It was only a general lack of enthusiasm that caused Mehrin to find himself back in Whitebridge after only a short time away from the region.  Shortly after the events in Shienar, Drea had chosen to disappear for a while.  "The memories... both of my parents and of... of that bastard are too much for me right now.  I need some time to myself.  Don't worry about me; I'll find you.  The world is not a large enough place to hide Mehrin Mahrvon from me for very long."  Mehrin replayed those words in his mind nearly as often as he replayed the good times he'd had with his daughter.  A few people glanced at him, then hastily stepped away; Mehrin's face had contorted into a glare that promised agonizing death to anyone in his way.  First he'd lost his Renalie, and now Drea had left him.  His brother had a lot to answer for.

 

Ayrik.  Ayrik Drayven.  A Darkfriend and worse.  He could channel, apparently.  The fact that he shared his face with the man was enough to make Mehrin sick.  First the man had taken his daughter out of the Citadel in the middle of the night, treating one of the best swordsmen in the Band as if he were nothing more than a dog's toy.  Then he'd found Mehrin's adoptive parents.  They had burned.  And then it was Drea's mother and father.  Mehrin could still remember the look on Drea's face as she'd examined the nearly-intact skin of her father shortly after her burned and scarred mother had died, rasping in agony, in her arms.

 

A cloud drifted over the sun, temporarily casting the world into shadow, which deepened the darkness around Mehrin's face.  Dark could have described Mehrin before, but now he had the gaunt look of a man who was too old for his age.  The black leather hat and cloak he wore showed cracks in the leather that crisscrossed the various scarring caused by years of hard use and deflected weapons.  Lines showed around his eyes, making the age-puckered scar running across his eye and down to his chin even uglier than it should have been.  Too many years of fighting and worry and command.  A man ten years older than Mehrin's thirty-five years looked out of the mirror at him every morning.

 

The sudden sounds of activity started Mehrin out of his brooding.  He was at the docks.  Not a bad place to be, actually.  He needed to continue his search.  Common sense screamed to Mehrin that Renalie was dead, but hope made him keep going.  That thought brought a grim smile to his face.  Hope.  It was the ultimate in human delusions: it gave strength, but it could so easily be made into a weakness.

 

A sudden noise behind Mehrin made him whirl about, cloak swirling as he hastily drew the massive claymore from over his shoulder.  A few dock workers leaped away from him, revealing a shattered crate on the paved ground.  No cause for alarm here.  Wistfully, Mehrin examined the blade.  Forged by a master swordsmith, the claymore had seen Mehrin through more than fifteen years of hard combat and hard life.  Its blade, though old, was just as fine now as it was the day it was forged.  Orin Malon had known what he was doing.  Grounding the blade between the cobblestones, Mehrin once again cast his eyes over the docks.  He would find a ship and let it take him wherever they were going.

 

A captain and crew that wouldn't irritate him would be nice, as well.

Having just completed a successful trade, Mara had decided to take a walk over the docks. The dark-skinned Tairen woman was just looking for something to pass the time -- be it a drinking contest or a tavern fight, or both -- as cargo was being unloaded from her ship and, more importantly, money loaded on board from which a section would be used to buy food and drinkable water with, blahblah... It was a whole mess she couldn't be bothered with, and Timeon was far better managing money than she was.

 

A sudden noise to her right made her look at a few dockworkers to her side, the way they were looking at her making her think they thought of her as something other than a ship's captain. Normally she'd set them straight right there and now, but she was cut short by more movement in the corner of her eye, showing an older man wielding a large claymore. Instinctively, her own cutlass flew to her hands, holding it gripped in both hands for the increased grip she knew she'd need against a heavy-looking blade like that.

 

As the man grounded his blade again, she put the cutlass back behind her belt. Though there was no sheath, her long coat and high boots were made of good leather, and the angle at which it sloped away from her body prevented the blade from nicking her legs. As a result, the naked blade acted like a warning that she would not hesitate to use it on someone believing her an easy mark for some coins... and more.

 

- "So, y'expectin' trouble or jus scarin' the landfolk fer fun?"

 

To be honest, she felt relieved that the man had backed down again. There was something about the way he had held the blade, the speed at which he wielded it that was making her nervous. So, she had decided to relieve the tension her usual way, by making a joke about it. Gneerally, people would laugh, breaking the ice for a tankard or two, during which the both of them would at least get acquainted to the point where they'd not try to attack each other anymore. That, or she just wanted a reason to get drunk. Probably the latter.

