2022-03-07 - The Fire Ship

It begins with a sinking feeling. Sort of up, down, up, down -- oh. Oh. Ravn fancies himself a sailor, at least on a hobby level. He feels almost sheepish to not recognise that sensation right away: It's the waves rising and sinking beneath the keel. The noise is the creaking of a hull made from wood -- and a large one at that. This is definitely not his Vagabond.

The smell says it isn't. The smell says -- bloody hell and all the little saints roasting on each their own red-hot waffle iron, what in all foul smelling realities is this shit? Ravn lies for a moment in the dark, trying to get his bearings. He's a historian. He knows what a tall ship is, and he has a pretty good idea what they smelled like. Salt, and rotting water in the bilge, tar, grease, men who have never received dental care, the spice and perfume that permeates this place --

That's another cue. He's not in a hammock on the crew deck, shared with God only knows how many other sailors. He's in an alcove with a genuine feather duvet, and it reeks of perfume. He reeks of perfume. Of course. Bathing is optional and the ship's spare drinking water cannot be used for such frivolous luxury. Pray for rain, Captain Lord Applegrove, and keep a stiff upper lip.

He swings a leg out, and then the other. It's one of those, is it? Very well. At least he's spent enough time paying attention to his chosen field in history to know how to tie a bloody cravat.

Una, sadly, is in a hammock. And for one uncomfortable moment, there's a decent chance she's no longer in the hammock, as she jolts awake. Thankfully, the boat rocks in just the right direction, and she's thrown back into its knotted rope embrace (which is, for the record, slightly less than comfortable). "Ow!" escapes before the redhead can register that this is not her own bed.

Or that she's wearing a threadbare shirt and trousers, her boobs bound within every inch of their life and her hair-- cut short. She spends a couple of moments mentally assessing the situation. Bound breasts, men's clothes, short hair... okay. She's pretending to be a man again?

Gingerly, she sits up, and manoeuvres herself free. She's surrounded by a sea of hammocks, all of them full of sleeping men, and that's more than mildly uncomfortable. Time for a strategic retreat, hopefully to fresher air.

To the deck!

Wow, what a view from up here. Ocean for miles in one direction, port nearby in another, the seagulls lazily circling, and --

Okay, wait.

Ariadne blinks and immediately looks down at herself. Bound breasts, yep, ow -- pretty well-worn vest overtop a multi-darned long-sleeved shirt, trousers tucked into boots (the left of which desperately needs new ties, but who can afford new ties these days, she's going to have to see if she can win some at the betting table), little knife at her belt (which is tied, not buckled, what is this madness). Where is her hair. A soft sound of horror leaves her as she reaches up. Oh -- oh, that's short. She almost loses her wide-brimmed hat to a gust of wind and smacks her hand down on her head to keep the hat there. A hard grip of the crow's nest siding and she realizes she's on a goddamn era-accurate wooden ship.

And it's high up. How is she getting down?

"Motherfucker," she mutters to herself. There's the rigging -- it's called rigging, right? The netting. She'll climb down there, no biggie, it's not like the ship might heel and she'll go flying like some Mythbusters dummy doll into the drink. Not at all. It takes her a bit and the ragged fingerless gloves help against splinters and rope-burn, but there she goes -- accidentally grabbing a spare line and making some sustained yodeling sound of fear as it gives to drop her down towards the deck on a pendulum's swing. Her boots hit the deck and tumptumptump, dodge to avoid one of the masts and a fellow sailor, and she slumps against a barrel, holding her chest.

She's beauty (not really, not like this, she's trying to blend in), she's grace (accidentally, that was totally a shriek), and she somehow doesn't end up on her face. SUCCESS.

Ravn knows how to tie a cravat. Convincing himself to go anywhere except into a dark corner wearing silk knee breeches like these, however? Let's just say, he better not get too excited about anything or this is going to be interesting. His only hope is that the navy blue coat will cover the white breeches and ditto justeaucorps at most angles -- or at least the most critical parts. He feels his chin -- smooth as a baby's butt. His ears are cold; he reaches up -- only to find that his hair is short, very short.

Right. The thing that looks like an old-fashioned powdered wig over there is an old-fashioned powdered wig. It smells like flour when he pulls it on. It itches. Not a fan. It's a good thing that his hands know what they're doing; he can see -- in the full size mirror, what the fresh vanity hell is this? -- that he's managed to dress up like -- a British Navy Captain, in the first half of the 18th century.

Well, Captain Lord Applegrove tells himself. It could be worse. I could be a British brass monkey, in the first half of the 18th century.

"I saw that," says Una, who has clambered up the ladder that leads up from the lower decks just in time to catch Ariadne's descent. "You look--" They both look. Some things don't need proper descriptors: they just are.

Lower toned, "I haven't spent a lot of time on board bo-- no, this is a ship, right?-- ships before, but I'm pretty sure I can't possibly manage to fit in with the crew. I can't swab a deck. Or... cut a jib? Raise a sail? I don't know any of this, and I'm a little worried." She casts a glance over her shoulder, warily, just in case there's anyone coming too near.

Someone's talking at her, shit, who --

"Una!" Breathlessly, the barista does her best to meander over to her cohort. Her knees aren't letting her do a good job of it. Landlubber legs, she decides she's going to claim, even though she's spent more than enough time on a sailboat to be very comfortable with the ship's rocking motions. "Nobody's caught wind of us yet, so we must have some sort of defense. My hair though!" she whines sotto-voce, expression momentarily stricken beneath the brim of her straw hat. "And damnit, but my chest is not liking this. I'm not sure about the lingo, but if someone says something to me, I can probably translate and run with it. Maybe. Fuck us, right?" she then laughs a little hysterically.

Another quick scan of the deck and faces. Nobody's eyeballing them -- yet. There are a few officers in what must be British regalia by the amount of brass and fancy coats and a saber or two and spiffy black shoes and those are actually silk breeches. "I don't recognize anyone. I haven't seen the ship's captain yet though," she reports still quietly to Una.

Time to face the music. And hope that this ship has somebody in the chain of command who knows what they're doing because there's one hell of a difference between having read a lot about the 18th century and commanding a Navy brigantine. Ravn can only hope. Suck it in, adjust the coat (again), hook the sabre strap over one shoulder and hide it under the sash, and then -- swagger out into the sun.

The boots are great for swaggering. They're also surprisingly comfortable, and the grip is a lot better than he expected. This is a relief -- ship's decks tend to be quite slippery at times. He steps out onto the aft deck -- and nearly jumps out of his skin when someone greets him with a loud "Good morning, my lord! We are -- "

He should know this gibberish, he realises. Even in the waking, real world of Gray Harbor, Ravn is enough of a sailor to understand simple nautical terms such as knots and course and easterly. Lord Applegrove -- apparently isn't.

He nods and manages a weak smile. "Very well. Carry on, carry on."

As he turns to walk away -- just casually strolling the deck here, as you do -- he's not blind to the scorn in the man's (first mate's?) eyes. Yes. There is someone in the chain of command who knows how to command a ship and this perfumed peacock that Ravn is supposed to be isn't it.

"I'm just hoping I'm a cabin boy of some kind, who needs to be told what to do all the time," agrees Una, low toned, which at least helps her continue to pass as a boy (sort of: binding does not help the curve of her hips, or the fact that, realistically, her body naturally screams 'girl'). "Hi Ariadne. I'm so relieved to see you. I hope you can do the translating; that'd be a good start. Otherwise? Totally fucked."

She, too, takes a surreptitious glance around the deck. "At least we're not the soldiers-- navy, I guess? Are we, what's the word, press-ganged?"

It's instinctual, really, the way she hurriedly ducks her head and shoulders at the sight of shiny boots, nevermind that glancing up might get her sight of a familiar face. Looking busy, obviously the next instinctual thing you do, would also help-- but what does busy work mean on this ship? Una clearly doesn't know.

"Maybe press-ganged, yeah. I don't have any nifty ceremonial swords or guns or spiffy leggings. I don't even have underwear. I don't know how I feel about this," Ariadne mutters, frowning down at her trousers. At least they have no holes in them. "I bet we can get away with stepping off to one side and listening to the jargon for a bit before someone yells at us for being laz -- "

She recognizes the first mate's voice. That guy barks like nobody's business. Looking in that direction, especially at the more respectful (mostly respectful) tone, her eyes go wide. Una might tuck chin and try to be invisible, but Ariadne does...just about the opposite. Bringing up her hand to her temple in (what she thinks is) a sharp military salute, she holds it there and replies to the British Naval Overlord, He of the Silk Breeches and Beignet-Wig, "Good to see you on deck, sir, sails are ship-shape and all lines drawn, sir, looking forward...to..."

She can't keep a straight face. Her mouth works for a second while her salute goes sloppy. "...Ravn, is that a beauty mole on your cheek?"

There are some perks to the way Ravn was brought up in the modern era; that casual walk, hands behind the small of his back, expression calm and unbothered, in control -- he's got that down pat, all he needs to do is mentally recall actual lessons in deportment. He walks along the deck calmly, hoping that no one can tell he's wondering how the hell the wig doesn't blow right off his head in the strong wind, and a part of him is actually admiring the re-enactment and the ship; gorgeous she is, a three masted brigantine -- not the largest ship or the fastest ship in the fleet, but by far the most versatile.

His thoughts are somewhat preoccupied admiring the historical details -- and maybe that's why he nearly jumps out of his skin when suddenly addressed in a familiar voice speaking a decidedly modern American.

Well, here's to hoping no one saw. And amazingly, the wig stays on.

"Ariadne?" The question is almost a hiss. And then, with a bit of relief, "And Una? Oh thank God. I thought I was going to be alone on this one." He manages to pick up what remains of his shattered composure and half-turns to look at the ocean as someone in charge might, while the crew is working around their feet. It's a good captain who is not above sharing a word or three with the deck hands, isn't it? Or maybe that's a bad captain, fraying the edges of the distance and discipline necessary to maintain the crew's respect. Who knows?

