As Alastor drew closer, the foothold of the schematics he'd seen several weeks ago rose higher and higher into the forefront. A quick count of the rows of planks that made up the deck, the numbers flaring to life as the counts he made directly contradicted them. The craftsmanship was sound, from what he observed, with nails in the right places to bind. He hypothesized, if he sank into the lower deck, that he'd see some sort of consequence for the shift. They likely had to repair this ship more often, as well. Alastor didn't notice the approaching woman, too busy with his theories. He never had an issue memorizing any of these details before, and saw no reason to believe the contrary now.

"...what the fuck you are doing on my ship."

Oh, shit.

Alastor didn't want any trouble. He'd come to the Southern Harbour specifically to avoid it and yet, his overzealous desire to understand seemed to fling him directly into the path of it. He hated conflict, at least on a personal level, despite understanding the fundamental need for conflict in the human condition. He'd had the debates over and over, ruminating on the words of his tutors without fully agreeing with them about much of anything. But, theories and speculation had no use in the midst of that very conflict that was the topic of it.

"Ten... nine... eight..."

Alastor scrambled, cornered by the woman who blocked the only exit to her boat. He looked over the deck, just as she counted to six before he answered,

"I... I was just looking, miss. I h-have an assignment due this week and y-y-your ship's... muh-modi-fifif-cation perfectly e-epitom-mizes what we're supposed to find."

Alastor always found talking to people to be difficult, but in the midst of a struggle, he seemed to always make himself a doormat. It also really didn't help that the woman was armed, and looked a lot tougher than he did. She seemed born for this sort of life, sailing over the seas and truthfully it was the sort of disposition that the boy didn't envy in the slightest. Salty air stung at his eyes and nostrils, high winds pulled at his clothes, and then the way a boat moved on the waters always caused him to slip and fall. Most of the times he'd sailed to and from Athenia, he confined himself to his room with a bucket and tried not to need to use it.

Alastor hated the sea, but understood the benefits of travelling on it. Always, he was more fascinated in the thing that took him across it, even if it wasn't what he was interested in professionally.

The boy didn't know what to do from here. He'd explained himself, and was at the woman's mercy. At least, to some extent. Would a city guard even be around in this dumpster fire of a dock? He really should've tried his way at the Northern Harbour, even if it was more difficult to get into.

Mockery.

Alastor experienced it all the time. But, for a stutter... it was the first time. Alastor did not speak so meekly. He just didn't speak at all. He kept to himself, with but a friend or two among the multitude of Athenians that studied within the Scholeio. No, the rest weren't his friends. They were unfamiliar faces, ready to lash out at him as readily as they avoided him. Mockery and bullying was par for the course when you were the freak. The boy with the weird brain, a lanky child sheltered in the library.

The sailor's mockery hit a different place altogether. She was threatening him and yet... despite it, the fear had begun to whittle away. The stutter, or rather, the words, withered to silence as he backed up with her approach, shifted to the corner of her ship with his back to a wall and the sea just a leap away from him. But, he didn't move. He didn't think. He stared, wordlessly, thoughtlessly as the silence persisted.

Whatever her thoughts on her ship, Alastor knew the design to be intensely flawed. Or rather, it should've been. The ship would be susceptible, but, if he was being fair, all ships were. The science wasn't exactly... new, but it was unrefined. Limited by the resources available to them, a scholar like Alastor of Vasiliadon could look with one eye to the future and see just how much it could all be improved. Not by him, however. He had other ideas for where his life was going, assuming he survived this sordid encounter with an incredibly unpleasant Egyptian woman.

The one in charge.

Obviously she's the one calling the shots, he thought at last, the resounding echo that shot throughout his skull whipping him back to reality. Those blue eyes kept their gaze on the woman, tracing the oddly curved sword at her hip as she posed her question. Did she even know the meaning of the word she mocked him for? Was this sailor interrogating him for the fun of it, or was this some twist of fate, Poseidon's laughter at Alastor's expense.

He couldn't know, and he wouldn't dwell on it. The thoughts were few and far between, and it was easier for him to answer her questions than try to escape or to think of any other solution. As far as logic could carry him, all answers led to him being on the ground. Whether or not he had a pulse when he was there... it was up to chance.

