Florencio
The sky was on fire, a belt of sherbet orange breathed as though by a dragon's maw sandwiched between its facsimile on a horizon of saltwater and an oncoming raspberry-to-lilac, fading-to-blackberry-indigo taffy ribbon that wouldn't look as though stars were effervescing from its black center for another hour. Cirrus clouds like upturned feather veins of cotton candy tickling the roof of some heavenly mouth, the entire confection was the delight of sailors the world over and a good omen. There was some truth to the old adage, predicting the weather. Would that there were similar methods available for *Women*.

One of them, at least.

Ismae's white-blonde hair caught the last vestiges of direct sun as she elbowed through the inn's door, the left side of it braided loosely back across her ear and down in fishbone style across her left shoulder-front. The remainder loose and catching a blowsy wind that it never quite settled from as she wended between bodies toward the bar, the tunic she wore tucked into black leather breeches billowed slightly at the waist where the flare of her hips might have been minimized if it weren't for the toolbelt clinging, threatening to slide right off but unable for its 'perch.' Lop-sided for the hammer on one side, it was respectably worn, aged, and well-used and cared for. Trim boots to her knees blending with the trousers, it was her human features that garnered as much or more attention as her ship-borne swagger but as she stopped at one end of the counter she was met by the bartender... Who apparently knew her on-sight. 

With her toolbelt on, she wasn't staying – she was there on business. And as she braced palms forward on the bar's edge, she said something the bartender had to lean in to hear, ask a question about, and receive her shake of the head in negative before he straightened up and pointed. Eyes silvery white with the barest hint of phantom green-red-gold nuanced into the dim lighting, followed the direction before a hand withdrew to her belt and a coin was placed on the counter with her thanks.

On her way over, petite though she was, Ismae had little trouble navigating the crowd who were, for the most part, sitting down to supper (or, more likely, getting a head start on drinking themselves under the table for the night). She had the air of someone who could *Motivate* People to move if she were in the mood or, perhaps, had in the past and owned something of a reputation the closer to the shipyard someone decided to dine. She placed a hand on a shoulder in passing only once for familiarity, but it was a certain crowd of old-timers it seemed she knew well enough – the more transient types tended to pay her little mind but for where theirs momentarily went if half-human-looking types were the sort of thing to attract them. 

Stopping shy of table-side, the faintest twinge of an eyebrow indicated some thought or other in surveying the man. Not dislodged if there were others he was with she'd spend a brief, interim second inventorying before returning sightline to the one whose description she'd obviously been given.
.

"You are zhe one drydocked at pier five?" Heavily accented voice was throaty and aerated as though it had been run over a grater and lost an octave for the experience. Self-assured, the tone said it wasn't *Really* A question about where his boat was, but more a statement that she needed to speak with him *Regarding* Said boat. 

It wasn't the briny scent cutting the bare minimum of odors off unclean bodies, or just how many there were crammed into a space where pillars to hold up a second and third floor were some of the main features for having to be bolted down that scored her eyes with an undertone of non-fuckery. Some once "Artful" Netting pinned up in one corner drooped in neglect, dusty and faded with time, and behind her the scent of brown gravy on half a chicken passed with a waitress – she'd wait only so long. And if there was bullshit to cut through..? He could get his news from someone – literally *Anyone* — else. She had work to get back to.
Hazel
*Magnus tried to keep to himself in the tavern. Staying low wasn't the easiest thing for him, being as large and noticeable as he was. But what was more of a factor, and one of the reasons he preferred smaller harbors were the rumors that inevitably accompanied him wherever he went. Folks turning to look at him briefly, then turning to their pals wondering if he was who they thought he was. Nevertheless he gave no clear answer to their wonderings, and kept to himself, eating some mashed potatoes and stake in a back corner of the room.*

*Normally Magnus was a fairly social fellow. Even if he never really told folks who he was, he would still chat and be friendly with folks. Often he would go about town with sailors from his crew, although he himself never drank. But alas today he had simply been tired out running back and forth, as his ship's repairs were almost completed. It's not that he didn't want to be bothered, he simply was to worn out to bother talking to folks.*

