World Tree MUSH

  Stretching from the inland western coast to well beyond visible range, Mossflower Wood is a massive forest home to all sorts of creatures. Its western coasts are craggy, lonely places swept by salt winds and cloaked in mist. Only the mountain stronghold of Salamandastron, traditional seat of the Badger Lords, forms a landmark.

  Well, except the mast of that ship over there.

  Recognizable by many who ply the coasts, the Terrible Omen is nonetheless not the kind of ship as formidable as its name. True, it's piloted by vermin, and its captain is said to be a crazy fox who's as cunning as he is ambitious... and greedy. That's the way of all pirates, though, isn't it?

  Anyway, there is a ship moored just offshore, and there's a whole mess of vermin moving boxes and crates and pitching tents onshore. Sea rats, mostly, but there are ferrets, weasels, and the occasional stoat; there are, notably, no foxes.

  Except that fellow over there sitting on a stack of crates, cutting up a piece of fruit and daintily eating it. He's white, so he might be of a species not unknown to Renya -- but closer inspection proves that the lines are wrong, more like to a heavy-coated red fox; and there's not a stitch of colour on him. His eyes, getting even closer, are pink.

  His garb is fine, though, and suggestive of the niceties that come along with rank.

  Plus, you know, he stops and barks orders at the grunting, toiling vermin every so often to fix the placement of tents or supplies. His voice is confident, and also loud. His teeth are sharp.

  What on earth are they /doing/? It almost looks like they're setting up some kind of market or something. It's hard to say what's inside the crates, just yet, but there's a big brawny ferret crouching atop the tallest stack, a crowbar in his hand and a scowl on his short face.

Salty mists concealing craggy coastline, a trechereous site for any ship to risk sailing.

Well, any ship other than the Polar Vortex, which does not sail upon the waters sloshing against those jagged rocks at all. Frosty whisps roll along her hull like faux whitecaps as she soars above, on the watch for interesting oppritunities as any pirate crew should be.

One ship has somehow made it's way past that dangerous coastline though, and as spyglass passes from it across the marching vermin the gaze finally comes across the white fox upon the crates. The feline lookout pauses, then moves his eyepatch to the other eye and looks through the device with the now visible one, as if making sure he was using the right eye to begin with. Somethings when you go from below deck to topside you forget to swap the patch back and forth. "CAPTAIN! Ye might want to take a gander at this!"

Coattails swish behind her as Renya saunters up to the railing, putting one booted foot up upon it to brace herself as she grabs the spyglass and holds it up to her own eye. "Well ain't that an beaut of an antique."
"Aye, it's a nice ship, but look over here." Politely the lookout grabs the spyglass and guides her gaze towards the fox upon the look. "Dressed to the nines and white li--"
"That ain't the same," Renya curtly cuts him off. Not that she's got standard markings herself, being a marbled arctic. "Those eyes..." She tosses the spyglass back to the lookout. "Tell helm to take us over! This bears investigating!"

"Shall I prep a ski--" Which trails off into a sigh as Renya grabs one of the boardling lines and leaps over the railing to lower herself down. "--Never ye mind." He just scurries off to do as he's told.

It's pretty obvious as the grand airship shifts course to pass over landing, casting it's shadow over the mists and rocks below as Renya rapples herself down. But no flags have been raised, so despite it's intimidating appearance the ship means not to attack.

At least not yet.

  A few sea rats look up, frowning, when a sudden cold wind ruffles their fur and tugs at their whiskers. It's harvest season; the harsh winds of winter shouldn't be starting just yet. Ferrets, weasels, and more rats look up in surprise as a ship comes in through the mist, and their eyes pop round when it becomes clear that the ship isn't /sailing/, it's /flying/.

  Half a dozen vermin immediately start gabbling and pointing and hollering, trying to get the attention of their captain. The old white fox has lost his jovial idleness, crouched atop the crate like the predator he is; in his claws is an ornate brass spyglass pulled to its full length.

