-The Mythics RP-

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RDchicken99 said:
The fresh tang of the sea at morn greeted Cyrus as he stepped out onto the weather deck, bringing with it the taste of salt and the stirred-up scent of deck board polish.
In dim, cool light was the bustle of men climbing up ratlines, and towing various crates, ropes and other necessities. Perfumed by tobacco—as usual—passed the boatswain, his mate and the carpenter in his wake. All three surveyed the ‘Silver and her rigging with quick eyes and practiced hands.
Passing by, Cyrus caught the eyes of the men with a nod and received salutes in return.
Though he did not turn back to her nor break his stride, he addressed the quartermistress, “that was the bos’n, his mate, and carpenter. You’ll be well acquainted soon enough—capable fellows, that lot.”
Cyrus slowed, pulling his overcoat closer against a particularly crisp wind, “if it were possible, the captain would have every step and syllable uttered aboard this ship in her knowledge. That being entirely impossible, I try and aim for the closest proximity to those standards as I can.”
He reached into a pocket, withdrawing a small, leather-bound book, “keeping a thorough log has aided me throughout my lifetime. I’d advise you take up the practice as best as you’re able.”

@-Shade-
Backstreet’s back aLrIght
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shayed
RDchicken99 said:
(Goaaattt maaaannn)
Light had not yet reached (totally stealing this from the Odyssey don’t mind me~)its rosy fingers through the carriage windows. Outside the small panes was nothing but that pre-dawn haze, where the shadows were cobalt blue and the sky hung heavy grey, some clouds edges were touched with peach where the sun had begun to rise, sliver by sliver, over the horizon.
Yes, it was all quite pretty and such.
But Fitzpatrick could hardly look out the window when he was in a stifling carriage, being jostled and contorted at every uneven smattering of rocks that they bowled over on the road.
And on the way to a prison of all places.
And the smart green coat he wore was no doubt being abused and crumpled with every bump. He fancied himself rather like that coat in the moment.
Out of a matching green vest he withdrew his pocketwatch. After a particularly nasty bout of jostling, he fumbled with the watch’s clasp until the little face caught the dim window’s light.
At least they weren’t late.
Eventually, the carriage slowed, and Fitz uttered a whole-hearted prayer of thanks. After prying the window down, he levered his shoulders out of the opening and tiredly called to the driver, “do send a guard for the prisoner. Tell them it’s on the King’s business. Mention me, too. They’ll all know what to do and who to gather.”
He withdrew his head back into the carriage, straightening his coat and sash and resting an elbow against the door with a sigh.
Soon he would be on the brig and this whole ordeal would be over. Patience, Fitz.

Bet you didn’t expect THIS, huh?
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meat muffin
 

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