Not-quite-invisible Una shoots her gaze up the moment Ariadne breaks out of character, and all her efforts to try and hide end up for naught, because she lets out an absolute peel of laughter. "Oh fuck me, Ravn, you look--" The redhead no more has words for this than she did for herself and Ariadne, not a few minutes earlier. The crooked quirk of her mouth may be intended to convey a certain amount in lieu of actual words.

"We're here," she agrees, when a moment later she recovers enough composure to do so in a more seemly fashion. "Can you make sure we're not stuck doing something completely ridiculous? I don't think I know how to do anything on this ship, and also I'm pretty sure they don't know I'm secretly a girl, stowing away in the hopes of reaching-- oh god, I think I'm trying to reach someone I care about, and this was the only way to get passage. I have a sinking feeling about this."

Sinking. Ha. Ha.

Amazing, how that wig stays on -- and Ariadne's hat as well, somehow, despite its sun-shading brim. "Nope, not alone," she notes to Ravn with a glance over at Una's sudden laugh. There's a wince and after a quick scan of their surrounding comrades, it appears everyone thinks that Una is, perhaps, such a young lad that his voice hasn't cracked yet. Hopefully. It's a viable option to keep anonymity. Act like a teenaged boy, the barista muses to herself. Welp. Can't be too hard.

"No jokes about sinking, seriously," Ariadne mutters in the direction of her fellow redhead, shorn and bound just like she. There's still a smirk on the barista's face as she looks back to Ravn, so boldly and soberly considering the far horizon. Where's that sudden musical -- ah, it never fails: the winsome winding of French horns above the quieter violins and cellos speaks to voyages beyond the edge of blue, chasing the sun that will never set, discovering new lands and --

"If you're trying to find someone you care about, why am I here? And why does my lower back itch, what the f..." Reaching to her tuck of tied trousers to spine, she plucks out an honest-to-god small oilskin rolled into a scroll. It'd be no bigger than a piece of standard printer paper -- and it sure as hell looks like a -- "Treasure...map?" she breathes, staring between Una and Ravn with wide eyes. "...oh my god. Is this some Treasure Island remix of a Dream?"

"God, I hope not," Ravn murmurs, standing nonchalantly, legs slightly apart (please, coat, cover me), hands at the small of his back, the sabre resting against his hop and leg. "I remember how many people die in that novel." He steals a curious glance, as much as he can; after all, he needs to keep up the appearance that he is simply standing here, taking in the view and brooding on Very Important Decisions, and the banter of two young members of the crew next to him is another world entirely.

The temperature suggests that she may have a point, though. And while Ravn is certainly not an experienced sailor (island hopping on a small yacht doesn't quite compare to, say, cruising the Atlantic on a tall ship), he has spent enough time on several oceans to recognise a few things. "This is not the North Atlantic," he says, still under his breath. "It is too warm. And it is not the Mediterranean -- it is not blue enough, not salty enough. And I am apparently the captain but I have no damn idea where we're going or what we're doing there."

And that, of course, is the narrative moment for a slightly older man in a similar uniform (but with a bit less gold tress) to step up; he walks with confidence and an air of importance, and if he registers the presence of two young sailor boys at all, their presence makes no difference to him at all. "My lord, the wind is good. The Fuego de Apolo will pass through here today, it is only a matter of hours. What are your orders?"

Ravn slips into character at the drop of a hat. The man claims to have been a small-time grifter; some of those claims may not be unfounded because he's certainly managing an air of useless British upper class twit. "Goodness," he drawls, adding up a few things quickly in his mind: The -- fuck you Apollo? -- is passing through, we are at sea, ergo this is a ship. It is a Spanish ship and we are English. Odds are that we are on the Spanish Main, then, given the time period and the warm wind.

"A guinea to the man who spots her first," he drawls, lazily, as if it is no big deal. If Lord Applegrove can afford the perfumes and the haberdashery in his cabin, he is obviously a very wealthy man.

The other man nods slightly; for a moment his eyes betray a tired resignation. He is obviously the man who is actually in charge here. The man who has to seed notions and ideas in a way that makes his lord captain think he came up with them himself. "She is a very valuable ship," he offers, in exactly that fashion. "If we can take her and her cargo of gunpowder rather than sink her, it will be quite a fat prize. The men would appreciate it."

Ravn nods, and takes mental notes. Lord Applegrove curries favour with his men, does he? The British ponce is not as secure in his position as he would like to be, and his vanity craves the adulation of his crew. "I'm sure you can manage," he drawls as if it was no big thing at all. "I imagine firing all cannons at a powder ship would be a bad choice, though."

Because Ravn may not be an 18th century sea officer, but he knows that gunpowder goes boom.

And if that parchment in Ariadne's pants turn out to somehow originate from a Spanish spy offering some kind of key to the taking of the Fuck You Apollo, he will not be surprised at all.

"If so, I definitely picked the wrong ship," Una breathes, and not particularly happily: piracy isn't especially a good time, in her book, and also, it tends to result in sword-fighting and although she might do just fine with insult sword-fighting, a la Monkey Island, it's already been made pretty clear that actual sword-play is not a strength, nor ever likely to be.

... maybe, though, she should take lessons. If this is going to keep happening.

There are a lot of thoughts in there, and all of them distract the redhead from the business at hand, and that includes the approach of that other man. It's a happy thing, that he pays the two redheaded step-children-- sailors, that is-- no heed, because Una, for one, does not quite manage to drop back into character.

"Oh fuck is there going to be fighting?"

Not the best moment for Una to find her voice again. She seems to realise it a moment too late. "Sir, Captain, Sir." Lower, this time. More boyish. Good boy. "Are we really going to take them down, sir?"

Ariadne frowns. "A depressing if apt point," she admits lowly of Ravn's observation. Treasure Island wasn't one to skimp on a (lethal) head count. "Worst ship ever." When Ravn starts murmuring deductions about the broad spread of the ocean around them, it makes the barista-deckhand glance out over the water. A glance then over at Una, mouth crinkled in concern. Not having even an inkling of why they're out in the middle of proverbial bum-fuck-nowhere on the bounding main? Bad news.

Maybe the scroll has an answer. She's about to start unrolling the oilskin to sneak a peek at maybe one vertical viewing of its inner contents when the bosun shows up in his regalia and confidence. Thwip: she's quick to shove the scroll back into the tuck of the small of her back and her trousers, letting the shirt fall loosely to curtain it again. Nobody's asked to see it, so? Nobody gets to see it. She risks looking between the two officers from beneath the brim of her straw hat, all but scuffing her foot. Gawsh, these officer guys, they're so important, look at me be young and awed about it.

Una blurts. Ariadne looks over in wide-eyed consternation and wipes a palm on her trousers when her fellow redhead slips back into character. "Are we, sir?" she echoes, seeing if she can get that slightly-harsh croak of prepubescent vocal cords going on.

"You will be quiet in the presence of an officer!" The bark from the other, older man is abrupt and harsh; it conveys a lifetime of having to serve under some English ponce or other whose high birth propelled him into a seat of power with no effort on his behalf whatsoever. It conveys the resentment of an Irishman of high birth -- who will never occupy that seat no matter how competent he might be, because he is indeed an Irishman.

"We'll decide when we catch sight of her," Ravn drawls, in an attempt to come to the rescue of his partners in cri--dream. He is not keen on the idea of ship to ship combat; like Treasure Island it seems to him the sort of entertainment that's great to read about or watch on TV but maybe not so great to be part of. "Maybe we can run her aground, or convince her to surrender."

Run a Spanish ship, probably a fast frigate, aground in the middle of the ocean, sure thing, no problem. The expression on his lieutenant's face speaks volumes. Aloud, however, he simply barks a, "Very good, m'lord," and turns on his heel to stomp off back towards the aft deck.

"A powder ship," Ravn murmurs quietly -- quiet enough that anyone nearby might perhaps not notice that the captain is apparently having a chat with a couple of very young deckhands. No one seems to pay him much heed, but whether that's because everyone on board knows that Lieutenant O'Donoghue is the officer who actually gives the orders here, or because Lord Captain Applegrove is known to chat up the young brass monkeys and freshly pressed boys is anyone's guess. He hopes for the former.

Although, the historian's voice murmurs in Ravn's mind, at least you're the guy who gets to hang people from the mainmast for sodomy. Just, you know, don't order your own damn hanging.

"It'll be valuable," he muses because while the Spanish Main and the Golden Era of Piracy is by no means his field, the 18th century is. "But very difficult to take. If we fire upon a powder ship we not only loose the goods, we need to make damned sure we do so from considerable distance or we end up igniting our own powder kegs. I don't want to swim home. I don't suppose that thing you have there, Ariadne, is some kind of cunning plot device to convince a Spanish captain to cooperate?"

Una is smart enough to shut her trap after that particular set-down, ducking her gaze away from the lieutenant (lef-tenant, she mentally corrects herself, having picked up at least that much from period dramas and the like). She stays like that, frozen in place, until O'Donoghue is well out of ear-shot, and Ravn's own murmur gives her the cue to do so, lifting dark eyes to consider him.

"I definitely don't want to swim home," confirms Una. "And I'd like to avoid anything being blown up, too, just in general. What is it you've got, Ariadne? I'll take something with lots of arrows saying 'look, plot point here, look', if at all possible."

These clothes? They're kind of scratchy, and the lack of underwear is not really helping. Hopefully it isn't fleas.

Or lice.

Oh god.

Ariadne flinches and squints, tucking her chin. "Goddamn..." she whisper-mutters under her breath, taking a sliding-shuffle-step back and away from the bosun. At the idea of grounding a ship with their current location? The barista can't help risking a look at the lieutenant. What a great face. Thank god for the brim of her straw hat to hide her own nervously-amused wrinkle of mouth. Off stomps the lieutenant like he means business and a quiet sigh leaves the taller of the two redheads.

A glance at Una and then at Count-Lord-Cap'n-Crunch-Ravn. Would that be 'Cravn'? It might be.