 

 

Mara Novares

Pirate, Captain, Trader

"So, y'expectin' trouble or jus scarin' the landfolk fer fun?"

 

Mehrin turned his head to the woman- more a girl than a woman, to be fair- and examined her in a practiced way.  Cutlass-wielder, probably employed on one of these riverboats.  She held herself as if she was a fighter... rather, how she felt a fighter would hold themselves.  A quiet voice in Mehrin's head wondered just how many fights she'd seen.  Giving her a nod, Mehrin replied, "When you've seen as many things as I have, girl, you expect trouble behind every blade of grass."

 

Hefting the blade, Mehrin returned it to its habitual place on his back as he turned to face the dark-skinned girl.  Probably Tairen, he thought idly.  "Maybe you can help me.  I'm looking for a good ship upon which to book passage south.  I'm not concerned with any specific port."

Mara considered the offer, reassessing the man's abilities with a sword again. He definitely knew more about swords than she likely ever would, just the way he was standing made it look as if his blade was half-drawn already. Smirking, she realised the old saying was true that traders never saw problems, just opportunities.

 

- "Well... 's a matter o' fact ah happen ta know one such ship sailin' south. Unloadin' tho, should be done by nightfall."

 

She took a few steps towards Mehrin, hands where he could see them of course -- though accustomed to danger, she was far from suicidal -- before stopping a few feet from the man so that she stood within reach of his massive blade. There, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and looked him in the face, voice as calm as if the incident earlier had never happened. Putting herself at a deliberate disadvantage had managed to form some degree of trust where there was none, and she knew she needed that the most now.

 

- "Lessee... Ah happen ta know the cap'n o' that vessel, 'n ah might get ya on board, but ah'd need ta know what yer offerin' as passage."

 

The smirk on her face did little to hide her amusement. What would the look on Mehrin's face be when he'd realise he would be talking to a ship captain now? She had played that card before, it had managed to get her out of trouble with the authorities a couple of times as well as no one really expected a woman of her age to be a captain, but those were the facts and she intended to row with the oars she'd been given.

 

 

Mara

Ageism FTW!

Mehrin smiled.  "You know, I knew a woman once who spoke much like you do.  Tairen, she was.  If there's one thing that Tairen women do, it's fight."  He sighed, nostalgia turning bittersweet.  "That's neither here nor there, though.  I can afford passage with coin, if that's what you would prefer.  However, I can also offer my services aboard as a guard."  Now that Mehrin thought about it, the woman was quite similar to Anya.  She was always a lot more confident than she had any right to be.  Another smile crossed his face, a mildly unpleasant smile that twisted the scar across his left eye in even more unpleasant ways.  "Of course," he said smugly, "I could always offer training.  If you're any indication of the rest of the crew of this ship of your's, I'm surprised that you haven't been overrun by pirates."

 

He removed his hat, casually fanning his face.  Then he stopped.  "Just out of curiosity," Mehrin mused, "why am I addressing a little cabin girl instead of the captain of the vessel in question?  It isn't commonplace for the hirelings to speak on the commander's behalf."  I should know, he added mentally.

 

Mehrin

Irony FTW

After hearing her be called a cabin girl, Mara burst out laughing. It took a while to get herself back in control, and when she was done she had to wipe a tear from her eye while catching her breath before she could offer Mehrin an explanation.

 

- "Heh, jus' recalled somethin' 'bout traders Timeon used ta say. Won't say wha' it is, but les' jus' say yer not the only one makin' tha mistake."

 

Taking another deep breath, she tapped her chest with her index finger, still sporting a wide grin on her face. It would be amusing to see Mehrin's reaction, it had managed to get her a couple of good trades moving in when they were trying to adjust their tactics. She just hadn't expected it to work on him as well.

 

- "As fer the cap'n, thas me. Majority vote o' the crew, o' course. As fer how... Well, ah've a sixth sense fer dodgin' trouble, and they respect that. They's better blades than i am tho, but it so happens ah've been lookin' fer someone ta keep their heads from swellin'. Kick their arse from 'ere to Tear and ye've got yerself a ship."

 

She finished the last part of her sentence with a wink in Mehrin's direction. Of course, Mehrin would be on board to train her crew and give them something to work towards rather than pummel them indefinately, and of course she'd try to catch one or two lessons of her own if she could fit it into her schedule -- captains needed to be everywhere at once, after all, especially when her crew didn't suspect it -- but it should be fun to watch them struggle to keep up with this guy. Kept them nice and sharp, after all.

