Claude was staring, and he knew he was staring, and the knowledge did not help him stop. A thing of beauty was meant to be appreciated. And she gleamed, top to tail tips, all bright scales and brighter skin. Though there was a hot burn of color in her face where she worked dilligently to get enough air.
He glanced his eyes aside for that. Manners, and all. She let out a single chiming cry, like a delphine trying to sound its whereabouts, and then--
Laughed at him. A noise like music and a knife right in the pride, words razor quick and just as precise, just as sure to their target.
Still. The men were watching, and he was no lass, after all.
Claude snorted. A good job his compass still pointed true. He folded his hand to his waist, resting it just on his belt knife to hide where his fingers had itched to try those shining flanks.
"My mistake," wry, tilting his head, knuckling his cap as one might to a slightly better equal, with heavy irony. "Goodly sir, but you will cut your skin on those nets if you panic." Stating facts was not a threat. "One way or another, Lyle and Mason here'll help you out."
"Oh, hell," Mason squeaked under his breath, only he twitched right to attention when Claude looked at him, pale with fear of more than mermen. "Uh, Yes, Captain."
But he didn't move. Lyle smirked at his antics, but didn't move either.
"Give over," snapped Claude, "unless you wanna scrub the deck with the two good teeth between ye! Move!"
Forward they went, with his boot in their belts to boost them.
The combined effect was immediate. The instant dry hands clutched wet rope and smooth soft skin, all three of them had...an experience. The most incredible grip seized their every muscle at once, unbearably tight, and didn't quite permit them pain even as they were pitched backward, hard as a good shove.
Some sort of spell, connected or transmitted by the water and each other.
Claude choked. All his hair stood on end. His heart was trying to--wiggle--unpleasantly, at having been squeezed so. He couldn't have fought the creature in this shape. And judging by their bent postures, crooked as old men and breathing ragged, neither could his men at the moment.
"You, two," slowly, with precise care against a tongue gone cotton, "go, and see Cook."
Their surgeon was gone, after all, lost in the storm.
"Cap'n?"
"Go," he repeated, in no mood. "Have'm listen to your ribs 'n' take a good swig of whatever he's got, no matter how it tastes."
That might help. It was all they had to work with. Off they limped, with a hoarse aye-aye.
"I'll fix our guest. The rest of you, jump! We'll need warm seawater to draw the lad a bath."
Just in case he thought he was going anywhere fast. Claude rounded on him, pressed as close as he dared without touching. They near could have rubbed their eyelashes together.
"You," he raked hot eyes over his catch, thin-lipped with more than fury, "ye try that again, an' I'll boil y'in it."
He would never. For one thing, the merman was too valuable alive. But it sounded good.
no subject
He glanced his eyes aside for that. Manners, and all. She let out a single chiming cry, like a delphine trying to sound its whereabouts, and then--
Laughed at him. A noise like music and a knife right in the pride, words razor quick and just as precise, just as sure to their target.
Still. The men were watching, and he was no lass, after all.
Claude snorted. A good job his compass still pointed true. He folded his hand to his waist, resting it just on his belt knife to hide where his fingers had itched to try those shining flanks.
"My mistake," wry, tilting his head, knuckling his cap as one might to a slightly better equal, with heavy irony. "Goodly sir, but you will cut your skin on those nets if you panic." Stating facts was not a threat. "One way or another, Lyle and Mason here'll help you out."
"Oh, hell," Mason squeaked under his breath, only he twitched right to attention when Claude looked at him, pale with fear of more than mermen. "Uh, Yes, Captain."
But he didn't move. Lyle smirked at his antics, but didn't move either.
"Give over," snapped Claude, "unless you wanna scrub the deck with the two good teeth between ye! Move!"
Forward they went, with his boot in their belts to boost them.
The combined effect was immediate. The instant dry hands clutched wet rope and smooth soft skin, all three of them had...an experience. The most incredible grip seized their every muscle at once, unbearably tight, and didn't quite permit them pain even as they were pitched backward, hard as a good shove.
Some sort of spell, connected or transmitted by the water and each other.
Claude choked. All his hair stood on end. His heart was trying to--wiggle--unpleasantly, at having been squeezed so. He couldn't have fought the creature in this shape. And judging by their bent postures, crooked as old men and breathing ragged, neither could his men at the moment.
"You, two," slowly, with precise care against a tongue gone cotton, "go, and see Cook."
Their surgeon was gone, after all, lost in the storm.
"Cap'n?"
"Go," he repeated, in no mood. "Have'm listen to your ribs 'n' take a good swig of whatever he's got, no matter how it tastes."
That might help. It was all they had to work with. Off they limped, with a hoarse aye-aye.
"I'll fix our guest. The rest of you, jump! We'll need warm seawater to draw the lad a bath."
Just in case he thought he was going anywhere fast. Claude rounded on him, pressed as close as he dared without touching. They near could have rubbed their eyelashes together.
"You," he raked hot eyes over his catch, thin-lipped with more than fury, "ye try that again, an' I'll boil y'in it."
He would never. For one thing, the merman was too valuable alive. But it sounded good.