There is a fine line between submission and surrender.
Carvallain does not submit to anyone. Despite severing ties with his homeland, the noble blood of House Durendaire still flows through his veins. Exchanging his birthright for the open sea does not, cannot change his past; his father's icy gaze glares at him from the looking glass each morning, a daily reminder of who he is. A man among men, unparalleled. He has fought tooth and nail to gain his current position as captain of the Kraken's Arms, and he will do whatever it takes to maintain that status. Men like himself do not easily yield to another's will.
However, he is also not a fool. Any good strategist knows when to make a tactical retreat. Oftentimes it is the difference between living to fight another day, or an eternal slumber five fathoms deep. To surrender, in his eyes, is no more than a temporary setback. Bowing to today's victor does not necessarily entail forfeiting tomorrow's game. False smiles and shaky truces leave the path open to regain the upper hand at some future interval. There is no shame in that, only the sting of plucked pride.
And so, when he finds himself with a fuming blonde in his lap and a blade against his throat, the thought of submission never once crosses his mind.
Surrender, however, is certainly an option. Any man, sober or otherwise, has cause to think twice with a dagger at his pulse. He silently curses his choice of table, tucked into one of the most secluded areas of the Drowning Wench. The alehouse is packed end to end with adventurers and off-duty sailors, but they only have eyes for Triple Triad and La Noscean toast; Baderon, the useless fool, is too busy to bother with the sordid affairs of shadowed corners.
His rival captain is clearly deep in her cups, stormy eyes brighter than usual as she snarls down at him. She leans against him rather than into him, forcing him to tip his chin higher as steel finds the soft skin beneath his jaw. Despite being (mostly) sober, a curious spark trickles down his spine as he meets her furious gaze. He neither fears nor craves her, never has, and yet it is not terror that urges him to lick his lips as he waits for her to speak.
"Bloody bastard." Something savage resonates in her tone. "Are ye trying to bleed me dry?"
"No, but you certainly seem eager to." The sharp bite of metal against skin leaves his heart hammering in his chest. He feigns nonchalance, relaxing his limbs and attempting to ignore the ticklish trail of blood winding slowly down his neck. "I believe you've had one too many drinks tonight, my dear captain."
"Coward." She swipes a finger over his jugular, catching the bead of blood and studying it in the lamplight. It's nearly as dark as her lipstick, a perfect sphere caught by her tongue as she licks her fingertips clean. Again his heart stutters, levin shooting straight to his groin. I must not be as sober as I thought.
"If your only intent is to insult me," he responds, thankful that his voice hasn't succumbed to whatever madness currently has him in its thrall, "then I'll have to ask that you find me tomorrow. I never talk shop after closing hours."
"Too bad." Her drunken sneer is lopsided, but her hand remains steady at his throat. "It's one thing to steal shipments from under our noses when the Garleans had Occidens, but now—! Do ye think yerself entitled to every job along the entire godsdamned coast? Fishing's Siren business, ye foppish, long-eared excuse of a pirate!"
"Now, now." His fingers flutter habitually in the air, dismissing her complaints with a flaunty wave. "This is no way to get what you want. If it's negotiation you're after, you're more than welcome to speak to my associates at the Seventh Sa—"
"Yer not wriggling out o' this, puffy-shirted prick."
"Again with the insults?" His answering sigh is only half-mocking. Sharp metal once again digs into his neck, her scowl deepening as his sarcasm hits home. Her eyes flash and, for the first time, he wonders if she just might be drunk and foolish enough to try it. Banter and idle threats were one thing, but he also knew what she was capable of. He hadn't planned on ending the night with his throat sliced ear to ear.
