It was a relief to be at sea.
It would have been slightly more of a relief if the greatest part of the population on board weren't all diligent Christians, but he'd been prepared for that. Besides, the journey was not a long one, and as soon as they reached the Niger delta he would blissfully be able to turn his back on their mission, and set off on his own instead. Only three days to get through, and then he'd be studying wild Fwoopers and trekking across towards Burkina Faso to see about some Runespoors.
Only three days. Conall, rather more comfortable on board than some (...most... all) of these Irvingly folks, had made sure to hang back whilst the churchpeople went belowdecks to get settled, and took a wandering tour of his own, more conscious of avoiding the former gaggle than the sailors aboard. Only three days... only there was one of the churchpeople he knew. Or, rather, knew enough: enough to know she was an insufferable sort, enough to know she most certainly did not like him.
So he would have been more than happy to give her a wide berth - or as wide a berth as the vessel allowed, anyway - but she could not claim the whole deck for herself, and, trying though she was, Conall could hardly claim to be intimidated by her. What was the worst she would do? Sermonise? Slap him again?
Conall only shrugged. "Wasn't offering," he explained pointedly, making a face to suggest he couldn't care less about her presence on board. He had thought she might look a little too green at present to care about his. "Left my things somewhere around here." He looked over a couple of crates nearby, trying to recall where he had set his bags down, and whether they might have been moved. As his gaze drifted back to Miss - Fairchild, was it? - he considered that she might find a way to be offended by this truth just as much as she might've been by either of the options she had given, so Conall (torn, admittedly, between the two) regarded her with a straight face, and added blithely: "It'll pass, though."
It would have been slightly more of a relief if the greatest part of the population on board weren't all diligent Christians, but he'd been prepared for that. Besides, the journey was not a long one, and as soon as they reached the Niger delta he would blissfully be able to turn his back on their mission, and set off on his own instead. Only three days to get through, and then he'd be studying wild Fwoopers and trekking across towards Burkina Faso to see about some Runespoors.
Only three days. Conall, rather more comfortable on board than some (...most... all) of these Irvingly folks, had made sure to hang back whilst the churchpeople went belowdecks to get settled, and took a wandering tour of his own, more conscious of avoiding the former gaggle than the sailors aboard. Only three days... only there was one of the churchpeople he knew. Or, rather, knew enough: enough to know she was an insufferable sort, enough to know she most certainly did not like him.
So he would have been more than happy to give her a wide berth - or as wide a berth as the vessel allowed, anyway - but she could not claim the whole deck for herself, and, trying though she was, Conall could hardly claim to be intimidated by her. What was the worst she would do? Sermonise? Slap him again?
Conall only shrugged. "Wasn't offering," he explained pointedly, making a face to suggest he couldn't care less about her presence on board. He had thought she might look a little too green at present to care about his. "Left my things somewhere around here." He looked over a couple of crates nearby, trying to recall where he had set his bags down, and whether they might have been moved. As his gaze drifted back to Miss - Fairchild, was it? - he considered that she might find a way to be offended by this truth just as much as she might've been by either of the options she had given, so Conall (torn, admittedly, between the two) regarded her with a straight face, and added blithely: "It'll pass, though."
