[Memory] There Might Come a Day

After a raucous night of celebration, a certain ship is named. Closed thread.

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Tom Cooke
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Wed Mar 27, 2019 5:14 pm

THE BLACK DOVE
during the night of the 28th of loshis, 2718.
You see that fuck over there? Lissen— Look, Murko, hey? The one over there with th’… the clockin’ shit-eating— the, uh, the wick there—”

A warm breeze came in through the open shutters, made all the candles flicker and gutter and then spring back to life, dancing merrily. The Dove was short-staffed tonight; as Naulanda bustled by with a weighed-down tray, slapping away the fumbling paw of a drunk old man, her forehead was slick with sweat. The air was full of the chatter of voices, giggles and laughs, slurred arguments, the clutter and clack of metal and the clink of glasses and the rattle of dice. The air was heavy, damp, and smelled of petrichor and the warming Harbor streets.

They’d been talking about something else just a moment ago, but Cooke couldn’t remember what it was. A table about fifteen feet away had suddenly burst into raucous laughter, and he’d found himself looking at the screwed-up, chortling face of a man he knew from somewhere. He was a wick with a damn weak glamour and a narrow, pale face, with dark eyes and hair the color of flax; he opened his mouth wide when he laughed, a spray of spittle glistening on his bizarrely straight teeth.

Tom had leaned over to Murko, indicated the kov with a jerk of his head. He’d broken off for a moment, face working in drunken confusion, heavy dark brows drawn together. He bit his lip.

“I swear to the Circle— I’d swear I know ’im,” he said, sucking his teeth. “You know ’im? An’ that one, there, sittin’ next to ’im.” Tom’s eyes wandered to the wick’s companion, a sturdily-built (albeit short) Mugrobi man with a shaved head. He was more reserved than his tyat companion, or more somberly-dressed, anyway. Whenever the blond wick laughed his obnoxious, toothy laugh, he’d just smile a little tiredly. He was Tom’s type, being honest – there was something elegant about the heavy set of his features, something graceful about the way he moved, though he looked damned strong – but if he’d ever been with him, he couldn’t remember.

It was the wick, though, that’d caught his eye. Something about that kov he didn’t like, and it wasn’t just the shrill, honking sound of his laughter – though if that kept up, Tom reckoned he’d as much right as anybody to put a stop to it.

They were an odd pair, sitting there in the corner. The big human with his long, tangled black hair framing his long, bony pale face, broad shoulders drawn up around his ears, and the lithe, handsome Mugrobi galdor. Cooke had always stood a head or two taller than his human fellows, and next to Murko Muelton, he was massive; he was about as scarred, too, as his companion was pretty. He was handsome in his own way, though, with his broken nose and his lopsided smile, his eyes ringed with sleepless shadows.

Cooke and Muelton weren’t exactly unfamiliar faces in the Black Dove, but tonight was different. Tonight was the second year anniversary – Murko’d kept track, because gods knew Tom couldn’t remember shit these days – of their little venture with the catamaran, and the way they figured it – the way Murko figured it, again, because Tom wasn’t shit with money – it wouldn’t be much more than a season before they paid her off in full. Everything was coming together, finally. Even Tom had been spending less time in the dens; he’d been drinking less, even, finding himself more focused, finding the air a little more breathable.

And what better time than the rainy season? It’d been a damn cold winter, and with Meggie’s health the way it was— but sack it, he wasn’t going to think about that tonight. Not a damn thought about anything other than the bright future. That fucking property in the Muluku Isles Murko wouldn’t shut up about. Well, let him talk. Tom Cooke was in a good mood tonight, for once. A good fucking mood.

Until now.

As he stared at the wick, scratching at his unkempt stubble, recognition suddenly lit up his face. He paused to take a long drink of Gioran whiskey, and when he set the tumbler down, he kept his big hand curled around it, his grip white-knuckled. His scarred lip twitched. His face had gotten pale, and he’d narrowed his eyes. Ssshhhhit, he snarled between his teeth, his other hand clenching into a fist on the table.

But when he turned to look at Murko again, there was a malicious spark in his black eyes. His lip curled in a sardonic smile.

