returned to Paris, her life could continue from where it had left off. Henri would probably select a new wife at the news of her absence, as she knew how desperate he was for heirs to his title, but there were plenty of young nobility blanketed about Europe she could be handed off to. All the worry that had collected in her chest, all the fear, it had all sort of oozed out of her while underneath the sun.


“Hello, lass,” a familiar voice rang into her ears as she glanced back over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of the sailor who had brought her the change of clothes. He was a bit gangly looking, even packed with muscle from the grueling work aboard the vessel, with slanted eyes the color of dirt and grass. “You aren’t lost, are you?” he inquired in her native tongue of English, though he sounded to be stumbling over the language a bit as he closed the distance between them, causing Florence to turn and face him out of instinct, feeling the alarm bells chiming in her head as she went rigid, moving politely so there was a comfortable amount of distance between them again. “I’m just exploring, is all, sir,” she explained curtly, trying to dismiss him but he seemed content following her about like a puppy or a well-mannered maid. As people went, he was quite keen, though she wasn’t sure if it was to impress her or to impress his Captain.

 

[Mordecai]

They were two simple words that turned the calm bravado of the ship into something resembling chaos. The deck was drenched in panicked movement as men, like bees in a hive, swarmed the deck and battened down anything that look like it could come loose. Emergency lines of thick rope were tied to the masts to be used if and when the storm hit for men who had to brave the decks, though they didn't need to be used just yet as the water all around them was still quite calm. Absentmindedly, her eyes trailed over the man’s shoulder, watching the droning activity go on. There was a great deal of interesting things going on and every part of her wanted to ask why they were doing things the way they were. Sure, she understood what battening the hatches meant, but she had never actually seen it done. The men worked like a well-oiled machine, their light tan tunics patching with sweat as they hauled and heaved, some even humming as they did so—tunes that Florence herself was not familiar with.


Thunderheads reared up among the distant horizon, dancing lightning down the magnetic spires and turning the horizon into a terrifying wall of storms. It was still a long way off and, honestly, the day felt nothing but pleasant. It was warm, for fall, and a cool breeze rivered constantly, if not languidly, past them. “Excuse me, sir,” she commented politely, stepping past the sailor whose name she had yet to learn. The Captain had fluttered in and out of her field of vision a few times now, and she finally found the backbone to approach him of her own accord, instead of being dragged along by a man who not so much as gave a damn about whether or not she was tripping. “Captain, if I may,” she began in a pleasant voice as she approached the tower of a human being once the other man had turned to walk away. He was so tall she had to angle her head back to catch even a glimpse of his face, but women of her blood had been bred to be petite little things, as that was what was seen as ideal.


“If I may, I would very much like to have a job to do. I’m not skilled at very much at all besides sitting limply in a chair with a teacup in my hand, but I’m sure there must be something even a lady to do. I’m going to be stuck aboard this ship, I must very well make myself useful to some degree.” It was a bold statement to be made, and while to the commoner’s ear it may have sounded like she was just bored, to anyone trained with any taste, she was greatly overstepping her boundaries for what a noblewoman ought to be. In an ideal world, Florence would barely have to lift a finger in her day-to-day existence and the idea of having a job of any sort was borderline criminal. Unfortunately, she had found herself in a tizzy of a predicament and the only way she figured she’d ever see the Parisian shore again was to get under the good graces of the only person on board who could save her.


Whether or not she cared to admit it, the men on board would very well rip her apart if they got the chance. Not that she could blame them for their crude behavior, after all, it had been her own wrongdoing that had gotten her into this mess in the first place. But making friends with the Captain, even from an amicable standpoint, seemed like a natural vein of self-preservation. And surely, there was something she could do seeing as she had two legs, two hands, and a heartbeat.


The current had picked up and smacked the sides of the vessel a bit more fervently than it had been doing so prior. It rustled her a bit more, causing her to clench as she tried to maintain her poise, a flicker of worry burning into her features for a fraction of a second as she maintained her balance. "Seems I'm not quite adjusted to standing whilst on a ship. What is the term you ascribe to it? Sealegs? Ah, yes, it would seem I failed to acquire sealegs."

