Stavanger Bay And as you get back into line, a mob jumps to their feet

She hadn't been avoiding the captain, not of late, but she hadn't exactly been at his heels either.  The entire nature of her position confused her, honestly.  In previous packs, first mates had been advisors and enforcers, but had carried some duties of a bosun as well.  Not quite so actively, yet the crew deferred to them, and their words held weight.

In this pack, the impression Rosalyn had gotten from Smokestep's tirade was that her duties were mostly to him... if that meant she were merely a lackey, she was going to fail miserably, because she wasn't about to be at his beck and call.  But if the position didn't mean some measure of responsibility over the crew, technically she wouldn't have taken it.  When she challenged Sandpiper, she hadn't cared about the damn title;  just that the other woman held no authority over her.

She hadn't spoken to @Smokestep since their exchange either, however, and she knew that despite her misgivings, she couldn't not check in. So she went to seek him out, internally preparing.... she still prickled with the indignity of their shouting match, and his words weren't nearly forgiven yet.

The pale hound had wandered across the bay for several hours in an attempt to keep himself busy and out of the fire; he’d spent a great deal of time in it with his companions and he had found that he didn’t enjoy verbal berating as much as he had imagined. Sandpiper had been nowhere to be found, and while he worried for his sister, the eldest Cairn knew that she could handle herself well enough. The fire had always burned hot within the golden-pelted girl; no matter her fall, he was still proud of her.
 
Trekking across the chilly sands, his mismatched gaze fixed on a reddish hue and the pirate felt his heart plummet into his gut. Their last conversation had been anything but ideal, and he found himself feeling sick and weak at his knees with the prospect of being confronted by her again. Surely, he couldn’t have allowed her to snap at him so carelessly this time; if she was looking to fight, he would be required to put her in her place.
 
As the corsair neared, he noted that her expression was softer than it had been. The swagger of his steps slowed, and he nodded softly to the red woman. “Roz,” he greeted her in a plain voice. Smokestep awkwardly shuffled his feet in place before he drew his head up and canted it questioningly toward her.

He seemed about as hesitant as she was, and more of her ire drained away.  Honestly... yes, his words had hurt.  But she had to concede that perhaps he would have come around to her side if she hadn't started the encounter jumping down his throat.  She couldn't validate it; she was a creature of impulse, and her moods were unpredictable at times.

"Captain." She replied, nodding with the proper respect at least.  It wasn't the warmest of greetings, but if she didn't want another argument, nor did she want to apologize.  "Looks like spring's blowin in... it off to a good start?" The query was a more casual way of seeing how is own affairs stood... she'd been busy about everywhere else lately after all.

She brought up word of spring, and he looked at her with a small gaping jaw and a look from the side of his eye that questioned the inquiry. Of course, he did not want to fight with her, so he nodded his head slowly and then glanced toward the sandy shores of their shared home. He had noted that she offered him the preferred dip of her skull and she had referred to him only by his title. It was a curt means of moving forward in their conversation, but he understood what she was aiming to do. “Aye, she’s startin’ off just fine. An’ wot have ye been up to? Spookin’ the locals,” he stopped himself for a moment and turned his head sheepishly away from her to watch the rolling of the waves. It was natural for Smokestep to fall back on his humor as a means to defend himself from deeper conversation; his father had always despised it.
 
“Listen, er…” he trailed with a bit of a half frown. He had always been fond of the spoken word and his affinity for using it as a weapon and a tool in many of his situations. It seemed as though he had found himself at something of a standstill, and he was afraid if he wasn’t careful, he would cause more damage than he had before. “I don’t wanna fight ye, Roz… the crew’s me life and all I’m aimin’ to do is take care o’ wot we’ve got, aye? The Captain can’t fight wit his First Mate either, so I’ve come to make amends fer wot we done in the past,” he offered her, and he turned to face her at last with a pair of mismatched and despondent eyes.

He seemed well, though with a curious glint to his eye that she could only lend towards the formal nature of her greeting.  Perhaps it was odd, this stiff beating around the bush, but she couldn't quite swallow crawling towards him outright either.  She hadn't been in the right, but neither did she find herself in the wrong in what she had said entirely either.  It was a sliding slope she tread right now, and she was determined to teeter on that edge a bit longer.

Spookin the locals.  She didn't quite catch the meaning, though from the tone took the levity and the abrupt stop that it was a joke that either a) she didn't get or b) he hadn't finished.  Now it was her turn to be questioning, but she didn't get the chance to rib him at all before he launched the initial voyage into straight talking.  