 

 

Mara

Her crew's been slacking off of late

Mehrin blinked.  That was all that he would allow himself to do.  I'm out of practice, he thought, if I didn't catch that.  However, it was never good to let on to the other party that they had managed to cause a lot of surprise.  Therefore, the blink would have to suffice.  "Missy, I believe that you've got yourself a mercenary.  I am, however, a bit worried about your crew."  Mehrin consciously left the reasons unspoken.  If the woman thought she was dealing with a regular swordsman, all the better.  As all truly great fighters did- Mehrin did not consider blademasters among regular fighters, as they were of a different breed altogether- he worked to limit himself to appearing normal.  "Lead the way, captain."

 

As they walked, Mehrin worked his mind around the situation.  As a captain, this young woman would have to show some toughness as well as her 'sixth sense' for trouble.  That meant that he couldn't just waylay her upon arrival to this ship of her's.  However, Mehrin knew that the best way to teach people was to make sure they wanted what you had to teach, and the only way to truly do that was to show them that they did not know it.  An idea forming at the back of his mind, Mehrin wondered how well the crew was trained, and more importantly, how many proud young men were a part of it.  It would be one of the proud, boastful ones that would take the fall.  He couldn't risk it for the captain; if they rose against her, it wouldn't work out well for him in the end.  Mehrin smiled as he stepped onto the gangplank.  As the Band's motto said, it was time to toss the dice.

 

Striding onto the deck as if the ship was his, Mehrin looked around at the various sailors, gauging them, before he finally spoke.  "All right, you dirty sons of maggots!  My name is Mehrin Mahrvon, and I'm here to be your royal pain in the buttocks for the duration of my stay.  The captain's hired me on, so if you want to make a complaint, you can bloody well do it to her!  Now, who is the biggest, meanest, nastiest fighter on this worm-riddled dinghy?"  Silence.  An evil smirk crawled across Mehrin's face as he surveyed the dumbstruck crew.  A long-time sergeant, yelling at underlings was easier than breathing.  There were still no volunteers.  "You flamin' well have to be joking right now!  Are you telling me that there are no bloody fighters in this whole bloody crew?  Blood and ashes, you're a waste of space, the lot of you!"

 

"And you think you're better, mud-kisser?"  We have a winner, Mehrin thought evilly.  A young man with several scars across his arms, probably from knife fighting, stood and squared his shoulders.  He was taller than Mehrin, but not as broad.  And he had a cutlass.  It would at least be a fair- heh!- fight.  "I think you'd best start walkin' smaller, old man."  Ah, always the kids.

 

"Thirty-five," Mehrin muttered.  "Although, that shouldn't stop a strapping young lad like yourself.  You bloody well disagree with my opinion, then prove me wrong.  Knock me on my arse, if you can.  Hell, you can use that little toothpick of your's to help.  Do it, you flaming coward!"  That got him.  Out of the edges of Mehrin's peripheral vision, he saw many of the older crew members shaking their heads.  They knew trouble when they saw it, and they believed that they saw it clad in black leather on their ship.  They haven't seen anything yet.  The boy stood gaping for a few moments before finally deciding on a course of action.  Raising his hands in what he must have thought was a proper fighting style, he advanced on Mehrin as if he was taking part in a Sunday contest, all rules and points.

 

Mehrin had never been allowed to participate in the Sunday fighting contests; he had always felt that the only rule in a fight involved causing a large amount of damage to your opponent in as little time as possible.

 

As the man advanced, Mehrin stepped in close and raised his knee sharply.  "Wrong move," he whispered to the man, whose face had just become extremely pale.  "Now, do it properly, as if you wanted to kill me."  This meant waiting for a few minutes while the man worked to regain his breath.  When he did, though...  Bellowing his defiance, the man drew his cutlass and charged Mehrin, who stood still, waiting and grinning.  Just as the man swung, he leaped into action.  Pivoting on his heel, Mehrin seized the man's wrist, using the momentum of his swing to spin him in a circle.  It was then but the work of a moment to kick him in the seat of his pants, knocking him off balance.  As he staggered away, another sharp kick to the leg sent him tumbling to the deck.  Mehrin stepped away, walking across the deck towards the gangplank.  "Now listen up!  Your captain tells me you've all been getting soft, and I'm here to change that.  You don't like it, you can bloody well throw yourself in the river!  Now, have I made myself-"

 