“I wanna—” He fumbled with his words for a moment, holding up a finger oddly delicately, as if to say, Bear with me. I’m guttered. He cleared his throat, then continued, quietly, “I wanna—I wanna fuckin’ do somethin’, hey, Murko? I wanna give that sh— that sshhhstop—stopclocker a surprise. Ye chen? I wanna fuckin’— You wanna help me? You got yer – yer fancy voo. Shit.” A pause. Tom blinked hard. Damn, but the room wouldn’t stay still. “Lissen, that’s a rat bastard, right there. He deserves somethin’… special, hey?”
Last edited by Tom Cooke on Fri Apr 05, 2019 11:37 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Murko Muelton
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Wed Apr 03, 2019 6:07 am

Timestamp

The Black Dove was always rife with activity, and this night was certainly no different. Deep within the bowel of the tavern, laughter mingled with slurred speech and the clack of rolled dice as reverie was to be found in any given direction Murko looked in. However, this evening, the galdor was already seeing double, his lips sealed over a bottle in the early eve' only to pucker with another as the night reached the waning hours. The silver globe that was the moon stood high in the sky by the time raucous laughter escaped Murko Muelton's lips.

The rolling of dice caught his attention best of all and certainly, over time he'd made his share of bets, torn between losing his shirt and stealing another's, the everlasting struggle of discipline. Gambling, booze and women were certainly the Bad Brother's vices, and he took no shame in admitting as much. However, before he could struggle his way to his feet and try his hand at all three vices at once, his best mate called out to him. Tom's words were colorful at best and downright vulgar at worst and the galdor wouldn't have it any other way. As he listened, he burst out in laughter, smooth waves of it only hampered by the faintest of hiccups before he drowned the sensation in his mug. He nodded in acknowledgment of his mate's utterances, screwing up his expression as he too sought to puzzle through the riddle that Tom Cooke threw into the mix.

"Seen 'im before, 'ave ye? 'mSure you seen all kinds of 'im, mate," he teased, his laughter roused from him yet again before he found Tom's expression to be far more pensive than, perhaps, the Mugrobi liked them to be. Tom was his best mate, and though he sensed the good mood the man was in, it was bound to burst at any moment if his failure to recognize was any sort of sign. He narrowed his eyes as he listened to Tom speak again, his lips pursed in a frown before the flush of inebriation carried through him in earnest.

"I wanna give that sh- that stopclocker a surprise..." and he cut off listening there. Already, Murko Muelton was on board. While his status as galdor didn't oft endear him to unnecessary violence, the heat that stemmed from his very blood coaxed him into agreeing with Tom's sentiments.

"Aye, he's got that kin' of... whassit called... Look abou' im, donhe? Face beggin' to see the sorry en' of a fist, savvy," he answered his mate. Tom seemed far gone, as well, but nothing got the blood boiling like the tension of a fight in the making. The Mugrobi drowned himself in the same, deliciously toxic Gioran whiskey his mate threw himself into, knowing that keeping to one liquor was best for their wallets at the end of the day. T'was Murko's job to keep track of shit like that, and certainly, he excelled in it. He'd even let the vice grip of alcohol loosen over the past few months, but tonight... was the rare exception. There was a lot to look forward to. However, the easy abandon of logic and reason... so imbued those qualities were to the galdori ancestry that boiled in his blood were laid to the wayside and he nodded again at his best mate as he said,

"Les' get the bloke in on a lil' secret then, ayy?" Then the Mugrobi rose to his feet. The blood went rushing to his head all at once. Eyes, narrowed with his inebriation, immediately went wide, his pupils dilated as the light hit him all at once. He laughed off the momentary distress before he barreled forward. Murko's figure was well-muscled, but lithe. Compared to humans, he was even petite. However, what Murko lacked in brawn he made up for in hidden aggression. He approached the wick, all smiles and laughs, a drink in one hand and an open palm to greet the wick. However, the bottle wasn't meant to exchange hands. He took an eager swig before letting the bottle fall to his side. He threw his head forward, the crown colliding into the wick's forehead.