She'd wanted the first to be his and he was taking it, with what was likely the closest thing to an apology she'd be getting from him.  It of course wasn't perfect (perfection for her would be for him to renounce his insults, a bit of a high bar, even she knew that).  If it fell to her to admit to her own shortcomings... she could at least acknowledge one.

"I shouldn't have come after you how I did right off.  I didn't realize what she was to ye... I still don't."  She didn't elaborate, but the meaning she felt was clear enough.  A pirate with no family to fall back on had a hard time even reconciling a bond stronger than simple crew.  "But I don't steal from crew.  And my pride might not be much, but it's all I got."  She didn't look at him as she said this, but did turn to him after, away from the waves.  She wasn't about to lay out for him all of the harm his insults had done, but neither did she want to gloss over the fact that such words weren't ones she would take easily, even from him.

Smokestep would likely never be good at apologizing, but if there were to be a decent example of it, it would have been how he had demonstrated himself in front of Rosalyn. The boy had vowed that he would never turn into his father, and he had every intention of keeping that promise to himself. He had the blood of the Cairn in him, and while they were a lot who had a penchant for ruthlessness and steadfast beliefs, he wanted to show that he had enough soul to really care about the consequences to his actions. Feeling the strain that he did with Raptor was enough; he did not wish to feel ill toward the red woman any longer.
 
She seemed to accept what he offered and returned with her own attempt at amends. The pirate drew his ears forward and listened, knowing that she could not understand his love for his sister or the idea that he would truly give every inch of his hide and life for her if she should need it. Smokestep wished that he could share the feeling with her, but he knew that it wasn’t something that he could offer, and so he huffed softly, and his gaze darted to the right. “It ain’t all ye’ve got, though,” he reminded her through gritted teeth. His gaze darted back to her features and they lingered there, intently.
 
“This crew’s yer family now too, innit? Sandpiper is yer family now too. Ye’ve got all o’ them, an meself, so yer pride is the last damn thing ye should be worried ‘bout,” the yearling added, elaborating on his original piece. Part of him expected that she would lash out at him for taking such a steadfast stance on it, and for lacking tact in delivering it to her. The marauder did not know how he could have softened it, though. He lacked the years that it took to break his language down and make it formal and polite.
 
“Yer doin a fine job… as First Mate,” he then added with an awkward shuffling of his feet.

She wished she could believe him... she really did.  And in time she would.  Rosalyn liked to think herself jaded, but she knew deep down she wasn't so much so as to not accept the idea of building a new family.  It was why she kept trying after all.  But that trust would be some time in coming, the feeling of being comfortable enough in a place to not fear exile or betrayal.  

She didn't agree with his view on pride, and the skeptical look she gave him showed it.  "That how you feel?  About yours?" She asked, a slight teasing challenge entering her tone and hopefully easing more of the uncomfortable tension between them.  In some ways yeah... getting so wrapped up in standing could really damage pack relations.  But losing sight of who she was to get along with  everyone would be miserable, and she wouldn't be able to remain with that either.

His compliment brought a genuine smile, but she didn't follow up just yet.  She wanted to hear where his answer would bring them first.

Roz was quick to snipe back with a pointed stare. A fleeting expression of true indignation struck his face before he snorted and turned away from her. Smokestep was taken aback at the direct inquiry, but he was not afraid to answer her. With a soft shrug of his shoulders, the tall lad frowned, still turned away. “Aye, it’s getting’ thar,” he growled in a quiet tone. For a pirate, it meant a lot that he was willing to release his pride in order to accept a new life that he had created for himself and his family. If he could boast that he wanted only what was best for the crew but not act on that, he was no better than a coward. Smokestep did not want to admit how difficult the task was, but he was pushing himself to try. That fear of losing those closest to him was ever present.
 
“It ain’t easy, I know, but ye won’t know if ye don’t try, Roz,” he urged her with another shrug. This time, when he met her gaze with his own, there was a softer tone in the mismatched colors of his eyes. “Don’t want ye to be a miserable gibbet fer the rest o’ yer life.” This was a jab at the life-long pledge that all of the crew had agreed to upon joining. If he was to be stuck with a sour First Mate, Smokestep would not have been pleased.

He took her pointed jest with surprising sincerity, and it sobered the tone a bit.  She had meant what she asked, of course, but a good part of her had expected him to joke it off.  Instead he doubled down, and then.... what?

