Thread: A Zailor's Life (Sunless Sea, Red/Tune)

An enemy of capitalism, a piss-poor hand at all manner of cards, and the owner of the most absurd mustache I've ever seen. - Captain Charles Thurston of the Haypenny Whore, the year of Her Majesty 1885, on the subject of Guard Captain Thorne There came Captain Reginald Thorne of the Wolfstack Guard and Customs Department. All prim and proper with his shiny boots and well-pressed uniform and fancy peaked cap, one might get the impression that that damnable clipboard was quite fused to his hand at this point, for he was never seen without it. The man was an insufferable thorn - pun intended, chortled at and vigorously apologized for - in the good zee captain's side, and had been ever since the Haypenny Whore had been caught red-handed transporting a few folks to Venderbight who weren't looking to die so much as to escape a death penalty. Then there'd been the time with the very much un-stamped crate of human souls hidden in the engine room. Jail time was never on the table, thankfully, but there were always plenty of very official fines and penalties, and the ever-dreaded seizure of any discovered contraband. His mustache - a bushy sort of beast with the ends delightfully curled upward with oils that Charles simply couldn't stand - twitched with interest as he poked down the shipping manifest with a sharp pen. Mushroom wine, five units... parabola-linen, seven units... As the clay men unloaded crate after crate, they were pried open right on the docks, inspected, stamped, passed on. Looking very legitimate here, Thurston. I'm proud. Now here's hoping our inspection of the ship won't give us reason to quarrel, hm? Do the deed, then. My lads'll be on board to make sure ya don't muck up the place. Now if you'd - OI! MIND THE GOODS, YOU RAT-FACED SLUGS! Charles' hand shot out in an accusatory point, shoving past the captain in haste. You break them casks, you buy 'em! An' I'll tan yer rotten hides to boot! An eye back to Thorne as the apology was shouted back to him, anger rippling through the captain. You keep your lads in line, Thorne, or I'll be shoving my boot so far up their hindquarters they taste bat-leather. A few colorful threats, and one captain trudged off to shore leave while the other started aboard in search of illicit goods. He was joined quickly by Marcus, who'd grabbed a newspaper and was already perusing. The lens in his head clicked softly as his gaze turned along the lines, scanning hungrily for matters of particular interest. This just in cap'n, the zee is dark an' full of terrors, he chimed in amusement. Oooh, an' a coupon, he said in his most annoying way, the word coming out sounding like coop'n. Buy one get one on Mrs. Pennyweather's Eel-in-a-Tin. Right you are, Mrs. Pennyweather... Gingerly, steel and flesh fingers tore at the paper, freeing the square coupon from the rest of the page and tucking it away in his jacket. Pint, cap'n? God knows we've earned one. Not even waiting for an answer, he called back. Czar? Ruby? Zed? Pint? The engineer, it seemed, wanted a drink. Pint, called Zed from the middle of the pack, voice tinny from the mask he wore. But not the Leadbelly, their grog tastes like fish. The sort of fish you shouldn't trust. No, said Charles with a fervent sweep of his hand. Never the Leadbelly again, Christ, no. We'll hit up somewhere proper. Somewhere th' bloody beer doesn't blink at ya. Empty Cask'll do us. So, the Empty Cask it was.