Murko let easy laughter escape his lips, his pain muted by the excess of liquor in his veins. He stepped back, a hand rising to squeeze Tom's shoulder before he said, "Sorry, mate. Had to 'ave the first move, there. But... e's all yours, hm?" he said, the bottle raised to near shoulder level. The wick had a companion, that Mugrobi man who rose well above Murko in stature. But, the galdor wasn't intimidated by him. The Mugrobi human threw himself forward, throwing aside a table in his clear effort to get at the galdor. Murko waxed his field, curious to see if the Mugrobi was a man or a galdor, using the moment to create a bit of distance. His efforts, however, were thwarted as he collided back-first into the chest of a pot-bellied Anaxi man. Pushed forward by the Anaxi, Murko tumbled straight into the other Mugrobi fellow, strong hands pushing back against his chest before drawing in towards the center of his body. He kept a half-hearted guard up, smirking at the Mugrobi as he looked over to Tom,

"Isdis what you 'ad in mind, then, mate?"


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Tom Cooke
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Fri Apr 05, 2019 10:47 pm

THE BLACK DOVE
during the night of the 28th of loshis, 2718.
Being honest, Tom wasn’t sure what he’d had in mind. Being honest, he hadn’t had anything in particular in mind; he didn’t have a whole lot in his mind right now, and the furthest he’d thought ahead was the immediate present. He couldn’t say he wasn’t a little disappointed that Murko hadn’t caught the ugly fuck’s trousers on fire, but he reckoned gollies had rules about that sort of shit.

The crash of the table yanked Tom to his feet like he’d been called to attention, and in his fumbling, he knocked over his tumbler. Whisky spattered all over the table and the glass went rolling, rolling toward the edge of the table, off the edge, shattering against the floorboards, but Tom wasn’t paying attention to that – he wasn’t even looking at Murko anymore, the golly’s words lost in the rush. He’d grit his teeth so hard he could feel the thump of his pulse against his head like pure pain, and he was staring right at the wick.

The wick wasn’t out. He was moaning, eyes full of tears, clutching at his nose with blood leaking out between his long, knobbly fingers. A moment later, though, he was up and looking around, his long yellow teeth bared like a dog’s. Through the tears, through the pain and the frenzy, he squinted, and he met Tom Cooke’s gaze.

Recognition sprang to his eyes. They glistened cruelly. As if in defiance, his snarl twisted into a mocking grin. Still streaming blood and tears, he raised one bony fist and jabbed the fig sign at Tom.

Thump, thump, thump! The table was already shoved aside, broken glass crushed underfoot as Tom barreled forward and into the fray. Havakda! Tom’s shout was frayed, almost a shriek; he sprayed spittle through his teeth. “You fuckin’ laoso, you bastard, you—! Havakda! Son of a—”

Tom threw a punch with one heavy fist, but he was already off-balance, and the drink had made him slow. In the blurry, pulsing haze of whisky and white-hot rage, he saw the wick’s face contort, calculating, eyes narrowing; then he saw him drop. There wasn’t time to think, wasn’t time to readjust. He felt inertia carry him forward beyond his control, felt his knuckles miss their target by a hair’s breadth. Then the wick was around, underneath him.

He stumbled, heart hammering, and nearly fell into a brawny Hessean who’d just joined the fray. He shoved the man away, turned. Where was the son of a bitch? Then his eyes went wide, because the wick was right in front of him and had whispered something on the air, something that slithered, bizarre, above the sounds of shouting and the press of bodies. He spoke softly – barely a whisper – and raised a hand, and the air got thick and greasy, and Tom smelled something he couldn’t put his finger on.

All this happened in a split-second. The wick blew into his hand, and Tom’s whole face felt like it was on fire, like somebody’d blown pepper in his eyes. The next minute or so he spent fumbling around in the dark, jabbed and shoved.

“Fuck!” he yelled. “Murko! Don’ let ’im— Don’ let ’im get away!”

But Murko had problems of his own. While Tom was knuckling in vain at his eyes, the Mugrobi human was smirking back at him. “Y’know we ain’t gonna follow yer fuckin’ toffin rules, eh?” He was laughing, but there was a hard, cold anger in his eyes.

“Y’wan’ me to bow, ye golly son of a bitch?”

He feinted with his left fist, but his other hand had already crept to his belt; he caught up the long, curved knife in his right hand, and a moment later, it was a glinting dart in the tight space between them, seeking Murko’s gut like it’d been born to be buried there.
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Murko Muelton
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Mon Apr 15, 2019 6:35 pm

28th of Loshis, 2718

The shattered glass had Murko groan with disappointment. The pair of pirates hardly had room in their budget for wasted whiskey. But, in the end, it hardly mattered. The blood boiled within the galdor's veins just as it pounded within his brain and set against his skull. A smirk caught upon his features as he watched the fruits of his labours out the corner of his eye. The headbutt had been effective, the wick fallen to the floor in a moment of recovery before rising and throwing himself at Tom. The bitterness of their exchange seemed deeply personal, but before Murko could reflect on it deeper, the shadow of the Mugrobi man towered over him.

