columbaria | (no subject)

They come to her sometimes, boys who've heard tales of the sea. Piracy, treasure, lost islands, creaking decks--she's learned to see it in their faces before they open their mouths and it all comes tumbling out. Why they find her isn't difficult to guess: who she is, that's an open secret, and even if it weren't, she's a distinctive figure. A woman captain--let alone the infamous Anne Bonny, escaped from an inauspicious death on a gibbet in Jamaica--isn't hard to track down.

Tonight, she's in a tavern, working her way through a bottle of rum and some kind of stew, when another one shows up at her table. Not one of her men, she knows as soon as she glances up from under the brim of her hat. This one's tall, dark-haired, a kind of stern precision to his features.

"You want something?" she asks, around a mouthful of potato.

There’s a lot that eats away at Ben Solo - things that have sharp teeth, things that have dull teeth but have been at it for long enough that it’s begun to hurt all the same, enough claws . In the stories about her, he sees a part of himself - someone that nobody knows what to do with, a person that defied any box that might get pushed into their path.

Leaving home was a simple matter, a cut and dry case of packing what little he felt worthy enough to carry with him into an unknown future and slipping out one night, a hastily scrawled, apologetic note in his wake. They wouldn’t understand how little there was for him there, the slim chance that he would ever be able to string together, or even find the right pieces that would help him fit himself into the world.

Finding her was more complicated than walking away from his family, oddly enough, but at last, in the thick of a sour smelling tavern he saw her, and he wasted no time making his way over. He’d been waiting for her, for the chance she could give him.

“I want to work for you.” Every word is crisp and trimmed, like a haircut that’s just a little bit too short. “I can fight,” that much wasn’t a lie. HIs father knew his way around a blade and a pistol and as a result the man’s only (very disappointed) son knew much of the same. He’s not wistful, he’s far too grim-faced by nature to ever be described as such, but somewhere under the dark determination of his eyes - Ben Solo is very hopeful.

Anne takes a moment to look him up and down, see if he squirms or not. And then she nods her head toward an empty chair.

She takes her time, eyes on him from behind the shadows of her hat and hair, to decide where to start. All the while, she's getting chunks of pork and broth and potato into her mouth--no reason to hold off eating, after the day she's had. Whoever he is, he's picked his time well, little though he might be aware; she's lost some men, needs to find new ones.

It's a thing easier said than done, even accounting for all the hopeful young men who walk up to her like this. They've got stars in their eyes at the idea of gold and adventure, no idea what it really is to live on the sea. So she starts with the thing she really needs to know. "You worked on a ship before?"

"My whole life, with my father." Han was a small time trader, usually carrying goods and messages between settlements, some further than others. Nothing like the time at sea she was talking about, but he was ready for the challenge - suited for it.

Ben continued to watch her, his expression unwavering and serious. "I'll work hard for you, fight hard too. If I don't, drop me off at the next port." He had already left his family, he figured he had nothing to lose if he were to be ousted somewhere further from home. Ben knew what hard work was, he wouldn't have made the offer if he thought he'd fail.

He's such a solemn thing. Doesn't sound like most of the able seamen she meets, either.

"He have a ship?" That's what she'd guess, from how he tells it. "And you ain't on his ship...why."

Might be he's a second son, not likely to inherit the business. Or it might be his father's thrown him out--of course, if that's the reason, he'll lie, but if he does, she still wants to hear it. Running off to join a crew of freebooters when he could be making good money, legal money, needs some explanation for her. (She assumes the answer's gold. She always assumes the answer's gold, until she's proven otherwise.)

"Because I'm here, talking to you." His tone was soft but his eyes were sharp. It didn't matter why he was here - he had no bounty on his head, nothing but a family who demanded much and gave little in return to the point where making his life his own had been the only way he saw to move forward.

Ben folds his hands on the surface of the table, sitting back in his seat as he watches her evenly, almost studiously. "Leave me at the next port if my work isn't good enough," he was quietly confident that it would be. He was no stranger to the water, nor hard work. While he wasn't boisterous he wasn't the type to shy away from a challenge - which is what he was very aware proving himself was going to be.

Which is a shined-up way of saying I want on your ship and I ain't going to tell you why. Anne adds particular to the list, along with solemn and Jesus, he's tall.

She's taken men aboard knowing less about them, and she knows it--but he's got a look in his eye that says there's more going on behind them than most of her men can claim. Something about him reminds her of Jack, that way, if Jack'd been struck mute--or nearly so. After a thoughtful pull of rum, she asks, "What're you called?"

Ben didn't want to admit that he was held in suspense, waiting to hear if his lack of a reason was enough to keep her from asking anymore. It didn't matter, he thought, what brought him here, what mattered was how he intended to spend the time now that he was - and Ben intended to work.

