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Ponderings of the Icarus

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Lord Dick Tim:
Tim caught the offered cigar in a hand that looked more like a brutalized hunk of meat then the flesh of a man.  Raising the weed to his nose he took a light breath in of its aroma before making what might have passed for a smile and grunt of satisfaction.  "Hmm...  Yes, whiskey on my breath and shit on my boots.  But, I'll not fault you for having a good nose for quality leaf." He said before producing a shiny brass lighter with flint and steel striker.

Happily puffing away at the cigar, Tim settles back onto his bench, propping his back onto plaster wall while using the foot of a brass cane, decorated with a breaching whale at its head, to point at the dog-eater.  "So tell me about pirates, whats a milk and perfume whore son like you know about pirates?"

Charon:
A smirk and soft chuckle broke the somewhat stony silence that had befell him previously, a wisp of smoke escaping ahead of a full exhalation. The old bastard had a familiar gift for insult and provocation, but in this man's last occupation, such things served as commonplace greeting.

"Seen my share up close." he said, his left arm extending to drag his tankard a bit closer. "Back when I called an Airship "support" instead of "home". I know the Burren better than I'd like, to be sure. Slept in pockmarks across her surface, stalking and closing with whatever form the scum of the Earth takes locally every day of the week. Can't count the number I've stepped over, nor the eyeballs I've tapped."

That chuckle returned.

"It's enough to make a man turn to milk and perfume."

Lord Dick Tim:
"Fair to say", he replied, enjoying the cigar some more before rolling it about his heavily calloused fingers.  "I've made a living off trade myself, legitimate or otherwise.  I'll not declare every pirate I've come across as dirt eating, fever blistered maniacs.  Most are just men, with mouths to feed and a land that wont bare fruit.  The burren is a hell hole, enough to turn any sane man to piracy".

Charon:
The man's point was undisputable. Raising the cigar, he offered a slight nod in silent acknowledgement of that wisdom, and drew smoke. The cherry-red ash at the end of the rolled leaves began to creep back toward him, though maintaining their overall composure rather well. A puff of smoke was released shortly afterward, blown away from the participants of what turned out to be an interesting interaction.

"That's for certain. I've seen good men driven to unspeakable acts in the absence of even the most useless amenities amongst those burning sands. Sad truth, that all alive are so alike. That evil and virtue should be so relative."

Opening and closing his free hand, he tried to mind the pulse of lifeblood flowing through him, if for only a moment.

"Must we all bleed the same damn color?"

Shukketsushi:
The door to the tavern swung unceremoniously open as the engineer entered. A gust of stale, dry air accompanied her, pulling at what must've been a tidy braid hours prior. Her pale face was smudged with a combination of rust and dust that actually complimented the tint of her hair. She had common but pleasant features and the spark of youth in her eyes.

The white, ribbed turtleneck that she wore was surprisingly clean although the grooves of her long leather sleeves were filled in with dirt. The color of the sash that wrapped around her waist and that of her pants were indistinguishable from the sands that worked their way into every thread.

Charon's voice lingered still when she appeared, making him easy to spot sitting off by himself. As she strode through the crowd towards him, her eyes fixed on the ghost that he conversed with.

"Making friends now, are we?" She inquired with a smile, helping herself to the seat next to her gunner and motioning to the bartender to bring her a drink. As she removed her worn leather gloves, laced up and integrated into her sleeves, she turned her eyes to him. "The 'Omen's just about in order. All that's left is to soothe my exhaustion with a little ale and hope for favorable weather."

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