  The spyglass sweeps the ship, but that doesn't really help explain anything.

  Oh, someone's rapelling down the side of the ship. One of the ferrets points, yelling to the captain and waving his arms; the old fox grunts, having already seen it.

  Covro Saltclaw picks himself up, dusts off his fine coat, vaults from the crate, and strolls over to where he expects the other fox is probably going to land. His hand is on the haft of his bullwhip. His teeth are bared in a grin, the very end of his tail flipping from side to side.

  This ought to be interesting.

  Somewhere out of the mist, a big burly ferret has materialized next to the captain, standing in eerie silence. His beady black eyes are watching the approaching Renya with a scowl. The fox, by turn, seems pleased. In fact, if she glances over the vermin -- which the old fox waves back into action -- she'll note that there are rats, ferrets, weasels, and the odd stoat, but there are no other foxes present or accounted for. Huh.

There is no such thing as a 'simple' entrance when it comes to Renya Rimehart. Though this is fairly tame compared to her shipboarding endeavors.

The line doesn't reach all the way to the ground, nor does it need too. After shimmying down the end of the length the vixen simply lets go, boots hitting the ground with a few quick steps to break up the momentum from the airship's movement. Followed by a moment of adjusting and dusting off her greatcoat while she's sizing up the gathering with a casually keen eye. Hmm. Not quite as varied as her own motley crew, and only one fox -- abiet one that stands out due to his unusual nature.

Outwardly though Renya is all panache and exhuberance as usual. "Well, either ye be setting up camp, or raided a mighty fine one. Whichever it may be, quite the stash by the look of it."

Her fancy hat is removed. "And ye must be the captain of this fine gathering." The hat is swept forward and in front of her as the vixen bows with grandeur towards Saltclaw. "Calm your itchy claws, mate, I have no interest in booty already properly plundered. Pirate's honor." Which in this case and in this company might actually mean something.

Renya grins coyly as she stands back up and returns her hat to her head, adjusting it with both hands to accomidate her ears. "I may be a pirate but I ain't no savage."

  "As it happens," the old dog fox states crisply, letting go of the bullwhip and folding his arms over his chest, "ye aren't wrong. First 'twas plundered. Now it's bein' set up. An' then, it'll be sold... iff'n yon stripedogs take a shine to any of it."

  Doffing his hat, the white fox is even paler than Renya when the sun lights in his fur. He's older, by appearances, with the odd scar here and there, though his eyes are clear and not yet sunken. One thin old scar cuts the right side of his lip over the canine. His skin is astonishingly pink and pale; his eyes likewise colourless. The quick of his claws are even visible, even though they aren't cut so close as that.

  "Ye have me at a loss, pretty lass." Holding his feathered tricorne with one hand, he tugs at the beard braided at his chin. "I'm Covro Saltclaw, savvy? An' these scurvy seabeasts are me crew. Me ship, the /Terrible Omen/, that's her ridin' shore just over yonder. We ply the western coast o' Mossflower Wood. Other pirates, they might have a notion to take the fire-mountain o' the stripedogs o'er yonder--" Here he points at the mist-shrouded mountain, "But I advise against trouble. We've an agreement, we do. I drop anchor here an' offer them no trouble, I get to sail these waters as I please."

  "Oh," he adds, almost dismissively. "This here be Vikar Bloodkeel, me first mate." He slaps the big ferret companionably on the shoulder. The ferret never moves, and continues staring, almost squinting, at Renya. "He ain't rude, but he don't talk." The ferret tips his head up. Most of his throat is an awful scar. Vikar lowers his head again.

  "I've vittles aboard me ship. Can I interest ye in a pint? Irontail brews up the finest seaweed grog the north side o' Salamandastron." A flash of needle-sharp fangs in a red mouth; a grin. "Finest vittles ye'll have outside o' the stripedogs' mountain, that I guarantee."

