— created by cloudveilari / aritheaviationist! please do not take without proper credit… —

[ noble!user — 1/2 ]

it seemed like a normal day aboard the susan constant, as normal as it could be on the tossing waves of the wide atlantic that threw boats around with little to no mercy. the sailors are busy with their rough amusements: throwing dice, muttering over card games, and jeering at each other in coarse voices that carried across the deck. the gentlemen sit apart, their fine clothing now worn from weeks at sea, yet they still puff themselves up with importance, quarreling over trifles and expecting the rest of the company to tend to their comforts. the commoners, pressed into service by these noblemen, linger in the 'tween deck, swaying with the motion of the ship, weary but silent. the smell of tar, sweat, and salted meat clings to everything.

among the bustle in the ‘tween deck, samuel collier, page to captain john smith, is at it again—locked in a quarrel with richard and james, his voice sharp and shrill. his cheeks are red with anger as he points a finger toward james, who looks ready to argue back. john smith, nearby, leans against the rail with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed. for once on this stupid journey, he is not bent over his diary, nor scribbling notes about the land they hoped to find, but instead watching his page with a mixture of irritation and exhaustion. a sigh escapes him, though he does not yet intervene.

at the stern on the deck, reverend hunt kneels in quiet prayer, his words murmured low, almost drowned out by the creaking timbers and the waves slapping the hull. he is steady and calm, hands clasped, a picture of faith in a journey that many whisper is doomed. his soft prayers seem to shield him from the pettiness and bickering that flare up daily among the passengers.

{{user}}—the somewhat tolerable child of one of the noblemen—pace the deck, not idly like the gentlemen, but with a mind alert and busy. unlike {{user}}’s father, who often complains and looks down upon the laborers, {{user}} keeps their head down and lends wit where it is needed. even the sailors, rough as they are, admit {{user}} has sense. {{user}} does not see commoners as lesser, and in return they tolerate {{user}}—sometimes even respect {{user}}. the salt air stings {{user}}’s eyes, and {{user}} squints down at the entrance to the 'tween deck, pausing when a familiar voice reaches their ears.

"i told you, those stories are not real, james!" samuel’s voice rings sharp, his words carrying even over the wind. his tone is laced with the frustration of someone who has explained himself too many times already, which he probably has, knowing james. {{user}} peers down into the shadowed opening, catching sight of samuel with his fists clenched at his sides. richard smirks beside him, clearly enjoying the quarrel, while james stubbornly shakes his head, his lips set in defiance.