"There's a really great line here about 'something something in my pants something' but I hate these pants and I can't think of how to phrase it, so yes, this was in my pants." Out comes the small scrolling of oilskin again and this time, after giving their surroundings yet another furtive scanning, she unrolls it -- and frowns at it -- and turns it around in her hands to it's now right-side-up? Or was it right-side-up in the first place? Then it occurs to her why the letters are familiar but their ordering isn't making sense.

And it's just not fair even if it's period-accurate.

"Fuck me..." she then breathes, pinching the bridge of her nose with dirty fingertips. "I'm in an era where I can't read." The scroll is then handed off towards Ravn. He's fancy. Surely he's LITERATE.

Cap'n Crunch (look, it's better than Cap'n Cretin which is what passed through Ravn's mind a moment ago) flicks the scroll into his hand in a neat little display of just turning around and actually, this was in my hand all the time -- which makes perfect sense given that there aren't a lot of things a pressed young boy might give a uniformed officer in the 18th century, besides things that have six legs and a pair of feelers.

He looks at it. Nice calligraphy. Really, lovely penmanship.

En este día 15 de abril del año 1721 anno Domini, el Fuego de Apolo parte de Havana rumbo a Florida. . .

"Something April 15, 1721, the -- probably Fire of Apollo, not fuck you Apollo -- Havana, Florida." Ravn scratches his chin, sleek as a baby's butt (this is an unusual look on him, with his customary carefully groomed two day stubble). "Look, I'm actually not very good at Spanish."

He looks up and out at the sea. "So there's going to be a powder ship and we want to sink it, or better yet, capture it. And it's heading to Florida, which probably doesn't matter at all as far as we are concerned. Or maybe it does. Florida is presently French."

The historian pauses. "Actually, that might be our plot cue. Florida is French. France and Spain are presently at war -- the War of Spanish Succession."

By the look on Una's face? The idea of not being able to read is a horrifying one, and maybe that's why she's going to very deliberately make sure she can't see anything of the scroll, just in case. Maybe there's a chance she's the well-education daughter of a nobleman who has stowed away for a perfectly good (and very romantic) reason, but... but it's better not to risk it.

Reading is fundamental, you guys.

"I'm not sure I'm following," she admits. "But 'fuck you Apollo' sounds legitimately appropriate. What's so important about the war bit? Why is that so relevant?"

"Fuck everything at this point," grumps Ariadne, folding her arms across her banded chest. Not being able to read is putting a severe (and embarrassing) cramp in her style here, even if it's period accurate. Looks like she's truly the bottom of the rung here on the ship, not even of a lauded family bloodline to merit the learning. "I have a vague memory of something involving this war and it being connected to Queen Anne's War. But the Queen Anne's part of this was the American theatre of it and that's not helpful now because this is a British ship."

She takes a moment to scratch at her ribs. Stupid binding. Stupid itches. She wants a bath.

"We can't sink the ship. We can't shoot at it because it's full of gunpowder and it'll blow it and us to kingdom-come. Are we anywhere near a point where we could throw up a white peace-treaty flag and somehow board and then take the captain by surprise? Since nobody can trust each other anyways and who's really going to complain about being stabbed in the back when that's all everyone's doing right now?"

"Well, if my geography isn't too rusty, we'll be passing the Bahamas -- and there's all of the Florida Keys." Ravn frowns lightly and looks out at sea in what he hopes is the right direction for a suitably cinematic elegant but troubled officer posture. If it isn't actually the direction of Florida, feel free to assume he left somebody behind in wherever this ship docked last, and he's very sorry about it. It's a bit embarrassing, really. He doesn't even know the name of the damn ship, never mind its last port of call.

He glances down, quickly, at his companions. "I'll go tell . . . O'Donovan, whatever, that we're going to try a diplomatic solution. I don't suppose either of you actually speak French?"

Dramatic sigh from Una. "I've always wanted to go to the Bahamas," she admits. "But... not like this." Not with bound chest, scratchy clothes, and very likely crawling insects that don't bear mentioning.

"Diplomacy's the only real option, right? But-- no. No French. Not even grade school French. Can we just wake up right about now? Please?"

"I'm pretty sure diplomacy is going to get us told to fuck off in various colorful Spanish phrasings unless we have a way to, like...sneak up on them from out of nowhere and maybe be in a nautical position to make good on a threat to blow them out of the water?" Ariadne winces, shrugging still with her folded arms. "That's the only way I can think to do it. Catch them off-guard somehow. On open water. Because...reasons."

She itches again at her bindings. "Hungarian for the win. French, not so much and what I do know is not pretty. Or anywhere near fluent." A glance at Una both tired and sympathetic. "I've tried pinching myself awake, it doesn't work."

"You two must be pretending to be pressed brass monkeys on a British brigantine for a reason, and in this context, a reason means narrative." Ravn keeps it matter-of-factly (in part because what he really wants to do is panic, tear off his wig, throw it in the sea, and jump after). "There is always some kind of story. It may be soul crushing and make you want to hang yourself in the back yard, but there is always some kind of narrative."

He looks back at the aft end of the ship where Lieutenant (Lef-tenant) O'Donoghue is speaking with the first mate, a heavy-set man with an eyepatch. "Set an intercept course -- check. And now -- bloody hell, can't we just pretend that either of you is a French comtesse in disguise or something? If no one speaks French anyhow."

"I know I'm in search of someone," says Una, thinking out loud. "That's why I cut off my hair and bound my breasts," yes, it's a little weird talking about her breasts in front of a man, even if it is 'just' Ravn, but she carries on, "And ended up on board. I wonder if the someone is related to the fuck-me-sorry-you Apollo. Did I fall in love with a Spaniard? That would be inconvenient. I don't look Spanish, right?"

Thanks, narrative, for giving the whole script to the helpless protagonists.

"Will anyone know, if we can't actually speak French? How widely is French spoken among the English anyway? Because... old music has taught me one phrase, and one phrase only, and that, I think, is completely inappropriate for this conversation."

"I'm pretty sure I'm just poor and want to make a name for myself. For the time period, it's probably nauseatingly common with the monied folk to know French," Ariadne muses ruefully. "Like, Ravn would know French except he's Ravn in reality, not Lord...Captain Fancypants. Intercept sounds like a good-enough plan to me. Bosun Bark-fest over there can probably handle the fine details, especially if you mentioned 'surprise'." This suggestion goes to Ravn with his fine, floury wig.

Una's comment, however, has the barista glancing over. Her eyebrows rise...and then, one of those puckish little smiles curls her lips. "If we weren't so fucked already, I'd triple dog DARE you to use that phrase you're referencing because I bet I know what it is -- and hey, if you're actually in love with a Spaniard on that Apollo de Fuckity-Fuck?" She shrugs blithely. "It'd be appropro, eh?"

"I have a feeling I don't know French because we hate the French and it was a handy excuse to not bother learning French," Ravn murmurs darkly and strides towards the ship's -- his -- junior officers. He doesn't know how to be a ship's captain in the 18th century. But while he is no Perdita, he does know how to be a confidence artist.

"Mister Donoghue," he half-calls, half-drawls (because obviously, this pompous English arse cannot be bothered to pronounce an Irish name right). "Tell me again, where did you find our new brass monkeys?"

It's a strange question to ask. Since when has a captain cared much what kid swabs the deck, stacks the cannon balls, and probably gets buggered on a regular basis by the more asshole-ly inclined of the crewmen (except maybe not in this movie because really, it's hard to overlook the fact that those young butts are not, well, boy's butts, so probably not, actually, in fact, let's not even think it and risk giving the Veil ideas).

Lieutenant O'Donoghue straightens up. "In St Kitts, m'lord." His face is a question mark.

A competent man, Ravn observes to himself. Actually knows who's who in the crew.

"And did those boys deign to mention that one of them is in fact a cousin of the Governor of -- " he falters, because there is knowing your geography and there is being up to speed on French colonies in the early 18th century. He ends up saying the one larger town name he knows for sure existed. "New Orleans? This may be of some relevance, mm?"

Look smart. Lord Captain Appledork is clearly very proud of his own intelligence, he made it to be a captain after all. "I can't help think that it is a little curious that a Spanish ship is delivering powder to Florida. . ?"

Never let it be said that Una is unafraid to undertake an acting challenge: "Do you mean, Ariadne, that you don't want to stay at my place tonight? I can't decide that you're my hidden lover and I'm chasing you again?" Beat. "It would fit, given past history. I'm just so hot for you."

You can imagine the delivery of that, I'm sure. Una means it! In... a completely deadpan kind of way, of course.

Thankfully, she says that before Ravn strides away. Also, because something of what he says to his junior officers makes Una freeze, and positively disappear up her own arse in hiding. Her butt better not be the object of anyone's interest. Please. Please.

Actual knowledge is fed in dribs and drabs, in Dreams. And so it's no surprise when Una!Sailor begins to straighten, sharpening her stance as Ravn mentions the provenance that... oh yes, that's her. Shit. Should she be hiding? No. No: she's proud of... shit, is that a bad thing?

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

Ariadne can't help the snort-laugh, quiet as it is. Unfortunately, Ravn's beyond hearing point and off to interrogate his fellow underling-officers when she replies, "If that's the Veil's kink, I guess we can't help it. I like being the capable Romantic Interest, at least. It's refreshing. But how are you chasing me if you know about me -- or, wait. Do I not know about you? I'm also not Spanish," the barista notes.

A blink. "...or am...I?"

More knowledge comes dribbling in. She can't read. She can't read Spanish. But she can...speak...Spanish? Wait a second. What Dream-logic is this?!?

She too hears of the query regarding the cousin of the Governor of New Orleans and Ariande knows it's not her -- which makes it --

"Una!" Wide golden-hazel eyes stare. "Scandalous!" she whispers sharply. It falls right into the plan. Perfectly into the plan.

Christ on a cracker, there's a plan? A Spanish plan. A Splan. That nobody's 'splained to her. DAMNIT, NARRATIVE?!

"Florida is a French territory, m'lord. The Fuego de Apolo will not be sailing into French waters." Lieutenant O'Donoghue's tone is nothing if not patient; one cannot expect an English buffoon to know even the simplest things, such as which side of the damned war he is on, apparently.

