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Through Hell and High Water
R'khan did not take much convincing, that was the first surprise. When Ethysil presented his idea to the captain, with Vilayn sat numb and mute beside him like a corpse propped up in the chair, he watched R'khan frown, the same way it did when the officer of the watch presented him with news he didn't like, then settle his brow into a familiar line of determined resignation.
'You sure this'll work?'
'No, relkhan. Not in the slightest.'
'Very well. Give me time to think on it.'
Nalpa Tsoko [Drabble]
First off, it wasn't our fault that the Warlord Inn caught fire. There was the problem with the stolen fish, and the ghost who didn't know when to keep its mouth shut, and anyway Argonians shouldn't build their walls out of such flammable material. What do they expect, putting torches all over bits of tree? That’s why people should build out of good, solid materials, like bug chitin. And it's no use saying we shouldn't have been in an Argonian tavern in the first place because if you build a tavern near the docks, sailors will visit it. It's our sworn duty to inspect all such establishments and sample their wares. But I think I've got a bit ahead of myself.
The crew have attempted various ruses to smuggle Jo’Raya into cities which refuse entry to Khajiit. Their favourite success was courtesy of Braskan. When intercepted by a guard, he looked him dead in the eye and informed him that Jo’Raya was a Nord, and as the guard wasn’t immediately convinced, pointed out she’s fuckin’ hairy enough ta be one a’ yas, ain’t she? Whether the guard was convinced or only relented upon realising that the large group of heavily armed pirates in front of him was not going to back down is irrelevant; it achieved the desired result and Jo’Raya was permitted to remain with them unharassed.
More usually, however, Jo’Raya and the Khajiit will remain with the ship while docked in Skyrim, or find a sneakier way into the city of their own accord if there’s something they really need. Most of the time it isn’t worth the hassle.
Vilayn once tried wearing a bandana to keep his hair down, when it was growing longer and even more unruly than usual at the apex of a voyage. He thought he looked rather roguish and piratical in it, up until Braskan informed him that he resembled the old Nord fishwives on the docks.
After that, the bandana never made another appearance.

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Braskan’s Guide to Bird-Spotting
'What's that?'
Morinah's hand stretched towards a magpie on the docks below them. As they watched, it hopped across the boards and plucked a brass button from where it lay tangled in an old fishing net. Braskan answered without hesitation.
'Shitehawk.'
'And that one?'
This time she pointed at a finch, delicate and a soft brown, well camouflaged against a mooring post.
'Lesser-spotted shitehawk.'
'What about that one?'
A sparrow, picking at the breadcrumbs left by someone passing along the docks.
'Southern shitehawk.'
Morinah's hand dropped abruptly to her waist as she rounded on Braskan, who watched her innocently over his bottle of water.
'I think you don't take this seriously!'
'I's takin' it right serious!' he protested. 'I thought as ya knowed all about animals, anyways, with yer preservation society thingy.'
'The Vvardenfell Wildlife Preservation Society.' Morinah hitched herself onto the harbour wall beside him. Once settled, she fussed over her skirt, until it hung just so while leaving her feet free to swing back and forth. 'Those wildlifes are not many birds and fish. And when I'm in Cyrodiil, I don't see the coast.'
'Right, right. Ask me summat else.'
It took a while. The passage of people across the docks was constant and ruffled the birds out to sea, where they drifted into dark flecks against the clouds. Braskan stretched out his legs into the sun, barefoot, in torn trousers, and closed his eyes until Morinah tugged his elbow.
A gull was perched on the end of the Runaway Scamp’s bowsprit, tall and proud, with a sweep of grey across its back. It eyeballed the pair watching it from the harbour with a look which suggested that had it only been born with talons, instead of webbed feet, they would be dead by now. Braskan studied it well before he gave his pronouncement.
'Ah... shitehawk in workin' dress.'
'Ata!'
A Little Help From Friends [Drabble]
The Dibellan Rose was a glorious frigate, right up until the magefire ate into her hull. Gilt shattered off her sides and sparkled across the surface of the ocean, some of it clinging to the legs of the sailors scaling her sides with their boarding axes in hand. They burst onto the deck in a cloud of gold, and the crew of the Rose cowered before such a majestic sight. They themselves were a band of cutthroat pirates who commandeered the vessel not a week before, slaughtering everyone aboard except for one: the High Priestess of Dibella, en route for the temple in Cyrodiil. She they had tied to the mainmast, and she watched with wide, frightened eyes as the Scamps flooded the deck.
'Surrender the Rose or face our blades!' bellowed Captain R'khan. But the Rose's crew were proud, and with such valuable cargo, there was no chance of surrender.
