BootyCallBooty Call"All right." Cazaril says, starring from Alex to the approaching vessel with a hard face. With the flag set up by Alex, and the slowing of the ship, the collision with the ship is at the very least delayed, if not deferred. As the ships near though, Swan can see that the larger ship has slowly started to avoid the collision course, the Skid Rogue now as visible to this ship, as the other ship is to the Skid Rogue. "Hail the ship!" finally comes the call of someone at the prow, as the ships near close enough that shouts might be heard across the distance. "'Lex, take the wheel. Hold her steady," Swan says, heading for the bow. She gives the speaker a friendly wave before cupping her hands like a megaphone, "Hail! I'm the captain of the Skid Rogue. I'd like to speak with your captain if I might. Permission to come aboard?" The ship, under Alex's guidance, remains on course, slowed by the trimmed sail. "We are the White Maiden out of Riverside. A moment..." The figure disappears from the prow for a full minute, while two boys, midshipmen, watch the Skid Rogue and its crew. Swan waves not-so-innocently at them, making sure they have something to look at while they wait. Finally the person returns to the prow. "Permission is granted, Captain. A rope ladder is being lowered on our port side. One person only." "Aye," Swan calls. "Be right up." She walks over to Alex and gives up her gun-belt. "Watch over these, darlin'," she says in a low voice. "If they suddenly take a powder, that means I'm in dutch. Tell Caz to give these punks the Broderick and come save my keister. Kapeesh?" "If they disappear, you summoned them, and are in danger." Alex says with a nod. "We will come extract you." "Spot on, my beautiful, little tomato," Swan says, kissing Alex's head. "Prepare for the worst, and pray for the best." Cazaril says. "Shouldn't that be the reverse?" Swan smirks. "It's far more interesting." A wink and a nod later, Swan climbs aboard the White Maiden. When she reaches the top, flashes everyone a winning smile. "Ahoy. Lead on McDuff." "My name is Iyan." the midshipman says, turning and walking toward the rear of the ship. A few of the sailors, of various ethnicities (but all male) watch and regard Swan with reactions ranging from suspicion to curiosity as Swan is led toward the rear of the ship, and a door. Iyan scratches at the door. "Captain. The woman from the ship is here." "Send her in. And go tell Doctor Altair as well that he may be needed." Swan raises a brow, thinking to herself, 'Wow. Does my stellar reputation precede me even here? Usually they don't need a doctor until /after/ I've left.' Iyan opens the door to reveal a wardroom of some sort. Sitting at the table, but rising as she stands at the door way is a man with a silver headed cane, and a salt and pepper beard and piercing eyes. He's wearing what is clearly a naval uniform (Casting call: F Murray Abraham) "It is rare for the White Maiden to meet a fellow ship in the sea, unless they are pirates." he says by way of greeting, gesturing with his free hand for Swan to take a seat before doing so himself. "I am Captain Clarion of the White Maiden. Who are you and why have you sought us. Are you in need of supplies?" "I'm Captain Sylvie Moreaux," Swan says, taking the offered seat. She lights up a gasper and offers one to Clarion. "But please call me, Swan." The look at Swan's cigarette is one of unfamiliar revulsion and he shakes his head at the offer. She glances around the cabin, nodding in appreciation. "Well, C'apt, the Skid Rogue ain't pirates and we ain't looking for supplies. Not that we'd sniff at any swag you want to hock. But you may carryin' a cargo we've been trying to get the slant on. Namely a girl. Goes by the name of Espérance. Her mother wants her back." "Espérance St. Vier?" Captain Clarion regards Swan curiously for a long moment. He doesn't say another word for a few moments, touching his fingertips together and getting a very peculiar look on his face. There is a brief knock at the door. "Come in Doctor." Captain Clarion says, in what sounds like the slightest of monotones. His entire body language has changed to much more stiff. Not formal, but passive, quiescent. Controlled. The Doctor is a bald man, with dark skin, dressed in dark colors. He closes the door behind him as soon as he steps across the threshold. "Doctor" Captain Clarion continues in that monotone. "Captain Moreaux's business is one of our two paying passengers. Miss St Vier." “Doc,” Swan says, rising briefly from her chair. "I see." he says. And the dark eyes of the bald headed man start to stare at Swan. She's had enough training, experience and incidents to know what is happening. The good Doctor is attempting to assert a psychic connection or probe. Possibly as the prelude to a psychic attack. As she senses the invasive connection, Swan’s mental defenses go up. Between Dad and Lorius, she’s learned enough to maintain some rudimentary resistance against mind-diddling. The Doctor's attempt is not fast and hard enough to prevent Swan from erecting her basic defenses. If the Doctor were to press the issue, Swan would be able to defend herself if it comes to brass tacks. Swan keeps her wits about her, maintaining a mental wall between herself and the good doctor. [She] sits forward in her chair, muscles tensing like a crouched pantheress. One hand goes on the table between her and the captain, while the other opens in anticipation of Da Boyz arrival. “Doc,” she says in a glacial tone. “You better stow that Abercrombie $hit pronto or I’ll repaint this cabin arterial red, savvy? I’m here all peaceful and polite-like, but you do /not/ want to test my goodly nature.” "I am certain." Doctor Altair replies. "that I do not quite understand your most peculiar idiom and speech." He looks at the Captain in a look that suggests that it is the Doctor, and not the Captain, who truly is in charge here. But it is the Captain who speaks next. Noticing this, Swan alters her muscle memory to target the Doctor then the Captain if or when the situation requires