W's word meant more than everything to her by this point. Even if it turned out to be more than just a singular word, which would still be considered "his word" — no s — for some reason, Octavia found a deep, earnest trust with the old griffon she'd usually only unearth in a close friend of hers or a familial figure of some kind. Her parents, for example. Then again, you were kind of supposed to trust them, since they wasted many months dealing with you screwing up one's diet and then eighteen years dealing with you in general as you struggled to break free like some kind of nuclear-tested lab rat. She could handle the holiday photos, and the dumb dresses that she secretly may or may not have held a small amount of an affinity for, and the snipping and snapping of fights here and there, but staying with her doting mother and her overly-friendly father past the age of eighteen was something neither they nor she remotely wished to see happen.
She still trusted them, however. To death, even. Hers or theirs.
She trusted her mother when she was told not to sit and stare at that one pony standing idly at the corner of the Happy & Healthy store dressed in the brown jacket, navy blue beanie, and the sign hanging around his neck that read something she'd much rather not remember.
She trusted her father when he had told her what kind of a life she'd end up leading if she didn't have her double bass and bow to rely on, involving flipping burgers and traveling by way of rusted boxcar. It wasn't necessarily a scare tactic or anything of the sort, seeing as how both he and she knew all too well that she didn't despise playing the bass in any way, shape, or form, but it was... a gentle reminder...?
She trusted her father when he informed her that that... pony, if she could even call him that, from middle school was acquainted with sixteen types of bad eggs, and that the only thing he'd give her was somepony's right ear, or the coordinates to his barrels of money buried in the desert, or... or his left nut. Gods, please. He'd have done literally anything to keep his most prized, most overused, most assuredly shriveled life sake alive. Not to say that the left one was more savored somehow. Or maybe it was. Did stallions name their nuts, and did they do it individually or just as a whole unit?
...
She screwed up her face, pouted out her lower lip, and tugged at her warm blanket to cover up her right shoulder.
Where... yes.
She trusted W very much.
And she trusted her parents.
But, even then, there were arguments that were waged, like little wars that never left the premises of the house unless all the windows were cracked open and the next-door neighbors were... cooking or something on their back porch. Arguing with parents, or really anyone close to her was a dangerous kind of game. Legitimately hurtful words could come out, sneers could be interpreted wrong, and each and every single breath you took meant ammunition for your opponent of the hour — it was usually an hour — that they definitely wouldn't fire into the dirt.
Arguments were hellish things, but Octavia was one hell of a wrangler in response.
Octavia was, at the end of the long day, a very convincing pony, and she won most if not every single argument she ever took part in. The others didn't count, because she didn't want to just up and admit that they had gone toward the opposite side.
Against her mother about her staying up two hours after her grade school bedtime. The book she was reading was certainly not for the next day's test — which wasn't even transpiring in the first place — but her mother was satisfied with the answer, and so Octavia had been able to giggle mischievously, clear her filly throat, and turn the next page of her fantasy novel in quiet peace.
Against her father after she'd been caught baking cookies late one night. And then a few more nights. And then pretty much every night except for Thursday for some reason. Baking was a very important skill to learn, and since the only real time she had to herself was when she was supposed to be sleeping, there was a reason for letting them accidentally burn because she'd been so engrossed in the conversation that she'd forgotten their existence. Thanks Dad.
Against her little brother whenever she hogged all the ice cream. Only big ponies could stomach large intakes of sugar at once, and if somepony his age ate even two bowls of cookie dough ice cream, he'd burst like a watermelon and not taste nearly as good. Even as he'd teared up and fled back upstairs, Octavia had won. Little bastard.
Against her older sister when she'd get home from work to find Octavia rooting through her closet for old dresses that, lest she forget, didn't even fit anymore! They... they didn't fit anymore. That was really all Octavia needed to say. Her older sister wasn't exactly a prune when it came to clothes. Less occupied space in her closet meant more things to buy, because she deeefinitely needed more cloches and cardigans in her wardrobe. Godsdammit cardigans were so cute.
Against... uh, oh! Against Lyra when she'd absolutely eviscerated her train of thought and accidentally said that cats were, at the bare minimum, decent at best. Cats were dumb. Lyra wholeheartedly agreed, but she liked Corgis, so she was wrong anyway.
Hmm.
Against Beauty Brass — actually fairly recently — when she, a brass player, "politely" in the lightest sort of meaning informed Octavia, a strings player, about the professional, correct way to properly rosin up her bow for "maximum efficiency". The response, "Eat a chode," was on the tip of her tongue, but Beauty Brass wasn't someone she really hated, so a kind, "Turn around, Brasshole," was enough to cause a giggle and an about-face.
