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Tamoir stepped back with Aerion, neither of them looking at Papatuan as they began their discussion, not wanting to give her anything to work with on her side of the deal. "The ship's ready to sail. We already have a job, one with a real end and a real paycheck," he began, continuing their coded conversation. She looks safe enough but I don't know what sort of game she's running here. "I suppose we could fit her in on our schedule, but you know we're in a rush on that shipment. It's already been delayed. Do you think we should we finish that first?" I don't know what crazy that lady's been taking, and who knows if we're not about to be lead on a wild goose chase or, worse yet, turned in to the authorities.

"All right." Tamoir nodded, folding his darkly tattooed arms over his chest. "You'll have to inform them about this when they inquire as to why it took us so long." I think you're right but if you're not am I ever going to give you hell when it turns out badly for us.

"Ma'am," he stepped forward, easy smile still in place as he took Papatuan's gaze once more. "I believe my partner and I can fit you into our schedule. Shall we discuss the finer details of what you require on our ship?"

Tamoir noticed and shot a brief bemused glance at Aerion as he passed by him to untie the ship, his back to Papatuan. If their passenger disliked ocean travel as much as it appeared, they might be able to wrest a little more gold out of her by offering to sell additional comforts or even brief stops in port.

The ship no longer secured to land, he pushed it gently off of the dock, taking control of the rudder as Aerion adjusted the sail for the soft wind they wanted to catch. The two of them maneuvered away from the other ships and prying ears working with a casual concentration; this task was one they were both capable of performing nearly in their sleep. Once they were alone in the harbor, sailing quickly and smoothly over the water out into the sea Tamoir settled back, one hand still guiding the rudder and waited for Aerion to begin the serious questioning of their client.

Cael woke to the sharp pitching of the ship, the storm that had been looming on the horizon now well underway. He swallowed hard, fighting the sticky wave of nausea that was washing over him. The heavy rocking of the boat was not helping his hangover, which already seemed to be worse than normal.

Moaning slightly, he got out of the hammock, the room spinning hard and fast about him. Stumbling to the door, he made his way up the stairs, leaning heavily on the wall. His ears were ringing strangely; he would not be of any use on deck in his state; he needed to help, they were counting on him. Who was counting on him? On him...

Cael blinked hard, trying to press back the blurriness around the edges of his vision. Violet spots kept winking in and out of sight and he felt even more lightheaded than he already did when he looked at them. His scope of vision seemed to be narrowing as well, the out of focus edges growing larger even as he halted at the top of the stairs, fighting for breath.

He heard shouting and crashing waves, but it was all muffled, faint in the distance, and it took him a few moments to remember where he was and what he was doing there. Even when it came to him, it was slippery, like greased metal, and it kept falling from his mind. His thoughts themselves seemed to be falling, dropping almost as soon as they laboriously appeared. What was going on, again?

Movement. The movement caused his stomach to churn again, but it also reminded him of a purpose. He could no longer recollect if it was his purpose, but any reason at all that he could grasp onto was helpful and he staggered towards the hurrying figures, tripping and stumbling forward as another wave shook the ship, feeling the food and alcohol rise in his throat. Then without knowing how or what had happened or even how much time had elapsed, Cael was standing at the edge of the railing on the side of the ship, rain soaking him to the core--oh, the water felt so good, his skin was so hot and dry and his mouth felt cracked from the lack of it--and he felt his legs give out.

He was dimly aware of a long, spinning fall, and of the whiteness reaching up and engulfing him completely.

The sudden, and grand, explosion ringing above the din of the storm must have been, to say the least, a great scare for everyone onboard the two ships of the Black Dove and the Luciana. Well, for all but one, for he knew about it and had set it off. Even if the weather was "wet", the ship wouldn't have managed to catch fire because most of it was blown to kingdom come, more or less. From the aft and the middle wood and splinters flew out over the raging sea that suddenly seemed angry for having been bested in ferocity.

The remnants of the Dove's front was still shuddering but would soon begin to go down beneath the churning waves. What was left of the aft and middle, well... there wasn't much left but it would go down faster. The Luciana had, surprisingly, and it was very welcome for those onboard, survived without much, or almost any, scratches at all. Some pieces of wood had been thrown at it and made some marks, but that was all.

However, the two guards that Falk had stationed in the bow of the Dove would have to be ushured back over to the Navy ship, and quickly, because the heavy ropes that held together the two boats, or one and a 1/3 boats as it was now, would really soon have to be cut, unless the Luciana wanted to fight going down under with what was left of the Dove too.


Falk had, earlier, told his crew to set the course for Darsun, it was the closest barony within Asura's borders, and to not bother him since he had official matter to take care of. The fact that they had taken care of a notorious pirate crew and ship, and especially that they had a high captain in their "cargo", had to be noted down, among other things. The, so called, "boring paper work" part that the rest of them were spared, though not their vice admiral.

True, that paper work did take some time, buthe had also taken some to rest and restore his energy for what was ahead; his promise to Lance. And now that the explosion had gone off, it was time to play his part.

Making sure that he was completely dry, Falk threw on his clothes in a hurried but orderly fashion, making it seem like he had just been woken up, or disturbed, in his resting, and headed for the cabin doors. It would look odd if he didn't appear on deck on "three red (seconds)" after such a noise, after all.

((There. There's you uffing explosion. P: Happy now?))

Upon deck there was already a lot of commotion and their captain had, also, gotten out there. The rain was still pouring down, not as fiercly as before though since they were moving out of the storm but not free of it yet.

"Water, secure the ship! Air and earth, see to that those guards get back onboard right now!" Falk was moving from his cabin and up onto the upper deck that was above his quarters where the steering wheel wasm, all the while shouting his orders. "As for the rest of you, as soon as the men are back onboard, cut loose the Dove! We cannot risk her dragging us down too. Get any relevant manipulators up on deck. And hurry!"

It better be worth all this s**t, Erica, he thought grimly, because one wrong step and I might lose some of my crew OR the whole crew AND the ship... and perhaps myself and you too. Stupid little girl. Of course, the woman in question wasn't that much younger than him but... that was of little matter at the moment.

Cael woke up for a painful moment when he hit the water, the shock crashing through his body at the same time the sweet burst of relief did: he was so thirsty, the water seemed to be absorbed by his burning skin...

Then it was darkness again, and perhaps he was unconscious, or maybe his eyes were just closed. All he knew was that he could no longer see the violent gray sky and waves. Maybe he was blind. Maybe he was dead.

Then there were hands on his body, at least they might have been hands, and he could breathe again, how long had it been since he had stopped?, and water was flooding from his mouth and nose even as more water pounded down upon him. There was wood beneath him and a hand, yes, it was definitely a hand, was pounding on his back while a roar not that unlike that of the sea rushed overhead. There were probably words in it, he noted dimly, and it was probably a voice, but for the time being it made no more sense than the tearing wind.