Fantasy Eye of the Storm [ Hamletcore & Tragictrees ]

[elytra]

The sea wasn't your friend.

This was a message ingrained in really anyone who lived in the Reach, the watery wasteland that all but disintegrating below the upper islands, but those who were bound to a life closer to the water got the brunt of it. It was peppered through everything; it was present in bedtime stories, through legends and rhymes and songs. They all usually detailed various sailors being taken by the salty waters in various ways due to incompetence. Sometimes they could be gruesome, but those ones seemed to drive the point home more than most. After all, young ones were more likely to stay away from the ocean if they were told that Once upon a time, a sailor was torn apart by a sea serpent, piece by piece, turning the blue waters red than if they were told Once upon a time, a sailor drowned, and that was that.

It helped that most of the tales were true. There were just enough cases of people slipping up and dying near the water that you could fill a library with their obituaries, if they were written any longer. Oswald had never had any doubt about it, honestly. When he was younger, when he was in the orphanage, he remembered taking the rhymes very seriously. He remembered holding sailors in high regard, as they were doing a dangerous job that no one else could stomach. At that time, though, he saw it as an adventure. The sailors were like the heroes in his books, the ones he'd kept hidden under his pillow so no one could take them, that talked about people who slayed serpents and saved maidens. He had thought at that time that he'd wanted to be a sailor.

He now knew better, of course.

The sea wasn't your friend, but it especially wasn't something to be admired or respected, because the sea didn't understand respect. People understood respect, and the ocean wasn't a person. It was a common mistake. He could see where they were coming from, expecting that respecting the boundaries of the water would allow you to get out alive, but that only worked if the water understood boundaries. It was unpredictable, unruly, and unforgiving, and so were the things hidden away in it, waiting to come out and tear you apart.

It was just a harsh truth, one that he'd learned to live with. Literally live with, considering his circumstances, which wasn't an activity he liked to do often. It wasn't that the lighthouse was a bad place to live. When it was compared to his previous home, it was much better, actually. He had his own private room, his own kitchen, his own space. It was a completely different world from the orphanage, where things were crowded and the inhabitants were packed in like sardines and the building smelled like it was burning constantly, like they were seconds from seeing a room engulfed in flames.

The lighthouse, meanwhile, was sturdy and lonely. It smelled like brine, which wasn't the most pleasant experience on the nose, but once you got used to it, it covered up a lot of the other smells, like the decay that came after a storm. The brickwork was sturdy. It was safe. That was really all he needed. It helped knowing that if he was there, no one else had to be. That didn't mean that problems didn't arise, though. For example, salty air didn't do well with technology.

At all.

His lantern flickered, and he hit it once, trying to get it to work once again. His efforts only ended up making it flicker further, before shutting off completely. It took him hitting it against the wall of the main room to get it on again, before he placed it on a table, illuminating the room darkened by the storm outside. It was looking to be a quiet night; the light was still shining above for the ships, and nothing had gone wrong yet. The winds were minimal, thank god. He was counting on it staying that way.

 

[twoheadedcalf]

Samuel was a creature of the sky. It was ingrained to his core, and he was half convinced that if you were to carve him open, he'd have an ode to it carved into his very bones. The wind curled around his spine and filled his lungs up to the brim, all of his hollow spaces taken up by the endless expanse above them.

The hard work of maintaining a ship was a small price to pay for that rush of wind buffeting his ears until all he could hear was the roar of the sky. All of the crew shared this same love, their eyes flickered with a hunger that came from skirting so close to the blue you could almost touch it. There was little chance of anyone entering this line of work who wasn't willing to give it all up for the ether.

They would touch down in ports occasionally, to refuel and recuperate, but it was always odd. Sky-legs they would call it, an old wives tale of a condition that affected those who spent more time flying than on land. It was always easy to spot, from sailor to sailor, a certain sway as if being buffeted by an invisible wind, the strange way it was instinct to anchor yourself when standing, and of course, the look. The sparking flash of pure sunlight in the eye that came from breaching the barrier of clouds and breathing in thin, untouched air. He never liked being grounded, and would more often than not prefer to sleep on ship instead of whatever inn they had all piled into, the gentle creaking of the ship serving as his lullaby, the faint smell of ozone that never really left her hull.

