My Warden (COMPLETED)

Blind-spot

9:44 Waking Sea

"Raise the mains, we're past the worst of it!" the admiral's voice rang out through the ship. A collective groan echoed from every pirate's lips as they released their death grip, arms sagging while water sloshed across their feet. They were bedraggled, sopping wet, but they were alive. Cullen turned back to watch the storm they passed through, the sky not black and cloudy but the horizon up to the ether appeared impenetrable as if a wall of water rose out of the sea to smash them apart.

"First big one?" a bear paw bashed across his shoulder and Cullen winced from his lack of armor to siphon off the blow. Nodding carefully, he turned to catch the bronzed face with a white rose tattoo stretching across the right eye. It must have meant something to the man, but Cullen had no idea. A week on the ship and he'd barely spoken to anyone outside of Honor -- who released her bite on the securing rope and settled at his feet.

"I am not a fan," Cullen answered carefully.

"Shit, ain't no one big into squalls. Lessen you love drowning, I suppose," the pirate said. "You can let go, ya know."

"Of course," Cullen nodded as if he meant to cling for his life even out of danger. Rope, scratched apart from years of use, bit into his exposed forearms. It seemed smart at the time to roll the cuffs up to his elbows when the waves soaked through them. As he unwound his grip off the sidewall rigging, deep red grooves remained coiled around his pale skin, etched deep into his flesh like a crimson snake. Cullen's freed hands ran down his stomach checking to make certain he was yet alive and in one piece. In the process, he pressed his drenched tunic even tighter to his skin. He'd be less soaked if he'd dived overboard before the storm began. Poor Honor fared about as well. She lapped at the seawater, that pink and black tongue scraping along the deck. "Don't, that's bad for you," Cullen called. Her tongue dangled out but frozen, hovering just above another lap of the salty puddle. "I mean it," he chided and now she slipped her tongue away. Suddenly noticing she was wet, Honor twisted the muscles along her back wetting her master and the other pirates standing near. They all reared up from the small addition of water to their drenched backsides, but no one said a cross word. The pirates gave him and his mabari a wide berth and were even damn right respectable at times. It was surprising and made life partially livable, but he had a suspicion he knew why he received the royal treatment.

Sliding down the mast as if the man was born on a ship, the king of Ferelden landed barefoot upon the deck. He'd tossed off his shirt once the threat of storm rang out through the decks. In retrospect, it seemed the wiser move seeing as how he had dry clothes waiting for him down below while Cullen was left bearing what soggy rags he wore. Still, the man strutted about with his chest thrust out and a shit eating grin etched deep across his face. "That was something else, right Abby?" Whoever Abby was called down from the mast in a mix of Rivain and Orlesian. The pirates had their own bastardized language that Cullen could probably pick up on if he cared. A week and a half in and he hadn't mustered the ability to do so yet.

Alistair dug his fingers through the back of his hair, trying to squeeze off the water blasted against him from his perch in the sails. What kind of king climbs up into the crow's nest in the middle of a blighted storm at sea? The mad kind is an easy answer, yet despite how much Cullen wished it so, he seemed to be of sound mind. Not sharp, but sound. The other is the kind of king who dreams of adventure and thinks himself some great hero, but this one had fought in a blight, knew what true battle was. His gleeful strut around the deck helping the pirates secure lines and trade gentle barbs unnerved Cullen even more. The man was enjoying this for reasons he couldn't understand.

"How we doing, Admiral?" Alistair shouted while turning back to the woman at the helm.

For all his misgivings about her, Cullen had to admit Isabela was a competent captain. No, that was unkind. She breathed the ship, kept a tight control of her crew, and had been civil to him. Mostly civil to him.