THE DANDELIONS, GREYED AND FRAYING
leaving is always delicate. tell me you would have given anything to stay. tell me, again, anyway.
A sound from the helm catches Locust’s attention.
She does not immediately bother to investigate. A ship in the water is apt to creak, to mimic the sound of movement even if nothing is actually wandering about the boat; if she jumped at every strange noise she heard at sea during the night, she’d never sleep. (Of course, the wine that she keeps in her room and often visits before she sleeps might help – she had been more restless when she was younger.) Instead, she continues to go about her business, sorting through the crates upon crates of illegitimate, stolen, and otherwise dangerous goods stowed away on the deck. Not the most dangerous ones, mind; those were kept below. However, nothing Locust rarely trafficked in anything that was entirely harmless, so even the goods in plain sight had their secrets.
Theirs were just the harder ones to unlock.
When the sound persists, however, it strikes her that it is more like the pitter-patter of little hooves against old wood and hushed whispers. She furrows her brow, frowning, and steps back from a crate that is full of vials of sleeping poison, looking about the deck. She doesn’t see anything, but the sound seems to be coming from somewhere on the opposite side of the Strider’s mast. Lowering her skull and walking as slowly – carefully – as she could, avoiding the boards that she’d learned creaked the most terribly, she drew forward.
Who would be fool enough to sneak onto the Dark Strider? She was well-known in Denocte’s underbelly; her persistent visits to the Night Kingdom and her bloody work were fodder for plenty of interesting rumors. (The crew members that she scared off at every other port were the source of most of them, and she told herself that it was a good thing. Less work for her – when she’d still been on the Sea Star, she’d made up plenty of them herself, because she didn’t want anyone thinking that she was soft. Predictably, Golden (and Snaketongue. And Patches. Practically everyone but Sheera, when she thought about it; she was too innocent to do so, in her strange way.) had made fun of her for it, as a sign that she really was soft.)
She wasn’t so soft anymore. The light weight of her knife burns against her thigh. She creeps towards the helm, creeps up the stairs – wonders if there is really someone bold enough to try to make off with the Strider, because she can’t think of another reason why they’d be up there. (The anchor is still down, though.)
Her gaze comes to rest on a small, grey form, accompanied by an osprey. Just a kid – nothing to worry about. She looked young, and Locust couldn’t help but wonder where her parents were. (An orphan? Denocte was well-known for them.) She didn’t even look like she could fly yet.
She apparently hadn’t noticed her yet; neither had that osprey of hers. A hint of an amused smile tugs at the corners of her lips, and she leans against the wooden railing, her brows arched at the young filly – her legs crooked over the handles of the wheel, pretending to steer.
(She remembers when Maribelle was this age. The small flare of her wings, still useless. She constrains the girl to a fleeting image, shakes it off.)
“I hope you’re not planning on stowing away,” she remarks, raising her voice so she is sure that the girl will hear her above the wind. “We aren’t planning to leave the docks for a few weeks, at least.” She inclines her head at her, brows still raised expectantly.
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"Speech!" ||