On nights he couldn't sleep, he would look overboard at the land and sea they sailed so far above, the floating islands interspersed with the vast grey ocean. It all seemed so lonely from such a height, and he would squint for the flickering lights of civilisation, or the occasional sailboats that would sail in parallel to them so far above. And, every so often, they would cross paths with a lighthouse. They were always tall, imposing monuments of light, the beacon flooding the sea around it with a constant wash of light, a constant wash of hope. He'd breath in the air and imagine the taste of salt on his tongue, and would wonder idly on the solitary person below.

Samuel opened his eyes to the cold slap of water hitting his body at full force. Or, to be more accurate, of his body hitting the water. He opened his mouth into a rush of bubbles and floundered his arms out of pure instinct, primal instinct urging him up, up to the surface, up to air. His mouth held the taste of an acrid bitter tang, but was quickly overwhelmed by the salty seawater that flooded in with every gasp. The storm thundered overhead, and the wind whipped around him, harsh and uncaring as the rain stung his cheeks in a thousand different places. He scrubbed at his eyes and blinked rapidly as he tread water. The cold was already creeping up his ankles and he was almost convinced of his demise, alone in the dark ocean when a siren blared out across the water, and a bright ray of light shone into his eyes. He almost cried from relief, and couldn't tell whether the salt on his lips was from his tears or the sea.

He set a desperate pace, swimming laboriously to the island of hope that the lighthouse stood on, and almost cried again when his feet hit solid ground. Crawling up the beach he collapsed, heaving out aching breaths into the sand. Samuel moved his head sluggishly up, squinting at the window that was lit up ahead and had barely a moment to consider calling for help before succumbing the darkness pressing at his eyes.

 

[elytra]

A boom of thunder rumbled outside, and the kitchenware rattled around him, barely visible in the light he'd managed to keep on for himself. The rain pelting against the window was nearly deafening in the silence, though he considered it somewhat of a comfort. It shouldn't have been soothing, because anything but blue skies and gentle winds were trouble, but it was better than the silence. Silence wasn't something people got used to. He never had in his transition from being around people to being alone; even the waves did little to get rid of the constant unease he felt. The rain, at least, was constant. It wasn't disrupted and that was likely the part that made him feel more relaxed.

He'd also learned that there was no use worrying in a storm. Going outside during one wasn't advised, because the waves became worse and so did the winds. There were some storms worse than others, yes, but all took something. There wasn't anything he could do to stop it, though. It was best to wait it out and fix the damage when it was said and done. So long as the light was running, that was all that was needed. Anything else was secondary.

That said, he couldn't escape the feeling that something was wrong. Things were usually wrong, but it was a different flavor of wrong. The type of wrong he was used to was something malfunctioning, the sort of thing where he'd need to slip under the boards to get to the machinery and fix something. The 'technical tap' had become a common move in his collection, and it was embarrassing how many times it worked. The worst problems were when he ran out of food or supplies, where the solution was to go out on a boat and try his best to collect what he needed. Those problems didn't happen too often, thankfully.

But what he had, at the moment, was a gut feeling. Just that something was off, something unusual, and that he should be fixing it. At first, he ignored it. He idled around the main room, adjusting things slightly here and there to make it appear neater. He was truly the only person who would ever be there, but it was a small comfort to live in an organized space. It allowed him to feel like he had control. Eventually, though, there wasn't anything else to organize- and then reorganize -and the feeling he had hadn't gone away.

He ended up throwing on his coat, bundling himself up to face the cold and wind, before heading out into the storm with his lantern at his side.

At first, he wasn't sure what was off about the landscape. It all looked the same, with the jagged rocks of the shore still ever-present and the crashing of waves causing a spray of seawater when they hit. The shed was still intact, thankfully, and it appeared everything else had managed to stay in place. Another scan of the perimeter gave him a little insight when he looked a bit harder and was able to make out an outline of....something.