"Ben, Ben Solo," it's the easiest question she's given him thus far, and the one he's been the most willing to answer without caution. He waits a moment, observing her and her bottle of rum before leaning forward slightly, brows raised. "Will you let me work for you?"

She tries to think of anyone she knows by the name of Solo, but she comes up empty. It's either some kind of false name (and it sounds like it, Ben On-His-Own there), or his father's no one relevant. (Or working somewhere up in the American colonies. After she'd left Philadelphia some years ago, she'd never looked back--only listened as Max gave her the news worth hearing from old Lady Guthrie.) There's nothing to judge him against except his stern demeanor and the weight of his words.

And how he handles himself on a ship. Leave me at the next port if-- Hard to see him among the crew, but hell, he hasn't given her much reason to say nay. She spoons up more of the stew broth, aware on some level that the answer's already yes, but determined not to give in quite this easy.

"Tell me why you want to," she says. That's the only other thing she really needs to know, from here.

Ben was quiet as he watched her eat, studying her expression while she seemed to ponder his future onboard her ship. He hadn't given her much in the way of words to persuade her, trusting that his actions - should he be granted a place on the ship in the first place - would speak for themselves.

"Because I think life could be more," while he's been sparse with details Ben didn't hesitate to answer this particular question, even if the response he gave wasn't precisely illuminating in the specifics. Despite that he wondered if she wouldn't understand his meaning all the same.

"More," she repeats, her gaze on him like a knife to the throat as she considers him. The answer. It's not that far off from treasure and adventuring, by her mark.

But isn't that what Jack had wanted? More specificity, maybe--he'd wanted fame, glory, and enough money that he could pay a whore to play the cello while he shat--but not far off. He'd wanted more than what he'd started with. It's why she's still got his Roger ready to fly, rather than coming up with her own; of the two of them, only one of them had given a fuck about the immortality of a name, and it's not the one who's still alive.

And the way Solo talks isn't the pointed eloquence of Jack, nor the hanging on every word of Read--he's quiet, serious, cautious about giving away too much. Anne's always had a soft spot for people she sees something of herself in, even if she doesn't quite recognize it. She capitulates physically before she says a word, the tension of decision subsiding. "Make me regret it, and you'll regret it."

If he forgot to breathe Ben wouldn't admit to it. He hears his own word echoed back at him and he watches her face, knowing that the wheels of her mind were at work. He could see it in the corners of her eyes, but he remained quiet, hands on his knee as he waited for her decision on his fate.

For a moment - blink and you'll miss it - Ben Solo actually smiles, sort of. The corners of his mouth twitch and curve and his whole face goes soft, that odd amalgamation of planes and angles becoming gentle. It's gone half a breath later and he's back to that stoic poker-face he's found to be indispensable. "I know," he ducks his head in a single nod, acknowledging the warning and taking it for the truth he knew it was.

She happens to be looking at him when his face shifts, and it's possible to see some strange, hopeful boy inside the grave-looking man. And then it's gone again. Something to note, if not to make anything of just yet.

"You going to eat?" she asks, after a silent stretch, glancing at the empty place before him. It's not quite a proper offer to join her--she's got no plans of paying for his meal--but it's something. Most men, she'd send off directly, but Ben Solo's made clear he's not most men.

Her question had him glancing towards the grimy barkeeper before looking back at her with a shake of his head. "Ate before I got here," just in case she'd been more ready to leave port. "Join you for a drink though," his answers already apparently satisfying her curiosity Ben didn't see the harm, exactly, in having a bit of rum. If anything it'd likely help him sleep better than he did on his own.

There's nothing else to say really, and he rises from the chair to head towards the bar, his broad frame cutting an easy swath through the room. Certainly he wasn't the tallest, but his stature was still imposing. It isn't that long until he's back, setting rum down in front of her before leaning back in his chair with his own, as wordlessly as he'd departed.

She tips her head, a silent yes, and watches him go. He might be the tallest man in the room, certainly built for seamanship. This, in itself, is a sort of test--no half-hidden limp to be seen, capable of talking to the barkeep without a scene--of things that ought to be assumed but can't be. She's seen enough men incapable of such things that she's watchful of them now.

When he returns, she takes the glass put before her and holds it up slightly. It's the closest she comes to a toast. "New ventures."

His face was solemn as ever as his gaze followed the lift of her glass, and he mirrors the gesture as a small smile tugged slightly at the corner of his mouth again. "Fair winds," he adds quietly before taking a healthy sized swallow of his drink before setting the glass down. He wasn't much of a drinker before this, though judging from the way those inside the bar were acting he supposed he'd have his fair share of chances to begin now. Not tonight though, tonight he knew he was still a new face in the crowd, it was better to stay aware.