it. The fingers of her right hand instinctively curl into position, ready for the gun’s comforting weight to fill them. "What Doctor Altair is about, Captain Moreaux." Clarion clarifies, trying to catch Swan's attention. "is that we have it on good authority that personages of less than savory provenance are very interested in Miss St. Vier, and we must be assured of *your* good intentions." "Extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof." Doctor Altair says, picking up at this point. "I find it unlikely that you found us in the middle of the Sea by any ordinary means." “Right in one, Doc,” Swan replies. “We’ve been tailing your skirt for a while now. I’m a rate Shamus when I need to be, so here I am. Along the way, we’ve met some Jesby hatchmen just drooling to fit Espérance for a wooden kimono. I’ve got the lowdown on these droppers and where they intend to string you up on my boat. Just have one of your mugs get my bag and you’ll be in the know. Call it a sigh of good faith. “The butter and egg man on my boat is Cazaril Sawall. He’s one of Dara’s finders. So, if you want the full dope, he’s your man.” "And yet you are the one here, Captain." Doctor Altair says. Captain Clarion nods with some clear reluctance. She lifts her left hand from the table long enough to tap the ashes from her gasper. She smiles thinly, “Now that mine wire is hangin' in the breeze, can you nix the mind diddling before tempers flare and I have to queer this meet-n-greet?” "I have to decide if I believe this story of yours. Supernatural antagonists of our passenger is one thing. Claiming to be a completely different but equally supernatural nature is...unlikely. I should know." "No. I will have what you truly are. And not by asking a confederate who would parrot the same story." And then, quick as lightning, Doctor Altair begins an aggressive and most unwelcome mental connection with Swan. Swan reads body language and inflection well enough to sense possibly threats. And Doctor Altair positively sends her a memo. She steals herself for the inevitable mental assault, drawing on old mental training. /You’re a blunt instrument, Swan./ Her Father’s voice echoes in her mind; a display of fatherly praise. /Use that to your advantage. Iron does not bend. Be like iron./ For three weeks he’d repeated these words, torturing her day and night. Day and night, he found every crack, every opening in her thoughts, and then split them open just like freezing water broke stone. Failure was. . . unspeakable; a violation beyond any she’d suffered at Valentine’s hands. Three weeks. She remembers them now. But she also remembers how dad was wrong. Iron rusts. It lets the water in, turns brittle and breaks. She needed to be steel. Cold, unforgiving, unbreakable. Dangerous. She draws on that memory now and shields her thoughts behind her wall of steel. Summoning her guns now will only weaken that wall and open a door inside. But she does not seek to avoid combat; indeed, she embraces it. Memory guides her body, rage cloaks her thoughts. /You’re a blunt instrument, Swan./ Steel is a weapon. It is used for attack, not just defense. That day, she used it to defeat her father. And what is this man—this Shadow-Dweller—compared to her father? She’ll find out soon enough. No one will violate her like that again. No one. Dad’s words echo again. His condescending expression disappears as she leaps at him, closes the distance in one fluid motion. The mental attack from Doctor Altair strikes Swan's shields and begins to wrap around her even as, by pure instinct, she makes her move. Instinct is allowing her body to move, propelling her to act even as Altair desperately attempts to gain control of her mind. These two conflicting desires result in a clash of mind, and flesh, and bone. A blinding pain hits Swan's mind even as her palm strikes with excessive force against the Doctor. The mental attack as a conduit ceases, but the damage is done on her side. The mindstorm that the Doctor uses blows through wards that are only in place, and not warded. And so, Swan has the ultimate satisfaction of seeing the Doctor's nose broken and a shout of pain and the Doctor falling back against the wall, just before her own consciousness starts to waver and the world around her starts to distort, and go dark. Inside, her mind furiously tries to rebuild the ragged hole put in her defenses, and by its own instincts, the way to do that is to shut down completely. Albeit on rubbery legs, Swan has a few more moments for action before that consciousness is likely going to be lost for a time. Death. That’s what these two just earned. Fractured as her mind might be, Swan can summon her pistols and finish them both. Snicker-snak they’re dead and with their heads she goes galumphing back. But what would that serve her? Or her friends? Nothing at all. No. She needs to make a statement before she collapses and spilling blood needlessly is not the way. She grips onto those last vestiges of consciousness long enough to swing on the captain. She grips the table between them and shoves it forward, catching him in the chest and pinning him to the wall with its weight. She growls and pushes again, threatening to splinter bone just for good measure. Her eyes are ice, her words a venomous hiss. Doctor Altair himself looks like he is on the verge of losing consciousness himself, partially from the violence of the assault, partially from the table, and possibly from the effort he expended on her, mentally. “I told you the truth. And you assaulted me. I could have killed both of you just now. But I didn’t. Ask yourself why.” Adrenaline and anger can no longer sustain Swan; the damage too severe. Her legs are the first to go, collapsing beneath her. The rest of her follows, sliding off the table and falling into gravity’s soothing embrace. She’s gone before her head strikes the floor. And so Swan loses consciousness, even as she is somewhat vaguely aware that her antagonist is not in any better of a position, and possibly worse... 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