WHO: Fitcher, Marcoulf, Bartimaeus (+) & YOU WHAT: Ye Olde Catch'all WHEN: Nowish WHERE: Kirkwall, The Gallows, le Misc. NOTES: Starters in comments; if you want something/someone who isn't here, just hit me up and I'll scrape something together.
It occurs to Barrow he has no idea why he felt the need to even bring this up, let alone relay it in such detail. Perhaps, he realizes, it's the open water: it's always at the back of his mind, but it's all too easy to imagine oneself at the bottom of such an expanse. If the flood had only happened a few decades earlier, well. Who knows.
"No need to dampen the mood with that, love," he says, smiling, but there's a bitterness that he can't quite extricate from his tone. Nonetheless, he gives her hand another little squeeze. "Look, we'll be across soon enough. I could serenade you, though I doubt you'll enjoy it as much."
"Then you may recite a song to me instead of singing it if you have no confidence in your voice," she allows, and does not look to see how close they are because the view of the shore is at least part of the issue.
That's fine. He doesn't have to tell her if he doesn't care to. And anyway, refusing to say means something too. That's a kind of answer all on its own.
Well that just seems like quitting. Noting the tension in Fitcher's jaw, Barrow gives a little chuckle and shakes his head. Then, in an untrained but nonetheless pleasant baritone:
"I've been a wild rover for many's a year, and I've spent all me money on whiskey and beer." He lightly drums the side of the boat with his other hand, keeping time. "But now I'm returning with gold in great store, and I never will play the wild rover no more,
and it's no, nay, never--" (He thumps his free hand five times.) "No nay never, no more,
will I play the wild rover, no never, no more."
He smiles at her. "You have to sing the next chorus with me, or I'll forget the words." On purpose.
She laughs at the thump, thump, thump of his hand on the gunwale and covers her eyes with her own free hand as if flustered by the slash of his smile. She isn't, and it's obvious - there is artifice to this just as there is in the hard scraped back look of how she's wearing her dark hair. But let us enjoy the sentiment.
"I cannot," she refuses from behind the shield of her hand. "I'll only be sick all over your shoes, and besides - I only know the Chant."
"IIII went into an alehouse I used to frequent," Barrow sings, the volume seeming to raise along with his enthusiasm, "and I told the landlady me money was spent!"
The Chant. Please.
"I asked her for credit, she answered me 'nay'-- such custom as yours I can have any day, and it's--"
Even if she won't sing with him, he sways Fitcher's hand with his while he sings the chorus.
"Stop, stop-- Can you do nothing about this? Row faster maybe?" This to the ferryman, valiantly struggling through their shenanigans. Fitcher allows the absolute reprobate in possession of her hand to swing it around willy-nilly in the mean time.
No, she's perfectly all right. There is a faint paleness about her that speaks to an unsettled stomach, yes, but otherwise it's all just the overplayed drama of a woman enjoying the harassment - a shared joke that she is now choosing to inflict on their poor beleagured ferryman.
"Go on then," she relents, all faux-exasperation. "You may as well finish the song."
"I took from my pocket, ten sovereigns bright, and the landlady's eyes opened wide with delight!" The drumming begins anew, and he sways a little, at least doing his best not to violently rock the boat. "She says I have whiskey and wines on the best, and the words that I told you were only in jest, AND IT'S,"
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If the flood had only happened a few decades earlier, well. Who knows.
"No need to dampen the mood with that, love," he says, smiling, but there's a bitterness that he can't quite extricate from his tone. Nonetheless, he gives her hand another little squeeze. "Look, we'll be across soon enough. I could serenade you, though I doubt you'll enjoy it as much."
no subject
That's fine. He doesn't have to tell her if he doesn't care to. And anyway, refusing to say means something too. That's a kind of answer all on its own.
no subject
Noting the tension in Fitcher's jaw, Barrow gives a little chuckle and shakes his head. Then, in an untrained but nonetheless pleasant baritone:
"I've been a wild rover for many's a year, and I've spent all me money on whiskey and beer." He lightly drums the side of the boat with his other hand, keeping time.
"But now I'm returning with gold in great store, and I never will play the wild rover no more,
and it's no, nay, never--" (He thumps his free hand five times.) "No nay never, no more,
will I play the wild rover, no never, no more."
He smiles at her. "You have to sing the next chorus with me, or I'll forget the words." On purpose.
no subject
"I cannot," she refuses from behind the shield of her hand. "I'll only be sick all over your shoes, and besides - I only know the Chant."
no subject
"IIII went into an alehouse I used to frequent," Barrow sings, the volume seeming to raise along with his enthusiasm, "and I told the landlady me money was spent!"
The Chant. Please.
"I asked her for credit, she answered me 'nay'-- such custom as yours I can have any day, and it's--"
Even if she won't sing with him, he sways Fitcher's hand with his while he sings the chorus.
no subject
no subject
"You told me to be interesting," he reminds Fitcher.
no subject
"Go on then," she relents, all faux-exasperation. "You may as well finish the song."
no subject
"I took from my pocket, ten sovereigns bright, and the landlady's eyes opened wide with delight!" The drumming begins anew, and he sways a little, at least doing his best not to violently rock the boat.
"She says I have whiskey and wines on the best, and the words that I told you were only in jest, AND IT'S,"
EVERYBODY