Renya taps her clawed fingertips together. "Ooo~ Plunder goods and black market them for actual gold and silver, ah?" This is the sort of thing she's been prowling various worlds looking into, but we shouldn't let it distract from other matters at hand.

The vixen smirks even more coyly. "I have that effect on people~" she replies playfully, tail swaying with amusement. Then ahems softly as she straightens up and adjusts the collar of her coat. "Captain Renya Rimehart, pirate princess of Verdigris skies above and seas below, scourge of the Victorian Imperial Navy."

She pauses and half-turns to wave flamboyantly towards the airborne galleon that has sailed a bit farther inland to turn and drift back towards the coastline. "And that be the Polar Vortex." Seems to be a bit of a frosty theme going on here.

Then she glances up at Vikar. "Ye must be the biggest ferret I've yet seen."

An ear perks back to Covro as he offers food and drink. "Ye be speaking my language mate, next to the booty and plunder that is. Not to mention yon ship, a classic fine vessel were I be from." Mind you there's still sea sailing ships, just many of them have advanced to steam powered, steel sided vessels to contend with pirates and other threats.

  "Gold is good an' silver's splendid, but we'll be dead if we ain't got bread." Covro sweeps his hat, eyeing Renya with a pink eye and a grin. "Fair trade, lass. Above board, savvy? They have what we need. So we give 'em what they want. Curiosities. Things from lands further distant than their fire-mountain."

  He shows his teeth again. "O' course, I keep the best of it."

  Pirate.

  Vikar's beady black eyes slide over to Renya, but true to word, he doesn't say anything. The effect is a little unsettling to some, so it's probably clear why it's as much of a benefit as an impediment to the first mate. He shows his needle-teeth in a grin. The expression looks so foreign and unpractised to his face that the expression is made a little ghastly.

  "'Sides which, I ain't gonna swab me precious girl's decks o' blood every time I want fresh fruit." Covro switches his tail, strolling forward through the wet sand and leaving prints from his boots. "A pleasure, Cap'n. I've no navy to contend with, here. Too many pirates. I've no qualms plunderin' my cousins what aren't skilled or smart enough to stay out o' me way."

  Up the gangplank, and onto the ship. The Terrible Omen is a well cared for ship, positively gleaming with good condition and polish, and the tone of its creaking and settling doesn't sound like a ship coming apart at the timbers. It's obviously Covro's pride and joy; the old dog fox seems to adopt a bit of a spring in his step once he's properly on the ship. Vikar neatly breaks away to go manage the vermin horde in their efforts at unloading.

  "Never seen a ship sail the air. But this, /this/ is me element here." Covro pats the hull fondly. "Commandeered her fair an' square from her last captain."

  Not a stitch of steel to be found in the Terrible Omen; just canvas, timber, and pitch. Well, aside from the anchor, anyway. Covro takes from around his neck a silver key, using it to unlock the door to what is presumably the captain's cabin, waving a hand to usher Renya in.

  The cabin is somehow both rich and plain. It's not stuffed so full that it can't be navigated, and the things that are there are actually pretty tasteful. Books, tools, the occasional fancy weapon that's clearly ornamental rather than functional, rich cloth, a mastercrafted instrument or two. His clothing, too, boasts how profitable and well-off he is; rich silk and embossed, gilded leather. The hat is a well-kept leather tricorne; the feathers in it striped and spotted, long, pristine, and possibly from an owl.

  Covro crosses the room and pulls a crystal decanter from a cabinet, and glasses to match, pouring Renya something that smells like it's either paint thinner or really strong alcohol, offering it to her. "The fruits o' my quartermaster's labours. Seaweed grog. 'Tis a favourite all up an' down yon coast."

  "Have a seat. Anywhere." He gestures to the cabin, which has a few chairs bolted down, and a table in the middle, currently clear of anything but probably festooned with maps and charts on a good day. For a ship, it's incredibly large; and the size of the hull is also uncommonly large. Most of it is cargo hold.