He felt hesitant to go over. He'd heard stories of things tricking people to enter the waters, and he wasn't stupid. He wasn't about to approach something likely to kill him. But the thing wasn't moving, like truly wasn't moving, and it seemed too still to be a trick. So, slowly, he edged his way closer, arm up over his face to shield it from the wind and rain, his hood not doing much to protect him from the extreme elements. Once he reached the thing, it was clear that it was, in fact, a body. Not just a body, but that of a human person.

"....Ah, shit." He murmured, attaching his lantern to his belt loop, before kneeling down and pressing his fingers against the mans neck. There was a pulse, but he wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. No one was around for miles at the least, and he could see no sign of a wreckage around the area. People didn't just emerge out of the water from nowhere, especially this water. But, he couldn't just leave someone with a pulse on the shore. It felt wrong, all his suspicions aside.

It took a moment of mulling it over, but he eventually decided that he couldn't just leave the man there. He was sure he wouldn't have the best bedside manner, but between him and the waves, he was sure that he was the better option. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, before scooping the other up best he could. It took a bit, seeing as he usually picked up things that weren't living, but he managed to haul the man to the lighthouse and through the door.

He considered going up the stairs to get to his room, to put the man in a bed, before deciding that was too much effort and just placing him on the floor.

Not that it lasted long. As soon as he finished shutting the lighthouse up once more, making sure it was locked tight, he ended up grudgingly pulling down a cot, a pillow, and blanket, and setting the man up on that. He wasn't about to drag him up the stairs, but he supposed he had to provide some sort of comfort to someone who had probably chosen the worst shore to wash up on. Then, he set up the lantern up once more, and took a seat in a chair, letting out a weary sigh.

Maybe it was going to be a long night after all.

 

[twoheadedcalf]

The next few moments passed in a blur of nausea. Samuel barely registered being carried, his sluggish limbs being hoisted up away from the gritty sand and his face once more exposed to the heavy rain. He felt the warmth of another person seeping into his body that was filled to the brim with icy seawater before passing out once more in a wave of crashing darkness. There were only flashes of a blanket being laid on top of him, of gentle light on his face, the telltale rustling of another person.

Then consciousness came rushing back in, as if it'd only been held up by a dam that had finally broken, and all the sensations that had been held back from him punched their way to full capacity. The sounds of the storm rattled into his ears, and he was suddenly hyperaware of everything his skin was touching, the grip of fabric to his still damp skin, the gritty sand and he could feel on his hands, in crevices of skin. He could smell the dampness of the storm and the salt that seemed to permeate the walls around him. His stomach lurched. Samuel promptly scrambled out of panic and fell off of whatever he'd been lying on, before vomiting inelegantly onto the floor. His shoulders shook with tensions and his arms felt like they could barely hold him up as his muscles were still caught in the chilled pincers of the sea. All he could taste was the acrid taste of bile at the back of his throat. Even swallowing was too much effort for his throat and spit refused to come, leaving his mouth sticky.

Sam couldn't bring himself to look up, his head pounding to the rhythm of the storm outside, and all his efforts focussed on not falling facefirst into his own vomit. He took a deep breath and pushed back to sit on his heels, eyes still screwed shut as if that would save him from the pain that spiked in his brain from the sudden movement. Reaching up with one shaky hand, he pushed back his sweat-damp hair, feeling his own fingers tremble against his scalp.

It took a few tries to blink his eyes completely open again, salt crystals gripping his eyelashes together with resolute, spindly fingers. The first thing he registered was that he was inside the building he had seen, to the side of the lighthouse itself. It was cosy, and neat. Everything seemed to have an exact place. His casual perusal of the room came to a halt as he registered the person sitting on a chair beside the sturdy wooden table.

This was presumably who had saved him, and Sam felt a sudden hot rush of shame as he realised he had just puked all over this strangers floor. What a way to make an impression, to be found washed up, face down on a beach in the middle of a storm, and to then hurl his guts.

Sam licked his lips, as if that would help his still dry mouth, and managed a weak smile. "Sorry about the mess." His throat creaked out the words like a door with rusted hinges, "and- thank you for rescuing me, you've probably saved my life." A cursory glance out the window told him he was right. The waves crashed heavily against the shore and the wind whistled past, carrying with it the ice cold pellets of rain.

