faderift | Maybe I'm meant for the sea

If the recent frantic scramble to Minrathous cast a light on anything it was this: swimming lessons.

Kirkwall is bounded by water all along one side of it, sailing off to places no longer an optional experience but mandatory if where they're going to is easier to get to by ship, so the idea of people not knowing is senseless. The flyers take a little time after getting back, might not be the first, but she'd rather get started now. Build on what Charles began then see if the rest of Naval Presence can be gathered together.

(Who knows, perhaps the Inquisition will field a swim team by the time all is said and done.)

Beginners lessons are by the docks with strict instructions on not to wear that essentially boil down to being sensible: no robes for the mages, nothing heavy so not your armour, and nothing you're scared you'll lose. (She's watched a very rich girl visiting home sobbing hysterically over a lost earring once, of all the things.)

"We'll go between piers first," she says to whoever shows up, simple trousers that cut off below the knee, antaam-saar top since what's the point in wearing much. "If you've swum before, let me know, I'll get in and you can show me how you swim." Frantic doggy paddle throwing up great arcs of white water or anything more co-ordinated, if they even know how. She can start with just about anything.

For the more confident, it's out by the Wounded Coast where there current tugs stronger, where kelps grow in long strands to brush the feet or fish dart past. All the worst fears for the unwary who might know a river, but not waters that open up and out to greater things, where everything is a horror ready to bite the foot off at the ankle. "See the skerry? It's only to the skerry. It's not far. Then we haul ourselves up and stop and decide where we want to go next."

In either case, she's got her cloak. In case someone starts struggling. Hopefully it won't be needed.

Church is only more confident (and maybe he should not be) after swimming lessons done up for a bit of a 'mission', which also ended up in an argument with the leader of the forces about basic life-saving medical procedures. He still has no idea how Coupe got the idea of blood magic being involved in CPR, but whatever.

He raises a hand. "Question: what's a skerry?"

Listen...he does not sea talk. Someone tells him to get on a boat, he gets on a boat. That's mostly it.

Treading water with her the hood of her cape pushed back, Araceli hesitates. There's always that moment when a word is there on the tip of her tongue, looking between Church and it and back again when she doesn't know another name for it at first, if the translation is right. It always was what it was. That out there my girl? Oh that's the skerry, same as that one, and that one, and if you squint you can see another collection curving past until they go out of sight.

But she tries. Mouth pursing around it. "See that very small island there? The tiny one? Almost a reef?" Her hand raises up out of the water, a sheet of water sluicing down the arm of the cape where she points; glossy black cormorants have settled on it, their wings held out at their sides to dry, shining blue-green in the light. "That's a skerry, I think...maybe you call it sea stacks other places? It was always the skerry. Too little to live on for us, good to just rest on. No seals hauled out today."

If there had been seals, she'd have revised plans, maybe taken out a lifeboat to moor it there or picked a different spot, she's not in the habit of disturbing seals but the birds won't bother them if they don't bother the birds.

Listen. It's a fair question. "Oh! Right. You know, I...did not know those things had names? I always thought of...just...rocks. That rock out there. Rocks out in the ocean. Reef works. I think reef is a--I mean I always think of reefs being under the water--"

And that's about the point where he decides he should really pay more attention to his body in the water than talking words, because it's rougher, here, and sea water in the mouth is gross, and also maybe don't! get pulled away! by the water! Thank you! He splashes a little, rights himself, back on track.

"Okay! I'm okay."

"Everything has a name, the sea is older than all things." She kicks her legs to get herself onto her back to take a few lazier strokes, buoyant and comfortable, better able to see. "Some of them are as old as the ones that bubble up with lava from undersea volcanoes and vents, I just don't know if Thedas has those or if it's a thing people have time to care about between all their wars."

That's the benefit of having only the one: time for so much more, all that effort poured into everything else you might possibly imagine as she rolls back into her front, dipping beneath the surface and back up.

"Do you need a hand?" Christine wouldn't be happy to have a half-sized Church returned at the end of the day.

"I'm fine, I'm good, just...got distracted, that's all." His movements are nowhere near as smooth as hers, as someone whose life has revolved around the sea since birth. He's had a couple of lessons and a couple of dips to go with them. There was never much reason to learn in Skyhold. Has anyone taken the idea of lifejackets under further consideration? Because they really should.