 

[Mordecai]

The sky was angry; at least that was how it seemed. It had turned black and bruised in what felt like the length of an eye blink, bringing with it rain that was heavy enough to draw blood from a stone. It started far away, though she could practically hear the curtain of rain smacking against the surface water like a sledgehammer off in the near distance. A nigh mist washed across her face, dampening her clothing and hair again and causing it all to sink against her skin. It was the sound of the snort resounding from the young man nearby that caused her lip to stiffen. In terms of physical strength, she had little to offer the men of this vessel, but she was fiercely determined and had something to prove, though she wasn’t quite sure what, honestly, or why. It would have been perfectly acceptable, preferred probably, for her to sit quietly in her chambers and take strolls on the deck only when the weather was favorable to do so, though in the moment, her logic and her nerve had met an impasse. The gridlock was only settled when the Captain turned his phlegmatic gaze to her, but only momentarily, and dismissed her along with the very diplomatic answer of potentially helping. Naturally, he had no real reason to believe she was of any real use at all, but it added petrol to the little flame that was warming her ethos.


All his life, her father had always cursed himself for marrying a redheaded woman as they were generally ascribed the traits unruly, obstreperous, and fervid. If that was really the truth, Florence seemed to be no exception to the rule. The captain before her, having met her gaze only briefly, didn’t seem willing to proffer her with any more information than the non-committal answer her already had, so she was quick to dismiss him when he did the same. With stammering movements, Florence made her way across the deck, keeping a conscientious eye on how the men were conducting themselves around her. They tied ropes in fast-holding, but complicated knots, but upon peering over the shoulder of several of the men as they tied down various hatches, sails, and barrels, Florence had gotten the gist; it would seem learning a thing or two about sewing had been advantageous. Now at the head of the ship, the men were clinging to the rigging as they hauled thick ropes about the foremost masts and bowsprit, without even asking, Florence picked up one end of the rope and chimed in with the crew like she had been born for it.


In the grand scheme of things, she probably helped very little; the men seemed ill-amused with her presence, but didn’t brush her off either, at least appreciating that she wrangled the long ropes and fed them out as needed, preventing them from tangling or knotting prematurely while thrashing around on the deck. The listing had become severe, breaching the point where Florence was no longer stumbling but sliding across the deck. Foamy waves bit the wood, sending a thick coat of water across the deck, allowing her to slide across it, though she quickly scattered to remain alongside the others, continuing to feed them rope as they wrapped up the masts and tied them off. With the last few finally wrapped tightly so as not to break free, even in the dastardliest of winds, the men seemed to have completed most of the tasks of preparing for the heavy rains, but now was the lull. They had barely arrived at the edge of the storm and already the ocean was bouncing them about like a child’s plaything in the bath.


“Here lass, tie this on,” a sailor, an older man with salty grey hair and blue eyes nestled in a bed of wrinkles shouted over the wind, tossing the rope out to her, which was tied to one of the masts and meant to be used as a lifeline, in case she took the accidental tumble off the side of the vessel. Thankful, and with an honest smile (perhaps the first one she had made since arriving aboard), she cinched it around her waist several times, feeling the comfort of it being there.


“Thank you, sir!” she called back to him, her hair blowing wildly in the wind in a way that it never had before and it felt… free.

 

[Mordecai]

All of her senses gurgled in the water and had it not been for the rope seizing at her waist, the young duchess would have surely been washed away long ago in the riptide that heaved over the front of the boat as it slammed into waves. There were times when the entire frontend of the boat couldn’t be seen as it was consumed into the churning abyss of the ocean, but it always managed to reemerge a few moments later. Now, there wasn’t much left on the agenda except for ‘survive’ and her hands clung to the rope like the lifeline it was. The cord ripped the tender skin of her palms raw, but she couldn’t even bother to notice as water drowned out every bit of her cognizant capacity. Water filled her nose, ears, and eyes, the salty taste burning down her throat as she went tumbling end over end in a particularly large wave, her head meeting the edge of crate with a dull ‘thud.’ The contact opened up a small laceration on the left side of her head and it would have bled had the briny seawater not kept it clean. It stung something fierce, too, causing the side of her head to go numb and tingling as the salt water lingered below the skin.