 

[elytra]

No good deed goes unpunished Oswald reminded himself idly, watching the stranger puke all over the ground to the side of the cot. He supposed that was what he got for not expecting something like that to happen; it wasn’t surprising in the least. Brine wasn’t easy on the stomach in high amounts, and he was sure that the man had gotten a fair amount into him for however long he had been out there. Add in the possibility that he hadn’t eaten in a while- because if there was one thing worse than brine on a full stomach, it was an empty one -and it was almost a guarantee that the other would throw up when a time came when he wasn’t about to be swept away by waves.

That didn’t mean he was happy about it, though.

The floors, thankfully, were stone. Nothing to seep into except the crevices between the blocks. Wood floors would have been a pain, and god forbid there had been carpet, but the way the place had been structured held little regard for comfort, which meant that it was stone all the way through, up until his room and the room with the light. The smell of it would linger, unfortunately, but a bit of baking soda and vinegar would help keep it minimal. Of course, that was only if he had baking soda and vinegar...which was looking more unlikely the more he thought about it. He had not had a shipment of supplies in a while due to the weather being sour, and what little he had stashed away were essentials, not clean-up supplies.

But he’d have to look, because he wasn’t going to just let it sit there. He had a certain standard of living, and it wasn’t high, but he had a right to maintain it best he could. If that meant sparing a few things to keep the space clean, he was willing to make the sacrifice.

At the very least, he was being thanked. He could appreciate that a little. He still held his suspicions that this was some sort of trick- sirens, kelpies, kraken his mind supplied helpfully, reminding him of exactly why he didn’t often take boat trips -but on the off chance this was an actual human person, he was glad to do something good that he could actually see the results of. He kept the light going, and he would keep it going no matter what, but it wasn’t as if he talked to those it helped. He didn’t speak to ship captains; the only people he had spoken to in years likely was limited to himself and those who brought him shipments.

And now this man, who had thrown up on his floor. He truly was rolling high when it came to interactions with other sentient beings.

He studied the other wearily a moment, before sighing, getting up from his seat, hand pushing on the tabletop to help him. He was young- despite the fact that he likely wouldn’t make it too long past the end of his 20s -yet given a moment when he didn’t have to do any physical work, his knees often decided to ache. He took a cup from a shelf, filled it with water, and set it down near the man. Not too close, because he wasn’t keen on being thrown up on, but close enough that it could be reached.

“Probably.” He agreed to the statement, seeing as it was completely true. The storm likely would have swept him right back out to sea again, and it was doubtful he would’ve lasted any longer, based off the state he was in. He decided to not elaborate further, though, because he had doubts that describing how one would die at sea was wanted. “Drink that to get something in you that isn’t salt. Not too quickly, though, or you’re going to throw up again.” And if he did throw up again, Oz might consider tossing him right back to the water.

He flitted around the kitchen, checking through cabinets. Unsalted was preferable for someone who had just swallowed straight ocean water, but he had little that wasn’t preserved. It was just what made sense for him, living the way he did. When the next shipment of food wasn’t a sure thing, it was good to keep only things that could last. It wasn’t good for treating salt overconsumption, though.

He did manage to find an apple, which was looking a little rough, but would need to do. Part of him wanted to just keep it himself, enjoy the pleasure of having something fresh for once, but he knew that he didn’t need it. He grabbed a plate and cut away the bits which were browning, before cutting it into smaller pieces. Then, he set the plate by where he had placed the water.

“And don’t eat that quickly either.” He said, sitting back down. He would clean up the floor once he was sure it wouldn’t get worse, he figured. “Now, mind telling me why you were face down on the shore? I don’t see any wreckage.” No wreckage, no boat. No boat, no transportation. No transportation, no people. That was the way it worked….usually. Apparently not always.

 

[twoheadedcalf]

Samuel could feel the chill of the stone seeping into his skin. He registered vaguely that his right shin ached in sharp pangs that ran up his leg, and halfheartedly squeezed at his calf performing a makeshift massage. His leg got bad enough in a storm without being squeezed tight by the icy grip of the sea.

