milliways_bar | (no subject)

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It's another quiet night for the Brucolac--but aren't they all, here? No political crises or outbreaks of crime to demand his attention, no 'welcome to Armada' speeches to give, no one trying to summon monsters through portals to other worlds.

Well, the door here lets in what it lets in, and his definition of 'monster' is subjective anyway.

So here he is, doing a bit more scrimshaw. This time it's going to be a knife-handle, and the scene he's carving into it is from the Pirate Wars; it shows a Crobuzoner ship vainly, with magic and cannons, trying to fend off a ship that looks remarkably like his own. Whether this scene actually happened, and in the way he's depicting it, there's no one left alive to say. The benefits of being very old...

Totally botherable.

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That's not the first time somebody's done that to him, but it is the first time it's been done by somebody who's apparently just gone handfirst through an entire spice market.

He pushes his hand away, making a few faces of his own. "Where's your finger been, on fire?"

He takes a cautious lick of the finger in question.

"Oh, I had some hot salsa before. But that was hours ago, I can barely taste it now."

Then again, he's only got an average sense of taste. Maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

"I didn't touch any with my other hand, though..."

"That moment is passed."

He waves a waitrat over, to order himself a glass of the one thing he can drink, in the hopes that it'll get rid of the taste. Not that he minds spicy foods--he liked them, when he was able to eat--but he likes having some control over it.

"But you're sounding clearer now, so my suffering hasn't been in vain. Next time, wash your hands first."

"'Next time'? So you'll let me do it again?"

That's got potential. And now he's got ideas.

"I've got something upstairs that I think can make up for all your suffering, sailor... if you're feeling brave, anyway."

He raises an eyebrow. Nobody questions his bravery.

"I can match you all the way," he says. "I'll try anything once, more than that if I enjoy it, and nerve is never an issue."

"Then consider yourself pressganged," he says with a grin, rising to his feet again. "Let's go burn things."

Technically, that is what he has in mind.

He offers him a hand.

"Pressganged," he repeats, slipping his carving and tools into the pockets of his coat. "Never been pressganged before, though I've certainly done it to others."

He takes his hand and stands as well, before reaching to collect the glass the waitrat has brought him. He may need this energy.

"Well, now's your chance to be on the receiving end," he says, tugging him along toward the elevator. "Me, I go both ways. I always have--depending on the people I'm with and the situation I'm in."

He was actually pressganged once--at least once, and captured a few other times. Not exactly enjoyable, but that's not what he has in mind.

"You know that many sailors, do you?"

He sips from his glass as they walk. Better to drink it down in a hurry than to have to carry it along upstairs with him; anyway, it's helping with the taste of the spices.

"We've all got a bit of a rough streak in us; we have to, it's not an easy life. But that's not all we are."

"I've known a lot of sailors in my time," he says. "Big, burly, bearded, axe-wielding sailors. They'd carry off anyone who wasn't quick enough, and sometimes I was and sometimes I wasn't."

You don't get to choose the culture that worships you.

The elevator doors open, and he pulls him inside.

"Tell me, do you know Morse code?"

He's known his own share of sailors like that.

Well, minus the axes. They're more into flintlocks and cutlasses these days.

"Can't say that I do," he says as the doors close.

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