"You ever consider writing? Like, poetry. That's gotta have a big market in Thedas, sea poetry."

"At least you didn't come in armour, I thought some people might." You know how some people are Church, practically stitched into it (it's a disturbing little road to go down in her thoughts but on the surface, funny) although it does beg the question: "I mean I thought someone might try then just sink to the bottom, and it's not as if they have diving helmets at all here, they wouldn't even be any use down there. They'd be nipples on a breastplate."

Now if they did have diving helmets (and the suits) then they could just go strolling along the bottom of the seabed how do you do fellow armoured life how is the coral today? Any red lyrium to report? It almost has her gulping down water herself.

"Poetry? Oh no I'd--" She laughs, shaking her head, water flying everywhere, caught offguard by it. "I don't have the-- no, we should leave that to the professionals shouldn't we? Gwenaëlle for instance would be far more accomplished in that regard."

"...Did you know you're a genius? Okay. Two things. First, you know sea shanties and talk poetically about the ocean, I think you can manage writing some of it down and making a few silver for the efforts." Speaking of efforts, the water here does drag more than in Kirkwall's harbor proper. He has to stop himself speaking just to concentrate on keeping on past the pull. It helps, he thinks, to be as fit as he is from working out and carrying shit and marching around and swinging swords and generally narrowly avoiding death. The medieval workout. Not dying.

"Right, and, and second, diving helmets. You could make diving helmets. You could be the one to, like, help start these people on exploring the sea! Under the sea! Think of all the shipwrecks and lost treasure!"

Fortunately, having to keep swimming as something small and silver and faster than her blades carefully hidden back on the shore with Lux and the Walrus to guard them darts beneath her legs means Araceli can't turn back to stare at Church. She might if they'd been on land, but they wouldn't be having this conversation then.

"Singing the songs I've known since I was in the cradle older than my grandparents or even their grandparents is a whole other world from writing it. Poetry is-- I lived in a building before. And it was full of artists. Painters, writers, musicians, sculptors, poets, usually none of them with patrons or none who had steady or very wealthy patrons, but it was their passion, it was their life, there was something in them that was poetry. The sea is my blood same as theirs, it comes out a different way. It's easy to talk of a thing you love, another thing to show it that way." Another thing entirely to do it properly other than to live as she lives, as the sea wills it, which isn't a thing Araceli will ever be putting into words outside the select few souls it might be entrusted to as she kicks her legs harder, a prickling of sensation as the blood rushes through her against the cold of the water warming her.

That's life, she could say, but that might brand her a poet again and well she's a bard. A pirate. (Queensguard to those few who know it.)

The skerry is close, if she lengthened her strokes she could reach it but she turns back, a lazy kicking and minimal arms to keep an eye on Church since the water flow is interrupted about it. "I know duels. I know the lute. I know gambling, sailing, swimming, climbing and falling. I know my way around lockpicks. But my instruction in smithing - actually that might go beyond smithing I think, there was fabric involved but not a seamstress - is lacking past sharpening blades. Or knowing 'oh that's a pretty knife, I like that knife'. Besides I can hold my breath a long time and I came to possess this cape."

The cape is very much not just for show though it could be, it's a statement of a cape being as it is some strange leather and cut in the shape of a manta ray even with the lobes where the ray's mouth would be.

"You write down the words to the songs you sing, bam, it's poetry, baby." Church, that's a little simplistic... "People think--people always think that art-" and he pulls a hand up out of the water as if gripping a goblet for emphasis before putting it back down to try and keep up with her "-means a lot of study and work and smarts. Nah! It's just a thing you love. Next time you start talking poetic about the sea, someone should write down what you say. Poetry! Instant poetry."

Nobody's ever going to write down the things he says. They come out all jumbled and jambled. Stutter and start and stop. Ramble, crude, ineloquent. He can give a speech now and then, but it's not anything that'll be remembered in the years to come.

As for the shot down idea of diving helmets: "I was wondering why you were wearing dragging down clothes to swim?" Oh, well, he's just going to put a pin in the helmets and go for the cape instead. Less words, more curiosity.