Arguments were quite useless, but Octavia wasn't all too bad at them. She could be a champion if there existed some kind of league for them. She could start up the team. Lead it and all that. Maybe even make the team name. The Argue Crew, or maybe The Dancepack. The Supermarines. Or maybe just Supermarine. Something Prench, perhaps, to rival her favorite band.
She wondered what Time Bomb was doing these days...
Her purple eyes suddenly widened; her neck craned backward in an attempt to start up her legs as well. She followed the source of her sudden fright to find W and Andy walking down the staircase situated in the front of the captain's quarters. He must've been steering when W came up to him... who the hell was driving?
"What in God's name are you–"
"We can't turn back!" Andy quipped, stopping on the staircase to swing about and raise up a foreleg in an L shape. Octavia's ears splayed backward. "Sorry, boyo, but this ship doesn't stop for nothin'!"
The sides of W's beak looked to be fixated with sharp, heavily weighted fish hooks. Did griffons zoom through the clouds and hunt for fish like their more... natural brethren? Was it politically correct to call griffons unnatural compared to hawks, falcons, and eagles? W would've snapped all three in half with his claws as he clenched them tightly, gritting his teeth as he stormed after Andy, who was now walking regally across the deck toward Octavia with his eyes shut and a big grin on his face.
"We haven't been out for more than a day, Andy," W asserted, bringing up a claw and pointing back at the rear of the ship. "We're still in Horseshoe Bay."
Andy spun, halting once more. "What? You wanna become the next Captain Cook, do ya? Map out the next Turnagain Elbow?"
"Cook was scared of his crew and too stuck up his own ass to admit his failings. You're not an idiot."
"Come t' think of it..." Andy began, rubbing at his chin and glaring sideways up at the sun, "...may have forgotten a compass or two that we might be needin'."
W's lower beak fell slack as his chest rose and fell. He took the quiet, Andy-humming-filled-second to slowly look at Octavia, shake his head at her cocked eyebrow, and then glance back just in time to avoid anything... else, she guessed.
"We've got us a map," Andy... also guessed, she guessed. He shrugged. Definitely guessed. "This isn't me first voyage, anyhow."
W blinked.
"You stole this ship, didn't you."
Andy grinned hugely. He brought up an open claw and shook it. "Course not! Ol' Screwby just up an' bailed one day! Went off to go play cards with some friends of his and never came back! Just the luck of mine that I knew enough to take us home and back!" He placed his clenched claws against his two hips, somehow remaining perfectly balanced despite still being in the on-all-fours position with his stomach over the ground, and adjusted his tricorn.
W turned his head around and regarded the floorboards. A pirate, screwing around with his mates near the edge of the ship, bumped into W's shoulder and creaked the floorboards beneath them. Without even looking, W pointed his elbow and shoved the unwelcome guest away, who returned to his barrel-related festivities completely nonchalantly. Even as the ship steadily rocked like a snoozing infant in mother Ocean's arms, W stood impeccably stable, hummed loudly, and spoke seemingly more for himself than Andy.
"We haven't come up on the spits, yet."
"That we 'aven't, lad."
W looked up.
"Which side is Fort Luna on?"
Andy moved his beak around, frowned, about-faced like a Royal Guard complete with raised foreleg and hindleg, tilted his head left and right, droned a note — maybe a... dammit, he stopped — and replied, "Should be on our left goin' out."
"It's got a pier, right?"
"It's got a mole."
W rubbed his beak. "But we can dock there, can't we?"
Andy nodded firmly. "They'll take us if we need it."
W returned the gesture, grabbing one of his straps along his chest and exhaling, "Ohh, we'll need it." He took a step toward Octavia, stopped, turned, pointed a talon upward, and made a horizontal circle with it. "Tell your men we'll be bumping uglies with Guards at Fort Luna."
Andy made a sound with his cheeks, shrugged, and turned at the heel. "All right, then."
Octavia's smile didn't properly compute for a good three and a quarter seconds, and only then did she become completely, innocently unaware of just how stupid she looked as she finally cracked a wide one. W noticed her approval as he approached, letting one show himself.
"You didn't!"
W chuckled, tilting his head. "Told ya."
She shook her head and bunched up a cheek as W stopped next to her, swept the apparently filthy area underneath him with his tail, and simply plopped down onto the floor with a low thump. As if to assess what had just happened, he stared straight ahead at the — she guessed — not open seas and burst air through his nostrils.
A distant creaking began crackling as he finally said, "Guess we've got it, then."
A likewise far away, "Oh shit, you idiots! Up, not down!" took the place of the now absent creak.
"I suppose so."
W hummed.
Octavia sniffled.
W scratched at the back of his head and then gestured to her legs. "How're your hooves?"
Octavia lifted one of them, causing her blanket to unravel and collapse onto the ground. The bandages were doing what they did best in her life: not showing her if they were even working or not because gauze was such a thick being. Her hoof made a little clop on the floorboards as it reached for the blanket again. "They're fine."