The footsteps on the deck were all the warning that Mehrin had.  Sidestepping, the claymore on his back seemed to fly into his hand as he turned to face the charging man.  He was swinging wildly, relying on his flurry of strikes to bring Mehrin down.  Smiling, Mehrin defended each strike, the heavy claymore beginning to dance in his hands.  Finally, their blades locked.  Stepping close, Mehrin whispered, "My turn."  Faster than the man could blink, Mehrin's left hand had left the hilt of the sword, pressing against the flat of the blade.  The man staggered back, only to raise the cutlass in order to sloppily deflect Mehrin's downward swing.  This only served to create an upward swing on the other side of his body, which he still deflected.  The tip of the claymore bit into the deck, and Mehrin stepped into the man, the heavy pommel of his sword striking the man in the belly.  As the air left him, he bent forward, only to find the blade of a knife touching the tip of his nose.  "You can stop now," Mehrin said coldly.  Lowering his voice, he added, "Well fought.  You have promise."

 

Stepping away, Mehrin raised his voice once again.  "Any questions?"

Mara watched the man blink, a sign of surprise so brief she would have missed it had she not been looking for it. There was nothing in his words that indicated the admission had taken him off guard, which told her he had a large amount of self control, in turn further confirming her initial assessment of his skill with a blade. One could tell a good swordsman from an average one by looking how well they could keep themselves under control. After all, 'if one didn't master himself, how could he master a blade?'

 

Shaking her head, she motioned for Mehrin to follow her as she started walking to her ship. Quoting the old boatswain indeed, she'd be starting to look like him next. She supressed the urge to laugh imagining herself walking on deck with that cane of his, tapping knots she'd believe not to be tied down correctly. Getting her mind back to the matter at hand, she tried to lift some of the concern Mehrin was feeling about her crew.

 

- "Nah, dun' worry 'bout it. If yer half 's good as ah think y'are, ye'll do fine. Ah jus' need 'em able ta survive wha'e'er trouble they get 'emselves inta."

 

As the two of them boarded the ship, she noticed the older crewmembers standing back a little, their previous experience with the people their Captain would occasionally drag on board still well known to them. Some were gathering together, already making silent wagers on which of the 'greens' would be the first to step up and likely get his ass handed to him. Mehrin seemed to waste little time provoking her crew, so she leaned against the poopdeck, crossing her arms to watch the show.

 

"Any questions?"

 

- "Aye, ah believe it's me turn next."

 

As the young man limped back into the crowd, Mara calmly started walking towards Mehrin, stopping a couple of feet away from him. It was an old agreement between her and her crew that she would be the first to spar whomever she would bring on board to train them. She might not be the best blade amongst them, but it was only fair that she would go through this as well.

 

 

Mara

Ready?

Anyone who could have seen Mehrin's face would have seen the sudden flash of surprise.  He had not expected this.  Surprised twice in one day?  You're getting soft in your old age, man.  Out loud, he said, "Very well.  Choose your weapon, training or edged, and let me know when you're ready."  After speaking, Mehrin cast his eyes about the ship to find a blunted weapon, a bit of lath, anything that he could use in lieu of his own weapon.  He'd had enough time to study her on the way to the ship.  She didn't move right to be an experienced fighter, which meant that using live steel would be twice as much work.  He could always go with the whip, but the deck was far too small to make that an effective weapon.  Hand-to-hand would probably work.  His face turned towards the dock.  "There we go," he muttered.

 

It was the work of a couple short minutes to reach the dock and, subsequently, the barge docked on the other side.  Dropping a Tairen crown into the stunned crewman's hand, Mehrin turned and strode back to the ship, snapping the just-purchased mop off just above the head.  Back on deck, he quickly discarded his own gear, leaving himself only the clothes on his back.  Doing a couple quick stretches with the mop handle, Mehrin grinned confidently at the young woman, twisting the long scar across his left eye unpleasantly.  "Whenever you're ready, Captain," he said, hefting the mop handle as if it was a light two-handed sword.

Mara smirked in response to the look of surprise, drawing a training version of her own cutlass. The real weapon rested against the mast just a little bit further, but given that this was a sparring match she didn't want to risk injuring Mehrin this early into their trip. Not that she could ever hope to beat him in a straight fight judging by what she had just seen, but people got lucky -- and unlucky! -- sometimes. Better safe than sorry in any case.

 

The warrior returned, wielding... a mop of all things. She resisted the urge to laugh, and a brief glance at the equipment he had discarded told her that he had picked his weapon according to the same reasoning she had used to pick hers. Still, she would fight to win, she nor her crew would accept any half-assed attempts regardless of how good the trainers she brought on board were. If she would do her best, she could expect others to, it was as simple as that.