Her fingertips touch the skerry, scraping over barnacles as she hauls herself up and out, turning to kneel as the water runs in sheets down and off her cloak, the hood sliding back with a good shake of her head. If she has to, she'll slide back in if Church needs her to but from here it gives Araceli the perfect vantage point to observe his form as well as answer. On the tip of her tongue is the quickest, easiest response (that's plagiarism) that might be shot down as easily (no one else from your home is here, it's been three years - almost - is anyone else ever going to come, who would know unless you told them) and instead she takes a deeper breath. Thinks of how long it must surely take Gwenaëlle to write her poetry. Of her first meeting with Beleth on a rooftop to start their bard lessons, the calluses worn into her fingertips from the lute. Her mother's father who drew beautiful things including the ink on her right shoulder.

"You do remember I'm a bard, don't you? It is a lot of study and hard work to do any of it. None of it is a thing done in an instant; people see the end result of a thing, same as a meal, but there's all that goes to making it. More than the moments immediately leading up to it. The years to even allow for that." More for her friends than for herself, the idea that they're being undervalued, their hard work, the backhanded clumsiness of the compliment edging around suspicion at flattery.

Better to focus on the cloak, lifting an arm of it. "This? Oh it's not heavy, it helps swimming, actually. It came out of a rift back about the time we were all making repairs at Llomerryn. I swim faster with it so for me, that's saying something, and it allows me to go longer beneath the water without breathing so it's got useless applications for the project, if I had any idea what it was made of I could perhaps track down more somehow, all I know is that it's not leather, it feels wrong for leather."

"Being a bard is different." His form is...sloppy, heavy-handed, still this side of a beginner. But he manages. For now, he comes to a stop, floating, gently kicking legs and waving his arms enough to keep afloat. "Because a bard's not just someone versed in all the arts." Oh sure. There are bards that are just bards. But some bards are more. Some are spies. Assassins. Scouts. "But also, because a bard's versed in all the arts. That's not the augh something touched my leg!"

He flails in an instant, goes under, and it's a hectic few moments before he's back up and swimming. Fuck this conversation, he's heading for land. And it's record time (for him) in reaching the skerry, slapping a hand against the rock, sliding a little as he clambers up.

"...I think it was just a fish. So now I feel, y'know, sufficiently stupid."

"In some ways," half an agreement because there's the side of being a bard that's lonely. The door open until it isn't, the way that you are watched, weighed, measured but in that respect how is it so different to being a rifter, to being the common girl risen to the ranks of queensguard? That's breathing to her. "But the arts very much matter, if you fuck up in front of them there they'll eviscerate you and you'll wish it had been a knife somewhere spilling everything out through the petticoats."

Almost a relief at the Winter Palace to have the invasion, the fighting, to drop the lute and the playing her polite little part of curiosity behind the mask to have her blades out with a small pack of terrified nobles stinking of perfumed sweat behind her. That idea cuts short, her hand grabbing his wrist to assist in hauling him up, steadying him.

Araceli's small but stubborn, she can tug hard when she has to.

"There was at least one octopus not long after we came here, nothing terribly exciting. No sharks." As she smiles with as many teeth.

Vane had made the promise to some that he'd teach them to swim on the first post he made on the crystals, and he's a man of his word, so here he is, playing swim coach. If Jack or Anne saw him, they'd likely laugh their asses off, though he could care less what Flint or Silver think of it. Today, he works with Araceli to train the beginners. It's a larger group than they'd had before the mission (apparently they aren't the only ones who realized the need), so it's good to have the two of them.

As Araceli leads them, Vane paces along the pier (in his typical pants sans the shirt and belt and all that would drag), watching them from above, as it might be hard for Araceli to keep an eye out. When one starts to fall behind, he lingers, making sure they catch back up, or don't burn themselves out or panic. For the first few exercises, they seem fine enough. It's when things get a little more complicated that some start to struggle.

One of the elven girls, who'd been bright eyed and eager, starts to fatigue, then starts to get anxious the more she's having to catch up. Vane watches closely, not wanting to interfere until it's clear they need it, but when the girl's head goes under longer than it should, he dives off the pier, streamlining over to her. The elven girl doesn't weigh much, and though her arms flail some, once he has a hold over her and brings them both back up to the surface, she calms. Making his way back to the side of the pier, he lets out a sharp whistle to grab Araceli's attention.

"A few may need a rest." He calls out to her, while helping the girl get up onto the dock. "I'll fetch water."

