She didn't answer immediately. It was important, it seemed, to stay still a moment with her shoulders on the bench. Back straight, knees bent, and in some small communion with her God. Brigand she may be and a Slayer on the run, to boot, but she was no Godless woman. Or so the silver cross 'round her neck might suggest -- though it had its professional applications all the same. Her lips moved with silent somethings, and then she used the anchor of her fist in his jacket's fabric in order to herself back into a sitting position.

"Not so different, I suppose. My belly-ache's well gone. And you've shanghaied yourself what will doubtless be your finest catch yet." She meant, of course, that she had every faith in her abilities as a sailor. Sometimes, as a woman, she had to boast a little louder than everyone else.

"When next do we make port?" She asked -- either not knowing about the caveat of ten years or else choosing to feign her ignorance. Perhaps she merely wished she might soon have the chance to break this newest vow like she broke the old one, and run once again.