“ Fair enough. ” it comes smoothly, unoffensive and unoffended. he wanted nothing to do with her, and that was a respectable sentiment. she couldn’t take offense to how bitterly he had phrased it, for she was certain she had said something quite similar to someone not but the other day, and she was far from a hypocrite. though, it did make for an awkward pause. as he paced the deck, she fumbled uncomfortably with the hem of her shirt as it peeked untidily from her bracer. it had frayed at the edges, from how frequently she had worn it and never properly tucked it under the smooth silver. the commonplace fiddling with it likely didn’t help either. this situation was similar. if she kept bugging the poor man, he might come apart at the seams– yet, there he was, planting himself squarely next to her. a stride or two off, of course, but he was close enough that she could see the stress in his face. the palpable, pent-up strain. what caused it, she’d likely never know, but it only worsened her concern for him.
when had she become such a worrier?
as if on cue, the stranger speaks up again, and all her questions were answered in a single, likely regrettable, sentence. if she were surprised, it was not to be seen by him. the terminology did not fall on deaf ears ( the vampire outbreak of 2E 579 was not something easily forgotten ), but the old mer made no response. instead, judging the distance between them, and the weight of her blade at her side, she began to jump to minor conclusions. the first being that this man, now recognized as a vampire, was no threat to her. he was a feeble looking thing, not intimidating in the slightest. looks were deceiving, she knew, especially in the case of vampires, but body language didn’t lie. together with his generally unimpressive frame, she knew she needn’t worry about being eaten alive.
the second conclusion being that he was a recent addition to the undead– and the only reason she knew this was through firsthand experience. llothas, a local blacksmithing apprentice during the outbreak, and a friend of a friend to vyel, had behaved like this when he was turned. perhaps not to the letter, but the skittishly abrasive behavior was undoubtedly similar. she sifted through old memories trying to remember what his eyes had looked like, his face, to size up the comparison, but nothing came to her. and she decided, at best, this conclusion was a gut feeling. but vyel had always trusted her gut, and it had never exactly failed her before. not directly, anyways.
she looked back out over the bay.
“ You’d think none of them have heard of a bath. ” it’s a scoff of a reply, graciously glossing over his poor word choice. for both their sakes. “ I have a flask of sujamma, if you’re interested. No strings attached. ”
THE WIND FROM THE SEA FEELS DIFFERENT. it feels different in its very composition when one’s surrounded by it, and perhaps he’s deceiving himself in thinking the inner sea has a different character than the iliac bay; a harsher, less friendly one that blows through him in a way he has never felt wind before. it feels as nothing. there’s no temperature from it. the way vicente curls in on himself is equal parts force of habit and pure defensiveness. over the sea, the lights, starting to fade as the night marches on, burn holes into his retinas when he looks for too long. without needing to, vicente shivers.
staying still is good, he realizes. there is still something that still has its claws wrapped around his ribs — something that shakes the bars of the cage in a way that’s less like human effort and more akin to a mild earthquake— but staying still at least eases a bit of the manic discomfort that makes his skin feel alien. if he is still, then the world is stiller, too. it’s calmer, easier to pick apart; stillness seems to dampen the senses that have, ever since, felt as if they were constantly alight.
his shoulders swallow his neck entirely, face half-hidden by the hide draped over his pauldron; he has to glance sidelong through a tuft of jackal’s fur to get any proper view on her without moving entirely. the fur trembles with each too-deep breath. through milk-pink slits, he searches for anything, anything like deception in her form, anything malicious. eventually, he gives up.
her offer has hung in the air for minutes before vicente responds. “ if it were anything else, i would take you up on that. ” in the time between, the malice in his voice has decayed, the edge largely lost. “ morrowind’s tastes certainly aren’t mine. people aren’t, either, if you get me. why do you think i’m leaving? ” if his sharp exhale is supposed to be a note of a laugh, it doesn’t quite reach the amount of mirth it needs. if the statement’s a joke, it doesn’t quite reach the level of funny.
but it’s the offer’s nature that ... lingers. it seems ... a kindness. it’s a kindness that, even minuscule, shouldn’t seem foreign to him yet. but thinking on it — dwelling on it — makes his entire face screw up in a scrunch of confusion ( how many weeks had it been since a stranger offered such kindness? how many months? ) that he hides by turning back to the water.
she won’t kill him. probably. if she knows, she would have already. if she doesn’t, he just needs to take more care. to suppress it. to stay calm. and he stays there.
( this is a challenge, he thinks, overcome it. this is what you have to do now. )
“ you’ve taken this trip before? ” if she doesn’t plan on leaving, vicente would prefer small talk to the deafening, paranoid silence — and it certainly wouldn’t help to get information when all he can recall from his first encounter with the sea is illness, and when ( truthfully in a way only stowaways can really be truthful, ) he’s not supposed to be there.
