Everything Included

In Which Captain and Crow Converse

"A noose of your cheapest ale," the boy ordered. The bartender, a skeletal man, one who looked about 100 years past his days, grinned with what little teeth he had left, and went to the shelves of dusty bottles behind him.

From the top of the boy's head to the tips of his feet, the boy standing at the bar top waiting patiently for his order, dripped with black. He wore a wide brimmed hat, reminiscent of those worn in westerns-the old West having been one of his favorite eras- on top of slicked back, darker-than-night hair that was tucked into the collar of his button up black shirt.

Over this, he wore a floor length duster that was-you guessed it- black. The boy loved to dress in layers; it kept the cold back and he felt an eternity of cold all the time. His black jeans were straight legged and we're missing in spots; most notably on the knees and one devishily close to his crotch.

He wore black loafers, slip on rather than the cursed tied ones, that were a half size too big. He hadn't known shoes came in varying sizes when he had stolen them. Don't worry, time had made this boy thief clever, and now he only stole what he knew would fit. Time, in this boy's hands, was a very dangerous thing, especially when he had eternities to waste.

The skeletal bartender brought over the boy's drink. It sat inside some animal's skull; one that was thrice the size of the boy's own. The skull had been painted a fire red with the word, "Fuck," etched into the bone over and over.

"How very quaint," the boy said, lifting the jug of ale as though it had been weightless. The stuff smelled sour and clumps of sand floated in the greenish liquid. You always got sand with your drink whether you ordered it or not. That was a price you paid for visiting the 'The Dead Man's Song'- first stop for all and last stop for most- who visited the Refinery.

The boy headed for the table furthest away from prying eyes; though some had forgotten their eyes in their when and others had never had eyes to begin with. The table which he had chosen was made of a blackened wood.

This wood-the wood of the dead-held a greenish hue in its grain; it's magical qualities preserved. It wobbled but suited the boy's needs rather well, and was outfitted with equal parts dead and magical, wooden chairs. They were hard to the touch but when you sat in them, they molded to you like the fluffiest cushions. A part of their magic, you see.

Sitting at the same table, though across from the boy, was a wide-eyed Captain Ire Stormholden. He looked all manner of confusion and fear though he tried to project none of that. His aura read violet, with tinges of a pastel yellow, a most interesting one for a man made of words.

Gideon Darqish, the boy in black, and a little ways back, the crow who led Captain Stormholden to this place, sat with amusement sipping his horribly tasting ale.

"Where are we?" the captain asked, the third in line of many many questions being thrown Gideon's way. The boy took them in stride, like he did with all things, a consequence of having time eternal.

"The Dead Man's Song," he replied, a sweeping motion of his outstretched arms showcasing the run down pub and brothel. A shady lot filled up the seats; all manner of extremities missing, faces fat with ale and tit, money reflected in the ones who still held their eyes. Each had a danger to them, one the captain had been unfamiliar with until now, and this made the captain reach for his pistol. Gideon laughed.

"No need for violence here," he whispered, pointing to the array of knives and pistols each man and woman held. They were all one man militias.

Gideon continued, "Pull yours and they pull there's and then there's all manner of blood and cum speckling the walls."

The captain was confused by how Gideon talked. It was improper and too familiar. He had just met the boy, and when he had been a crow, no less, though he conversed with Stormholden now as if they'd shared years at sea. Perhaps young Mr. Darqish had been an orphan.