Lord Captain Applegrove stares down his nose at the other man. "I am quite aware, thank you very much, Mister Donovan. I am also capable of recognising a young woman when I see one, even if she is presently wearing britches. Set an intercept course. The Fire of Apollo is heading for Florida. And they will be expecting to ambush us, to retrieve that young lady."

The bosun blinks. Lieutenant O'Donoghue looks at the captain as if he's wondering whether the man dropped his last marble overboard by accident. "If we do in fact have women on board, we'd better not let the men find out," he cautions.

"Gonna be knifings afore we know it," the bosun agrees. Ravn wishes he had the first clue what the man's name is.

"Yes, yes. That's all very good. Get both those boys into my quarters and let them clean up. If the crew is curious? We've found one of them to be a Spanish spy and the other a French, blah blah, just get them in there, and for heaven's sake, man, get them some water, they reek."

Captain Lord Applecracker wouldn't be happy about that smell in his cabin, after all.

"Are you?" Because that sure would make this particularly interesting. It might even make it make some sense. For a... very specific version of 'sense', anyway.

Also? "Shit." Big eyes glance at Ariadne. This is new information. This is new and relevant information.

Being man-handled (literally) into the captain's quarters is no joke, but that's what happens pretty quickly afterwards: evidently O'Donoghue's men are efficient, even if their captain is... less so. Una keeps her chin up, and bares her teeth at anyone who gets close, because she may have been outed as a woman, but that doesn't mean she's been out as a docile woman.

At least once inside, she's quick with her warning of: "If you douse me with saltwater, we're going to have to have words. These breeches are bad enough without-- actually, I think I'd rather they just stay dirty. The chafing has got to be horrific."

Definitely relevant information. If Una's man-handled, Ariadne is all but frog-marched to the captain's quarters.

And if anyone was confused about whether or not she could speak Spanish? WELL. There's lot of things about hot peppers and goats and anatomical positions and mothers and it's all in Spanish because, apparently, when her dander's up in this Dream? It's rageful Spanish, ahoy.

Her teeth actually click shut and barely miss one of the men's hands anyways when one tries to reach and touch her hair. "FUCK! OFF!" This in loud English for good measure. "We answer to the Captain and no one else, pendejo!" Whether or not saltwater is the option for bathing is beyond her concern at the moment. It's good odds that she's grounded to the Captain's cabin for eternity now if not the brig.

"The short one is the woman, I take it." O'Donoghue looks almost amused.

"Reckon it's the tall one," the bosun murmurs back. "Spitfire like that, reckon it's them chee lees those dagos eat."

"Oh, do be quiet," Ravn tells them both. "Don't you two have work to do? Am I going to sail the bloody ship myself?"

It must be the one time in Lord Captain Applefritter's life that anyone with an inch of seamanship actually listens to him. Maybe they're in shock still, after that broadside the supposed brass monkey fired at the sailors marching the 'boys' downstairs.

He doesn't stick around to find out. After all, what self important ponce does not have to go and gloat? Better to stay in character. Also, better to stay together. "Carry on," Ravn tells his officers and follows suit.

Only when the cabin door closes behind him does he breathe out. "Thank God. The story bought it. I guess now you really are the cousin of the governor of New Orleans. Here's to hoping we see that ambush before it comes. Look, I'm sorry, I had to make up something."

Wryly; "I always wanted an important cousin. Or... any cousin, for that matter. But where does this leave us now?"

Her expression is a little apologetic: Una is not entirely following the narrative, here.

"Also, fuck, I was going to ask if you'd mind if I unbound myself, but that might lead to other issues. Ugh-- it fucking chafes." Dont mind Una, reaching into her shirt to try and adjust her boobage.

It turns out bras are less of an evil than generally advertised.

"It's probably best to leave everything wrapped up. We want nobody getting ideas, even if we can fuck up half of this crew before they put any more greasy paws on us." Ariadne is still watching that cabin door with her jaw set and a hard light in her eyes. She knows how to drop someone hard and fast, after all.

"And I'm not up in the crow's nest right now being all eagle-eyed, so hopefully someone's got eyeballs on the horizon, yeah. Last thing we want is to actually fall for the ambush." A blink and she sighs, grimacing. "Which was...supposed to be...from the...west because of the sun falling into the eyes of anyone looking that direction. Shit. Maybe you should go mention that, Ravn?" Not Lord-Captain-Count-Silk-Tighty-Whities, she refuses unless in front of the crew. "But let's think for a second. It's an ambush to get you." A point at Una. "Which you knew nothing about." Point at Ravn. "And I knew about because I have ties to the Spanish somehow. The Spanish taking a French hostage. A move for territory? I remember this is all about territorial disputes and New Orleans is a nice port city. But why am I telling you if I'm on the Spanish side? ...or maybe I'm not. Maybe I'm a double-agent for the English?"

A blink. "Or damn, the Americans. Maybe I'm just supposed to be a loose firecracker thrown into a hen house."

"Maybe you're just taking advantages of all this diplomatic mess to run away -- both of you. It's the kind of story that would make sense in a Young Adult novel. And if it's a progressive one, you're running away with each other." Ravn looks tired.

He plops himself down on a chair, and adjusts his coat (even spray-painted on jeans would be better than this because at least they're elastic, whereas this? this just chafes). "Feel free to, uh, unbind, I mean, I'll turn my back. Imagine it's not exactly comfortable. But if someone walks in unannounced we may have to do some deeply embarrassing 'pay for your passage' act, so maybe it's not a good idea. I don't think I can pull off lecherous nobleman to that extent."

Are his ears pinkening? Yes, as a matter of fact, they are. Ravn, not a natural born Don Lothario.

He allows himself to loosen his cravat a little at least (that thing is bloody hot). "The English want the powder ship. The Spanish want Florida. The French wants the governor's niece. So -- this is the most bloody convoluted plot in the history of bad pirate novels. But besides that -- what do we want to happen here? Because I can probably play incompetent enough for us to sail straight into a Spanish ambush if that is what we want."

Reluctantly, Una winces-- and then nods. "I hadn't thought of that. It's probably for the best to stay... bound. I just want you to know how much I am going to appreciate it when I get back to my own life. Or maybe it just tells you how much I don't want to invite that particular tableau." Oh look, her cheeks have gone pink too.

By way of distraction from that particular thought she sits, taking up one end of the bunk (lucky Captain Apple--whatever, with a real bunk), and draws her knees up towards her chin, arms wrapping around them. "I don't especially want to be taken prisoner," she offers up as answer. "Because that sounds unpleasant, even if I think they're likely to treat me reasonably well? Can we just convince them to sail the other direction entirely and... I just disappear? I'd say toss me overboard, except I suspect that ends up with me dead, and that shit lasts."

Beat. "Unless there's a rowboat? We could escape?"

"Ditto," Ariadne echoes tiredly of options A and B, one regarding bras and the other regarding braless shenanigans. She sits down beside Una and lets her hands fall to her lap, her back slightly hunched. Whew. How on earth to get out of this scenario.

Her hazel eyes drift off to one side to a chest tucked to the corner of the cabin. It's a very nice chest, carved decoratively and with, no doubt, a pretty key somewhere on a key ring, this somewhere on Ravn's body. Captain's keys and all. She nods and glances up between her two comrades.

"I think maybe combining these two ideas is best. If I were the Spanish and I want to make a point... I ambush the ship with the Governor's cousin within sight of land, close to Florida. I come out of the sun so no one can see me coming, put my ship in a position to blow the English ship to kingdom come, and make them hand over the Governor's cousin -- and then I still blow the ship to kingdom come to make a point within sight of Florida because it's a show of strength. If we wanted to run, the best time would be probably...if I yelled something like mutiny in the middle of parley and start a deck-fight and then we book it for the rowboat? Florida would be right there -- none of this stranded-in-a-rowboat-at-sympathy-of-the-currents bullshit."

"Except -- we need to clear both ships damned quick because there is such a thing as Chekov's gun." Ravn pinches the bridge of his nose with long fingers. "Or in this case, Chekov's bloody Spanish gunpowder ship. You know that sucker's going to blow before the end credits."

He lets his fingers wander down to a steeple in front of himself as he sits on the chair -- carefully because sabre. And honestly? A little grateful, too, that Una decided to continue to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous gender bending, because these breeches are very tight and very uncomfortable, and there is no script writer in the history of young adult novels and or pirate movies who would miss out on a chance to turn that into something equally embarrassing for everyone. He likes his neighbour. He likes his neighbour better, presently, when her clothes stay on.

"That's going to be the biggest issue. That, and the fact that we're a long way from anywhere with a cell phone tower, and marooning ourselves on the Bahamas during a time of cannibals might not be entirely wise. But it's not an entirely bad idea -- "

He gets up and paces the creaky cabin floor. Lord Applegrove may not have this habit but Ravn Abildgaard does. "How about we break a wing? We fake damage and let them pursue us into some small island. If we can get their officers to come ashore, we might simply take them by force -- or whatever the script is. The point here is, we know the Spanish ship is going to blow. Fire of Apollo, seriously? I'm not much inclined to put my money on el caballo Españo... lo? la? whatever."

Una, for the record? Is probably equally happy with not getting an eyeful of Ravn's pants situation. No one needs to the reminder that their perfectly pleasant, friendly neighbour is, indeed, still a red-blooded man, and that this is a Dream where the most embarrassing thing that could possibly happy will indeed happen.

Generally.

"Cannibals," however may be even more disturbing. "I'm not okay with that. But, um... okay. Damage, pursuit, land-based attack. As long as it doesn't involve flintlocks and death, I think I can work with that. I am, after all, intrepid and daring, and can certainly take a wild run for freedom that results in... whatever. As long as it's not my death. If all the ships blow up and I'm not on them, I'm good with that too."