Eventually the mages are going to show up. Or the mages in Research if Thranduil makes good on what was said on the way to the rescue mission, so a larger group is good practice for what could well be some sort of nightmare. Mages, Araceli imagines, aren't ever going to be inclined towards the water beyond poetic longings so it balances out really though this large a group is probably going to still go down a far sight more graceful than mages.

Having someone up top makes it easier because the problem with someone drowning or someone who thinks they might be drowning is always that moment of panic where they're as much of a danger to anyone around them including the person trying to help them as they are to themselves.

(We swim before we ever walk beats in her heart alongside a mermaid sundered herself from the sea to make the moon to make the waves to make the tides; even now she is her mother's daughter, her father's daughter. The sea guides us to where we're meant to go is still the truest sentiment so close to three years here despite knowing the truth of all that she is here.

She isn't a flesh and blood thing that the sea made and yet-- And yet--)

With a glance up to Vane, Araceli nods, whistling sharp enough to get the attention of the swimmers around her. "You've done well! The water's cold, you're not used to it. Take time to get out, have something to drink, get the blood flowing again." She's the last one out after, just in case there's a slip, anyone floundering, hauling herself up and out as the water sluices down the cloak she sheds easy as a second skin, wringing her hair out as she goes to sit by the girl until he's back.

"It's progress," or Araceli sounding perhaps the happiest and most like herself he'd have heard her, no tight edges tucked into her smiles. "Do you have to train many swimmers before you train up sailors?"

The sea is what saved him, so far as Charles is concerned. He got himself onto the merchant ship, yes, and Blackbeard got him off there and onto a pirate ship, but the ocean breathed life and purpose into him when there was nothing but the husk of a slave boy not sure what to do with freedom once he had it. The endlessness of it, the soul of it, the violence of it. So much of it can't be known or charted even now with ships riding waves all over the globe, and Vane likes it that way. Keeps her as free as she keeps them.

Bare feet slapping wet against the dock, once he's directed the trainees towards the fresh water, Vane makes his way back over to Araceli, plopping down heavy at the edge of the pier, raising up his hands to push stray strands of long, wet hair from his face that'd whipped around in the effort to bring the girl to safety.

"We've a small handful that were ready to learn, but not enough." It's a new thing to be at a loss for capable men willing to sail, and Vane never stops missing Nascere while he's here. Still, some things make it worth the stay. Araceli, for one, is always good company. He thinks on it a second longer, glancing down the port at the other ships.

"Could make a skeleton crew for the Venatori ship, though."

"Kirkwall's a port city yet somehow it's full of people who haven't any idea of how to go near more than a bath without drowning." Araceli can smile as she says that, bewildered at the notion of how many of them are here, have never attempted it, have never seemed to contemplate it for all that they've had to sail on a mission. What did they think would happen if we foundered or sank? Or do they never think about it? Maybe someone do get through life entirely unconcerned with thinking ahead beyond dinner.

It has her missing home in a way she hasn't in such a long time, the palpable ache in places that aren't only her heart, as if she could close her eyes, take a breath, and open then to find herself in a place where there aren't streets but narrow walkways spilling over to bridges by waterways instead. Apprenticeships sought after, crowed over. Always bodies on decks, spilling on and off ships, in the way when you were trying to get somewhere.

They want a navy. They want a navy and they've so few who understand the necessity; Araceli could preach it 'til she turns blue as the Amaranthine but if they don't want to listen, they won't, and they'll stopper their ears so as not to hear her.

"There's three - including you and I - as it stands that'd have the experience for captaincy." It's what she says instead of any of that, twisting her hair up and off the back of her neck with one part of a complicated necklace removed (a small lockpick, a series of them held in place if Charles looks quick enough) to pin it up. "It won't need as large a crew as the Walrus, fortunately for whoever takes it, and I doubt Captain Flint would be parted from the Walurs."

Meaning it's you and her Charles as far as her roster says, and Araceli is wary of what it would look like for her to say: I'm taking a ship. Warier than handing it over to a pirate. A pirate she can argue better than a rifter. Inquisition, capable, experienced, something she can fucking bullshit if it comes down to it when she'll throw her lot in with her own before playing politics over a hand she'd like as not cut off some days.

