Heavy Drinker

The bells and tones of far off lands tinkle and tempt my ears. I hear the creak of wind-stripped wood as it waits in dock, eager and anxious to fly again. Tucked away in a booth hidden in one of the nicer dock bars, a lone privateer drinks to fallen comrades. He debates how best to find a new crew, new officers, a new life. The wine tastes sweeter than her meme,bees. Wind rattles the iron-crossed yellow glass above his head. A storm had come, and soon it will pass. Once it does, the privateer needs to be ready. First clear sky and he needs to be on his way. He's been moored for too long.

The privateer runs a hand through his short, unruly hair. Born blond, but his hair began turning white not long after his seventh birthday. By the time he left home on his first trip off-spire, his head was covered in sdirty snow, with only occasional flecks of blind marring the soft white tufts that refused to stay down, curling into short mountains and points. The privateer looks at his hat, given to him by his first captain. Now he sits, a captain in his own right, wondering where the winds of fortune will take him next.

He hears the sounds of a fight outside. Loud voices. Vague threats and heavy breathing. His ears serve him well, as do each of his keen senses. Smiling, he drains his glass and pushes his hat onto his mess of hair. He leaves several heavy brass coins on the table next to the empty bottle and glass as payment.

Fresh wind, he thinks, fresh wind is what I need to carry me away. He buttons up his coat as he steps out of the bar, into the free night.