Mozenrath wasn't going to lie to himself; standing there where the gangplank met the boat, the Captain made an impressive figure. While the men loading the cargo ducked and rushed for fear of the crashing waves and angry sky, the mountainous African man was unshaken. Even as his ship impatiently heaved under his feet, eager for the open, turbulent sea, the Captain was both calm and dominating. A large, almost oversized, jagged blade hung from his belt, along with other implements of combat, though they hardly seemed necessary. He shadowed all his men both in height and girth.
Mozenrath stepped aside as another seaman pushed past him with an armload of cargo to haul up the plank. Mozenrath hesitated before stepping on himself. Trying to ignore the lashing rain, he racked his brain determinedly. What to do? He had to leave the area for awhile, that much was certain. Though the betrayal of Khartoum was devastating at first, he was now nearly certain his stolen powers would return in time. In the meantime, however, it was suicidal to stay in his ruinous Citadel. Every enemy Mozenrath had ever made would soon learn he was temporarily defenseless, and swarm the deserts. No, he had to get away, inconspicuously, and more importantly, quickly. In some country far from Agrabah and the Black Sands he would lie low and recover.
He drew what was left of his cloak around him. It wouldn't do to get the flu on top of the weakness and exhaustion he suffered from the loss of his magic. Resolving there was no better time than the present, Mozenrath stepped in line behind another burdened sailor to ascend the gangplank, allowing himself an wry smile. Well, at least the Citadel explosion did do one thing: he didn't have any belongings to carry as well.
The closer he got to the Captain, the more furious his mind worked. He had no money at all, and he knew there was no such thing as free passage.
"What do we have here?" the Captain boomed loudly. With tangible humor in his eyes, he watched Mozenrath's approach.
Mozenrath reddened as the other seaman forgot their storm anxiety and turned to look. Mozenrath gathered himself before he replied, taking a moment to size the Captain up.
Mozenrath had never seen a man so dark but with such bright eyes and teeth, large and white in his gold littered mouth. He stood twice Mozenrath's size in every sense of the word and was dressed in leathers and hides, a few gold rings and hoops as adornment. Slighted at being so significantly smaller, Mozenrath nevertheless inclined his head civilly.
"Just a wandering pilgrim, sir, in hopes of safe passage." Mozenrath informed gracefully.
"Oh Ho, really? Well I hate to disappoint you, but this is a trading boat, not a carriage."
A few of the other men laughed as they hurried to secure the rigging. Mozenrath grit his teeth.
"All I ask of you, good sir, is a little charity to send me on my way. From there I can suffice on my own. Surely I won't take up too much room until the next port?"
Mozenrath congratulated himself for playing on a man of the sea's sense of manners and decorum so well. He was in no shape to take the ship by force, so be it, but he could flatter his way onto almost anything, he was sure.
"Charity?" the Captain repeated, pulling Mozenrath aside so the last of his crew could board. "So I am to receive no payment for my troubles."
"Oh, I'd pay you if I could, sir, but times are hard. And I'm sure I could be useful around the ship."
At this, the Captain laughed heartily, shaking his head. "You boy? I doubt it." He, too, sized up Mozenrath, and the sorcerer felt the gaze intensely on his slight and cold body.
"So where are you going, little flatterer?" The Captain easily yelled above the din of the storm.
"To holier lands." Mozenrath answered smoothly, surprised when the Captain leaned in to chuckle lowly.
"I am not so sure. There's nothing holy about you, boy, I can tell."
It was then something very obvious struck Mozenrath. Standing there in the rain, he finally realized how he must look. When he lost his Citadel, he lost pretty much everything else, including most of his clothes. All he could manage to find among the wreckage of his home was a sleeveless, thin, white, cotton tunic, a pair of sandals, and loose, thin, white, cotton slacks.
An outfit entirely in white. An outfit entirely in white, soaked in very, very cold rain.
Why hadn't he feel before how the mater made the fabric cling transparently to every curve and dip of his body? He started to fluster self-consciously until he realized the Captain was still very much inclined toward him, still staring at the Mozenrath under the tattered cloak, and moreover, staring in appreciative interest at the slender, soft, yet toned form of his body. In that moment, an idea blossomed. He arched his body to the taller man, standing straight so as to better present himself. Coyly, he took on a new tone.
"Surely you wouldn't send me back out into the storm? And I believe if I can't make myself useful above deck, maybe I can make myself useful below deck."
To add the final touch, Mozenrath laid his elegant white hand on the Captain's arm, giving the impressive muscle there an approving squeeze. Mozenrath was proud of his own daring. Sure, he'd only had one or two sexual encounters, and sure, it was a good while ago, but he could still be sexy, with a little bit of maneuvering and finesse, right? Of course he was right, he was Mozenrath. He could do anything.
The Captain laughed again, obviously pleased. Mozenrath was only momentarily concerned at the air of amusement about the man, like he was laughing at a joke only he could understand. The larger man spoke low enough so even in the chaos their conversation was private.
"We'll see if you're up to the task, little pilgrim."
Mozenrath did not have to fake the shiver that crawled down his back at the older man's words. His eyes closed as the Captain's breath raked his ear and neck. The man, even in the rain, smelt rich and strong, like sun and sweat, like clover and spice and something darker still. Mozenrath found himself dizzy. Too dizzy, he noticed with an internal frown. The Captain plucked the ragged cloak from his body. Foolishly, Mozenrath thought it was to view him more freely and struck, what he hoped, was a casual, yet inviting, pose of nonchalance.
His conceptions of himself were shattered, however, when the Captain dropped his very own coat onto Mozenrath's shoulders. He laughed at the disgusted expression on Mozenrath's face when he smelled it.
"That's walrus skin, boy, from the North. It's waterproof, and mighty warm."
"It smells like weasel skin" Mozenrath grumbled.
The Captain pushed him off towards the galley. "Now go get changed, you look like a whore." He cut off Mozenrath's angry retort with an open hand to his rear.
Mozenrath gasped, but for a different reason all together. He stumbled, dizziness encompassing him like a wave he feared he was drowning under. Cursing the loss of his magic one last time before it all went dark, Mozenrath crumpled to the ground. Without a word, the Captain leaned down and retrieved him, holding him as easily as one might hold a sleepy child.