"Oh, that ship's going to blow up," Ariadne agrees. A name like that, Fire of Apollo? It's ironic enough for it to be just disappointing if there's no massive sonic boom accompanied by wooden shrapnel for daaaaays. She, like Una, does make a face at the idea of cannibals. It's not on her personal agenda to deal with; she's got enough going on with being a double-triple-shot-extra-whipped-cream agent for the Spanish or Americans or maybe both, god only knows -- and this on a ship full of Englishmen who probably haven't seen a woman in long enough for their imaginations to run wild.

Still: "I dig it. Ship's wounded, we beach at an island, make them get off of their ship to come get us. It'd probably be the officers, yeah, because you don't send your lackeys to do a diplomatic yoink. The lackeys are...lackeys for a reason." As in, they probably lack-ey some common sense to a good degree. Ariadne sighs and interlaces her fingers, then stretching her arms up over her head, palms towards the ceiling. "Now it's just a matter of convincing the luft-tenant about YEE -- "

The knot of her binding just happens to spring loose then. Damned acrobatics up in the crow's nest! Given the hem of her shirt has lifted to showcase the hem of her trousers, it's evident by the sudden appearance of narrow fabric lengths and...well. Ariadne at least has the grace to pink at her own ears (though the straw hat hides it well enough) and gather up the chest-binding material with a sheepish laugh or two. "Um. Yes, so, knot fell untied, much freedom -- it's really nice," she looks sympathetically in Una's direction. Poor Una, still bound up. "Oh god, they can breathe, guh."

Poor Ravn.

Ravn blinks. It actually takes him a second or two to put together what just happened there because chest bindings and their subsequent wardrobe malfunctions is not something that generally occupies a whole lot of the folklorist's awareness (except in a theoretical capacity, as a well tested and tried story trope that was surprisingly popular in late 20th century fiction).

The penny drops and he chuckles behind a hand, before walking over to stand by the large window made from coloured glass mosaic set in lead framework. "Sorry, narrative. I can in fact control my response to seeing a navel of the female persuasion. I'll just keep an eye on the island out there a moment while you sort your shirt situation out." Maybe it helps that he is a man of thirty-one regardless of how much this is apparently is a Young Adult novel that seems to have cast him in the role of stupid English captain with the mentality of a fifteen-year-old, who probably thinks to keep these two now-captured girls for his own pleasure, something, whatever.

Beat. "There's an island out there."

Because of course there is. If one thing is clear by now, it's that this is one of those Dreams where perception very much fashions the narrative. Which is a great thing as long as one is able to firmly keep everything on track in one's head. And a terrible thing if one starts to think about all the things that could possibly go wrong.

Una's not exactly eyeing up Ariadne's boobs, though of course her gaze is immediately drawn towards the other woman. She has envy, but also not: as much of a (literal) pain as being bound up is, the opposite might be worse, when you have... more than a handful to bind in the first place.

She blushes.

She manages not to laugh, too, at least until Ravn doesn't-- and hers, in turn, is rather more full-bodied. Except, also? "Wait, what? An island? Should there be an island there? I would've thought we'd be more... out at sea than skirting near islands."

"Well, I'm not in the crow's nest yodeling about 'land ahoy-hoy' and all that jazz," notes Ariadne of SUDDEN ISLAND as she walks to a corner of the cabin. A glance over her shoulder at the others and her expression evinces rueful tolerance for the situation at hand. "Look, I've got to retie this madness, so unless you want to be flashed, just don't look this way for a minute or two."

As such, the (questionable-definitely-need-a-wash) binding fabrics are put to work again, with a series of frustrated-sounding grunts and a few breathy 'ow!'s interspersed. During this process, the barista notes, "If there's suddenly an island, I wonder if the Fuckity-Fuck Apollo is suddenly going to show -- "

It comes from outside at full sailor's lung-volume: "ENEMY SHIP SPOTTED, CAPTAIN!"

Ariadne blinks. "...dude, that's both convenient and highly inconvenient."

"Almost like clockwork," Ravn murmurs and continues to look out the window. Then he reaches into the ship's chest next to the table, back still turned, and rummages. Ayep, there are a pair of muskets with ivory handles in there. They go on his belt and he makes a mental note that these things are probably about easy to aim accurately as throwing a duck at a church tower, and about as noisy -- and they get one (1) shot each, so don't waste either.

Timing continues to be impeccable; the knock on the door happens the second after Ariadne's shirt drops back in place. "Enter," calls Ravn.

"M'lord, we've arrived," says Lieutenant O'Donoghue and pretends to not notice either boy or woman, he's still not sure which is which. "And the Spanish powder ship is approaching to starboard."

Ravn turns around. "Whip your people into working at top speed, lef-tenant. We need to pretend to be wingshot and putting in for repairs. Make it look like we're trying to not get spotted. Make it convincing -- and ready the longboat. We need to head ashore and make it look like we're easy to ambush."

"Captain?" O'Donoghue squints. Maybe he thinks this is far too complex thinking from Captain Applebum. Maybe he suspects that either of the boys/women came up with the idea.

"We can't quite just give the dagos a broadside, can we now?" Ravn really tries for patient. "It's a powder ship."

"... Aye, aye, sir." The door closes again, and O'Donoghue will no doubt wonder for the rest of his life who actually came up with this ruse. Hopefully his life will last for more than half an hour.

"I'm pretty sure these things take longer to come together in real life," muses Una. "And are far less convenient. I shouldn't be surprised."

This is, after all, a Dream of the Hollywood variety. Showing the long wait-y bits would be boring.

Awkwardly, she lurks where she is during O'Donoghue's visit: maybe it's just that her role is too many layers of ridiculous. Maybe it's discomfort. Maybe it's just-- ugh.

She comes to life rather more determinedly once the door closes behind the lef-tenant, drawing herself up to her feet in a sharp, deliberate motion. "Right," she says, turning on her heel to consider Ariadne and Ravn (and look, the latter does make her snicker, because those pants). "Do we need anything else from here before we blow this popsicle stand? Please tell me Ariadne and I don't need to be tied up in order to be taken with you."

Ariadne sees the muskets appear and sighs in a form of frustration. Her mutter to herself is resentful. "...look, I'm taking someone else's stuff off of their belt if this narrative doesn't hand me some weapon." Because that little knife in her boot isn't good for jack-shit, not really, and she knows it.

She also seems to know, or is at least rapidly learning, NOT to give the Veil ideas. Una gets a wide-eyed look muchly betrayed.

"Una!" she breathes in censure, lifting her hands out at her sides in exasperation. "Don't give the narrative ideas! We just summoned an island! Don't tell it about blowing popsicle stands! They're made of wood too!"

Because surely nobody's going to tie them both up. That's just undignified.

"I wasn't going to suggest it but given how an island just materialised, don't be surprised if you end up trussed up like turkeys," Ravn murmurs darkly. "As for these? I'll gladly hand you one once we're out of sight of anyone native to this century in which a woman can't possibly work out the complicated mechanism of a flintlock."

The door opens again, and the bosun sticks his meaty head in. "Ready to go, m'lord. They need to be -- secured?"

Don't give the Veil ideas.

Ravn shakes his head. "It's a green boy and a girl, bosun. I think we can manage," he suggests, and for once that arrogant upper class drawl he is affecting seems kind of appropriate. Really, that was a very stupid suggestion. Where are they going to flee to? The cannibal village that no doubt sits on the other end of this beautiful Bahama-let?

"Very good, sah." A bosun doesn't argue with a captain and lord.

The water under the keel of the longboat is azure and warm and looks positively inviting if not for the occasional triangular fin that seems to exist solely to remind everyone to keep their hands on this side of the railing. The longboat is slender and fast, and rowed by six capable sailors, does not take long to speed towards the white beach. Behind them, the Golden Vanity --

-- Really, Ravn thinks wryly. I'm the captain of the nickname of Francis Drake's Golden Hind? --

-- turns about on her anchor rope in a way that suggests something is off with her keel. How exactly O'Donoghue has managed to achieve this Ravn is not going to ask about. Wooden tallships are not his forte. Sometimes, you just make a note to appreciate good workmanship. Wingshot, indeed.

Una seems to realise what she's suggested only too late, clamping a hand over her mouth and giving Ariadne a distinctly apologetic look.

Lesson learned.

Ravn's play on that earns a grateful glance, though just barely and out of the corner of her expression, because she's otherwise doing her level best to look as docile and helpless as she can. Poor little Una, caught up in a web that is surely beyond her female knowledge and understanding! Pawn in someone else's game! Etcetera, etcetera.

She's meek throughout their trip to shore, though it would be clear to a studied eye that, beneath her eyelashes, she's getting a good look around her. O'Donoghue-- check. The sailors-- check. That one sailor who looks at her a little too hard and a little too leeringly-- check. The other sailor whose glance is sympathetic and maybe possibly even... supportive? Someone to watch.

"I'm not going to run away," she mutters as she's manhandled off of the longboat. "There's probably no pirate rum cache, and-- look, forget it. I'm not going to run. Oh look, they're coming after us."

"Well, thank god I'm no lady," mutters the barista about flintlocks, unable to help huffing a droll little laugh about it all.

Ariadne is silently very grateful for not being trussed as a turkey. Like Una, she too remains silent during the process of transitioning from Golden Vanity to longboat to the shore of the island itself. Her silence is more resentful, prickly, defiant, as befits a surly teenage boy because that's what she's supposed to be here, grr, adolescent hackling, grr!

She too is manhandled off of the boat and she ends up throwing a whiffed punch at one sailor's arm because ow, seriously, nobody needs to grip a bicep like that. "Fuck off," she snarls, then staying close to Una because power in numbers! Or something! Still, the Sudden Island is joined by SUDDEN SPANISH POWDER SHIP and the redhead plucks up the floppy brim of her straw hat to peer out in that direction.

"Right on time. Shit. Uh. Time to be diplomatic! Sort of!" she exclaims, sounding painfully optimistic.

"Very good," murmurs Ravn and tries to carry himself like a British lord in tight, uncomfortable silk breeches which did not get any more comfortable thanks to the spray of the oars. His only real frame of reference is 18th century paintings of noblemen in uniform. Hopefully, a look like you think the entire world is beneath you and also very boring is period accurate.

