Closing in on the port

[Lynnea]

((Because i'm tired of not being there yet, darn it. *L*))

She was tired. She was cranky. She was hungry. She was locked in a makeshift cage.

It seems the crew had become tired of the woman's destructive ways after a few days at sea. They discovered that once her stomach was empty and she was sure there would nay be more coming up that she turned her attentions elsewhere. By the time the blonde woman had thrown three men overboard because they had been in her way they had devised a plan.

Every last scrap of material that wasn't in use was soon put to use. Nearly half the crew busied themselves in the construction of the pen. The others kept themselves out of harm's way - as much as they could. One rather large man could nay move fast enough and found himself on the receiving end of a hard fist. The blow flattened him and gave him a blackened and swollen eye.

When the crew had finished their construction that large man was the first to set upon her. The rest of them were nay far behind - and all hell broke loose. The woman turned into a biting, kicking ball of fury. Crewmen were tossed in all directions as she could get ahold of them, many with cuts and bruises either from their landings or from her blows. At one point the mass of bodies trying to get her under control slammed into the side of the ship, the force making it tip sideways - no small feat for a longboat. The struggling mass moved slowly down the length of the ship until, finally, one of the crew managed to give the woman a push when she was off-balance, shoving her into the pen. Then they locked her in.

Aye, it would have been easy enough for her to break the thing down, but it would nay have been smart. She waited instead. Her moment was approaching.

We'll be coming to port soon. The voice was whispered. Twas one of the lads that had been eyeing her when she boarded. He was one of the few that braved coming near her, and often brought a bit of a meal. They found out twas nay a good idea to bring her too much. Today, or early tomorrow. He slipped her a biscuit.

Her eyes lift, the normal blue flashing a deep green for just a moment. Aye?

The lad nods. Not much longer.

A feral grin moves across the woman's face. It makes her fierce, almost fearsome, and the lad shudders and quickly moves away. She rises, stretching her strong, tanned limbs, and starts pacing the length of her enclosure. She has plans.

[Lynnea]

Tis easy to see - even for one that nay has any love for the sea - that the entrance to the harbor is blocked. Any vessel that tried to pass would be in danger of being torn apart by the wreckage left from the battle, and the crew nay looked to favorably on the ship anchored outside the harbor itself.

We're nay setting foot on land, then? Not soon?

None of the crewmen even looked up at the inquiry. Nary a one. The woman's response: to ask again, louder. Then to shout the question, rising to her feet.

This time, the poor lad that has been bringing her food shouts back, Captain says we can't!

Aye. We can't. She sits down once more, ice blue eyes flashing, curved lips pressed into a thin line. I should have seen it. A haughty sniff. A calloused hand reaches into the ever-present worn leather satchel, pulling out a carved bone comb. Calmly she works at her waist-length hair, tugging at the tangles until the comb runs through the locks smoothly. As she works her gaze keeps running over the makeshift cage. The comb is tossed back into the bag and she plaits her hair, tieing it off with a bit of leather thong.

Again she gets to her feet, moving restlessly, pacing like a wild animal. A moment's pause to hang the satchel over her broad shoulders. A single nod.

She lowers her head, turning it to one side, and suddenly charges the wall of her enclosure. The whole contraption rattles and shakes, capturing the attention of the crew. Back a few paces... then again. Again. The fourth blow finally brings the whole thing crashing to the deck, the woman huddled beneath it. She shakes herself vigorously, sending bits and pieces every which way. One smooth move and a dagger is in her hand, which she uses to cut away most of her skirt.

Bare-legged and with her teeth gritted, she makes a mad dash for the railing, launching herself overboard.

In the water itself she is nay so clumsy. She learned to swim long years ago in the ocean itself and now takes advantage of her knowledge, using clean strokes to propel herself toward the beach. Be damned if I nay get to shore. She spits out a mouthful of ocean water, narrows her eyes, and marks her point to reach.