*Thankfully he would be able to put to sea again soon. The weather was turning foul, but where other sailors turned grim at the sight of an oncoming storm, Magnus was pleased to have the fortune of fowl weather. His family had long been tied to the sea, and his skill in maneuvering a ship through wind and tide was unparalleled, especially at the command of a ship like the **Wolf's Glory.** He felt the sea breeze come through an open window, providing some relief from the smell of the tavern, and sat backwards, beginning to relax for the first time that day.*

*Alas, his break would not last long however, and as the working lass inquired as to which yard his ship was in he sighed a bit as he sat up straight. Nevertheless he was still open to a bit of conversation, and responded respectfully.*

"Aye lass, that would be my ship you're looking for. News from the dockyard I assume?"
Florencio
If Ismae recognized the man, it didn't show either in a clinginess in her eyes or a sourness of her disposition. She was stoic, *Aloof* Even. But as he sat up lips that hadn't quite closed managed it for the *Lass* And some short internal debate was had – she'd been born on a ship and sailed ports across the known world (and a few unknown places of refuge for those on the water in need of one when the legality of their goods was in question and pursuit was nigh). Some she'd forgotten, of course, after fifteen years' absence in the trade, but others she'd picked up under new employment. The minute rise of her chin set her eyes to a low angle.

"Eet eez not your ship I am looking for but you – zhe skirja-herder you 'ired to do your work 'as used insect-wormed boards to support zhe starboard side of your ship," Not admitting how long she'd known they were rotten, "And I 'eard shouting an' saw your main listing in zhat direction. 'e eez probably too busy unfucking 'is mistake to come an' find you but I zhought you ought to know." That was being optimistic – more likely, there was a cover-up in progress and the business owner was scrambling (and losing) to keep his client from being any the wiser.

No one's *Messenger girl*, Ismae had walked down the dock to the pier when she'd heard the shouting to watch the old snake who owned that particular pair of berms flounder. If it hadn't been for the young, teenaged apprentice he had attempting to reset the snapped braces low against the side of the ship alone she might have... And then told the owner of the ship to find a more reputable and *Reliable* Shipwright in future when the damage had been done (at the shipwright's expense). The business Drec had passed to her either couldn't or wouldn't take on repairs presently, commissioned for new builds as it was, but by her tone there was obvious some murky, if not bad, blood between her and the man he'd hired. 

"I 'ope your potatoes were good," Said after a pause of seconds, then turning to maneuver her way back through the crowd toward the door. If he left himself not long after, he'd see her pick up speed at the end of the street for some reason.. And then blink out of sight altogether. 

The teleportation spell had been instantaneous and it was soon apparent why – there wasn't just shouting now, but screaming.

Sliding down the berm after reappearing out of nowhere, Ismae began drawing the *Wall of force* In a hemisphere over the boy who was likely dead whether she lifted the ship off him or not – the boards had fully given way and the beams used to brace were as good as matchsticks, though the only portion of the vessel fully on the ground was the rudder and aft keel, better bracing groaning ominously near midships. As the entire ship began righting itself, she stepped closer and.. Closer.. Shaping the wall into a wedge at the narrow side that lifted the ship off the ground again.
Hazel
*Magnus put down his fork after hearing her news. He sighed deeply, before slowly beginning to stand up.*

"Thank you lass for letting me know. If you must excuse me..." *He began to speak to the lady, before noticing her vanish, and hearing the screaming. He rushed to the door, and noticed the swaying masts. Recognizing the masts, he scowled. "She wasn't wrong" He muttered to himself before taking off at a sprint down the road, shouting at some of his crew to follow him.*

**Arriving at the scene, he looked around briefly. He saw the lass he just spoke to attempting to lift the ship with magic. He admired the effort, but knew that she wouldn't be able to get the ship very far by herself. He shouted orders to his crew, which had begun to arrive in ones and twos. Leading the way, he grabbed a heavy cable and began climbing some of the still hanging scaffolding, a couple other sailors following behind him. Reaching the top, he left over to the ship, steadying himself on the slanted deck. He fastened the rope to what was left of the ship's mizzenmast, before throwing the other end of the rope to a sailor at the bottom, who began running it up to the top of the dock's wall.*

*He leapt off the ship, the other sailors following suit. He saw some of the crew at the top of the drydock, and a number of proactive passers-by. He shouted a single order up to them.* "Heave like your life depends on it!" At that command the sailors began to heave the ship, inch by inch. It was long and hard work, but he hopped it would by them enough time to get some proper cranes hitched.*