"Y'wan me to bow, ye golly son of a bitch?"

The words started out the exchange, and Murko nearly fell into the feint before he saw the flash of silver. He threw himself backwards, crashing into a nearby table. Tears formed in his pants as broken glass embedded itself into his calves. He gritted his teeth, stumbling to his feet and drawing his own blade. Weapons weren't in the galdor's plan for the evening, the thought of enjoying a simple night out with his mate... But things were never simple for Tom Cooke. And similarly, life never went so well for Murko Muelton.

The blood that pounded through his skull erased his trepidation. Someone else pulled the blade first, and they'd suffer for it. The cutlass' reach was far longer than the knife's, but Murko Muelton knew he needed to evade the much larger Mugrobi human's reach if he wanted to stand a chance. The mona could throw things further his way, but instead, he felt his field wound tightly around his form.

Die Rolls. Counter and Impalement
SidekickBOTToday at 2:59 PM
@Satyr: 2d6 = (5+4) = 9

Not yet... he mused as he gripped at his cutlass, trusting the steel over the implementation of spellcraft in the moment. Murko stepped forward, feinting towards the human's right, but he twisted, adjusting his stance and drove his blade forward. His cutlass impaled deep into the human's calf, the tip piercing the wooden floorboards of the Black Dove. The large Mugrobi man's throat tore with the scream that escaped him, but Murko wasn't done with him yet. He left the blade where it was and brought both of his arms up to his chest before lashing out at the human.

Die rolls. Push and Headbutt
SidekickBOTToday at 2:59 PM
@Satyr: 2d6 = (1+3) = 4

He pushed at his chest, angling his approach towards the side where his stance was weakest, where the blade had taken his blood. Murko struggled to gain any traction with his strength, and cursed the differences in their physiques. However, he persevered, throwing his weight forward and using the crown of his head to further advantage. The human's skull was not so weak like the wick's, but he stumbled back nonetheless. The sharp edge of the cutlass cleaved through his flesh as he continued to move, tearing through musculature. Head tipped back and blood coating the wooden floor, the dark-skinned male seemed defeated, but the tight grip over his knife spoke to the contrary.

Die rolls. Human Lunge. Murko Lunge.
@Satyr: 1d6 = (1) = 1
SatyrToday at 2:59 PM
/r 1d6
SidekickBOTToday at 2:59 PM
@Satyr: 1d6 = (1) = 1

The human rose to his feet, his limp apparent as he lunged forward. He slipped over spilled whiskey, falling back to the floor with the galdor arching his eyebrows in surprise. However, in a similarly dark twist of fate, the galdor as he stepped forward to disarm his opponent and reclaim his weapon, fell over onto the ground, blood streaking where it coincided with his step. He fell on top of the prone human, catching his wind after a moment. He reached for the man's knife, finding the human's arm fumbling for it in turn.

Die Rolls. Strike and Knock out.
SidekickBOTToday at 3:03 PM
@Satyr: 2d6 = (3+6) = 9

At last the massive man had relinquished his grip. Murko threw his fist into the crook of the human's elbow, and he felt his knuckles crack from the force. A whimper of pain escaped both Mugrobi, but the galdor won the exchange. The blade hovered just over the back of his neck as Murko murmured, "Ye don' yet, curr?" to a weak nod from his opponent. Murko stayed on top of his fallen adversary, not trusting him in the slightest. He twisted the man's arm behind him, then sat on the limb as he looked over towards Tom and the wick to see how things had gone for his best mate.

Murko's vision was clouded, the adrenaline-fueled rage he'd flown into at last dissipating. Murko Muelton felt the sharp pain in his legs, the heaviness of his breath and the weakness in his knuckles... He'd won, but he was certainly out of contention to assist Tom if he needed it.

"Fuckin' nightmare that was. Why'd ye draw your blade, ye fool?" he asked his opponent. However, he drove his fist into the man's skull before he could get an answer. Murko struggled to stand, taking his bloodied cutlass and using the steel to support his weight.