Managing to scramble back to her feet and anchoring herself against a mast, Alina managed to keep herself on her feet for the remaining worst bits of the storm. Both of her shoes had been lost in her tumble though, and her thin cotton dress was clinging to her skin in a borderline inappropriate fashion, but she hadn’t much choice in that matter. The worst of what Mother Nature had to throw at them seemed to be quickly receding as the seas began to level out, though the sky overhead was still menacing and black. Lightening and thunder continued to roll through, feeding the atmosphere with electricity, but at least the rained seemed to be slowing down. It was no longer a torrential downpour, but instead was just a light drizzle of proper drops that splashed across her face. The people around her seemed to take a moment to get their bearings and, honestly, she was doing the same. A few moments were spent patting herself down as if to ensure that every bit of her had made it through the battering.


Every part of her ached, though her head seemed to get the worst of it. Gingerly, she reached a hand up and pushed the thick locks of tangled, lightly curled tussles of hair from her face and ran the tip of her pointer finger across the wound. It was small and probably not very deep at all, but the location of it had caused a fair amount of blood to dribble out from her hairline and down her face. “Oh, oh my,” she rubbed the vicious red liquid between her fingers, not liking the feel of it at all. Her introductions to blood were moments far and few in-between and she couldn’t even remember the last time she had truly injured hersef. Once, she had sliced her finger open on the side of an envelope, and another time she had jumped her hand on the edge of a table, but those were mere scratches. Though, if nothing else, she seemed to be fairing better without her shoes, her bare feet gripping the wood better that the heels that had no so disappointingly been washed away.


At once, her eyes flickered back to where she had last seen the Captain, a sort of half-smile curling the edge of her lips as she did so.

 

[Mordecai]

Even with the clouds yielding on the amount of rainfall, the seas below the vessel did not settle. They thrashed angrily, or at least that’s how it seemed, causing water to still glide across the deck in ripples. Salt clung to her like magnets on a fridge, crusting what felt like every inch of her. With every breath she could taste it, the lingering flavor of brine hanging at the back of her throat persistently, causing her to cough instinctively. The salt leaked into every inch of her, pouring into the wound on her head and on her hands and causing an intense burning to river down her neurons. She craved nothing more than a hot bath and a warm bed to settle into, but she was many days from having such luxuries, though she’d knew at some point she’d have to at least find a damp washcloth to wipe away all the grime and saline from her face, if nothing else. She might be aboard a vessel, but that was no excuse to allow her hygiene habits to fall flat. Vessel or not, Florence was still a lady and while she had just participated in the most unfeminine of activities, did not mean she had to abandon all of her virtues. Furthermore, she understood the importance of keeping the wound clean and dry and while there was no way for her to know what modern science had not yet revealed, she was quite lucky how well the salty sea water and rain had flushed out the wound.


“I- hmm,” was her first response to the Captain who inquired about her well being, not sure how to go about answering that question for a moment. “It would appear that I thoroughly introduced myself to the wood of your ship, wouldn’t it?” She laughed dryly—a pleasant, effete noise that bubbled up through her chest like carbonation in a soda can. The laceration turned the rainwater feeding down her face red, collected in her eyelashes and staining her cheeks, but she was quick to wipe it away, staining the sleeve of her dress. The site of the blood was probably making her more faint than the actual wound itself, but she kept her bearings. “I’m sorry, I feel awfully strange calling you Captain, sir. Do you have a name? You know mine, I think it’s only fair I know yours.” Her toes curled into the floor as another waved rocked them, but she managed to keep her balance, rocking her weight against the rope that was tied to her waist.


Florence had half a mind to untie herself from the mast and go get cleaned up below deck immediately, but she was a good four yards from the trap leading below deck, and that was a dangerous stretch where she wouldn’t be anchored to a mast. One rogue wave would send her tumbling straight off deck, sending her straight to a certain death by drowning, so she waited patiently where she was until the seas were more agreeable. In the meantime, she pressed her sleeve to the wound to tame the bleeding, luckily, the wound seemed to be clotting quickly and not a few moments later, but the fresh trickle of blood had all but stopped, leaving a rather unsightly Tokyo purple bruise right at her hairline.


“And now I can say I survived my first storm experience on deck. There are far and few ladies in between who could make such a claim, wouldn’t you say?” Thunder rumbled overhead, causing her to suck in a deep breath and glance up to the skies above. There was nothing so terrifying as a cloud drenched sky that stretched horizon to horizon without so much as a single tree to anchor it down. “I failed to ask earlier but… but how long will I be aboard this ship?” The real question she wished to ask was where they were going, but thought such inquiries would be suspicious and decided, instead, to hold her tongue.