He watched as the other man got up and began to rummage around the room. After the initial rush of gratitude from being rescued, his instinctive wariness was starting to settle in. Obviously, he was the keeper of this lighthouse, but that didn't give Samuel any immediate cause to find him trustworthy. He'd heard stories about the kind of weirdos that this job could attract. Spending months, or years at a time in solitude, surrounded only but the echoes of the sea. It was the kind of life that Samuel himself didn't think he could stand. He tried not to put too much stock in the more ridiculous tales of sailors claiming that they were enchanted just like the selkies of the deep, or that you'd have to go mad after only having yourself and the gulls to speak to, but he couldn't discount that it was strange, being so removed from society. Even high up in the air, where they'd sail for months at a time without coming into port, there was still the crew to talk to, warmth and dinners at the end of each day with drink and a round of cards.

Samuel was however well aware of the kinds of rumours that followed his trade as well. That they'd all sold their souls to the gods for the chance to defy the call of the earth, that it was ruthless up in the air and you were thrown off deck for any sort of insubordination. Ridiculous.

He'd gotten lost in thought, and startled when a cup of water was placed in front of him. He nodded at the advice well given, and suppressed his knee-jerk reaction to gulp down the water as quickly as he could. It tasted wonderously sweet in comparison to the bile and salt that had coated his tongue and he sipped gratefully, hands cupped around the mug. His stomach seemed to settle with the offering, agitation dying away. His ears and nose still felt grossly bloated from the invasion of sea water, and while his ears had stopped ringing, Samuel kept working his jaw, trying to pop the odd fullness.

He could feel that his ears were red from embarassment as he kept his eyes firmly averted from the vomit on the floor. He knew that it was understandable what he'd done, but he was still ashamed. Samuel didn't think that he'd properly vomited since he'd first become a crewmember and hadn't gotten his sky-legs, everyone laughing as he stumbled to the nearest bucket to puke as the vessel swayed underneath them.

He ate the apple slices gingerly, still not trusting his volatile stomach but they seemed to help, crisp and not too sweet.

Samuel didn't know why he'd washed up onto the shore. He tried to remember anything before being woken up with the cold slap of the waves against his body but it seemed dark, and fuzzy, his last clear memory just one of being on board his ship, laughing with the crewmembers. "I don't- I don't know how I ended up here." He pinched the knuckle of his thumb between his fingers and rubbed idly, "My name is Samuel Jones I'm a crewmember of the skyship Eris and the last thing- the last thing I remember is being on board the ship and then suddenly I woke up in the ocean. I swam to shore because I saw your lighthouse and...that's how you found me."

He felt a sudden rush of anxiety that made his fingers clench as he thought about the possible fate of his ship, and the crew. Had they been shot down somehow? Had they been taken overboard by rival pirates? Samuel worked his jaw, staring at the ground, "I'm sorry but I really don't remember anything else."

 

[elytra]

Oswald studied him a moment. He seemed honest enough. He couldn't say that the loss of memory wasn't suspicious, but he supposed it made more sense than getting away from the sea completely unscathed. The problem was- because there was always a problem, always something going wrong -that there was no way off the lighthouse grounds until a shipment came. Any land that had connected it to other places had long since sunk under the waves, leaving it by itself, more of a way of finding location than for avoiding rock. He had a boat, of course. It would've been stupid not to; when food supplies wore thin, it was good to have something to head out in and get fish, of which there were plenty nowadays. He just wasn't willing to give it up. If the boat crashed or never came back, he would be in deep, deep trouble.

Which meant he was stuck with this person. Samuel, that was. Samuel Jones. Apparently part of an airship crew, if he was to be believed; Oswald had never seen one in person, but he'd heard about them, the vehicles that soared through the clouds where the water couldn't get them. That said, he never really envied that sort of life. He preferred the ground, especially when not floating in air. It was much more solid and secure, in his opinion. Even with the threat of the water, he'd found that he would rather drown than fall. Or get eaten, depending on which happened to come first.

