This chapter was written in collaboration with Scylla.
Amon’s head jerked back, not expecting to find a bucket near his face. This one smelt of fish guts and damp vomit, which caused his own gorge to rise in response. He turned to see Scylla standing over him, saying something about food.
“Could you… not hold that infested thing so close to the location of my air intake? I wasn’t feeling queasy until I got a solid whiff of it.”
He shook himself out with a grimace.
“The gruel wasn’t so bad this morning, and I assure you, I measured my portions. I only went back for thirds today.”
“Your string-plucking sounds like you ate double that.”
Scylla put the bucket down and sat down beside the bard, trying to get a look at his face.
“If you’re sea-ill, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. They say that Elezen can be particularly sensitive to the motion of the ship.”
“They say a lot of things about Elezen, I’m sure. I admit, I’ve not heard that one before. Then again, I have as little to do with ships as possible.” Amon frowned uncomfortably as she sat next to him.
He knew sooner or later, on that little ship, conversation was inevitable. And if he didn’t interact with her, he could drum up unwanted suspicion, or even undo all of his coaxing from before.
Keeping it casual, he shook his head, “I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, I’m not ill. All this damp takes its toll on a stringed instrument, I’m afraid.”
He motioned to the harp at his side as if to prove it.
“Amon, you’re fibbing.” The words came naturally as if she had called him out a thousand times before in the past.
She gave a long pause, contemplating the sudden familiar feeling. She waved it off, getting back to the task at hand, examining his fingers.
“It’s not just the instrument. Your hands were shaking… did you drink too much last night?” Scylla huffed as she peered under the hat.
It might explain why he wears that sun-visor all day and all night.