ever-treasured memory
Cap'n Triton's not subtle. He's not really mellow. He might be easygoing, and a bit of a slow mover at divers times (what they call senility, on the face of anyone they actually expect to have their jug screwed on straight, and who's they, anyway?), but he's big as a whale himself, o' course, and there's no way fightin' around it.
When the consulmander of Colony 15 is on the scene, you'll know. Especially when it's Colony Mu he's arrived to, and all those denizens are all smaller 'n a pint - the whole crew!
Nay, it doesn't take much for him to observe that. The lot of them are scrawny lasses. Maybe one lad, if you squint. Ouroboros 'ave got themselves all in a twist, thinkin' he's gonna topsy their turrets and gunwale their gate. As if he should have any reason to do a knavish thing like that. And to think of them pussyfootin' around after 'im like he's a common robber, rapscallion, picaroon.
Can't really call it stormin' the stronghold if the commander escorts you right in herself, anyway. Fiona's politeness is far from her only superlative quality, but it's a refreshing one, since she's confident, and don't wait for Lan-Lan to give 'er the almighty okay.
(So maybe she hasn't got all the brains, in this place. So maybe they're two of a perfect pair, that way.)
Triton can't remember things. He's got aches. He's got pains in places he'd forgotten he has, and there're scars scuttling underneath his gauntlets that even he, the fearless soulhacker pirate, is scared to see.
But Colony Mu's commander makes him feel young again. It's a bit of a reassurance, in a way, that Colony 15's gang ain't only pitying the man who can't remember the name of his last good friend.
Is that too much? Too soppy? Well, but they are buddy-buddy, aren't they? And those little legs...she needs a piggyback ride just as much as she needs to give her calf muscles a workout 'fore they collapse atumble beneath 'er, then, don't she?
"A big clam, Cap'n? Did you ever catch one yourself?"
Oh, she's a hoot, this girl! "O' course I did! In fact, I were the one runnin' the contest. That way I could eat as many as I liked, an' not have to worry about racin' with the rest of 'em for my fair share."
Fair share. Sure, he ate well enough. But now, maybe he thinks more about what's most delicious than what's most, most, most.
Oh, he does want to catch that clam, though.
Fiona nods, contemplative. "Fighting for rations...we know about that here. Well, not that we fight with each other. That is to say, Irma..."
It's that note that sours up a little bit of Triton's punch, there. A fresh memory, eh? Somethin' so raw ye can't even talk about it, much less chew. And here she is wantin' to know how old he is. Bah! Not even worth countin' the ticks, if 'e had enough hands.
So, enough about that. To the cliffs! To the beach! For the Clammoths! Since apparently he's already scared all his grubbin' company away.
It's a bash and a half to get the beastie bested, laid out with its muscle shrinking down. Or at least, that's what it felt like, wrestlin' it out of the sand. Maybe he's gone off more than he thought, from his fightin' days. Indeed, they're all mighty bushed, from that. And then to have to climb all the way back up to the colony?
Triton hoists Fiona onto his back without a second thought, and though he can feel her face flush for a moment - ticklin' his beard, a bit - she latches on with twice the courage. Tuckered from all her display of commitment an' ingenuity, she must be.
"Well, I thank ye for letting me visit yer colony, Fifi."
No exclamation. No great nudge (such as he is). If he yells, Lanz might drop the Clammoth, anyway. And who's to compare the more precious of cargo?
Fiona nods, just as she did before, but with a firmness of will, like there couldn't be any other answer.
Privately, Triton'll admit that it's no weightless fathom to carry a person, wee though she may be, and maybe it's even a little harder yet when he's not blusterin' about for bivalves. The hold itself is awkward, tricky especially with 'is ridiculous red armor (ah, but he do look dashing, don't 'e?).
Ah, but that's alright. Ye've got to be careful, with your treasure. Gotta be steady, as you go.
Some days Triton doesn't trust the bones in his skull to tell him what the weather's like; if he's even sensitive t' the rain, anymore. He swears, though, that he can feel something, just dainty, somewhere above his temple. Faint as the skim of a well-bent rudder.
Now a smile - for both of 'em. How subtle. How quaint.
Making folks unhappy? Easy as pie. But bringing joy? Well, that'll reel you a cap'n, if you're capital, and dear Fifi, his newest little treasure...aye, she more than is.