Francisco took a breath of the salty air, a half-smile flitting across his face for a ghost of a second as he looked across the horizon. The sea was a beautiful thing - a raging, ephemeral beast that caressed its people with a loving embrace one moment and swallowed them forever the next. It was worthy of poetry, artistry, song . . . and enough cannonballs to sink an armada, if the action on the deck below was any indication. The tall, lean man was in the crow's nest, his hands on the railings as he peered down over the edge, his intent eyes searching the crowd as he picked out familiar faces. Over there was the child everybody referred to as 'Weasel', elsewhere was the massive negro named 'Bubba'. There, with the quartermaster - the true captain, as far as he was concerned, given her authority and command over the crew - was the spider-wielding 'Arahni', a fellow foreigner on the ship, and there - forever catching his eye, though he'd never admit it - was the terrifying and alluring witch-doctor whose name he was woefully unable to pronounce.<br/><br/>Francisco licked his lips, watching the crew as they went about their duties. He felt a world away from them, as if he could spread his wings and soar like an albatross on the briny breeze. It was oddly freeing, being this high up without a care in the world or another person to drag him down. As he mused, though, he noted that he should be down with them, helping load the ship - the mighty craft was hardly his family's manor, and though he'd unlearned his haughty superiority years ago, he still maintained the odd, tragic air of nobility lost - it was this peculiar and introspective viewpoint that let him appreciate such beauty as an endless horizon, the reflection of the sun on the tiny waves, the flutter of a gull's feathers in mid-flight, or the painted patterns on a woman's face. That final thought earned a small smile as Francisco stepped back from the handrail of his roost and turned, stepping from the unshielded rear edge of the crow's nest and finding a foothold in the rigging.<br/><br/>Descending with slight unsteadiness - he was better than a landlubber, but a far cry from the precision and ability of a born seaman - he made his way down to the deck below. Nearly everything about the man was quick, deliberate, and purposeful - nearly everything he worked at, at least - his climbing was visibly inexpert as-is, and would have shamed him if his life was intended for the rigging. Be he dueling, sketching, or descending the ship's rigging, Francisco liked to try to make himself swift and seemingly effortless. Only in courtship and brawling was he otherwise. In the former, he'd retained much of his aristocratic graces, leaving him subtle and charismatic where others were bold as brass. He may have been popular with the land-loving girls, but this popularity seemed almost cheap compared to the impassioned lack of grace that lesser men possessed. He could write poetry and make a woman feel appreciated, but when it came to boozing up and picking a pliant partner, he typically fell behind. In the latter, his airs and graces were deliberately abandoned - it was one thing to practice a perfect thrust or parry on the dueling field, and another to frantically hack one's way through a boarding action. In the end, though he was a phenomenal swordsman, he fought with a brutality that would have shamed his comparatively delicate and romantic family and childhood friends.<br/><br/>Francisco let himself fall the final metre-and-a-half, his heavy sleeveless coat weighing him down, and his boots clunking on the thick wood of the deck as he hit the ground. He maintained his position for a brief moment, regaining his sealegs. Straightening, he strode towards the forecastle, dodging around men as he walked. On the one hand, some of them treated him with automatic respect, given his quiet confidence and natural noble-born authority. On the other, it was well-known by now that he had fallen from grace many years before, and was officially no better than they were - one of the damned. On the whole, though, Francisco believed he had the faith of the crew, and he implicitly trusted them in many matters as well. Even then, he noted as he stepped towards the woman who commanded them all, he<i>did</i>tend to set himself above them. Perhaps old habits died hard.<br/><br/><b>"Likewise reporting, ma'am."</b>He said, his voice softer than Narkissos' own. He glanced over at the swarthy man, briefly tugging an imaginary forelock - his dark hair was hidden beneath a pale blue bandanna - as a sign of respect, possibly verging on friendliness. The easterner seemed a jovial enough sort, and he had a great fondness for the arachnid on his shoulder. Fernando himself found the creatures fascinating, and was often ready with an appreciative glance and a nod, should the spider catch his eye, almost as if the creature was - like its master - another member of the crew.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>