The stars had just started to fade into a red but foggy dawn as a lopsided old cargo ship, the Golden Beetle, came to a rest at Haverton Pier. Some phosphor lanterns still glowed faintly, but only a few ship-hands and a drunkard or two mulled about the docks at this undignified hour.

Tristaanian half stumbled, half shuffled off the sad little Beetle and onto the rickety dock, unsure if he was more grateful for the weight of some extra coin at his belt or for the stable feeling in his legs at being back on solid ground again. No more clocking ship jobs, he thought groggily to himself, Even if the pay is better for strong-arming some mung load of sea cargo, I'm plum knackered of tossing my innards for half the trip!

With only a brief nod to the crew he had been paid to protect on the short round-trip to Duatim, the passive buttoned up his half-cloak and tucked his hat back over his head against the morning chill and made a slow, if not slightly off-balanced walk back into the streets of the harbor town he had grown to call a semblance of home. Casually, he wondered if it was even possible to find some breakfast at this hour ...


((Well, hai! Am I doin' it right? I picked a random date, a few days before the current. I can, um, change that if necessary.))

Tristaanian had to think quick at that ungodly hour as a mass of guts was launched at his feet. A wave of nausea-inducing fumes rose from the innards at his feet as booming laughter rose to his left.

A great hulk of a man, all brown leather skin, bleached blond hair and muscle, thrust a half-gutted fish into Tristaanian's face, "Fresh Fish?" he roared, and laughed sadistically. He jabbed a knife into the poor fish's back and worked it down to the tail, an act that was made all the more gruesome by the fact that the fish was still twitching. It's little watery fish eyes looked up at the passive, it's poor fishy lips opening and closing in a silent "help me!"

"Oh, havakda, you!" a slurred voice came from a pile of barrels nearby, "sommma us'r try'n'a sleep..." A bottle of wine rose over the edge of a barrel followed by a face, "y'don' givadam fer oth'r p'pl..."

"Oy, sober up an' make yerself useful, ye sluggard," cried Fish Gutter, tossing the gaping fish head at the drunk man, hitting him squarely in the face. Wino passed out promptly and fell back in the barrel. "Damned drunkard," Gutter muttered, though in his booming tone he still sounded like a mountain with a mouth booming over the docks. His little eyes snapped back at Tristaanian. "You, boy," he called to him, though he stood mere feet from him, "know how to clean a fish?"

"Wo chet!" Tristaan hissed, exhaling sharply at the terrible odors and even more nauseating sight that assaulted his already sea-worn senses. He stumbled slightly to one side to tuck his face into his cloak collar a little further, sending his whice, Smirk, up in a flutter from the brim of his hat.

"Wo chet! Wo!" repeated the almost miniature runt of a bird, chirping in irritation.



All casual, happy thoughts of a warm breakfast and a steaming cup of tea melted away from Tristaan's mind like the ooze that just splattered across his boots. Briefly, the passive's eyes widened and he desperately fought the urge to hurl a little bile on the docks.



Choking back a gurgle and straightening himself at being addressed, Tristaan managed a chuckle, "Er, well ..." He caught himself before growling his first thought – I'd have to admit I'm probably better at gutting men than fishes – and instead held out his hands and muttered a rather weak, "N-not really ... It looks to me like you've got it handled there ..."

Not quite enough under his breath, he continued, "But thanks for ruining my breakfast, kov."

Smirk returned to his perch on Tristaan's hat, cocking his head at the shiny, blood-stained knife in the hulk of a fishmonger's hand and blinking, feathers still ruffled.

((Can't say I'm necessarily sure where to go from here. It's too early to run into anyone, I'm guessing ...? It's my first post, so ... I suppose getting into town and finding a place to sit without puking on strangers would be a good goal, eh?))

Gutter squinted at him as he flayed another flopping fish. "Too early fer breakfast, yet. No place open 'till light," he informed Tristaanian, "Inn's'll open up fer breakfast dawnish, an' Taverns had last call hours ago. Best find a lit place ta plunk'yerself till then. Nasty fellers're the only ones 'bout this hour."

He then turned back to his fish and, to the detriment of Tristaanian's nauseous state, plucked out an eye and popped it into his mouth, chewing animatedly.

((You're doing great! If you start in an establishment later in the morning you'll likely want to start a new thread because it's a different time and place. But if you want to talk through the early morning and moving around you could probably keep this one up. If you're interested, this thread is set shortly after yours. You could bump into Angel if you like, just to start making acquaintances.))

Tristaanian grinned lopsidedly from behind the high collar of his cloak, nodding more in agreement than anything else, "Aye, well ... er ... enjoy yer fish there." He quickly turned away from any more scenes of fish gutting to prevent any further damaging of his appetite for later and steadied his walk on his way up the docks toward more of Old Rose proper.



((Thanks. I'll have to poke my nose into that thread and visit, seeing as there's only one response ... I mean, who doesn't want to meet Angel the air pirate, anyway? ))