July 1st, 1889 — The Deck of the VOYAGER, In London

A knot had formed in Blythe's stomach before she had even boarded the vessel, but as she stood on the ship's dock looking back at the city—the last vestige of familiarity she would get, ever if she died on this damned trip—that knot twisted and tightened and moved hither and fro with the motions of the deck beneath her feet, the water beneath the ship itself. Deep, slow breaths were all that kept the witch from losing her mind entirely. She did not want to be here.

But the Lord (with ample assistance from Aunt Temperance) had entirely different plans from Blythe's preference to stay at home, on land, and though there was no use bemoaning that fact, she did still—just a little. Mostly, though, she was focused on staying upright: apparently there was something called 'sea legs', and she did not have them.

Noise, commotion, and then they were off. While many around the railing chose to wave to those on shore, Blythe's grip remained firmly upon the polished wood, knuckles whitening with the strength of her grip as her lips moved in silent prayer.

Open to up to three others on the mission to Africa!

  

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The time had come once again for Arven to uproot and set sail; not that he’d ever been a man of roots or tarry. He’d had Africa in his heart anyway as his next destination, so neighbourhood talk of an expedition to the shores of the Niger River had caused his brow to a lift a little higher than it might normally. Intentions of evangelist preaching had then repelled his dormant Jewish self completely, until his brother-in-law (deceased) had aptly persuaded him that he did not have to partake in those particular goings on. He could go for the adventure, aid and culture alone.

And so the towering wayfarer found himself once more on the deck of a ship, watching the shores of his homeland retreat, the tails of his longcoat whipping around his legs. He had a smile for the nearest stranger, a young girl whiter than the clouds. ”Train your eyes on the horizon”, he advised, pointing out at the hazy cliffs. ”It will make you feel stiller than naught.”

  

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Blythe failed immediately at following the direction, looking instead at the speaker. What she found was not one of the sailors (he did not look to be in uniform) nor one of her brothers from the Church—a stranger. Ordinarily, she would have found this to inspire curiosity; today, that curiosity was marred in nausea.

Clearing her throat, Blythe redirected her gaze as recommended.

"You're certain this helps?" the witch asked skeptically.

  

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Given the quantity of cousins, nieces, nephews and other such young things in his life, Arven was familiar with the sullenness of some teenagers — and to be honest he’d always quite admired it. After all, it took some gall to be a lady of this one’s age and speak her mind. She wasn’t excusing herself fussily or tittering over her state of unease. She was sick, and sick of it.

”Yes, after a time”, Arven replied, and came to join her, leaning on the boat’s edge. Distraction, after all, could also be effective against nausea. ”What do you suppose those birds are?” he asked, genuinely interested, pointing out at the hazy cliffs. ”Puffins?”

  

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Even minutes, now, felt as though an eternity, and so Blythe was not at all comforted by the man's after a time. She was, however, momentarily distracted by the birds to which he gestured, her eyes squinting slightly so that she might better make out their features.

The last time she had been to the coast had been the first time her father had departed for India, and so Blythe Fairchild was no expert on marine ornithology.

"They're not gulls," she concluded not at all definitively, but scarcely able to be much more use than that. "What are puffins?"

  

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Arven regarded the girl-who-would-be-herself, then returned his eyes to the distant birds. Which, sure enough, were puffins.

”They are a seabird — but, as you say, not gulls. They’re known for their rainbow coloured beaks, see them?” he pointed out once more, as a puffin flew down from its precarious nest in the granite rocks. ”They live right there in the cliffside, even with waves crashing every hour of day.”

  

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Narrowing her eyes slightly (she would never admit to needing spectacles in her aunt's presence, for it would surely be seen as a blemish upon her character), Blythe could indeed make out the multi-coloured bands upon their avian beaks.

"How strange!" she remarked, entirely in spite of herself. "Do they not get washed away by the tides? After all, they do not seem to be large enough to withstand them on their own."

  

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"They live in the deep little crags, see", Arven responded, pointing once again, and quite as interested as his young friend. "And they have quite the solid perch. Much like us", he added, now turning to lean against the bulkhead, arms loosely crossed as he glanced round the rest of the crew. "We're being tossed and churned with all the might of the ocean, but here we stand, quite dry. Well... drier than the seabirds in any case."

  

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Blythe did not need reminding about the tossing and turning of the sea. Though she supposed the man's words were intended to be helpful, reassuring, the momentary distraction he had provided in the birds fled just as swiftly as it had arrived.

"How do you stand it?" she asked earnestly.

  

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It was tricky not to huff a slight chuckle of endeared amusement — but he did stifle it, for surely the girl would not appreciate causing amusement with her misery. It was just... seasickness seemed like the worst thing in the world right now. The be-all and end-all. But it would be over, and when it was over it would seem like nothing at all.

But he replied earnestly.

"I have good sea legs. Others don't. But I wager you..." Arven picked something random from his coat pocket, retrieving a little silver seashell. "I wager you this little treasure that we can find a skill you have that I lack. Something that keeps you strong and makes me ill."

And so Arven began the pointedly distracting business of coaxing some admitted talent, however small, out of the pale girl. Enough musing conversation to get them past the worst of the churning waves, and into the great blue beyond.

-wrap!-

  

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