"You just call me a 'miserable gibbet'?" She asked, a slow creeping smile coming unbidden on her.  She couldn't help it... who the fuck called someone a miserable gibbet?  "The hell is a gibbet?"

Good old ridiculous insults; she'd remember his defense of Sandpiper and his words from all of this, but her edge was gone. Time to move forward.

“Aye sure did!”
 
There was nothing but confidence firing from the tone in his words at her inquiry. The pale Captain could not help but to allow the wily smirk that curled his dark lips and crinkled the side of his face. Both of his eyes danced in the light of the sun at her exclamation, but he did nothing to retract it. It seemed that some of the hope had returned to his frame, and he demonstrated a playful attitude by lowering his torso to the ground and canting his head a bit to the side. When she inquired what a gibbet was, he laughed and then shook his head. “It ain’t very pleasant,” he warned her with mischief in his voice. “Gibbet’s where a pirate dies once they’re caught. I always say ye can ruffle feathers with any ye feel like… just don’t get caught.” The thought of being forced to his knees to die had always been something of a bitter imagery for the young pirate. Smokestep was still youthful enough to believe that he could go on for hundreds of years as the Captain of his crew; wild and wary, but still the corsair that he felt himself to be. The gibbet was not made for the likes of him.

She gave a soft "Tch" as he described a gibbet, and her ears pulled back as she gave him a look of full affront.  "I'm the most pleasant thing around these parts, thank ye very much."  Most days.  Truthfully she wasn't offended - she knew what he meant by it.  But it was fun to play the part at times.

She had to agree with his thoughts on ruffling feathers and getting caught in the repercussions of that.  Live loose and carefree as you want, but everything you might choose to do could bring a heap of trouble on your head.  She'd learned over time to keep hers fairly low... her encounter with Piper had been the first real sticking out of her neck in a long while.  She was curious now.  "You ever been caught?"  Did his words come from teaching or experience?

“Aye, ye are…”
 
It was a sober admittance that he offered her, but he did agree that she was – perhaps – the most pleasant part of the Ironsea crew. At least, she was one of those things that had brightened his mood, no matter the circumstance. He hadn’t been pleased with their previous conversation, but he was willing to move on if they could understand each other. That was really what it was about when you lived with others, wasn’t it? They had to be able to act as adults during difficult times, no matter what they believed to be right, and push to sympathize with one another. Smokestep had wanted his crew to be close-knit and to act as a large family might, but he did not have much of an idea as to how family was supposed to act. The only family that he had truly cared about was the only family that had trekked into the bay with him; Sandpiper was his rock and his foundation for everything regarding kin. This was the one thing he had wanted Roz to take away from their previous conversation.
 
The question that she offered him afterward was one that settled strangely with the corsair. He casted her a look from the corner of his eye and regarded the inquiry with a thoughtful frown. “Not yet,” Smokestep answered her in another sober tone. It felt as though his days were numbered; it wouldn’t have been long before someone from his past would barge in and find a reason to throw him to the sharks for all his wrongdoing. “Wot about ye?”

She definitely had not expected him to agree with that statement, and definitely hadn't expected it to come from him in that tone.  She felt an abrupt shift in her own confidence in this conversation... she'd been growing more at ease as they grew lighter, but she didn't know what to make of it.  Was he still upset - meaning she had been, and had ruined it?  And if he still meant it, what sorta shitty crew did they bring together?  The last was a joke even internally, and it helped to knock her out of the momentary lapse.

Seemed she was all about bringing the mood down now, because her question looked to invoke something in the Captain.  When it was returned to her, she nodded.  "Aye."  This came out softly, but she then took up her usual pattern.  "A few times.  Luckily none that stuck, of course, else I wouldn't really be here would I?"  She smiled, though the reference was in part some of the single worst occurrences in her four years walking.  If you couldn't laugh, and learn from, your mistakes, then ye couldn't really call yerself a pirate.

"That's the beauty of having a good crew around ye, makes it harder for them." If Smokestep was worried, he needn't be.  For the most part, Rosalyn had attempted to keep a paw on the pulse of this crew.  And the one unanimous thing she'd found? All seemed to be there because they liked him, a strong indicator they'd have his back if anything ever did go sideways.

Not wanting to waste too much of his time, and enjoying that note to depart with, she excused herself to go roam the beach.  She was settled some.... he hadn't seemed as irate this time, so perhaps, their easy repotoir before could be regained.