Charles snorts, amused at the idea of these Inquisition soldiers flailing in tub water. He'll never understand how a person makes it through their lives without even a passing desire to explore the sea. Even just around a bay. Slide under the current and watch life below, like another realm entirely. They miss half the world never having the balls to risk it.

Rolling a shoulder, Vane relaxes back, bracing his hands behind him as he squints up to the sun. Araceli's always talking project logistics, and he admires that in her. She has such a dedication to it, such a love for it. She'd fit well in Nascere, and perhaps if the Rifters are never able to return from whence they came, he'd invite her back with them. That, however, is along way off. A battle to save their world off. They've much to do before it. Such as, figure out what to do with that ship they'd won.

"Captain Flint would string himself up from the mizzen before parting with the Walrus." That ship will be taken from that man's cold, dead hands. Not like the Man of War was - it wasn't the Walrus, his forever ship. Honestly, Vane is still fucking pissed about the Ranger, but the Revenge has twice the guns and it's terrifying, so he's good with it.

So, about the Venatori one. He hears what she's saying, and the options aren't great. Flint would probably be pleased to have someone he knows captaining the other ship on missions as well. They tend to work well when it comes to tactics and strategy, even if they occasionally want to throttle one another.

"You have too much work on a given day to care about keeping decks scrubbed and rigging tied off. I'll watch the ship." Vane tells her, though it's no mystery to anyone who's been around in the last several months that he'd been itching to have a ship and crew of his own. There's only so long he can play Flint's second without wanting to shove the man over the railings just for the comedy of it.

"My father was born on his mother's ship. He had to earn his right to captain it but until the day comes to pass it over to a successor, it's not going to be pried easily from him, he might give it back to the sea first if he thought that day was coming." Felix Bonaventura is the sea's son, she could picture it, and the crew wouldn't object either. That they had that devotion here that she could shape, turn about, set loose, but the sea is not her sea, it's a different beast entirely and there had been a moment when she'd found it again after months atop the mountain wondering if she'd skim across it as a stone instead of sliding beneath it.

(Things she's never thought to ask and won't because there either won't be an answer or there will be one she'll chase about her head to gnaw holes in the sleepless hours: do spirits dream, do they really dream, why are they capable of having the nightmares that they have here?)

How much is Charles shaped by Nascere, she has to wonder, or is he one of those in Thedas who finally have the itch in them for the sea. To be that hungry for something larger than themselves that doesn't fit the way it does on land. The sea grinds away the edges and gets to the truth of it in the end and you'll come good of it or you won't.

Giving it to Vane solves several problems at once: he has more to do than what little work there tends to be, he's more experience at it than her, it's not potentially the idea of her overstepping her station and having a foot in, a foot out. Still. "I might give the others a chance to toss their hats in the ring, so to speak, if only to avoid accusations. They might come, they might not but enough know what I am aside from my hand, I'd do it without them crying foul, I believe there was enough said about lessons previous."

(Again, fucking chevaliers.)

"Do you a want to captain?" Araceli certainly has the skill for it, and Charles is easily certain she could handle it, but not everyone wants to be in that position. For the longest time, Jack was perfectly content to be Quarter Master, up until the shit happened with the Ranger crew, and Vane abandoned him and Anne. Not his favorite choice, in retrospect, but it was a dark time, and he'd seen it as a betrayal of his trust at a time when his trust was a very shaky and tenuous thing.

All in all, though, the two of them excelled once they were out from under his wing. So, despite the regret, perhaps not so unfortunate a thing after all. Sour as he is that he'll never have another quarter master as equal in skill. Or friendship. Or enjoyable company. Fuck, he misses them.

Huffing out a sigh, Charles leans back, grabbing for a nearby satchel, fishing out some matches and a rolled cigarette, before lighting it up and sucking a heavy breath of smoke into his lungs.

"Do what you have to. I'll make sure the ship's taken care of no matter who ends up caretaker." Rules and chain of command have never really meant a whole lot to Charles, so if Araceli says something needs to be done, he'll see it done. His respect for her comes much more from her disposition and personality than her title. It just happens to be convenient she owns both. "Probably should christen that thing, though. Something besides 'Venatori ship'."

It doesn't make a whole lot of people eager to be on it with that name.