 

"Whenever you're ready, Captain,"

 

She returned his confidant grin with one of her own, holding the weapon out in a stance she had seen someone she had invited on board use. Chances were she would have it partially wrong, and if it had a name she was unaware of it, but it was better than nothing. As far as Mehrin's scar was concerned, in the few years she had spent on board she had seen more than her fair share of scars. Too many to be fazed by the way his face twisted as he grinned, anyway.

 

- "Be'er watch it, ah'll be landin a blow soon."

 

Some men in the crew grinned along with her, with others being too busy taking bets to pay much attention to the deck. By the time she charged, aiming a horizontal slash at his wrist they were all looking though, waiting to see what this new guy could actually do. Most took the opportunity to glimpse their soon-to-be opponent's style before it would be used against them.

 

 

Mara

On the offensive

There was a common failure amongst the few Blademasters that Mehrin had met, and that was underestimating the amateur swordsman.  More than one had been injured- sometimes seriously- because they failed to understand the one rule about fighting an amateur.  Amateurs didn't play by the rules.  They didn't know the rules.  That made them dangerous to everybody.

 

Unless the swordsman in question had been forced to clear his own path.

 

The young woman's stance must have been copied- poorly- from some other swordsman.  Who knew?  Maybe the man hadn't been much more than an amateur himself.  Mehrin was no amateur.  This meant that, when her strike came, Mehrin was more than ready for it.  Flicking his wrists to bring the 'tip' of the mop parallel to the ground, Mehrin caught the young woman's blow, deflecting it up and around.  As momentum carried the practice blade down the other side of his body, Mehrin tapped the young woman under the chin with the mop handle.  "You're stance isn't balanced quite right; your body betrays your actions well before you strike."

 

Stepping back, Mehrin nodded to the young woman.  "Turn your front foot towards me a little further, and try again.  See if you can actually make me break a sweat."

 

OOC: If you wish to act out any of Mehrin's actions, go ahead.  He won't attack much yet; he'd mostly defend and take mental notes for a little bit, and any attacks would be meant to gauge Mara's defense.

Even though she had expected him to be good, Mehrin's counterattack still managed to surprise her. Her blow was deflected, and the momentum of the heavy blade made her unable to alter its course to form a quick defense, making the return blow inevitable. The gentle tap on her chin with the improvised weapon told her more of Mehrin's fighting ability than the degree of skill he had shown in deflecting her attack: restraint was an art in itself, it seemed.

 

She followed his instructions, turning her foot towards him a little, and spent the next moment settling into a stance that felt comfortable to her. She altered the way she held her training cutlass as well, now holding it with both hands. Giving the man a short nod to indicate she was ready, she attacked again, this time using the two handed grip on the weapon to improve speed rather than power, opting for short strikes and stabs as opposed to the wide slash she had used against him in the beginning.

 

 

Mara

Learning

The advice Mehrin had given helped the young woman hide her intentions, though Mehrin knew that she was probably feeling rather awkward.  Trying something new normally took some time to get used to.  However, she was compensating for it by making rapid strikes and stabs.  That's better, Mehrin thought.  This one might prove to be capable of learning something.  With a practiced ease learned from training more men and women than he cared to remember, Mehrin settled himself into a defensive mode, the bit of wood in his hand blurring as he blocked and deflected.  A stab at his left thigh was send wide.  There was an instant where the counterstrike was beautifully available, an upward swing that would have opened the woman's belly, had the weapon been real.  Mehrin left it alone.  There was no need to humiliate the young woman any more for now.

 

The strikes came quickly.  A deflected cut to his arm became a sidestep to avoid a kick to the knee.  His mop handle hummed as it cut the air, meeting the young woman's weapon as it arched upward at his guts with a loud clack.  Mehrin spun away, resetting himself a short distance away.  "Nice exchange, very informative," he said, waving for the woman to attack him again.

Mara watched Mehrin spin away, using the time he gave her to regain some of her stamina again. Out of all the people she had fought so far, he was definitely one of the stronger ones, though that of course would be an opinion she knew to be based on her own inexperience with a blade. From the lack of counterblows, she concluded that the strategy she was trying gave him more trouble than the strong slashes, so she decided to keep at it with them, at least for now.

 

She charged in again, starting to get more accustomed to the new placement of her feet, which in turn allowed her to focus on the man's weapon better. He was faster than she was, and quite a bit stronger besides, but her objective was to make him sweat, and make him sweat she shall. A few more rapid strikes followed as she tried to make her attack pattern random and unpredictable, occasionally following up with a low leg sweep when she believed his weapon momentarily locked with hers.