But that was off track. Point was, he hadn't been stuck with anyone else before. He'd been trained for a few months, but after that, nothing. He'd been left to his own devices, and anyone else who had happened to set foot on the island was less than permanent, gone within the day. This was more on the scale of months, seeing as the weather wasn't looking up. He wasn't sure if he had the room, other than just stashing the man in the kitchen, but he didn't have a choice unless he wanted to toss him outside again. He would just need to figure something out.

He chewed on his lower lip a bit, thinking over the situation, before coming to a conclusion with a sigh. There was no use fantasizing over the unlikely. Best just to bite the bullet and accept his losses. It would be a little tough on the supplies he had, but he could manage it with a bit of work. Hopefully, at least.

"Well....welcome to the East Edge lighthouse, I guess. I'm Oswald. I run this post." He gestured around him at the space, before propping his forearms on his legs, leaning forwards out of weariness. "And I hate to break it to you, but if you came from one of those airships, you aren't about to get back to it anytime soon. Only way off this island is swimming right now, and unless you want to be snapped up by something, I don't suggest it. 'Specially in your case. Look like you're edging on death right now."

In good conscience, he couldn't let him try swimming anyway. Unless he had the stamina of a god, he wouldn't get anywhere, even in the best of weather. Unless a boat happened upon him, he would likely drown, which was the end of most scenarios that involved trying to get away from the post. Swimming just made it more likely to happen sooner.

"You're stuck here 'til next shipment comes in for me, which might be a bit, especially with the storm." He paused, before tacking on "Any other issues besides the memory loss 'n vomiting? Because best to know about them now rather than later."

 

[twoheadedcalf]

Samuel entertained the faint hope that his airhsip might come back for him for only a second. It was already odd that he had fallen apparently from a height so low that he hadn't even sustained any injuries from hitting the water, apart from some possible bruising. They never flew that low normally, especially not during a storm, when it was common knowledge that the wind would buffet you about every which way if you were in the thick of it. His captain, Eric, was the heights-are-better type, and loved to go above cloud cover. They all loved it, really, but Eric seemed to get a particular pleasure out of breaking through that layer of clouds and really soaring into an endless sky. It also came with the added risk of being at a height you were certain to die from, even with the float-stones they all carried.

He wasn't even sure that they would land at any of the ports near here. He didn't...really know where 'here' was obviously but it was just a feeling. Nobody would be coming to get him any time soon. It freaked him out a little bit, he wasn't the type to lie, even if his line of work was shady. He was looking at being grounded for at least a few months, with nothing that could even come close to flying, or the feeling of fresh wind in his hair. This was probably the most time he was going to spend on solid earth since he was a child, and there was a reason why he'd begun sailing so early in his life.

Samuel managed to crack a smile at Oswald's jab, "I definitely feel like it." The apple slices had been nice, but not enough for him to completely ignore the aches and pains across his body. "It's nice to meet you Oswald." The East Edge Lighthouse. The name was almost familiar, like an itch at the very back corner of his brain, the sort of sense of deja vu you got when rereading a book you hadn't touched for a long time, when a sentence seems to only just awaken the faintest image of a memory. He tried to grasp at it for a second, before waving it away. He'd probably seen the name before on a map, or heard it mentioned in discussion, and he didn't really have the brain power to spare in chasing down an elusive thread of something that was probably mundane.

Sam wouldn't consider swimming even if it was a legitimate option. His foray into the water had been enough contact with the ocean for at least another 10 years, and that dislike was only from having been in it. The thought of whatever could be lurking underneath the surface, waiting to catch an unwitting sailor was enough to make him not want to get anywhere near it for another 20 years.

"I don't think anything else really. The aches and pains you'd expect from hitting the ocean I guess, but I'm used to that sort of thing, I'm sure I'll heal up." He leaned back against the cot and managed an albeit weaker version of his faux-cocky grin, "I expect I'll be working for my keep then? Cause you're in luck then, I am well acquainted with hard work, I'm all for it."