"That's good, then," W replied.
It was a good few seconds before W suddenly flexed his chin, sighed, caught Octavia's gaze, and, without looking at her, obviously irritatedly asked, "Didn't I tell Lavi to stay with you while I talked to Andy?"
Oh, that.
"She had to urinate, apparently."
W snorted. "Probably getting food. Probably making you a salad."
Octavia screwed up her face. "What? Are you implying that there's anything even universally healthy onboard this ship?"
W shrugged. "Beats me. New captain, new meals."
Wait.
Octavia sat up a tad, though not enough so as to make sure her blanket didn't fall. She probably would've cried if that happened to be the case.
"Speaking of healthy... where's Sesame?"
At that, W had no smirk, or chuckle, or jest. Instead, he pursed the ends of his beak... if that was even possible.
"I dunno."
Octavia sometimes had ample reason to believe that she was on some kind of dreadful TV show, and she had to shy away from the suddenly bashed open pair of doors to her left to avoid both the sound and the rust orange blur flying out of it as if on comedic, stage-directed, perfectly-timed cue. Sesame, curled up into some kind of living ball, rolled up to Octavia like a runaway water wheel for pirate battles, completely straightened his body out just shy of her tail, slid on his stomach, and made a C shape with his hindlegs before finally, peacefully, settling.
Octavia opened her mouth to interrupt Sesame before he did the same, but flicked her head around at the sound of stomping emerging from the open doorway.
A large, rectangular-headed griffon squalled his way over to Sesame, a light brown cavalry hat with one side pinned up with a feather sitting snugly atop his scalp. His earth-colored robes wavered as he suddenly shouted.
"You Goddem git! Sleepin' in myyy bunk! Wot in th' bloody 'ell wuh you even thinking, you useless prat?!"
Octavia felt the fish hooks from earlier catch her mouth. She looked over to find Sesame not even close to mirroring her expression. He'd be more than horrible at charades. Probably better than her sister though. Frowns didn't always equal sorrow, love.
"I was tired, dude."
"Tiyuhd?" The hopelessly familiar accent stopped as its owner scoffed, lowered his clenching claws, and shook his head. "He– you wuh tiyuhd wuh you?" Sesame nodded next to Octavia. "Tiyuhd. Wit' allll th' bunks you could make out, you bloody picked mine."
"Yeah, sorry."
"Gormless knob." The foreign curse made no real impact on Sesame. Octavia, in the meanwhile, was reveling at just how rude that that was. The griffon continued. "'ave you know I'd love nothin' moh than t' toss ya out."
"Yeah, sorry."
Octavia snapped to her right, bringing up a hoof to shake the Unicorn awake from whatever stupid slumber he was still enduring. "Sesame, you can't–"
"Ugh," went his — she guessed their — crumpet-loving opposition. Dipping his chin, he adjusted the brim of his hat, finished with a very flat, "On ya bike," and stalked back into the lower regions of the ship.
Sesame slowly rose to his haunches to match Octavia.
She addressed him simply, but very, very curiously. "Do I really sound like that?"
W, in the corner of her eyes, looked away suddenly.
Sesame sucked in both his lips.
"Here and there. I'd love some subtitles one day."
Octavia glared. "Piss off–"
Sesame leaned his head back to try and face the clouds. "Now see, I heard peace off in there, so... y'know, same."
Octavia rolled her eyes left-ways and faced that direction thereafter. If she'd been in the cargo bay earlier, and it had only taken one ladder to send her to the upper deck, then was the center of it the end of an incline? The ship was massive, and there were definitely more places in store apart from simple holding areas for barrels and boxes. Bunks apparently lay in the front down below, so maybe there was–
"So."
Octavia perked her ears up after her prior lowering them to signify the lack of want for a continuation.
"Sea life too tempting in the end, then?"
She grumbled something under her breath, but decided that enough needless annoyance was enough. Finding her sights drawn to the ground in front of her and the devastating splinters the boards promised, she opened her mouth to speak but instead let out a sigh. Afterward, "...I'm afraid it's miles more complicated than that."
Sesame shifted in his natural seat to glance at W.
"Have anything t' do with he and Andy? Heard it from downstairs."
Octavia waggled her eyebrows and snatched up her blanket.
"It has a lot to do with that."
Sesame "Ah'd" and reclined, pushing his front hooves onto the deck behind his back. He looked to his left, at the pirate crew busying about, and then to his right, at the pirate crew busying about, and finally let out a small hum of ostensible glee.
"Well, guess we can sit down and get some sun."
"You're already burnt," Octavia noted.
Sesame dropped to his spine and crossed his forelegs behind his head. With his eyes shut, he rubbed the salt with a shimmering, toothy grin.
"You look like a donkey, bitch."
It was at that moment that Octavia realized how very effective her new, wondrous blanket would work as a makeshift garrote.