 

After a while, her arms started to hurt, reducing the strength with which she could hold onto the weapon, but due to a sprap of cloth wound around the hilt the sweat on her palms didn't make the hilt slippery. She was sweating quite a bit now, but the determination in her eyes would tell Mehrin that she wouldn't be giving up anytime soon. Occasionally, she'd glance at his forehead for signs of beading sweat, but didn't cease or slow down on the constant rain of attacks with which she tried to pelt Mehrin.

 

 

Mara

Will make you sweat yet!

Practicing with a beginning swordsman is more difficult for the upper-level fighters than many think.  The very nature of the opponent's rudimentary skill leads to an inevitable need to override the killing urge.

 

Mehrin was beginning to remember why he hated training rookies.  He was only half-conscious of the activity around him, the strikes barely registering in his mind as he set about to defend them.  His respiration was barely up.  The young woman was more and more promising, showing some degrees of training at one moment, then revealing the fatal flaws that her previous trainers had taught her the next.  Mehrin made a mental note of each one: an over-extension here, poor footing there, poor conservation of energy overall.  At the back of his mind, Mehrin found himself suddenly irritated by the lack of space on the ship; there would be no room for traditional stamina-building exercises.

 

Finally, Mehrin decided that enough was enough.  The young woman was beginning to grow weary, and she would probably end up collapsed on the deck from exhaustion if he let this go on for too much longer.  He just had to find the right time to-

 

The upward-crossing swing that would have cut across Mehrin's belly was all that Mehrin could have asked for.  Instead of deflecting the blade as usual, he levered it high, stepping close to the young woman as he did so.  A small grin crossed his face as he looked down into the face of his opponent.  "My turn," he said lightly, eyes twinkling mischievously.  With that, Mehrin pushed the young woman away, her feet drumming a tattoo across the deck as she caught her balance.

 

She regained her footing just as the first blows began to fall.  Not too much yet.  Start slow, see how long she can hold against quickening attacks.

During the spar, if it could be called that, Mara had gradually slipped into the habit of being on the offensive. Despite every blow she rained down on the swordsman be effortlessly blocked, deflected or simply sidestepped she kept at it, knowing her attacks were starting to slow down. It came as a surprise when Mehrin countered a swing of hers, pushing her back across the deck of the ship.

 

She tried her best not to fall, going so far as to use the tip of her wooden training weapon as a crutch to help her break the momentum she had. Almost as soon as she turned around, she had to raise said weapon again to block a blow that would have caught her across the shoulder. Had she still been holding the weapon with one hand, she doubted she'd have managed the speed and strength to stop it.

 

More attacks followed, and it was all she could do to keep that mop off of her. At first, she watched Mehrin's movements to see if she could gleam a trick or two for her own use, but as both his movements started quickening and her own slowing down due to fatigue starting to catch up, it was all she could do to keep her blade intercepting his attacks. Not the type to give up though, she clenched her jaw and simply kept at it, refusing to give up or call a time out no matter how fast his movements would become.

 

Some might call it stubborn, but she hadn't gotten to where she was now by giving up easily.

 

 

Mara

Not surrendering

OOC: Sorry, really busy time of year for me.

 

IC:  He had to end this.  The girl was a captain on this ship, and at her age, that meant that she didn't know when enough was enough.  However, he had to do it delicately.  She may be captain, but there was always some fool who would go for the throat, if the opportunity presented itself.  He could always let her win, of course, but there was no lesson in that.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, something protested his inattention to the fight.  Something else, though, must have been feeling helpful.  She's tired.  She's making more mistakes.  Use one.

 

His momentum was bringing Mehrin back around for a downward strike, which the young woman defended against quite well.  At the last moment, though, Mehrin pulled back on the swing, barely tapping the young woman's practice sword.  The result was typical.  A light blow that came when she expected a heavier blow was hard to recover from.  The mop handle rose and spun a circle, Mehrin's hands dancing around the 'hilt' until his right hand came to rest on what would have been the pommel.  The tip, though, had come to rest against the young woman's throat.  Again, instinct cried out.  Even with a mop handle, he could kill her from this position.  Is that really all you think about, man?  It should not have been an effort to withdraw the weapon, yet there was some hesitancy in Mehrin as he moved.

 

In the silence, Mehrin casually wiped his forehead with the back of a hand, then shook his head.  "Nothing.  Better luck next time."  No need to mention the slight cling of his shirt against his chest.  It wasn't visible.  Besides, it would give everybody in the crew something to aspire to.  "By the time I'm done with you, though, all of you..."  Mehrin's gaze took in the entire gathered crew.  "When I'm done, you'll all be able to.  As for your captain, here-" Mehrin saluted, the mop handle held parallel to his body as if he was actually holding a sword- "well fought."  In a somewhat quieter voice, he added, "If you don't mind me asking a personal question, ma'am, what is your name?"