Her deliberation lasts a moment, feet swinging in the water enough to send eddies spiralling outward from either foot. Charles is capable, more than capable, and she wouldn't have him idle here, she'd have him with something that'd give him focus and into the bargain with a thing that'd give him reason to stay if it ever comes to that: the Venatori ship is an Inquisition ship, even if he ever meant to take it, she'd be taking it back. So let her see what comes of it.

"I'd have a captain." It's an agreement that comes easily, a thing lifted up and off her shoulders. (It would be easy to forget, maybe, that she's young.) "I'd have a captain who doesn't need to be told what to do or where to point when it goes to shit again because there's an equal chance I might be there or somewhere else or I'd have to be here on the crystal co-ordinating with a map. You know Thedas better."

And he's older, but Araceli still has some manners. And he's not Martel, he might be someone she could be friends with but she can't bring herself to mention his age in comparison to hers so it's easier to speak around it, the shape of a grief that the edges have worn down but might still bruise should she press down on hard enough.

"This ship is one of the rare times we came out the better for being thrown into the fire: we got our people back, we got the Archon out of there, we got a Venatori ship that's ours to do with as we please probably under better colours unless we might need to pass ourselves off as them." Might be a risky strategy but well the Inquisition is what it is, that day'll come when sailing past in a Venatori vessel might suit. "Have you got something in mind? You'll be the one saying introducing her."

Go on, impress her Charles, look into that sincere little face leaning back on her elbows. Tell her some great names, spin one right off the dome. You'll only be subject to the judgement of a twenty-three year old girl.

If Charles were ever to steal the ship out from under Araceli's hand, she'd known good and well he was doing it. Not only for the respect he has for her, but it's just the way he operates. Even still, he likely respects her too much to steal from her in the first place, but Vane can't what complications may come in the future. She knows who he is and what's most important to him, so if it does come to that, it won't be something that surprises her. Either way, he flashes her a grin. Sure. He'll be a captain. It's all he really can be anymore - anything less is so deeply unsatisfying. As for the ship itself and a name, well, that's less his forte.

"Someone once pointed out all my ships end up with R names. Guess I just like the sound." Of course, this ship is not his ship, it's the Inquisition's ship (that he fucking won for them, the assholes, but whatever, nascere rules don't apply here). But he's just saying it, as it taints the names he comes up with.

"Reclaimer, Reaper, Liberator, Vindicator, Retribution, Nemesis, Defiance, Rook." See? Lots of R names. Some of them just words that sound intimidating, some of them more focused on how they'd come by the ship and the liberation they'd made with it, with fun twist there is to going on to kill Venatori with their own stolen vessel. Hmmm... "The good ship 'Fuck the Archon.'"

Hardy har har. Charles smirks, glancing over to Araceli, before looking back to the ship again, trying to figure what name would suit it best, as if it'll just materialize in paint across the stern.

"Doesn't fit the usual scheme, but someone once said 'Freedom Cry' for a ship name." They were a slave, who found their freedom by means of a ship raiding the transport they were cargo on. That ship was the Ranger.

"That could speak to something deep-seated in you, the way I have three terrible sons who are all some sort of animal and don't want any children of my own. A fox. A nuggalope. A miniature kraken." Which could point back to her dad handing over said fox to a girl as a lesson in responsibility that turned into a very literal partner-in-crime that sort of spiralled outwards in Thedas but things are what they are as she tips her head back. Tries - and fails - not to smirk.

After all it's quite the list that he rattles off, Araceli echoing them very quietly to better commit them to memory should they ever come up. Who knows when the pasts of Flint, Charles, Silver and co (she knows little of Max, that's something she's going to have to very quickly get about to rectifying) might come about in the end? Charles is forthcoming in a reassuring way but what a pirate thinks is worth telling you isn't always what a diplomat thinks is worth knowing.

"Fuck the Archon is tempting but there's no way anyone here would let that fly, it's too much of an invitation." Must've been close to a year ago that there were Venatori in the Gallows, best not to go inviting more unwanted troubles when they've got enough of that. Then she smiles, warm, delighted, swings herself around and up onto her knees to rest a hand on his arm-- "That's perfect-- can you imagine how that would look? When a ship with that name captained by a man out of Nascere is out at sea against our enemies who want to plunge the world into darkness? I love it!"

Maybe I'm meant for the sea

swimming;

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