The sand crackles under his boots and under the bare feet of the sailors. He makes a mental note to point out to whatever Veil entity is in charge here that the knife in boot trope seems silly when the character should not be wearing boots. On the up side, of course, it means the women aren't going to find themselves running across rocky ground barefoot, so there's that.

"The dagos are sending in their longboat," O'Donoghue observes. After all, it can't be real until a man has pointed it out. "Are we actually going to try to negotiate with them, m'lord?"

What's a little high treason between friends?

"We are not," Ravn sniffs. "I am. Leave one sailor with us for my protection. With their senior officers here they will be vulnerable. You will sneak around the point there and signal the Golden Vanity. By cover of night, you will use a dinghy to let the current carry you to the Fuego de Apolo where you will find that one officer still on deck and kill him. Quietly. Then get the hell out of there."

"Sir?" O'Donoghue's gaze might as well have read 'are you insane?'

Ravn shrugs. He knows the Spanish ship is going to blow. He doesn't know how. Give the story something to work with here. A dead man on deck, the Spanish officers ashore, the cover of night. Something has to wrong -- and what goes wrong for them goes right for our heroic protagonists.

Do you know what's worse than canvas trousers, no underwear, bound boobs, and shorn hair? All of that, plus sand. Happily, the sand has yet to have much opportunity to go anywhere in particular, but Una's wary glance towards it is a warning one: don't get any ideas. Boots, on the shoreline, are probably not an especially great idea-- though tall boots are better than short ones, in this instance.

While Ravn is talking to O'Donoghue, the shorter redhead is watching the others on the shore, cataloguing their reactions. Most of the sailors just look bored. They are, all after all, just here to do the heavy lifting; they're not paid to think. At least one or two of them plainly are thinking, though, but... what? Alas, she cannot read minds.

"Here they come," she mutters. How quickly they come!

Ariadne, listening in on the conversation between Cap'n Applecrunch and the first mate, nods approval. Cutthroat. Effective. It'll do -- not that her opinion matters, she's just the lowest on the rungs here. A glance at Una means she too follows the consideration of the other sailors and frowns to herself. Contemplating sailors are suspicious. Is anyone else noticing these things?

Una mutters and the barista whips her attention back to the ocean's vast horizon. Indeed, another longboat is on the approach to the island.

Wait. Is that -- no -- it can't be, with the giant feather in the hat --

"N'aw...fuck," she spits under her breath. "It's Captain Angelo. And he's no angel." And more revelations come trickling in: he's more than likely going to recognize Ariadne for being somehow still alive despite being on a British ship when she was supposed to be in port two weeks ago. Dragging heels? More likely going to be labeled as TRAITOR.

Perfect timing, once again. Ravn almost has to admire it, and if he was not feeling very vulnerable to things like lead slugs or cutlasses right now, he probably would. O'Donoghue's "Aye, aye, sir" is spoken with obvious disregard -- the Irishman is convinced that his English prig of a captain is going to find himself nailed to a coconut palm (if he's lucky) before the sun rises again. His log is going to read, 'Advised His Lordship against this plan, His Lordship did not listen' and hey, field promotion.

The Englishmen head towards the rocks as ordered. Will we ever see O'Donoghue and his men again? Who knows.

The Spanish longboat pulls closer.

"I really hope you have some kind of choke-hold on that fellow," Ravn murmurs to Ariadne. "Because I think we're all kinds of fucked. The only thing I can think of is, don't be near the damn powder ship. See if you can keep him talking long enough for O'ldMcdonald to do his job -- provided he actually does it."

"Shit," says Una, succinctly.

"I'm good with not being blown up. I'm even better with not dying at all. Please don't hand me over to the Spanish. I almost certainly can't defend myself."

She shoots Ariadne a hopeful glance. "He's a talker, I hope. Likes to share all his thoughts and feelings before he takes any actions? Demonstrate his superiority through whatever and all?" She shifts, uncomfortably, upon the sandy shore.

"I really hate relying on someone else. Shit."

"Uh, yeah. The choke-hold is sink his fucking ship and he's marooned on islands with cannibals if he doesn't play nice," mutters Ariadne back to Ravn, otherwise looking pretty damn uncomfortable as the longboat continues to draw closer to the island. That is a helluva plume, probably from some tropical bird somewhere, full of color and pizazz and probably compensation for something.

"And he really likes to talk, yes, that's part of the problem. He talks and the rest of his men do the dirty work because nobody pays enough attention when he's busy talking." Una gets a tense glance. "Maybe I can go stand behind Ravn. He's tall enough to hide me if I take my hat off."

Better do it quickly: the longboat's within about a minute's worth of rowed travel time, now past the immediate shush of low-rolling breakers. It's probably too late anyways. The straw hat's got about as much draw as the feather, in a way. Only Ravn's a prettier peacock.

Actually... "Ravn. Ultimate pretentiousness. Bigger feather, bigger dick," whispers Ariadne quickly as the first Spanish sailor jumps out of the boat in order to aid in pulling it ashore.

"¡Ajá! ¡Así que aquí es donde nos volvemos a encontrar! ¡Esta vez, Lord Applegrove, serás mi prisionero! ¡No esperes piedad porque estoy lleno de fuego y propósito! ¡Hace demasiado tiempo que los ingleses cazan en aguas españolas! ¡Es usted un pirata, señor, y además un sinvergüenza!"

The man making this bombastic speech is an archetypal Spaniard (played by a Mexican actor, no doubt, because Antonio Banderas was busy). He jumps from the boat in his thigh-high sailor's boots, the over-sized plume bobbing ridiculously, enunciating loudly as his feet splash through the surf.

Ravn does not speak enough Spanish to follow (let's be honest here, his Spanish is just about enough to annoy the hell out of Chief de la Vega by pronouncing all the h's). Una and Ariadne speak no Spanish at all.

Reality waits for the suitable response. Reality realises that no one understood a word.

Captain Angelo sucks his breath in and repeats himself, in English: "Aha! So this is where we meet again! This time, Lord Applegrove, you will be my prisoner! Expect no mercy for I am full of fire and purpose! Too long have you English preyed on Spanish waters! You are a pirate, sir, and a scoundrel besides!"

"Looks like he knows me," Ravn murmurs to the women currently trying to use him as a cardboard cut-out to hide behind. He clears his throat. "The French governor's cousin is my prisoner! And now you are too! Ha!"

There's one of him (and two women) against a Spanish captain, a Spanish lieutenant and six Spanish sailors. But so far this movie has been in English, and he's read enough Treasure Island to know that an Englishman is worth a dozen Spaniards. Right? Right?

In normal circumstances, Una might smirk, because 'bigger feather, bigger dick' is objectively hilarious. But Captain Angelo and his merry men are arriving, and there's tension visible in her, too: the line of her shoulders, the furrow of her brow, even down to the way she clenches her fists.

Reality's correction could equally draw mirth, but again, not this time. Una unfurls herself slightly, stepping just slightly to the side as she considers the Spanish captain.

She scowls at him. For good measure, she scowls at Ravn too. "I'll beat you both to a pulp. My cousin will have you tracked to the ends of the earth. It will be war upon you both, mark my words. Merde."

Naturally she sounds exceptionally French. Truly.

Ariadne has just enough sense of realization rocketing around to note how reality does a double-take.

"Damn, narrative," she whispers to herself and proceeds to titter in that same wispy volume beneath all of the grandstanding. Captain Peacock-Feather shouts, Ravn yells back, and chests are puffed. Cue pounding of pectorals. It'd be hilarious if she wasn't very certain there are sabers and flintlocks over there and an outnumbering to make her quail inside. Una reveals herself properly from the bulwark that is Ravn and after itching at her chest bindings -- god, modern bras are heaven compared to this, she will honestly never complain again -- Ariadne too steps out on the other side. Ravn is now framed by redheads.

The world should fear.

"You heard her, capitan, maybe this isn't a good idea." Yes, it's English, but Ariadne's Spanish inflection shows up nonetheless. "Maybe it'd be best to retreat. These islands are haunted anyways, capitan, and the cannibals!"

Cue a small rock lifting from the beach sporting one barnacle and a very confused crab the size of a thumbnail. Thwhip -- right at Angelo's face. Those ghosts, man, so rude.

Ravn sees the little rock sailing past to plink off Captain Angelo's nose. What he does not see is the origin of its trajectory -- literally because he does not see where it takes off from, and figuratively in that he is not certain who threw it. Either of his companions showing off some distraction skill he did not know that they possess? Or cannibals arriving at the right moment narratively speaking?

A man can only hope it's the former.

"No le temo a ningún francés," the Spanish captain begins before reality remembers that no one but his own sailors understand him (and from the looks on their faces they're quite accustomed to his theatrics, to a point where one is actually yawning and another is cleaning an ear with his little finger. It's his own ear, at least). "I fear no Frenchman! Or woman!"

Why not roll with it. It's not like Ravn thinks he can actually take seven Spaniards -- eight if he counts their peacock captain. Screw you, Admiral Benbow and other English gentlemen out of 18th century fiction written by Englishmen who never visited the actual damn Spanish Main.

He reaches out with his mind behind himself to let his spatial awareness seep across the pebbles and rocks of the shoreline, to find a similar pebble, to send it flying.

Ravn's surprise is no less than that of Captain Angelo's -- when the sixty pound rock comes flying through the air like a wet, seaweed covered missile of face breaking pain.

Una's eyes light when that first rock goes flying. She's already preparing herself to add to the onslaught when...

"Holy shit, what the hell?!"

Unfortunately, she's already partway through launching her own attack, at which point it really is just piling on, isn't it?

Captain Angelo's lieutenant's pants begin to singe, flames spreading up their length-- inexorably towards a place no man wishes to have set alight.

It's hardly unreasonable that the man launches himself at the ocean in response, right?

Ariadne spends about a second busily staring at the rock at Captain Angelo's feet. Was that...her rock? Did she do that? Threatening things that go bump in the night and then sending a thing that went plip off the Spanish nose?