 

[Mordecai]

For someone who didn’t do a whole lot sailing, the young duchess seemed to remain quite steady, especially since those pesky wedge heeled shoes had been unfortunately lost to sea. They had probably cost her Father nothing short of an arm, a leg, and some odd change, but they were gone now, and there wasn’t a whole lot Florence could do to change that fact. When the time came she arrived back in Paris, if that time came, she doubted her father would be concerned with her footwear anyways. He’d probably busy himself making sure she was preened properly, emotionally and physically, for the next worthy suitor who even glanced her direction. It was a shame, then, that the diamond-crusted engagement ring on her hand would never come to use and while nothing on her person was inexpensive, it was probably the only thing of any real worth. While in ring form, it meant no differences to anyone with some skill: diamonds could be plucked from their cradle, gold could be melted down. Absentmindedly, she fiddled with the epicene piece of jewelry with her thumb, spinning it about her finger a few times. Funny enough, it was the sound of someone retching that made her realize she had gotten lost in her own thoughts and with a few blinks, she seemed to return to the reality. Water still bubbled across her feet, sending a shiver up her spine as goose bumps made themselves present up her arms, flushing her cheeks with a chill, but at least her stomach seemed quiet despite the constant swaying of the ship.


“Don’t be imprudent, sir Captain Charlemange de la Francoeur. Everything can be useful at the right time and I make it a note to do my best to acquire the most amount of useful bits and bobs that I can,” she explained, conviction playing a few notes in her tone. Whether or not she’d ever actually need his name, she did not know, but she’d rather go into a blind situation feeling prepared than ignorant. Of all the men on board, he seemed the most tolerant of her presence, which had come as a surprise, really. She would have thought him to be more frustrated that he had another mouth to feed and, even worse, a woman to deal with. Bad luck the myths said they brought to a ship, and maybe the storm had just been penance for her presence aboard, but considering how well the ship seemed to fair, she wasn’t going to take the blame just yet. His next words were wrought with disappointment, but not surprise, though she still sighed anyways, having wished fervently he could have possibly provided a more concrete answer, though knowing it wasn’t possible.


“Very well,” she resigned herself to the fate quietly, “But do you mind sharing, Captain Charlemange, where it is you hope to sail to? Hope to find? Pardon my manners if those questions are too bold for your liking.” Naturally, the captain had no reason to trust her or her motives, but she did hope he could see that there was nothing malicious about her, except for her rather unladylike tongue and over-inquisitive tendencies, perhaps. The look of half-amusement that had fleetingly caught his expression hadn’t gone unnoticed either, and for a moment, she considered the possibility that maybe he didn’t think her terrible after all. Then again, she figured most ladies, especially of her breeding, wouldn’t be willing to fair a storm on a ship above deck, but then Florence of Shelley had never been most women.

 

[Mordecai]

The brine of the water burned away at the softness of her skin, leaving a tingling feeling prickling through her face. Often, her mother told her to reap the benefits of bathing in salt water, though her baths were warm, sprinkled with sea salts and perfumes, but those were nothing like the frigid waters she had been doused in during the storm. It still sloshed about her ankles now, dampening the fabric of her dress and causing it to weigh a considerable amount. The air expelled from between her lips came out in wisps of steam, attesting to the chill she experienced all the way down to her core. It was hard to deny that the air, while still clinging to the last shreds of summer under the hot sun of day, had grown quite bitter under the curtain of clouds. It went without saying that it caused her some discomfort. The paleness of her skin growing flushed, especially around her cheeks, and goose bumps pimpling her skin. Quite suddenly, a piercing sadness had coursed through her at the realization that she should be home at this moment, well, not her home back in England, but a nice enough home with a warm bed and a bath. At that very moment, she should have been in her sleeping gown, tucked between a feather mattress and a duvet with only dreams in her head of such adventures.


Yet, here she was, living out what she had always hoped she’d be able to and finding it quite disappointing. It was hard to deny that she was feeling homesick, dismally lost on the endless sea trapped between crewmen who thought her nothing but a bad omen and an aloof, brisk Captain. “Well,” her voice disrupting her thoughts, trying to keep her distressed mind occupied, “I have no money, though my father would be sure to pay a handsome sum to any hero able to return me to France unharmed; however, in the meantime, I suppose I could do my best to lend a hand.” Her lips pursed, eyes lingering on the sailor who had mentioned needing assistance mopping the decks. It was hardly glorious, practically the work of a slave, and no noblewoman would have been caught dead with any sort of cleaning tool clutched between her hands, but Florence was between a metaphorical rock and a hard place and desperate times called for desperate measures.


