They camp by the sea. They usually do, Maeve isn't sure if it's a matter of practicality or just what Sinbad is more comfortable with, but either way, she doesn't mind. The sound of the sea is so universal that it reminds her of home, and were she with any other man she might go so far as to say it's romantic, but she's with Sinbad, so she doesn't.
She lets him stutter and grumble with his tinder box and the salt-encrusted driftwood for a few minutes before lighting the fire with a smirk and a flick of her fingers, leaving him glowering.
"Show-off," he mutters, and that stings a little, so she changes the subject.
"I hope the others are okay." She's worried about them, not so much because of the skirmish with the bandits that had left them separated (though honestly, they'd walked right into it, she'd said it was a trap but naturally Sinbad hadn't listened), as because they've barely an ounce of common sense between them.
"They'll be fine, stop fussing," says Sinbad, standing up and br