Live to Venture (#0)

04 | The Focus of Adventure

What Novari liked best about Captain Bardarian was his effortless. She adored how smooth he was, how unbothered he acted, how quickly he leapt from physically confronting to alluring and conversational.

She didn't like that all those aspects of him melted away into fear the moment the Sirens outside began to do their jobs. She hated how unfair the Siren song was, how it turned a man like Bardarian from an undecipherable challenge into a mumbling heap.

She snapped her fingers again, and he looked back at her, hand out to stop her from moving. His eyes darted, finding her, realizing she wasn't the one responsible for the song.

She knew—had witnessed—what happened to a man under the Siren song; they were drawn to it over all other emotions and limitations. The Captain would break both of his arms in order to pull out of her grasp, and he'd emerge from the captain's quarters with blood streaming from his head where he'd smashed open the door. Under a Siren spell, one couldn't feel pain or pressure, only that melodic sound. If the Captain became entranced, he'd kill and tear apart his own body to get to that song.

It started up again, and Novari immediately took a step forward, pulling his attention back to her. While she may not be able to play the Siren game, she could distract from it with the proper technique. Distract and disarm. Her job was simple.

"Welcome back, love," she said steadily. "Keep your eyes on me. I'm going to take your weapons. Keep watching me."

He wasn't all there, still; his eyes were fogged over, and his lips were parted slightly. The stronger the willpower, the easier the song could be ignored. She hoped he could keep it that way. He had willpower, she knew. She could tell; everything about him was written on his face, over his clothes, on his fingers. He was a living, walking, open storybook.

His eyes drifted a little from hers, the set of his shoulders dropping. Novari took another step forward. "How many knives?"

He shook his head. "I have a deal with the Siren Queen," he whispered.

"How many knives do you have?" she repeated.

"I have a deal with the Siren Queen."

"So I've heard."

He glanced back at her, looking clearer now. "Two." He shook his head sharply, then took another step closer to her, recognizing that focusing on her was stopping him from getting pulled under. "Two knives," he said.

Everyone had knives. The best place to keep them was usually the shoes, obviously, because you didn't have to keep them in the sheath. She knelt, running a finger down the line of his left boot to find it. His left, because it was easily accessible by his left hand. Bardarian was a left-handed man, clearly. Not just a left-handed shooter, but also a left-handed writer as well, judging by that ink stain on his palm.

She felt the familiar tug of a blade, then pulled it out and tossed it into the wall behind him. When she looked up at him from her kneeling position, the moonlight illuminated his face much better.

There was something...off about this man. While he, as a whole, felt like the biggest, most intimidating and beautiful man she'd ever been in the vicinity of, that perception seemed to crumble when she focused on breaking him down into aspects. When she looked him in the eye, she only had to lift her chin slightly, if even at all. He wasn't otherworldly big or burly, in fact, when she reached out to his arm to find the second knife—in his right sleeve, so as to be accessible by his left hand—she found the actual shape of him to be only slightly stronger than the average devoted sailor. She'd go as far as to call him lean, even, for his size. The dramatic change made her feel like something was attempting to convince her of things that weren't true. It coaxed her to believe that he was dumb and slow. Pretty but stupid. Talk to him. Confide in him. He's not even smart enough to remember what you said.