The ale house smoke, comforting and embracing though it was, always made Galfridus cough after a long stay at open sea. He spat on the floor. The smoky air was warm, damp with sweat, smelling of staleness, talbot's piss, probably human piss. It was a busy night. His crewmates, ex-crewmates, he supposed now, sang and joked and argued around him, a manly cacophony that was itself, he thought morosely, another old friend to say goodbye to. He looked from face to face in the dim candlelight, lined up on benches either side of the thick wooden table. Ugly bastards.
"Ugly bastards!" he slurred, raising his mug. "Here's to you, for the good times and bad. May you all meet plump blind girls who'll not mind your faces." The men clunked mugs and cheered in a rowdy, clumsy toast, all but Big John, who instead sat frowning down at his untouched mead.
"One too many, John?" Galfridus kicked him under the table.
"Fucking rotten, I'm feeling. Something wrong with this ale." Those within earshot laughed disparagingly.
"I feel fine!" Galfridus shouted. "You're losing your touch!"
"Ah, coming down with somethin'. Had a thudding fucking head since yesterday. It's too damn hot in here." He stood. "And on that note, boys, I shall have to gracefully retire." Cries of mock dismay went up, a few jeers. Galfridus noticed that John was actually covered in sweat.
"You get your head down, big man. I'll see you before I'm off in the morning." Big John nodded, still frowning, and made his way through the crowd to the exit.