It's small change compared to the rock which follows, that bowling ball-sized monstrosity -- and then the fire, which decided to ignore all logic and physics and sodden clothing and frankly, she's staring wordlessly now.

"Joder," breathes the barista, sliiiiide-stepping mostly behind Ravn again. She'd threatened ghosts, but this is a whole new level of weird discussed quite often but seen far less. Plus, the screeching -- the screeching and the general reaction by the sailors while their Captain reacts? Damn.

Ravn's blue-greys widen almost comically -- but not nearly as much as the mahogany browns of Captain Angelo, one split second before he goes down under thirty kilos of rock plus assorted barnacles. (None of whom were available for comment later). Captain Angelo will not be appearing further in this movie. And the sand is turning a little red, soon licked away by the surf. At least the sea also will put out the fire in his pants eventually.

Ravn turns a little green. Maybe it's the fire -- no man wants to envision fire in those tight silk breeches of the era that are definitely not flame resistant and which, due to being silk, are very likely to cling to the skin like silk worm napalm once ignited. Maybe it's imagining what the man's face must look like, under the rock.

He doesn't understand a lot of Spanish. It's a pity. He could have expanded his vocabulary quite a bit. Some of those sailors have a lot to say.

The Spanish lieutenant stares. Then he spins around and calls out in his own language. The implication is clear enough, even to English ears: Given that some scrawny English aristo and his two girlfriends obviously do not have a catapult available, nor flammable missiles. There has to be someone else -- cannibals with medieval siege engines, maybe?

And Ravn? Apart from looking green, all he seems to have to add is a very odd stare at the burning rock. Well, rock that lies upon the burning man. Details.

"I--" begins Una.

Really, she's trying very hard to have something worth contributing to this conversation. Something that isn't 'okay, so that fire was overkill, right, sorry about that' because that probably goes without saying.

It's also a vast understatement. Because (and it does come out, eventually): "Oh shit, did we just... shit, fuck, piss, damn, he's fucking dead."

Maybe she, too, looks a little green.

That guy is definitely dead.

And how Ariadne doesn't burst into hysterical tears is a thing of wonder and immediate compartmentalizing into a very tightly-sealed box in the corner of her mind. Don't worry, there's still a single long scream carrying on in that box. Two handfuls of the back of Ravn's very nice officer's coat are reflexive on her part, she who can barely be seen around the taller Dane.

Shaky Spanish resounds from her. <<Run, men! Ghosts! Go, before they get you too!>> It sounds idiotic in her head, but the barista can't think of anything else to say. GTFO so this Dream can be over!

The Spanish lieutenant squints. From his expression and the way he twirls his moustache, he is not actually unhappy with this new development. And why would he be? The way this story is going, the Spaniards are obviously moustache-twirling villains the kind which everyone expects to stab, betray, double cross, and mutilate one another except no one ever expects the Spanish, you geddit.

His men are less stalwart. They back towards the longboat because the sea is wet, and wet is generally a good defence against fire.

"It's a trap!" declares the lieutenant at last. He looks very proud of himself for having worked it out. "The English bastards are shooting on us!"

With seaweed-covered rocks, apparently.

He bolts and follows his men back to the longboat -- without having even the decency to offer the cousin of the French governor a lift. Captain Angelo remains face down in the surf, but then, to be fair, he probably does not have much face left anyhow.

Ravn makes no move to stop them. He just looks at the smouldering rock. And then, very slowly, "Powder ... ship."

Una-- the aforementioned cousin of the French governor-- is just going to have to stay where she is. Admittedly, that doesn't seem to be a problem for her: she's not freaking out per se, but she's definitely frozen where she is, just staring at the captain-that-was, and his singed trousers. And the rock.

This is going to be one of those wakes-up-screaming dreams, isn't it?

It's definitely not, at this point, a make-intelligible-conversation dream. Indeed, the shorter of the two redheads seems barely to notice Ariadne's surprise Spanish, or the quick retreat of the Spaniards.

Ravn's so-slow remark, though, finally draws her attention, though even now, she's slow to respond. "Is... they're all going to die. Because they're going back."

Shit.

"We don't have to light the match, though? Right? I don't?"

Samwise is definitely going to be startled when his person wakes up yelling.

Breathlessly, Ariadne notes, her eyes slightly glazed as they shift between retreating longboat and Spanish powder ship, "If we blow it up now, there's the others to worry about. The first mate. Bosun." Since they'd been sent off on that assassination attempt for further undermine the enemy presence.

"Oh God," Ravn murmurs quietly. "Are they -- Veil caricatures? Constructs? Because if so, I don't mind any more than I would shooting goons and Nazis in a computer game. But if they are living people -- I can't, I can't do that. Please, don't make me do that."

He swallows, hard. "Is that what this is about? The bastards don't want to break us -- they want us to break ourselves? I can't. I've done a lot of things in dreams I'm not proud of. I helped kill an Aztec fertility goddess, for fuck's sake. But blow up an entire ship of human beings? A crew of a hundred or more? I can't, please don't make me. I refuse."

Out at sea, the longboat makes its way towards the Spanish ship, fast as six rather terrified Spaniards can row. The horizon is dark and leaden as night starts to fall; the occasional flash of lightning portends the probable arrival of one of those tropical storms that make such great cinematic effect.

The people on the beach aren't 18th century sailors. Sure, Ravn knows how to island hop in his modern sail boat -- which by no means compares, and also, weather reports exist in the 21st century; he'd never put himself at a time and place like this.

The people on the two ships, English and Spanish, however are. Lieutenant O'Donoghue may be heading towards the Spanish ship -- but someone on either ship, English brigantine and Spanish galleon, makes the obvious judgement call: Sail towards the shallows, get the island between yourselves and the imminent storm.

"Even if they're not real, they feel real," says Una, wide-eyed. "The English," a nod towards Ariadne, "And the Spanish."

"I agree. I won't do it. They can-- something else can. Something that's not me, because I'm not waking with that on my conscience."

The storm, coming out of nowhere as it does, draws a shiver from her-- and a wince. "I really don't like this," she says. "None of it."

This stopped being fun. Was it fun? It's definitely not anymore.

Lightning is eye-catching, to say the least. Ariadne appears more from behind the far-taller Captain Ravn in order to scan the horizon. The distant rumble of thunder finally reaches them overtop the continued shush of the waves.

Her first few words end up swallowed in the carrying sound, so she tries again. "I want off this ride. But since we're fucked, back to the ship and maybe the storm doesn't flip ours or something. I've never sailed in a storm before, I have no idea what to do."

"I've never been on a tall ship in a storm," Ravn agrees quietly, with one last glance to the body of his Spanish counter part. "But I'll bet you five bucks that the Spanish ship is going to blow. And when it does, we're either on ours or we're here. And given here is not at risk of being too close to the powder ship when it blows, I am actually inclined to go ... pick flowers. Just, here, on the open beach. And please, no one look around the sand boredly and accidentally fall over cannibal footprints or something."

He winces. "I wonder if we can bore a dream to end -- or maybe we can shift the focus? O'Donoghue is far more of a hero than this British ponce I'm pretending to be. Maybe we can -- distract the Spaniards' attention out there so that they don't notice him? Maybe we can be -- not nearly as much the leading cast of this movie as we think we are?"

Una takes in a deep breath, and then lets it out again. A second time, too, just in case the first time wasn't good enough.

"I want off, too. Okay-- but. Right. Ravn's right, I mean." This is convoluted, but that's trauma for you, even when it's a lot less trauma than it could be.

"I'd rather be on land than not. Can we... I don't know, light a bonfire here? Distract them? Raise a pirate flag? What can we possibly do that will make them look back, given they're trying to get away from us as quickly as they possibly can?"

"I'm fine not being the hero. I'm already some double-agent or something." Now fully appeared from behind Ravn, the barista is busy bundling up the hem of her shirt in her hands to wring it nearly to death. Now and then, it flashes her bellybutton -- at least it's not her ankles?

How does one distract a rowboat full of men. Sinking it isn't an option. O'Donoghue needs time. How does one stop a rowboat.

Her golden-hazel eyes lock on one of the flashing oars.

And suddenly, yoink: the Spanish sailors are down an oar. Seaweed! Cursed seaweed! Mermaids!

Bloody hell, Abildgaard, those girls are thinking a hell of a lot faster on your feet than you are, and you're supposed to be the grifter. Life in Gray Harbor's made you pretty complacent, hasn't it?

Ravn dismisses the wry thought as fast as it arrived; there is no time at the present for a good session of wallowing in his own inadequacy. The news that the Spanish captain is dead certainly will stir the bees nest out there on the galleon -- but it will also sound every alarm in existence, and the more time they can buy the English lieutenant the better. He seems to be the true hero of this story, after all.

Some other time Ravn might have paused for a quick analysis; if O'Donoghue is the competent hero from a troubled background (being Irish at this time certainly is troubling when you're surrounded by Englishmen) then what is he? The obstacle to be removed so that the lieutenant can shine, obviously, but is he the asshole who must suffer a humiliating defeat so that O'Donoghue can shine -- or is he the bumbling but well intentioned idiot captain who will eventually recognise O'Donoghue as his equal?

It's a good debate. Let's have it some other time. Seaweed is good. Smart move, whichever redhead came up with that.

Is seaweed alive? Technically it is. No actual seaweed getting involved then -- but Spanish minds will no doubt insert the appropriate amounts of mermaids and sargasso eels anyhow when another oar goes ploink splash gone!

To lose one oar is an unfortunate occurrence. To lose a second? That's verging on incompetence. (Verging? It may be past that. Pity the poor sailors who need to explain that to their lieutenant-who-now-gets-to-step-up-and-be-captain.)

Una's appraising glance at the longboat ultimately does not result in another lost oar... or fire, for that matter. Fire is dangerous. Fire is bad.

Instead, she exhales unsteadily.

It's not her fault (okay, it definitely is) that the lieutenant now feels a sense of absolute terror.

Are they being followed by a mermaid with teeth?! Maybe they are...