"I have an assignment," he explained to her.

Pushed beyond the edge of fear, Alastor did not meet his captor's gaze, but his voice remained level. He fixated on a creaking floorboard between them, he watched it jut out from the deck and present a danger to the crew. He took a deep breath, shaky, but resolute in how the air filled his lungs before,

"This ship is a Greek triemme, an older model compared to the ones being made on Stravos or Antonis docks. It's been gutted, to allow more of your crew on the upper deck? The professor asked for me to find a modified ship, then assess how it was changed and the reasoning."

He finally looked up, the traces of a shiver racking his form, a dull pain in his back from the sharp collision with the wall.

"Your ship epitomizes the assignment I was given. That's all. I'm sorry for boarding your ship without permission."

His voice was quiet, but steady, as he raised his gaze at last to meet the crew in front of him.

Why were people like this allowed to moor in any dock? Obviously, this Egyptian and her 'merry men' were some sort of criminals. Since when was it a capital crime to walk anywhere, let alone a ship moored on public property? These people were savages, laughing at his misery, and he nurtured the fledgling wish that Poseidon would strike them down and litter the bottom of the sea with their rotting flesh and presumed treasures.

That's what this hostility is about, right? There's treasure here?

It had to be that. Or perhaps the rumours were true, and all of the sand rats from across the sea were savages wearing bronze flesh and human faces. He didn't like to presume, giving everyone the benefit of the doubt until they inevitably disappointed him. Not that it mattered, if he was disappointed. The lament grew stronger and stronger, until it was immediately replaced with overwhelming dread.

It seemed the natural response, for a boy to face a dagger and find his anger turned to fear. Of course, the fear was always there, for while he nurtured a desire to give the benefit of the doubt, life's experiences were not so easily expunged. No, the boy suspected everyone of ill-meaning, up until he saw their faces and presumed the humanity had to exist in eyes not yet deadened by cruelty and arrogance.

Alastor just wanted civility. Was that too much to ask?

No, instead, he got grubby fingers in his hair and a bronze dagger near his mouth. Then, those teasing words came out of her lips, like it was so natural to be this way. Was it an act for her, to be decent? Or was this her default, wickedness given life and walking on lithe legs like she owned the world. The scholar didn't answer her, keeping his mouth shut like a good little prisoner until he was assigned his fate. A water barrel? Was she going to shove him into it and toss him overboard? It seemed a waste of resources, to lay waste to fresh water for the sake of it. Or maybe, for some idiotic reason, the savages saw a reason to keep salt water on a boat that sailed on a literal ocean of the stuff. At this point, he wouldn't deny their idiocy of the possibility.

"No one gets on my ship without paying the price."

Did he imagine the lilt in her words, the hickery speak that glittered the ends of her words with uncouth intonation?

Then, she pushed down, throwing his head into what he was no well aware of being salt water. He considered the possible reasons for wasting a barrel on this garbage, which was to inevitably wear out because of it. He'd pause and reflect on the matter, but he felt his lungs tighten up as bubbles of air rose from the barrel and the idea of thinking at all, let alone any sort of reflection, went right out the window. Along with his senses. He felt the dumbness beginning in his lungs and tearing its way through his body. By the time she lifted him up for the second dunk, his hands were twitching on the barrel where they'd settled, his legs bucking out from underneath him and adding an immense among of pressure on his arms.

They were the next to go. If Akila was strong enough to support his weight, she might've continued, with the boy lashing out as an auto-response kicked in and he struggled for his life. His mouth flew open to bring in a gust of air for the third dunk, his flailing persisting up until she was done and he was inert, breathing heavy breaths with deadened eyes and an agape mouth. His hair cropped against his eyes, doused in the water, matted against his neck just at the hem of his chiton.

The pirate said words, but he sure as fuck didn't hear them. He'd fallen on the floor, staring at nothing in particular as she prattled on and on about nothing. He didn't feel the dagger against his mouth again, but he saw... blurs, shimmering specs and black spots. His vision was clouded and his thoughts ground to a halt. His breath was the only thing that moved him in astounding heaves.

"Ah..." His tongue vibrated against the dagger, a bloom of crimson falling with water, dulling its sheen against the sunlight.