Tani. Or make up your own name for me, like they do in songs. [His voice meanders, peters out as he drowns his last words in rum. A small trail seeps from the corner of his mouth, a lurch of ship against wave disrupting his drink.

Rather than meditate over maps he doesn't understand, Takasugi turns as the woman retreats, watching how shadows dance over her face in the dim light of the cabin.

All of his weight rests against the desk, head held in his hand propped upright by elbow. Wet hair clings to his forehead, strands framing and obscuring his good eye.] Aa.

So where are we headed? Going to dump them off and make them the sea's problem?

[If it's risk of venture she's truly concerned about, she'd just dump the dubious cargo and move on. But when it comes to the slave trade, there are so often other morals that come into play.]