  Covro pours himself a glass, too, leaning against the wall. "Classic, savvy? Oh, aye, Cap'n, she's still got plenty o' fight in her, ye'll see if ye ever see her in action."

Renya barks (somewhat literally) a laugh, and only refrains from giving Covro a swat on the shoulder because Vikar is doing a good job of being brooding ominous bodyguard. "Spoken like a true sailor, sea sky or otherwise. Can't plunder on an empty stomach and rickety knees," she replies with mirth of her own as she follows in step to the Terrible Omen and aboard.

With no sign from the Captain that she's in danger the Polar Vortex simply passes over the encampment again, moving towards the shore and dropping its own anchor amongst the salt-stained rocks. But still remains afloat in the air above, occasionally bobbing a bit as air currents lightly rock it the same as ripples upon the waters surface would.

The lookout has returned to the main deck, now accompanied by the male half of the raccoon twins. Who rather than taking the feline's spyglass was using various lenses on a pair of goggles to zoom in on the pair heading towards the ship. "They must also be pirates. Captain'd have us down their raidin' the coffers if they were local merchants..." Technically he and his sister, as first and two of Renya's longest standing allies, held the same rank. But Maven was usually busy handling the ship's mechanical and maintenance matters, so 'First Mate' usually fell to Magnum. Meaning with the Captain ashore he was in change, and just keeping an eye on things.

Renya just has a knack for getting herself into... situations. Brave and cunning and all but nary a lick of common sense much of the time.

Lazily Renya runs her fingers over a railing, and nods approvingly to herself. Her ship may be of more modern materials, but she grew up on a 'classic' ship like this and still knows a thing or two. A plank gets a light rap here, her ears swivel a bit at the squeaks and creaks of a healthy ship. "I shouldn't speak of her like she's old, mate. It's just from me perspective. Me mum sailed a ship much like this in her hayday."

There's no steam organ in the back but otherwise the cabin is not unlike her own. The bare table is noted, but only a foolish dog of the sea would leave his maps out where any ol' swab could gander at them. Renya takes the glass and takes a sniff of it, her nose crinkling a little but not in a bad way. "Oh, if this tastes as strong as she smells, I'd believe that." She flops back in a chair, makes herself comfortable and kicks back to gulp down a fair share of the glass's contents on the first go.

"And that she is!" She pauses, squinting one eye into the half empted glass. "Actual seaweed, or that just a name to keep the bilges from doin' something they may regret?"

  The captain maintains his post by the door, arms crossed over his chest, his own glass balanced neatly in one hand. It's heavy crystal and obviously expensive by its make. Covro swills the contents around a bit, although he keeps one unsettlingly pink eye cocked toward the other captain. He doesn't bristle when she touches the ship's railing, but he never quite takes his eye off her, either.

  Outside, the vermin are raising a regular camp in the wet sand. Despite having no voice, Vikar Bloodkeel manages to direct the workers well. Some of the smarter rats, and most of the mustelids, are watching him -- he's directing them not by bellowing at them, but by gesturing; using some kind of sign language that the smarter vermin seem to understand perfectly well.

  A regular free trade market is springing to life a ways down from Salamandastron, in the shadow of the Polar Vortex and the Terrible Omen. Goods are being unloaded, crates forced open by prybars and loaded into stalls and tents. Colourful painted banners rise and snap in the salty wind off the sea, and some of them are homely enough to look like some of the vermin might have painted them. Further ashore, a stout tailless rat is directing other seabeasts, trying to set up a fruit stand to his exacting specifications.

  Inside the Terrible Omen, Covro pushes off from the doorframe, flipping his tail in what might be the equivalent of a shrug. "She ain't old, but she ain't young, either. I won her when I threw her last captain overboard. He couldn't handle her, not not rightly, and 'twas a terrible sailor besides. So I commandeered her, fair an' square, an' her crew became my crew. Most of 'em still are. Vikar's been my first mate since my earliest sailin' days. Saved his life, I did. He'll do anythin' for me. An' I'll do anythin' for him." Covro shows his needle-teeth again. "Blood brothers, we are. A scar on his throat an' a scar on my snout."