 

[elytra]

Only 'aches and pains' wasn't necessarily a good thing. It was maybe better than having an exterior wounds where he'd bleed out, but not by much. There were still plenty of things that could have been wrong. Falling into the water without getting any real injuries was odd, especially at higher heights. There was no way he'd been on a water-bound ship when he fell, especially with his occupation. Now, Oz wasn't an expert on what heights were safe to fall into the water from on an airship, but he had a feeling the answer was 'none'.

He expected, at least, a concussion. Passing out and throwing up could've been a sign of such, but Sam didn't seem to have anything else wrong, so Oz didn't want to be too visibly concerned, just in case he freaked out his 'guest'. He figured he could just keep an eye on the situation for the night and see how it went. He didn't have enough supplies to do much as it was. It wasn't a very safe job, what he did; he often had to dip into the first aid to make sure he didn't contract anything that would keep him from maintaining the light. Stock was running low, which meant if there was anything wrong that couldn't be fixed by just resting, he couldn't fix it. Not easily, at least.

Either way, he couldn't set him right to work, despite the use it would be. Sam had still thrown up on the ground, which wasn't a sign of health, and he doubted fatigue would be completely gone by morning. He could possibly set him off to do menial tasks, but there was also the problem of not knowing what he was good at. He could let him clean, but he wasn't keen on anyone messing with the system he had set in place around the lighthouse. There was cooking, but he also still wasn't sure on whether or not the other was going to attempt to kill him, which would be much easier through food. Which left nothing that he could think of, besides maybe letting him trail along on what Oz had to do.

In some ways, it was probably best. It allowed him to watch over the man and make sure he wasn't about to keel over and die. The problem was that he wasn't used to having distractions around as he did his work. The constant upkeep on the machinery was important, and if he messed it up, it was quite literally 'lights out'. He had some faith in himself, seeing as he had little choice otherwise, but he was still wary of having company along while he did what he needed to do.

He leaned back in his seat, tapping his fingers lightly on the table. Things were already turning out to be far more trouble that he had been looking for, and nothing bad had truly even happened yet. "Yea, room and board isn't going to be free. Lot to do around here." He admitted, though decided not to mention anything about his thoughts on Sam doing tasks when he wasn't around "But airships are different territory from lighthouses, so I'm not gonna expect you to do much. For now, just rest so you don't feel like shit when the storm lets up. I don't have an extra room, so you're going to have to sleep here until I figure something out. Meanwhile....I guess I should clean that up."

He eyed the vomit with a frown. He'd been putting it off a bit, but he couldn't just let it sit there overnight. Best to get it over with, and the new comer wasn't about to be able to do it himself with the state he was in. If he was any better, it would be a different story, but Oz didn't want to cause any more damage without meaning to.

 

[twoheadedcalf]

Samuel sort of expected the skeptisism he saw flash across Oz's face as he spoke flippantly about the state of his uninjured self. He himself knew that he had a nasty tendency of downplaying injuries. He'd learned early on that if it wasn't excessively bleeding, and wasn't causing you to be at least an 8 on the pain scale, it wasn't worth the medic, and therefore wasn't worth talking about. Being a sky pirate wasn't all easy sailing after all. A lot of it was being put in dangerous situations where it became every man for himself. In active combat with another ship, it was almost impossible to keep yourself on board, let alone make sure that all of your crewmates didn't go overboard.

There were nasty tactics out there nowadays, aiming for anything that looked like a gravity stabiliser to quickly cripple the other team, or blowing out the solar collectors to makethe ship go into emergency power. Sam, being a sort of glorified deckhand jack-of-all-trades, was forced to scramble around assisting in emergency repairs and whatever else needed doing. This meant more often than not that he was in the direct line of fire. The first few times he'd complained about a bullet grazing his arm, or a slight burn from the blowback of an explosion, he'd gotten laughed out of the ramshackle medics cabin. You took the bandages and did it yourself if you could, or got somebody else to slap them on for you.

Sam would try and get better stock of his injuries the next morning sure, but it was an iffy situation on whether he'd speak up, and honestly, while he'd been sat on the floor he thought that his whole body felt miraculously better. Sure, there was the fatigue of the cold and swimming, and the telltale aches of bruises that would no doubt appear in the morning but...at least nothing was visibly broken. Maybe if he was lucky, he wouldn't even catch a cold, although the fullness of his nose didn't bode well for that prediction.

