The Collection

You stand...

You stand.... at the prow of the ship, watching the waves lap across the dense slats of the hull, and feel the gentle tossing of the waves rocking the craft upon the surface of the water. The sun is shining down, making the surface of the ocean dance with the gleam of reflected light. You can feel the wind in your hair, and the spray of the water on your skin as the vessel cuts its way forward through the ocean waves. Ahead of you, fish flip in small semicircles from the surface and then disappear in a silver cascade of ripples. Ocean birds circle the craft, cawing at the all-seeing sun. There is no escape from the sky's rays on the open sea,however the wind and the waves act as a natural balm to the sear of its gaze. 

Finally, you turn away from the hypnosis of the endless sea around you. If you let it, it will absorb your hours with idle splendor. You focus instead on the boat itself. The figurehead is carved straight into the weathered hazelnut of the bowsprit, a wolf transfixed in the act of howling, its fangs bared, face full of  ferocity. The rest of the ship is made of the same deep hued lumber, making it an impressively consistent smooth deep amber color. Around you, the deck is made of a different, lighter wood, unpolished, yet textured for the grip of boots and  bare feet alike.  The planking is well maintained and you can make out the damp areas where recent scrubbing have freed it from murky dirt and grime.

Then, you shake off your reverie, and the sounds of the ship crowd into your head. Around you, on this miracle boat, crewman swarm across the rigging and along the deck, responding to the barking orders of the  first mate, moving swiftly and efficiently around you as if you are an island untouched by the sea.  You're a passenger, after all. Plus, know one wants to mess with the son of the admiral. 

You watch with mild fascination as a sail is furled,  the hubbub of voices accompanying the turn of the capstan and the rhythmic movements of the sailors turning it. You've seen it many times before, but for whatever reason it still holds your attention.  Once more, you tear your gaze away from them.  'Remember why you're here,' you remind yourself. So you glance down, looking at the expensive suit coat and fancy clothing you wear. No wonder they think you're a rich snob. 

Unfortunately, the guise is important. Rich snob's are usually considered harmless, especially out on the uncertain seas. You, on the other hand, are far from harmless. You start to take inventory of your weapons, a nervous  habit you picked up long ago; only vaguely conscious of the crewman milling around on deck, their conversation a low clamor among the hustle and bustle of the sailing ship. 

At your side is belted an ornate dueling rapier, not uncommon among the nobles. The difference is, it's razor sharp and you know how to use it.  You readjust it in it's sheath absentmindedly. You pat your fine coat as if looking for a handkerchief, but really you're reassuring yourself of the comforting weight of the pistol hidden there. Finally, you readjust the knives in your sleeves, disguising these treacherous movements by huddling against the bow as if fighting off seasickness. 

That done, you look out across the waves one final time before moving purposefully towards the foredeck,  your eyes glancing across the rows of cannons along each side of the ship. The look is calculating. You know what you've got to do now.   You have a job to do.