  He crosses to the prettily wrought window, unlatching it and pushing it open to admit the salty air. As Renya gulps down the seaweed grog, he's watching, but more to gauge whether it knocks her flat or not. One brow arches a tick when she takes it down without flinching. Impressive. "Depends on who ye ask," he professes, shrugging sagaciously. "To hear Irontail tell it, seaweed be the least offensive ingredient. An' the smell while it be brewin'... nobeast goes near the galley when he's got a fresh batch ready."

Renya Rimehart would of probably poked and prodded at a lot more things, but she's trying to be civil. At least as far as such goes for pirates. She has enough people after her tail without needlessly pissing off otherworldly pirates as well. Especially ones doing business she might want to take advantage of in the future.

Despite the casual demeanor her mind has been a buzz though. Don't needlessly mess with the 'stripebacks' on the mountain. She didn't ask specifics on species, but if we're talking about them being ornery and stubborn it's probably badgers or skunks. But trade proper and locals don't question too much where the goods come from, either.

"Not old but not young.. much like her captain eh?" Renya replies with a fangy grin of her own. He's clearly older than her, but not many pirates live intact to that point, so while a bit backhanded it's still a compliment.

"Mmhmm," she muses, swirling the remains of the seaweed grog a bit in its glass. "The ship herself was left for me by my mum, hidden away on a small isle when she 'retired' as a pirate and I was already off on me own... But it's the Twins that make her fly, with aether machinery their old man devised. The Imperials have made a few sky ships of their own, but there ain't nuttin' like her."

Renya paused, ears wilting back a little as she staired down at the glass. "Put his heart and soul into making her skyworthy... and Mange shot him with nary a second thought." She shrugged a little. "I know, sorta what we do.. but cold blood when the ol' coon was just doin' his job is a bit much. Mange didn't want to give fair share to nobody else; no given due for effort and results. I made sure when it came to keelhaulin' the bilgesucker the Twins got their revenge before tossin' the rest of him to Davy Jones."

They might have a few things similar than just species, it seems. "They're the only ones that know how her inner workings... work now. But they've been me mates even before that. Gotta be careful who you trust not to put a mutinous dagger in yer back." And with the end of the little reaccount Renya leans back to drain the rest of the grog. It may be strong, but for as young as she is in comparison she's got the will to deal with it.

  No matter the disrespectful term, these stripedogs that Covro's talked about must be formidable indeed. Listening to the chatter of anybeast living nearby would confirm that much, and back up the notion that the Badger Lords are such fearsome warriors that even one of them is counted favourably against an army.

  They've held Salamandastron since time out of mind. Perhaps it fell to conquest, but only once, and only through treachery. It's never been lost in an honest siege. Assuredly, many have tried. It's a tempting, high-profile target. The top of the inert dome is visible for leagues, especially over the open sea.

  But the fire-mountain has held, and held it has, through the martial skill of the Badger Lords. Covro didn't get to be where he is through carelessness, and he's heeded the chatter of the woodland folk. Too much greed is bad for a salty old dog fox's lifestyle. That is to say, he likes the lifestyle where his head is still on his shoulders, and he's very much interested in continuing that lifestyle.

  So he's decided to treat with them, and earn their trust, although that may be a long time coming. Presenting them with goods 'fairly bought and fairly sold' ought to do something towards that. In the meantime, his seabeasts have orders on pain of keelhauling not to antagonize the Badger Lords or their militant army of perilous fighting hares.

  "Something like that." Covro regards her through one hooded eye when she compares ship and captain, although it's hard to tell whether his regard is favourable or whether it's annoyed. "Hmm. So, 'tis a family business. Hah. Me own father, aye, he probably sailed ships out of port in the Land of Ice and Snow. Too hard to make an honest livin' in that place. Ye farm an' break yore back long enough, an' then--" He snaps his fingers, "--one bad winter, an' ye have nothin' to eat all the winter long. 'Twasn't for me. So me an' my mate Vikar, we steal aboard a ship, an' we leave."