OOC: No probs.

 

IC:

 

Mara was breathing heavily, trying to give the impression that she could keep this up for hours, though both her and likely Mehrin as well knew better. She was starting to make more mistakes, mistakes which she was trying to cover up for by making wider swings, or allowing the momentum of the sword to flow into the next attack or block. Predictable, true, but it did great in just keeping her weapon moving with little effort. She brought her sword up to block his downward stroke, wincing as she noticed the feint too late.

 

The weapon spun in his hands, and she found herself with the proverbial weapon at her throat. Instinctively, she jumped back, however her knees decided to pick that moment to give way, causing her to land with her back against the mast. Though she managed to remain upright, she winced just a little more that she should have, took a little longer than expected to catch her breath again.

 

- "Name's Mara. Mara Novares. Need ta... Check on sumtin."

 

Though she did her best to mask it, her voice sounded a bit forced. In her favor however, it didn't sound like there was anything unusual going on, in the sense that a hint of casualness betrayed ì that whatever happened just then had happened countless times before. Walking away, she gave Timeon, the ship's doctor and her second in command, a stern look, and he followed her into the captain's cabin without a word, closing the door behind them.

 

 

Mara

Called a time-out

Mehrin watched the captain stride into the cabin, followed shortly by another man who Mehrin assumed was a second-in-command or a lover.  Either way, what was going on behind the cabin door was none of his business.  The show over, the crew was beginning to get back into the swing of things.  Mehrin collected his gear, donning the cloak and hat that had become synonymous with his name during his time in the Band, and looked about at the faces of the crewmen.  Surely there had to be somebody else among the crew who knew what was going on besides the captain.  Speaking as a commander, there had to be somebody in the crew who knew what was going on better than the captain.  Now, where was a sergeant when he needed one.  Mehrin's eyes caught on a man, probably close in age to himself, maybe a touch older.  His entire demeanor almost screamed, "Non-commissioned officer."  Dodging his way between scurrying crew members, Mehrin leaned against the rail next to the man.  "Come off too strong?"

 

The man smirked slightly and replied, "Nah, ye got yerself in good.  The crew's not likely ta rob ya blind, now."

 

Mehrin returned the smirk.  "Glad to hear it.  Say, about how much time would you say I've got before the ship sets sail?"

 

"Ah, one of the 'portant questions.  Ya got a fair while yet, lad."  Leaning closer, the man whispered, "Ye'll have ta tell me where ya learnt to swing a sword the way ya do one o' these days."

 

Small touches of memory caused the smirk to fade from Mehrin's face.  "Lots of places," he replied.  "Truth be told, I'd rather not have learned the damn thing; the lessons were never pleasant."

 

"Ah see," the man replied.  It was clear that the conversation was over.

 

Taking only long enough to stow his bag for the time being, Mehrin rushed off the waiting ship and back into town, sweeping past merchants and beggars and toughs.  His ears and nose found what he was looking for before his eyes.  The smell of hot iron and the clang of the hammer against the anvil drew Mehrin like a lodestone draws iron filings to the forge.  "Pardon, master smith," he called, getting the man's attention, "but I have a rush job that needs to be handled, and I'm willing to pay for it..."

 

An hour later, Mehrin strode back aboard the ship, a weighted training sword similar to his claymore strapped to his back.  Now he was ready.

The cabin door opened again, and Timeon emerged, holding a bucket in one hand as he opened the door adjacent to it that led to the crew's quarters. If Mehrin would be looking his way, he'd notice a pile of bloody bandages in the bucket in the brief moment he was outside, but none of the crew was looking up, as if they were used to the sight.

 

A moment later, Mara emerged, looking slightly paler than first but otherwise fine. Stretching out, she took a deep breath before walking over the deck, checking if the crew had prepared the ship to disembark yet. The way she treated her crew was different as well, not raising her voice once, and being more gentle with the sailors than they were amongst themselves. To her, they were her family, and she treated them in much the same way she'd treat a brother or cousin. Though she held the final say in what happened on the ship -- and they knew it -- she still valued their opinion.

 

Walking over to the bow of the ship, she turned around and sat down, watching the last of the preparations being made. Rope and sails were checked already, so unless she missed her guess it shouldn't take more than ten minutes before everyone was ready. She could use the time to gather some of her strength. Spotting Mehrin, she raised an eyebrow at the massive training weapon on his back though, and soon changed into a grin and a look that said 'I see what you did there', though she made no move to get up yet.

