The cabin door slams, and Davrin grunts with exertion as he flips the beds
and table in the room he shared with Oaken. "That damned fool! I should've
known he'd be too eager to join his comrades in that infernal fucking
tomb!" Thr door creaks slightly as a deckhand pops in to check on Davrin,
"GET THE FUCK OUT! Unless you feel compelled to become a eunuch," is
his swift response to the deckhand's query about his well-being.
Half a day later.
"I swear I should've just left that damn thing in him and thrown him
overboard. Fucking useless little shit-stained breech-pissing altar
boy...Trying to pass himself off as a priest..HAH, if there were any justice in
the world, the Gods would've smote him the moment he even thought of
such a thing....Hell, I might not have even had to deal with any of
this...HERE ME, GODS? FUCK YOU! FUCK ALL OF YOU! AND YOU,
AYAILLA! I HOPE YOU GET FUCKED IN YOUR POMPOUS WITH YOUR
'LOVELY' LIGHT! You did NOTHING while Ellurst and his men fought! You
did NOTHING to stop the advance, NOTHING TO HELP SAVE THE
PRINCES. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE ON OUR SIDE."
He stills, and looks around for yet another target to unleash his rage
upon...His eyes alight upon one of his much-loved bottles of Green-Man,
the very same one he had drank out of the morning of the ill-fated
expedition. "YOU," he shouts, grabbing the bottle by the neck and sligning
it against the far wall of the cabin. The glass shatters, and the pungent reek
of strong liquor fills the cabin. "Never again. Too many have I lost before
your foul embrace, and yet more after I made your acquaintance." He
spends the next few minutes pulling any and all of the bottles out. "Trust
me, it's not me, it's you," he says as he packs them into a crate, "It's time
you took a little journey...what was it that author said once? Thirty
thousand leagues under the sea?" Davrin nods to himself as he now
approaches the ship's railing with the crate, "Close enough. So long, bitch,
and I hope I never see you again."
"WOT'D YEW SAY 'BOUT THE CAP'N?!?" A loud voice breaks the
otherwise monotonous din of the ship as a nearby sailor--apparently close
but not quite close enough--mistakes Davrin's self-absorbed ramblings for
those of the more mutinous inclination.
"Oh would you shut the hell up. I'm not talking about the damned
Captain--may she forever has fair seas--I'm addressing this particularly
sorry collection of life-stealing liquor I've got in my hands."
"Wot're yew doin' wit' it?"
"Are you as lacking in sight as you are in mental acuity? I'm clearly about
to toss it overboard."
"Wot?"
"You fucking lackwit, I'm going to chuck this crate," at this, Davrin thrusts
the crate into the sailor's face, "straight over the fuckin' rail." Immediately
upon saying this, the crate sails smoothly over the rail and into the sea.
"See, I even gave you a bloody example, you pus-wit. Now, get the hell out
of my way, or the crate won't be the only thing we lose today." He shoves
past the sailor as he says this, and heads back towards his cabin, with the
sailor still standing there, still trying to figure out what demon-possessed man
throws an entire crate of liquor worth his entire year's wages over the
railing. "Wot'n th' screbbl'd hells wos tha'?"
---------Several Weeks Later------------
Finally, we're done with the damned priest. Fuckin' lackwit got off...damned
near had to shove 'im overboard one night, but thankfully he listened to me
about joining the locals if he wanted to live...Funny, every man I've ever
seen serve the gods has always believed more in his own ability to protect
himself, rather than his god's. But, it has been week since I last touched
that stuff...never knew how fuckin' hard that shit'd be to kick...Who knew,
Davrin, Ship-slayer, and Sole Survivor of Tamoachan, would be brought so
damn low by such a simple thing. Looks like we're making port now,
though...
There is a large ink stain in the middle of the page, making it look as if he
set his quill down in the middle of a thought and left.
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