  The captain shrugs elabourately. "That it became my ship later, well, 'twas what I would call a happy accident."

  "Mange. Sounds like an ill-bodin' name, that." The old dog fox gives a flip of his stark white tail. "Sounds like he was done for as he deserved, too. Aye, there are always daggers in the dark, there are. Ye learn to sleep with a knife o' yore own in easy reach, ye do."

  He watches as she quaffs the rest of the seaweed grog, and actually winces a little.

  "Watch yoreself on that, lass. Bang ye silly, an' it has a nasty bite. Goes down so smooth, though, don't it? Ye wouldn't even know 'til it's too late. An' yore 'too late' ought to come out with the mornin' sun." Covro shows his teeth. "I reckon by morning, ye'll be hatin' life an' everythin' in it."

  "Irontail, he's my quartermaster. Bit o' a private joke. Look out the window, there, an' look o'er those Saltclaws. See the rat o'er there, the one with the black an' the white? The one wot's got no tail? That's Irontail," he adds, pointing a claw over to the described sea rat, who seems to be setting up a fruit stand to his exacting specifications with the help of half a dozen sea rats who Just Aren't Getting It, to go by the quartermaster's paryoxysms of rage and hurled invective, faintly audible even from the captain's cabin. "You say the word, lassie, he'll send o'er to yore ship some o' that grog o' his."

At the commentary on the grog's potency Renya looks thoughtfully down at the glass again.... Then shrugs a bit. "Won't be first time, won't be the last. Sure Miss Lindsay knows an anti-hangover lullaby or two." It would be almost a requirement as a pirate ship's bard and 'morale officer'.

Then the vixen leans forward, both to put the empty glass on the table and to peer out the window as indicated. It takes a few moments before the quartermaster turns to chuck something at one of his faultering lackies and put his back towards the ship for her to pick out the lack of tail. "... Ooooh. It's like nicknamin' a matey that ain't got his left no more 'Southpaw'." She tries to remain polite but can't help a snicker from escaping briefly as she sits back in her chair once more. "I'm sure he can.. and I'm sure it's not gonna be for freebies either," she replies, still smirking.

  "A gift from the Terrible Omen's captain," Covro replies magnanimously, puffing out his chest and thumbing the lapel of his fine overcoat. "More seriously, me ship has too much cargo. T'ain't essential cargo, and t'ain't a thing them stripedogs would be interested in havin' for their own."

  Shrugging, the old dog fox crosses the cabin, gesturing toward the window with a claw as he does. "Irontail ain't been with me crew as long as t'others, but what 'e lacks in seniority, 'e puts in with effort. Most efficeint quartermaster I clapped me eyes on, that's for sure. Aye, he had a tail once, but 'e lost it in a game o' cards... or so I hear. More like he got hisself in over his head. He does that." Covro shows his teeth again. "Har."

  Those pink eyes turn back to Renya, searching. "Free," he adds, shrugging noncommittally. "Needed to jettison that cargo anyway. We've a surplus o' that swill on hand. Might as well donate it to a good cause. Har."

One ear lops a little as Renya tilts her head aside some, watching the old seafox as he moves about the cabin. Though being an arctic her ears aren't as long as other foxes so the angle isn't quite so noticable, but the expression is there. Her attitude may seem casual in demeanor, but she's paying much more shrewd attention that others give her credit for at times.

Which could very well be on purpose.

"Would be shame for it to go to waste," she replies with a congenial tone. Though she still has a suspicion 'free' is going to cost her something later, but that's how pirates work sometimes. "We'll be sure to put it to good use. Fishes have enough to drink in the seas as it is, arrarr!"

Then she leans to one side of the chair, crossing one leg over the other as she positions herself where she can watch the set-up out the window, while still having a corner of her eyesight on the other captain. "Looks like ye got quite the prosper going here... But ye ever think of sellin' surplus 'off-world' as its put?"