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Tom Cooke
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Thu Apr 18, 2019 6:28 pm

THE BLACK DOVE
during the night of the 28th of loshis, 2718.
As soon as Tom’s eyes cleared, still red and bleary from the spoke’s spell, he was scanning the mess of fists and faces and broken glass. Where had the rotten laoso gone? Had he dusted? Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Murko, leaning heavily on his drawn steel. The sight of the gleaming-dark cutlass, of the spilt sap and the man at Muelton’s feet, made a vicious smile spasm across his face. Nothing like drawn blades in a tavern brawl to break up the monotony of the everyday.

It didn’t fill the void – nothing ever would – but it sure as hell came close, and a little liquor took care of the rest. Momentarily he stood staring at the steel and the blood, right at the eye of the dervishing brawlers, a look of quiet despair slowly replacing the smile.

He didn’t have long to look. He felt the air shift, felt the fist hurtling toward him, and just managed to turn – a man’s sharp knuckles grazed – grazed? – his left temple, cold and keen as any dagger. He felt the skin split; blood spattered. But Tom let the inertia of turning carry him, carry him round, and before he knew what he was doing, he’d caught the man’s lean, sinewy arm in one hand.

He heard the loud crunch and the gasp as he twisted and wrenched. “Fuck!” came the squeal. Tom didn’t see his face; he wasn’t paying attention.

“Oh, shut up,” he slurred idly.

The man stumbled aside once Tom let go, careened away, clutching his arm. But Tom was distracted, wiping the blood off his cheek with one hand. Hazily, he registered the blood all over his hand. Why was there so much blood?

Wherethefuckishe, he snarled under his breath, barely able to hear himself over the ringing that’d started up in his ears. He kept looking around. A swarm of faces. The door to the street was open, a rectangle of black cut out of the Dove’s warm interior. Wherethefuck—

The whole side of his face felt wet, but he threw his weight, shoved men out of the way. Limped, stalked to the exit, eyes fixed ahead, his tab utterly forgotten. Murko mostly forgotten, too.

“Where the fuck… where…”

Suddenly he hit the humid night air, and he could feel himself slowing down. Empty street – empty except for the threadbare beggars, shadows in the dark. Sounds of the crickets, of the docks. He saw a cat slinking across the street, blurry with the drink and the pain that pounded in his head. A new pain, a different pain than he’d had before. This pain was sharp, and it started on the left side. He saw the cat’s eyes flash in the dark before it slipped into an alleyway.

“Vrunta,” he muttered, and spat on the ground. Blood. When he reached up to touch his temple, it was terribly wet. There was blood clotted in his long, black hair. He staggered another step. “Shit.”

Then he remembered Murko in the tavern, leaning on the cutlass, but in his befuddlement, he didn’t know what to do about it. And where had the wick gone? Anger lanced through him again; he grit his teeth tightly, eyes flicking around the street, taking in the rain-slick cobbles, the bleary, bleeding reflections of street-lamps. The wind was wet and tasted of petrichor and iron. Blood.

A light drizzle had started up.

“Shit. Murko?”
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Murko Muelton
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Wed May 08, 2019 7:03 am

Timestamp

Murko Muelton wasn't known for his proficiency at close-quarters combat. Being among the Bad Brothers exposed him to more than his fair share of bloodshed, but as he felt the protest of his injured legs, his weakness truly fell upon his senses. Pain shot through his nerves as electric agony, his breath heavy as he looked with distrust at the alarmed faces within the Black Dove. More than hearing it, he felt the shift in the air as the wick distanced himself. While Tom Cooke's opponent fled, Murko's gaze went to the unconscious opponent on the floor so very close to him. Anger flared next, the electricity insulated by the feeling as he pulled hit cutlass from a floorboard. For a short moment, his eyes hovered along the blade, calculating the trajectory for a lethal blow before he sheathed it without incident.

Bitter laughter ensued, and the anger wilted into nothingness as he heard Tom call out for him in the distance. The drizzle fell upon his shoulders, traversing his heated flesh, dampening his shirt and finding its way into his open wounds. The cleanse of diluted blood dribbling along his calves was yet another flare of pain, one he allowed to blow by. Collecting another bottle of whiskey from the bar without another word, he followed Tom out of the Black Dove. A moment of silence before he let out a laugh. The weakened pirate clasped his Brother on the shoulder before he said,

"Can't win 'em all, ay Cooke? Les' get out o'ere. See if the idiot found 'is way on our ship, hm?"

