Snippet #2414316

For all of his adoration of the ocean, Basil Taggart was quite convinced that nothing quite beat sleeping on a real bed that wasn't constantly rocking with the motion of the ocean waves that ranged from soothing to stomach churning. As the morning light crept into the little room he'd rented out for the night just above the tavern, he turned over in bed, burying his face into the rather lumpy pillow. It wasn't perfect, of course. The lingering stink of smoke permanently ingrained in the sheets that were probably due a good scrubbing, the mattress ranging from uncomfortably firm to saggy, but it was enough for a little break on land.

The sunlight refused to relent and soon began to fill the room, sneaking further in by the cracks in the shutters. Baz groaned into the pillow before sitting up, slipping out of bed and meandering towards the wash basin. He scrubbed his face with the chilled water, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and combing a hair through his black hair to smooth down the unruly mess. Maybe he needed a haircut after all. Now that he was fully awake, it was a simple enough task to pack up the few belongings he'd brought on shore with him and take one more glance around the room. It was small and rather dingy, paint cracking in places and dust and cobwebs serving as the only decorations apart from a sad little painting of a sail boat. Not exactly the Shangri-La of legend he'd heard mumbled about by half-drunk pirates and sailors, but it had served its purpose as a little escape. Not that he'd want to stay on shore for much longer. The sea was already calling to him with its siren song, beckoning him to return. Who was he to resist?

He made his way downstairs just in time to catch the tail end of the card game, men scattering as they grumbled obscenities. He didn't even have to look to know the cause at this point.

"Really, Ethel? Cards this early in the morning?" He asked dryly, voice intertwined with his traditional Irish lilt. You could take a boy out of Ireland, but couldn't take Ireland out of a boy. Or, well, so he'd heard from family before he'd been said boy taken out of Ireland. He wasn't quite sure what that meant, something about Irish pride probably, but quite liked the sound of it.

He signaled towards the bartender and, after sliding his own money towards him for the drink(he'd had to pay for the night already; for some reason being a pirate made people suspicious that you wouldn't pay for things. Quelle surprise) and made short work of the glass of whiskey. He'd really prefer to have some tea, the only proper way to wake up in the morning in his opinion, but somehow he could only imagine that leading to him being laughed out of the bar.