Cue shrieking sailors in a stranded longboat. Ariadne can recognize that conundrum from what it is and does empathize with them, but now, they're a stranded longboat. Hopefully the tide will drift them beyond reach of the floating powder keg which is the Spanish tall ship.

"Was the first mate supposed to give some signal or something?" the barista asks of the others before another roll of thunder reaches them.

The horizon splits with another flash of lightning from blued clouds to ocean surface. "...I refuse to believe that's the signal."

"I can't quite convince myself that O'Irishman the Hero Lieutenant controls the weather," Ravn agrees with another glance to the longboat.

The English brigantine moves towards the lagoon and the shallows on the other side of the island. This is good. Means it'll probably be out of the blast range, with a whole lot of sand in between. "I think we should -- head back towards our own people. Get out of range. Maybe we've done enough. Maybe we haven't, but then we will have to do some theatrics later, somehow. I really do think that lighting is our cue to fucking run."

"Speak for yourself: none of you are my people," points out Una, though it is, at best, a feeble argument, and delivered half-heartedly. She's still watching the longboat; still chewing her lip over it.

"Just as long as there are no super tall trees to attract the lighitng," she adds, glancing towards the island and... ah yes. The super tall trees, destined to end up as replacement masts for one ship or another.

"No giving the narrative ideas about tall trees," Ariadne adds with a laugh too high-pitched to be honest humor. "Back to the ship though, no arguments from me. I'm good for hiding in the cabin at this point."

And with that, there she goes in the direction of the reorienting brigantine. Sand flies up behind her as she jogs -- nay, sprints. Bicyclist and habitual runner of Samwise? Even with the sand, that chick is covering ground. Adrenaline helps too. Another flash of lightning and louder, more immediate rumble signals the closing distance of the storm. The wind kicks up in the tropical trees out of nowhere and makes their fronds shiver against one another.

Not giving the narrative ideas sounds like a really good plan. So does bolting for the beach on the other side of the island -- right there, just across the flat stretch of land that forms a point and then a crescent around the shallow, protected lagoon that the Golden Vanity is sailing for.

Why is the Spanish galleon not doing the same? Maybe everyone on board is trying to find out what's up with the longboat, adrift and full of screaming sailors. Maybe there's no one to give orders if O'Donoghue has managed to do his job.

Ravn's feet pound against the sand. A sea officer's boots are heavy leather, not made for running.

He realises this -- remembers this as the dots start to form in front of his eyes. Suddenly his lungs are working like bellows, failing to expel the air fast enough to take in new oxygen. He's seeing stars.

A hand goes for his pocket where surely his inhaler would be -- if this was the 21st century.

Then he stumbles and falls to his knees and just tries to breathe.

Running in Ravn's wake is not, as it turns out, a particularly smart idea... not that it matters.

Una is not a runner. She's also (thankfully) not an asthmatic.

She is, however, an absolute klutz.

It's a tree branch that topples the curvy redhead, only a scant few seconds after Ravn goes down, and completely unconnected to it. One moment she's on her feet, doing fine. The next? She's tripped straight over that branch, and landed on her face.

"Ow," says Una, in a tiny voice.

It's a good thing Ariadne is strong and fit and athletic.

It's a good thing Ariadne glances over her shoulder before she's too far ahead. One -- no, both of her companions down!

"Fuck!" Another sheer slap of storm wind hits the island and makes the trees knock against one another. She almost twists an ankle with the cling of the sand, pretty and pristine though it might be, and turns to run back in their direction. "Get up! Come on! The wind's going to blow up high waves!"

And we just talked about NOT giving the narrative ideas. Oh well. Panic does crazy things.

"Can't -- breathe," Ravn manages to wheeze out. He counts in his mind, tries to force his body to work -- steady, steady, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, in, out, in, out.

Then he's back on his feet and looking behind himself to see if Una is still in one piece. Thank God that one of them seems to have any kind of physical coordination going for themselves. "Have to -- " (one Mississippi) " -- keep walking." (two Mississippi). "The storm." (Three Mississippi).

At least they're in plain sight from the brigantine. Surely Mr -- whatever the bosun's name is, will send in the dinghy as soon as the Golden Vanity comes around the point.

Una may have hit the ground with a thud, and it may have temporarily knocked the wind out of her, but she has the advantage of lungs that otherwise more or less work: a few seconds of recovery and she can, gingerly, attempt to feel her way back to her feet.

There's less light, now, and the wind howling through the trees makes it harder to hear, but she moves forward. "I'm," beat, "coming," she calls, catching up with Ravn, then attempting to maintain pace with him towards the water's edge-- to reach Ariadne, at least, even if the dinghy is not there to meet them.

"Fuck this for a joke," she adds, rubbing at her knees.

Whomever wants an arm up gets one as aid. Once they're all on their feet, Ariadne is quick to chivvy -- as calmly as possible -- the other two across the pale sand. Another roll of thunder is even closer, resonating in her chest cavity and ear drums.

"That bastard had better be sending out the dingy right now if he has any sense of honor whatsoever as the hero of this Dream!" she says, voice both thready and snarled at once. Having not tripped to eat dirt, the barista jogs on ahead and waves both arms. A strong gust whips past them all and swoosh: there goes the straw hat.

Aw. She liked that hat.

Forget the hat. Lighting flashes -- and Chekov's gunpowder barrels become Chekov's very loud and bright fireworks as the Spanish ship is struck.

Purists might protest that lightning apparently dodges the galleon's three masts in order to make its way down below decks, open the door to the gunpowder storage, and crack open a barrel. Purists can go watch another movie. Any action movie buff knows that when lightning hits a tall ship it blows sky high. It's like crashing a car -- the instant the hero is out of the wreck, it blows up. Always.

Ravn runs, half pulled, half dragged, focusing only on breathing -- one Mississippi, two Mississippi, right, left, three Mississippi.

Then the shockwave roars over the island, sending the unfortunate supporting cast characters flying -- into the shallow waters of the lagoon. He surfaces and realizes that thank God, the water is deep enough to touch bottom because he's pretty sure he will not be swimming in these boots or the heavy velvet coat.

That was, indeed, an earth-shattering kaboom.

Una, I-always-wanted-to-be-able-to-fly Una, is sent hurtling head over heels (or is that heels over head, surely?!) and the landing is less than ideal: a belly flop straight into the lagoon, thankfully not with enough force to completely blow the stuffing out of her.

It's still enough that there are a few panicky moments of not breathing before she can thrust herself at the surface and flail, dramatically. No, it's not deep. That scarcely matters.

And then, air time.

Lifted off of her booted feet, Barista Send-The-Dinghy-Arms whufts as she hits the surface of the lagoon at something of a sideways angle. It means it's easy to surface, but man, ocean water makes those boots immediately not very useful. Thank god for cycling and accompanying athleticism. Ravn might be able to touch bottom, but she can't. A few clumsier strokes in and she finds sand with her toes, immediately looking over at the source of splashing.

"Ravn! Get Una! Pull her to the shallower shit!" Shit being sand. Ariadne gag-coughs up more water. Damnit, she hates saltwater in her mouth.

Ravn makes his way towards the shorter of the women (one Mississippi...) and reaches for her shirt. If he has to scruff her like a cat to hold her head above the water? He can apologise to Una later. For now, he pulls her, and himself, towards the shore, where the water is even more shallow.

He tries to not think too much about those people out there. Tells himself, this is all a Veil construct. If there is such a thing as an Absurdist, it's having a field day with these strange narrative Dreams lately. It can't be real. Not the way things play out, not with improbable explosions and ridiculous coincidences, and reality literally rewinding to switch languages -- it can't be.

Then he realises two things, pretty much simultaneously. That white spot out there -- is definitely the longboat. O'Donoghue must have made it back, and sent it to shore to fetch his captain.

And the other white spot -- isn't. Time to move it.

You know what's worse than having your boobs wrapped up tight? Having your boobs wrapped up tight with waterlogged bandages.

What's not worse, however, is not drowning. Una will no doubt take the time to be grateful, later; in the short term, she's easy enough to tug towards shore, and by the time they're getting closer, even manages a few flailing kicks of her own to help propel them forwards.

Wobbly feet eventually aim to sink towards the shallows and allow her to stand; she coughs, splutters, hacks... and wrinkles her nose.

"Ow," she says. This is becoming repetitive. Or is that predictable? "Are we good? Can we go home now?"

"I want to go home now. If I swallow more salt water, I'm going to -- "

Ariadne raises her arms above the water line after paddling inwards another few strokes; now her water-logged boots touch sole to sandy bottom. It's waving down the dinghy, look at her signal, major airline providers would be proud.

Another cough-gag is what interrupted her thought -- this, and the other white spot.

"I swear to fuck, if I have to throw a fucking shark out of the water, I will," the barista says so incredibly drily and deadpan that it's a wonder her tangled strands of seawater-soaked hair aren't instantly coiffed. Another whip of wind blasts past them, bringing the first few heavy and much colder raindrops.

Farther down the beach, a sudden deep THUD and puft of sand signals the landing of the Spanish ship's wheel. How ignominious.

Time to spit sea water and watch floury drops of water drip from one's wig unto one's nose, and feel like one's lungs are on fire and one's waterlogged velvet coat weighs fifty kilos more than previously, never mind those knee high leather boots. There's probably water enough in each that he could start his own little salt water fish tank, Ravn reflects. There might even be a few surprised blennies down there, scuttling for dark places between his toes.

The exasperation in Una's voice and the indignation in Ariadne's mirrors in his own fatigue. This was fun at first. A hundred plus dead Spaniards later, the fun is wearing off pretty damn fast. The tropical storm is anything but pleasant; hard winds whip about, rain is starting to fall, and it is cold and sharp, and uuuugh.

"I note for the record that I prefer to do my sailing on a balmy afternoon on the Bay back home," Ravn observes to no one in particular. "Where all I need to worry about is flesh eating mermaids and rich yachters who rely far too much on automated pilots and navigation systems. And I wish to particularly underline that the 18th century is a hell of a lot more fun to read about than to visit. Thank you."