The pirate had little reason to believe that was the case, but he felt little reason to linger at the bar after the violent display.

"We got ourselves a drink or two on the Dove in the scuffle too, ay?" he added, a smirk catching upon his features. At least... Murko had. The wastrel seldom found himself paying off a tab before he was done, and he allowed himself to count his little victories as they piled up.

"Fuckin' hell that shit hurts, ay?" he mentioned, his walk little more than a limp as he made his way towards the spot on the pier they called their own. Rather than his usual jump onto the deck, Murko elected to roll out the plank. Traversing it with some difficulty, Murko sat down on the bulwark, crossing one leg over the other. Two dense, but clean rags were in his hand as he began to mutter a string of Monite. His words were slurred in places, and he repeated his lines twice over, but the mona seemed to relent as he made his intentions clear. The glass embedded in the pirate's calves shifted, thinning and elongating until he could pull each out with ease. The galdor gritted his teeth all the while before he wrapped the cloth around his damaged legs. He then imbibed the rags with whiskey, gripping onto the bulwark in his final, burning struggle with electric agony. In a heap, Murko collapsed to the floor, quite conscious and either unable or unwilling to move any further.

"Get us some glasses, yeah? There's plenty left, either in me hand or in the fuckin' captain's quarters, ay? Haven' figured out who's getting the nice room, 'ave we?"


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Tom Cooke
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Thu May 09, 2019 9:16 pm

THE CATAMARAN
during the night of the 28th of loshis, 2718.
Tom was no fool. He knew the lugger wouldn’t be headed for the catamaran; he figured the laoso’d dusted, nice and proper, or was headed as far away from either of the two of them as he could. Part of him wanted to hunt the fucker down, being honest. That rage still sat in his belly, leaden, fueled by a grudge years in the making. But as Murko clapped him on the shoulder, a handle of good Gioran in his other hand and an easy smirk on his face, he let himself be led away from the Dove and toward the docks.

He was grateful when Murko rolled out the plank: if you’d asked him to walk in a straight line, he doubted he could. He crept aboard after the galdor like a bedraggled, threadbare ship-rat, just thankful to be in one of the places he called home. He hadn’t wanted to crawl home to Ishma in Quarter Fords, drunk again and bleeding all over the wick’s garden, full of shame and excuses; tonight, the catamaran was home. Slopping sea and seagulls, the shifting lull of the deck. Home always seemed to be someplace different.

Tom was used to gruesome sights by now – he’d made plenty of them himself – but as whispers of that moony voo-tongue dropped out of Murko’s mouth, he looked away uncomfortably. Didn’t much like the sight of him pulling glass out of his leg, either. Murko was a hell of a lot more wounded than he’d thought, and he wondered momentarily why he’d left him in the Dove. Chasing after some vendetta, as usual – chasing his own anger. “You sure you ought to be doin’ all that poetry drunk, Murko?” he asked, tentative.

When the galdor asked him to go and fetch some glasses, he complied immediately.

He came thumping back in no time, two glasses in the less bloody of his big hands. He sat down heavily on the deck beside Murko, pausing as his head spun, leaning it back against the bulwark. The air smelled like copper and rain. He pressed the palm of his free hand against his temple, wiped away a little more blood. Took a deep breath. Damn, but they always managed to get themselves in deep shit, didn’t they?

Addled as he was, he nearly fumbled the glasses trying to pour the whisky. When he’d done, he took one for himself and passed one to his mate, slopping a little over the side in the process. He let out a ragged laugh. “You win some,” he repeated, “you lose some, hey?” – and then he laughed again, shaking with it this time, spilling a little of his own. “Ah, hell. My head fuckin’ hurts.” He ran his free hand through his hair, sweeping a bloodied tangle out of his eyes.

Tom grinned over at Murko, something wistful in his scarred, heavy face.

He raised his glass. “To that mansion in the Mulukus you won’t fuckin’ shut up about,” he started, then paused. He squinted into the damp night air. His grin broadened suddenly. “No, shit – shit! To her. He slapped the bulwark with a hand. “To— Shit, Murko, we ain’t named her, have we? Why ain’t we named her by now?”
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