There was the added issue of rations. Oz had mentioned that the only boats that approached the island were for stocking up, and he'd just acquired another body to feed. Sam cast a wary glance around the room at the preserves he could see. If it came down to it, he wasn't opposed to rationing, but he still hoped the storm would die down soon. For both their sakes. Of course if he really considered his own luck, it was more likely that that wouldn't happen, and the storm would somehow carry on for a hundred years like some ridiculous myth. He could almost hear it being told in a bar by the weird old men in the corner, 'The Thousand Year Rainfall of the East Edge Lighthouse.' It would probably end with the both of them being eaten by some ghastly sea creature.

"No I think I'll be fine to help, I really-" Samuel was midway through pushing himself to his feet when he was cut off by a wave of exhaustion hitting him like a hammer to his skull, culminating in a wide yawn that made tears gather in the corners of his eyes. He swayed back and felt the back of his knees knock against the cot, as his head spun. He blinked the sparks out of his vision before smiling sheepishly, "Well, maybe not. I'm fine with sleeping here, it definitely won't be the worst place I've had to fall asleep, and-" He looked guiltily again at the vomit, the elephant in the room, "-sorry again about puking on your floor." He would offer to help, but even the simple movement of standing up had made his head feel 10 times too big for his body, and his hands still seemed too far away.

 

[elytra]

'Fine to help' was an overstatement. Oswald was, at least, glad he hadn't pushed himself further and just accepted defeat. It wasn't that he didn't want help, it was more he didn't want more puke on his floors, nor did he want the newcomer to possibly keel over in the middle of doing something. The lighthouse was more taxing than people made it out to be and he knew it well. Originally, when he was younger and preparing to be taught the ropes, he had assumed it would be simple. Keep the light going, make sure things were neat, and that was that. There was the whole idea of also being alone and coping with the loss of human contact, but he had thought that was a perk, so he hadn't been particularly bent out of shape over it.

He did learn over time that it was legitimately hard work. The things in the water didn't bother him too often, thankfully- he doubted they viewed him as off-limits, but wouldn't have been surprised if they knew he was far too paranoid about everything to be easy prey. No, the problem was with the physical labor it required and the mental back flips he had to accomplish in order to understand how the machinery worked. Nothing was ever simple and something was always not working as it should have been. Sure, he had been given the run down of how everything worked, but there were points that the light would flicker for no damn reason and he wouldn't know what to do about it. He had taken to hitting some of the pieces with a wrench when it happened, which at first had seemed a bit violent but as it had produced positive results he certainly wasn't about to stop.

It was the intricacies of place that made it difficult for others to take over jobs, honestly. He just happened to know the way things acted around the lighthouse, and what parts happened to be trouble at different times. He knew that storms weren't big trouble and it was actually the aftermath you ought to worry about, and he knew that usually, after 5 days since the last occurrence, he'd need to fix the flickering of the light by getting into the small space that held the pieces that made it work and give them a good kick. They were all things he'd learned over the years, and he didn't expect someone to get it, especially with no training.

Also considering the someone had washed up on shore and looked like death.

"There's been worse things on the floors. Would've been more pissed if you got it on the cot." He replied wearily, moving to retrieve what he needed. Luckily, there was baking soda left; it would at the least make things easier to sweep up. "Don't have many cots, so if you do puke again, try to aim for the floor. Much easier to clean."

He bent down with a paper towel, steeling himself before sweeping up what he could and depositing it in the trash. Then, he unceremoniously dumped the baking soda on the spot, not keen on spending another moment near it. He'd need to let it sit, and he wasn't about to complain about putting off the rest of the cleaning process longer.

"Just...don't touch that spot. And don't puke more, preferably. But if you do puke, hit the floor, and try not to fall face flat in it." He reiterated. He'd heard stories about people drowning in their puke, and a dead body was worse clean up than throw up. "That should get rid of some of the smell. With luck, at least. Get some sleep and only get up if you really need to. My rooms up the stairs if you need something."

He hoped that Sam wouldn't, but offering was the polite thing to do, he supposed.