A curl of the bicep brings tightens a knot, in an island somewhere over the distant horizon. Baratii's forearm, bristled by sun-kissed strands of hair and made glossy by the thin veneer of sweat Sirea cannot protect him from spilling, wipes over his forehead, reflecting the sun right back at whatever obnoxious deity deigned its rays ought to be focused on him. His eyes swivel and with a loose-lipped yawp and hand beside his mouth, he musters down to the deck of a wide canoe from his place atop a boulder by the shore with gusto: here, he's drawn a broad knot around the stone from algae-sewn rope.
"Pull her taut and let her sing, so they'll hear her at home!"
Men and women alike, decorating the hollow of their almond-shaped canoe -- the rope tethered to the boulder tied to it as well, -- sink their oars and sing seafaring hymns; enigmatic melodies that clash with the sea-shanties of foreign Kingdoms' military vessels. This, sounds like a siren's song; and already makes the minds of distantly-landlocked children blossom with superstition. They drift from land until the rope at the south end of the boat is taught. The northern rope has long-been taut, suspended for miles and miles just a foot above the water.
A woman plucks at it at odd rhythms. The rope quivers back. When she turns, her jewelry acts as the score to her voice, brightly grinning and thankful:
"It's tied down to the Sealyre, Sirea's accepted her!"
Baratii smiles, and sinks tooth into a handheld orange slice, citrus dribbling down his jaw. Illvira learned something today. Ithwen might thank him. He can smell the fish-roast, already. He'll aggrandize the journey to her this time, sprinkle in some lie about a pirates. She won't believe him, and that's fine.