 

 

Mara

Resting a bit

When Mehrin returned to the ship, it was to see that the hustle that he'd seen before departing had neared its conclusion.  Loose cargo that had been on the deck appeared to be stowed away, and the rigging appeared to be... well, different.  "Face it, Mehr," he muttered, "You've got no idea what's going on here."  A few of the crew spared him a glance before resuming their work.  A man talking to himself was something to be avoided.

 

Near the... the...  Dammit!  What is the pointy, front end of a damn ship called?  Near front end of the ship, Mehrin spotted Captain Novares taking her ease.  A fighter's sharp eye for detail registered her physical condition before his rational mind realized what he was seeing.  Pale and slightly wan, the woman Mehrin was seeing was not the same as the woman he'd just sparred with.  If she has some problem that'll make workin' with her dangerous...  In his mind's eye, Mehrin saw his free ride fading into the distance.

 

Picking his way through the bustling crew, Mehrin sat on the deck near the captain and leaned against the railing, resting the weighted weapon across his knees.  He then spent another moment openly examining her, dispassionately noting more details of her current state.  "You're not lookin' too good, Captain," he muttered as he shifted his shoulders a bit.  Politeness never crossed his mind; that was reserved for diplomacy, and his departure from the Band had eliminated that from his foreseeable future.  "You okay, or did I work you too hard for a test spar?"

Mara looked to the side, noticing Mehrin speak up. For a second, she wanted to turn on him for thinking she couldn't handle a spar like that, but then realised that he wasn't a part of her crew, and simply wouldn't have known about her wounds. Her crew knew, but it was on a 'don't ask, don't tell' basis and therefore wouldn't have felt the need to enlighten Mehrin about it either. Taking a deep breath, she looked over the river as the ship made its way over the river.

 

- "Nah, 's not that... Hit me back against the mast, opened up an old wound o' mine. Timeon just patched me up, just feelin' green for 'nother couple a minutes."

 

Taking a deep breath, she tried to taste the air for signs of salt, but found nothing yet. Of course she wouldn't, they were still heading towards the Erinin, and would turn south from there on to end up in Tear. Though she knew the winds at the coast to be able to turn quite nasty, she doubted it could carry the scent of salt water this far north.

 

- "'N all, no need ta worry 'bout it. Spar was fine, and ah've lost more blood guttin' fish."

 

Truth was, she was looking much better now, though still a little light headed. From the way she talked about it, it didn't seem like it was a rare occurance for her or her crew, as if it was just something that happened every once in a while and had to be dealt with.

 

 

Mara

A little bloodloss, nothing bad

Mehrin nodded, the only reply he gave right away.  A relatively old injury, then, but not so old that it was completely healed.  It wouldn't help the healing process that it had broken open again, either.  The cavalier attitude that the captain displayed, though, suggested that this was nothing out of the ordinary.  He decided to leave it alone.

 

Again, Mehrin found himself examining the ship.  Without the space he was accustomed to having, any stamina exercise would have to be through physical labor instead of the usual running and obstacle courses with which he was used to working.  Of course, he could make the crew perform his daily exercises, but that would not be to their benefit when it came time to work the sword.  Mehrin had tailored his exercise to work directly into his sword technique.  A quiet thought was nagging at the back of Mehrin's mind, but he couldn't draw it out fully.

 

Leaving the thought alone to coax it out of hiding, Mehrin shifted his attention back to the captain.  "How tight is your daily regimen, Captain?  Will there be time to work in training in shifts, or will I be better off working with groups of two or three at a time whenever they have a free moment?"

Mara looked at the swordsman again as he asked a question about when to best train her men, thinking about a way to best fit it into their schedule so that it would not interfere with their duties. After a few careful considerations, she made a decision.

 

- "Ah work in three shifts per day: One on duty, one off duty an' one in reserve. Tell ya what, me lads in reserve are all yours to train in groups of half the shift in case ah need 'em. Gives 'em enough time ta heal the bruises off duty, watch some spars the next day instead of bein' in 'em too. How's that sound?"

 

She looked at Mehrin, waiting for his feedback. Combat training wasn't something she was very familiar with, and the rotation schedule she proposed would have every man in her crew recieve training once every two days for an undisclosed amount of time. She didn't want to end up working them to death, there was still cargo to haul when they'd end up in Tear.

 

 

Mara

Ship before sword