&&--Solitude comes in twos

[rav]

“Oi! Gwen! Another,” shouted a young boy, his bright blue eyes starring at the redhead. His feet skittering with anticipation. The slender woman smiled, nodding, “Alright, that’s it, last one,” she said. The boy whooped, handing Gwen a small knife. He backed up, watching her intently. Gwen flipped the knife, standing sideways and closing one eye. Aiming, she drew her hand, back, and let it go, the silver knife sailed through the air, and hit a target. Bulls-eye. She glanced at the boy, who was cheering. One of his friends called, and he waved goodbye, skipping off.

Gwen picked up her hat, dusting it off and slapping it on her head. She rested her hand on the hilt of her sword, watching the chaos she had previously tuned out. A drunk, badly steering a wagon, a dog chasing a street whore, and gunfire out every window. She smirked, “Sweet Tortuga,” she said, her voice barely audible.

She stepped from the stable, watching all of the chaotic men and women, either drunk, or becoming drunk. She dodged an older gentleman, sliding through a crowd of crewman and into a saloon. She took one look and rolled her eyes, exiting as quickly as she entered. Seclusion. That’s what she longed for.

Back onto the cobblestone road, knee high boots clicking against the stone, trying desperately to wade through the madness. Finally, she squeezed through, reaching the lower docks. Not many were there, but still too many fro her taste. She blinked her emerald eyes, pursing her lip with impatience.

“Perfect,” she whispered, stepping over a pile of horse dung. Making a bee-line across the street, she aimed for the grassy knoll across a field. She nearly fell over, but skipped a footfall to regain balance. Stumbling, she leaned against a tree trunk, steering her weight forward.

Reaching the top of the hill, she sighed, brushing her clothed forearm against her sweaty forehead. Sticking her hand in her coat pocket, she produced a spyglass. Rolling it in the palm of her hand, she inspected it. Clicking it open, she peered through it, watching the ships sail in and out of port. Not that she really cared who came or left, but she wanted to peacefully pass her time.

She clicked her spyglass shut, slipping it back in its place. Sighing with content, she situated herself against a tree, leaning quietly with its trunk and watching the sun set. It literally was breathtaking, the orange glow, dominated by pink and slashed with reds and yellows. Slowly the last bits were doused with darkness, and Gwen watched, pondering, eyes locked onto nothing. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t realize someone could easily sneak up on her.

[Abram Tannar]

"Curious how short a distance a knave has to traverse to escape his single asylum in this world," remarked a cool voice from behind her, rolling freely in the sticky air and effecting a meditative drawl. A tall figure had approached her silently, his steps muffled by the whisper and crackle of the tall, frayed grasses that danced with the salty wind that buffed up from the water below.

In the red glare of the sunset, the fresh sunburn across his nose and cheekbones showed harshly and threw hard-cut shadows behind lines the sea had worn early into his features. His eyes were crinkled around his edges, bright despite their dark colour, gazing out across the horizon to where the blazing disk was slowly sinking beneath the leaping waves. The wind brushed stray dark locks of hair across his brow and straggled them out from the loose queue it was tied into.

After a minute or so of saying nothing further, he smirked a little and added in a mutter: "Well, perhaps not the only asylum, if Tortuga merits the name." He continued to stand beside her, his squinting expression softened with the faint trace of admiration for the colourful and vastly beautiful scene nature was displaying for them.

Belatedly, the man recalled that he had neglected a certain degree of propriety in approaching her. Casting her a sidelong and guilty look, he half told himself that on Tortuga, that propriety and decency were two characteristics least expected of men. Her appearance gave him the impression that she divulged a similar train of thought––yet old habits die hard, and thus far, he was lucky she hadn't drawn a knife on him. After all, men stealthing upon solitary women out of distance of a keen ear are seldom of good or neutral intent.

Stiffly bowing at the waist and touching the brim of his tricorn to her, he stretched an apologetic smile across his cracked lips. "Beg pardon miss, I didn't mean to sneak up on you like that," he murmured, as if unwilling to raise his voice and break the welcome quiet of the knoll.