“Discovery of land?” she echoed, the statement catching her interest as she glanced back to the Captain, though he was but a faint silhouette against the dark skies. “I’ve been hearing a great deal of rumours about these expeditions. England has been spending a great deal of money investing in these ships and sailors to find new worlds.” Her fingers drummed idly on the nearest mast, her nails scrapping against the wood. “Unfortunate you cannot answer my question, Captain, though I suppose I do understand.” She moved her hands down to the rope keeping her anchored in place, working at the knot until it fell from around her waist. The ship was still listing quite heavily, but she felt confident enough, now barefoot, that she could manage without going overboard.


“Tell me, Captain Charlemagne, do you hope to strike it rich? Find gold?” her eyes darted in his direction, the deep, forest green sparkling with mischief, “Most men speak of untold riches, beautiful women, and all of their fantasies come to life in these foreign lands. Tell me, what do you hope to find?” Most men, from her understanding, sailed in pursuit of gold, yet the young Captain didn’t strike her as the type. Then again, she had never been the type who was all that good at reading others.

 

[Mordecai]

Florence straightened the damp dress. It was certainly not the most attractive thing she had ever worn, seeing as it was not a very attractive colour on her skin tone and was rather frumpy, but like hell she was going to let it bunch up at her shoulders like it had been doing because of the salt water that currently soaked through it. The men around her seemed to be swirling in a happy whirlwind, working contentedly with a pep in their step, though she wasn’t quite sure how they maintained such chipper attitudes. Life aboard a ship, while an adventure for her, yes, seemed dismal at best, though it was only their first day on the sea. She began to wonder if they grew more sullen the longer the trip went on; she imagined so. Surely even sailors missed the feeling of solid land below their feet, of embracing their loved ones, of eating something that wasn’t as hard and dry as bone. Truly, she paled at the thought of what gruel was bound to show up on her plate that evening, though she did her best to put on a brave face. It was a mix of emotions, and she quickly found herself fluctuating between absolute euphoria of being away from the married life that had been expected of her, and dread over the realization of exactly where she was.


She was a petite little thing that could blow away in a strong enough breeze, and she was certainly not cut out for this life. Florence quickly dabbed away the last bit of blood that collected in jewels at the corner of her cut with her sleeve and set straight to work beginning to help unravel the ropes from the masts. She was quite slow in comparison to the much larger, stronger men about her, but she was careful, diligent, and above all, persistent. Winding the heavy ropes around her forearms, she neatly stacked the coiled ropes in piles to be collected by another young man who began to store them. The work kept her hands busy but, more importantly, it kept her mind occupied elsewhere. With diligent work, she could only think of the task on hand and not the fact that she could be away from home for weeks—months—hell, she could never make it rightly home again. Not even twenty-four hours properly on-board and she had cracked her head open and nearly been pulled out to sea. Who knew what else could unfold in coming days.


“Mm,” Florence hummed, glancing up at the Captain through a thick layer of dark lashes, “So, no land, gold, or women for you, then?” her voice a bit surprised, though not entirely trusting of the man’s words. Surely, he must be sailing the globe for something more than mere pleasure and want of fulfilling a family member’s dying wish. All her life, she had been surrounded by men who wished for things they could touch, wrap their fingers around: a woman’s hand, a gold coin, a decorative item they could put on their estates. The concept of someone wanting to do something for the sheer joy of fulfilling an intangible want was foreign to her and she almost had trouble understanding it.


A smile twisted into her face as she pushed some hair away from her neck, “Well, I wish you luck then, Captain. It sounds like quite the task—discovering something new. What do you wish to do when you reach your goal? Will you continue to explore under France’s flag?” He seemed determined in accomplishing what he set out to do, and she hoped for his sake he’d be able to do it, though she supposed that was all dependent on the way of the oceans. Wiping her hands on the waist of her dress, Florence rested her hands up on her hips, gazing out over the deck with a contented smile, seeing that all of the ropes had been put away. “A new world, could you imagine? I wonder what it would be like. I’d very much like to see.”