Weapons were drawn and the signal was given. Both crews charged forwards, R'khan and Mr Vilayn at the fore of the gallant Scamps, although it wasn't long before the battle descended into the chaos which always marks a shipboard fight. Soon the two found themselves separated and Mr Vilayn was back to back with Mr Braskan, fighting beside the mainmast and the High Priestess.
Aboard their own ship, in their daily lives, Vilayn and Braskan may have had their differences, but all was forgotten at the end of a hundred swords turned against them, in favour of the bond forged over the ages, in blood and in steel. When Vilayn slashed to the right, Braskan defended him on his left, and when another sailor lunged at Vilayn's legs, intending to strike him off-balance, Braskan swung round. His boarding axe tore straight through the assailant and Braskan threw him aside as if he were nothing.
Working together, the pair fought off the worst of the threat. The enemy crew, seeing they were defeated, threw down their weapons, and R'khan gave the order to untie the High Priestess of Dibella. She stumbled into Vilayn's arms and gazed up at him from the comfort of his chest.
'You have saved me from a fate worse than death. My gratitude is eternal, and in the name of our lady Dibella, I will grant you any favour you desire. And I do mean... any favour.'
'A lifetime supply of clean, dry socks.'
Vilayn stopped, arms in mid-air.
'What?'
'A lifetime supply of clean, dry socks,' repeated Oran, and drank from his tankard. 'It's the work of the Daedra to get them out at sea, and there is no comfort so great to a mer as the feel of luscious, fresh cotton against feet wearied by their endless pacing of the tar-baked deck. A small comfort, but such things are all the more important so far from home, where the smallest of gestures are akin to the mercy of our Lady Ayem. Anyway, your story is guarshit. It's the mages who do the real work, none of this swordfighting crap.'
Most of the inn's patrons were gathered around the Scamps' table, which Vilayn was currently stood on top of. Most of his performance had been directed towards the barmaid, who leaned forwards now, chin on her hand, and watched Oran from shadowed eyes.
'He has a point. If the mages hadn't set fire to the other ship, you wouldn't have been able to board it.'
'Her. And she wasn't a ship, she was a frigate. I did say, quite clearly.'
'Anyone can throw a bit a' fire around,' added Braskan, who had spent the story scrutinising the impression it had on the barmaid, particularly when it moved on to his own heroics. 'But when it gets ta the dirty shit, ya needs a good swordsman, like. And I's a right good swordsman.'
No amount of jiggling his eyebrows could draw the barmaid's attention back. She was firmly fixed on Oran and leaning further towards him by the second.
'You're the ship's mage?'
'That's right. Although my magical expertise is not confined only to the raw, primal rage of fire, but also other, more sensual talents.'
'I've always been fascinated by magic, and it seems your men--' she swept on over the faces of officers about to protest at being called Oran's men '--are well stocked for drinks. Can you show me some of these talents?'
'Gladly. If you'll come with me, I think we ought to find somewhere private for this demonstration...'
Vilayn, Braskan, and the other assortment of Scamps watched them leave up the back staircase, before there was a general sigh and fuss around their drinks. Vilayn picked his fiddle off the tabletop, unhooked his bow from his sash, and sat cross-legged in the middle of the dishes and tankards, sawing out a wistful tune. Music, however, was not enough to soothe Braskan, whose hopeful smile had twisted into a glare.
'Ya promised, Mister Vi!'
'It's not my fault.' Vilayn's concentration didn't falter from the fiddle as he mumbled into its lower bout. 'Making you look good isn't easy.'
'She were a right lovely lass, too. You see them eyes? Right pretty. Woulda bin good ta me. Nothin' on me Nyria, a' course, 'cause she were--'
The fiddling intensified until it was loud enough to drown out speech, which, for once, did not earn a round of bread rolls pelted at Vilayn's face. When he relaxed, Braskan's head had drooped over his tankard and he was gazing dolefully at the bottom. His eyes looked wet, although it was hard to say whether that was with sadness or the fumes from whatever he was drinking.
'I were hopin' it'd work out tonight. I gots a real itchin', if ya knows what I mean.'
Vilayn opened his mouth, considered all the lines any inquiry might go down, and, wisely, closed it again. A few moments later, in case Braskan felt driven to explain himself in the silence, he settled on,
'I don't and I'd prefer to keep it that way, thank you. Sounds like something you should ask Rosie about.'
Rosie, at that particular moment in time, was laughing over her own drink with one of the local Redguards, whose sword was large enough to slap against his knee when he waved an arm. After giving her a thoughtful look, Braskan shook his head and hid himself in his tankard, where he remained for the rest of the evening.
[Inquisitor Bacon romancing Josephine is sweeter than anything involving Braskan has any right to be.]