  Crossing the cabin again, Covro throws the window open all the way, letting the stiff sea breeze gust through the cabin. It flutters what few wall hangings there are and ruffles his colourless fur, snatching at the feathers in his tricorne. That done, he then proceeds to throw himself down in the chair at the great big writing desk bolted to the floor and the bulkhead.

  One arm is propped up on it, claws idly tapping at the scarred timbers. "I had a feelin' ye might. Har. Just don't let 'em drink too fast. Next batch ain't so free, savvy? Consider it a sample."

  "Hunh." Covro glances back to the other captain, raising a shaggy brow. Has he thought about selling surplus off-world? "Not especially, but it's soundin' better by the minute. T'ain't a whole lot who travel this sad an' lonely shore here. Nor a whole lot of options inland, har. We be pirates. Don't like gettin' our feet too dry, now..."

Which gets another light laugh out of Renya. "I suspected as much." Honestly she's already feeling a bit of the effect of how fast she chugged at first, but she's got plenty of experience of passing it off as little more than an annoyance. Until she finally collapses in her bunk. Got to keep up appearances, after all.

She holds her hands out in a passive gesture. "All sorts of black markets and smuggler coves to be found out there. One's just got to be willin' to look." Her own smirk, enough to show the point of a fang on one side, returns. "Or folks willin' to hire some blades that won't ask too many questions bout morality long as they get paid proper."

One hand reachs up to adjust her own hat after the initial bluster cocks it a bit too far to one side of her head. "If ye ever venture towards Verdigris, Deadlights' got a whole 'trade' market dedicated to the needs of plunder and skullduggery."

  "Out there, aye, maybe. Here... well. I be makin' it a policy not to go mixin' it up too much in the politics of overlords an' scoundrels." Covro shows his needle-sharp teeth again, even as he folds his arms and leans back in his chair. "Bad for business, savvy? Can't be too cautious. Overlords around Mossflower Wood, they have a habit o' bein' intractable an' a little too demanding in their loyalties."

  In other words, he hasn't bothered taking on with any overlords, because they're usually crazy and violent in all the worst ways. Covro might be a little too cautious but it beats hanging out with the bottom-dwelling fish. The Greeneyes cats might always have a use for muscle, but the old dog fox would rather not answer to any master but his own. The freedom of the salt spray is too much of a lure to ignore.

  "I'll mark that," Covro says instead, languidly examining the claws of one hand, although his eyes are still passively watching the other captain. He might be jovial and have something of a sleepy regard, but his eyes never quite leave her general direction, and his ears never quite stop following her, either. "In the meantime, best I get back to my crew. Some o' the clods don't know which way to be pitchin' a tent. Har. /Those/ Saltclaws ain't geniuses, that's for sure."

  Pushing himself back to his feet, he swaggers out of the cabin, gesturing for Renya to follow. He'll even wait for her, too. "Let's see what kind o' trouble Vikar's found down below. I'll even cut ye a deal if ye see anything ye like an' want on yore ship. Har!"

The two, despite their casual demeanors, have been watching each other closely. This, for pirates, is being social. They do seem to have a mutual understanding of each other though, neither pushing too far nor letting their guard down.

"Aye, aye. Care not for politics beyond running the ship... but sometimes the oppritunities for other things can be pried in the cracks they cause." Renya uncrosses her legs and swings herself back forward in the chair with a flair, practically springing from it as she does to land on her feet... and stumble a bit, catching the table with one hand for steadiness. It's a little tipsy at best, but the seaweed grog is definately catching up to her with it's potenancy.

True to form though she brushes it off like it was intentionally, pushing herself back upright and straightening out her jacket as her tail flicks a few times to reassert her balance. "Harr arr, gotta have some swabs to do the shiftin' and shovin' to earn their share!" Tipsy or not she's still got plenty of her swagger intact as she saunters after the elder captain.