- You think that you're the man. I think, therefore, I am. -
The port - now that it can be called such - bustles with life. The Marauder is moored to the pier, her crew going about the tasks she's given them to ensure the bare bones of the port aren't the only thing they leave. If she's going to be coming back for visits, she refuses to do so with the embarrassingly thin frames of the structure, an empty shell of the hub it could be once the region is up and running. She's promised Colt she'll stay a few more days and get the final touches added, organizing supply stores and familiarizing the locals with how a real port should look.
A man moves to set a crate of alcohol in the sunlit sand just as Thal's surveying the work. Her tail flicks nearly as sharp as her words, fangs flashing with threat. "Are those ears just decorations for the hole in your head? Alcohol goes in the shade. Don't make me say it again." The heat of the day is cut down by the Deepfrost season but sweat still beads on the workers' foreheads, a reddish flush coating their skin with an ever-constant reminder that it's still a desert, a place where any and all liquid is at risk for evaporating or turning hot enough to steep tea in. If these idiots can't get that through their thick skulls, Thal has little hope for the future of this trade port.
Rolling her eyes, she adjusts her black sleeves around her elbows, nodding to a pale, gangly man. "Spook, make sure we're not losing goods because of stupidity." Not needing to wait to know her orders will be followed through, she shoots another glare at the culprit before stalking through the sand towards the other clusters of barrels, crates, and piles of supplies. Other than alcohol, the more elicit goods have already been stowed away in the dark shade of the trees, out of sight from prying eyes or prying minds. She scans the other workers, her crew interspersed amongst them as she directs or corrects their progress.
When Thal reaches the edge of the forming port, she spots where The Ark has finally docked, the red sails and skyward approach making it obvious. She narrows her eyes, the blue turning a stormy shade as she becomes suddenly aware of who walks in their midst. Refusing to let the work falter just because the infamous Captain Jack Barclay has inexplicably decided to pay the half-functioning port a visit, Thal turns back on her heels to retrace her steps and ensure her instructions are being followed this time.
It doesn't take her long to spot the silhouette of a man lounging against the tree, cigarette smoke billowing carelessly into the breeze. He exudes a kind of authority she's grown to recognize and respect - but not shy from.
Glancing once more at the maneuvering and minor construction, Thal approaches the man from the side. Her steps are unhurried, boots barely shifting the sand even as she makes no attempt to hide her intended path. Her emotions, on the other hand, are carefully contained behind the practiced mask of swagger and confidence, a single eyebrow raising as she calls out, "To what do we owe the honor of your visit?" The tilt of her head is casually curious, the glint in her eyes offering more caution and quiet scrutiny than her nonchalant stance suggests.
A man moves to set a crate of alcohol in the sunlit sand just as Thal's surveying the work. Her tail flicks nearly as sharp as her words, fangs flashing with threat. "Are those ears just decorations for the hole in your head? Alcohol goes in the shade. Don't make me say it again." The heat of the day is cut down by the Deepfrost season but sweat still beads on the workers' foreheads, a reddish flush coating their skin with an ever-constant reminder that it's still a desert, a place where any and all liquid is at risk for evaporating or turning hot enough to steep tea in. If these idiots can't get that through their thick skulls, Thal has little hope for the future of this trade port.
Rolling her eyes, she adjusts her black sleeves around her elbows, nodding to a pale, gangly man. "Spook, make sure we're not losing goods because of stupidity." Not needing to wait to know her orders will be followed through, she shoots another glare at the culprit before stalking through the sand towards the other clusters of barrels, crates, and piles of supplies. Other than alcohol, the more elicit goods have already been stowed away in the dark shade of the trees, out of sight from prying eyes or prying minds. She scans the other workers, her crew interspersed amongst them as she directs or corrects their progress.
When Thal reaches the edge of the forming port, she spots where The Ark has finally docked, the red sails and skyward approach making it obvious. She narrows her eyes, the blue turning a stormy shade as she becomes suddenly aware of who walks in their midst. Refusing to let the work falter just because the infamous Captain Jack Barclay has inexplicably decided to pay the half-functioning port a visit, Thal turns back on her heels to retrace her steps and ensure her instructions are being followed this time.
It doesn't take her long to spot the silhouette of a man lounging against the tree, cigarette smoke billowing carelessly into the breeze. He exudes a kind of authority she's grown to recognize and respect - but not shy from.
Glancing once more at the maneuvering and minor construction, Thal approaches the man from the side. Her steps are unhurried, boots barely shifting the sand even as she makes no attempt to hide her intended path. Her emotions, on the other hand, are carefully contained behind the practiced mask of swagger and confidence, a single eyebrow raising as she calls out, "To what do we owe the honor of your visit?" The tilt of her head is casually curious, the glint in her eyes offering more caution and quiet scrutiny than her nonchalant stance suggests.
Thalassa
- I'm not your friend or anything, damn -
