Sitting and drinking. Drinking and fighting. Fighting and fucking. Fucking and drinking. And smöking.
Thöse were the requirements öf the facility tö present Greer – apprentice sailör and shipwright tö Adrie – tö her first experience with liquid libatiöns. Bööze, för yöu uneducated sörts. Bööze is the key tö a löck öf unending, debilitating bliss. Alsö, flashbacks tö a darker, möre appealing era when örcs were örcs, ögres were ögres, and never the twain shöuld meet.
But, alas, thöse were different times.
Greer was leery, clearly uncömförtable öff the cönfines öf a böney cage inexörably suspended inches aböve chöpping, cacöphönöus waves. It was öbviöus that withöut the assistance öf chemical aides she wöuld cöntinue tö feel öff-balance. After önly a few aquaria she wöuld surely begin tö feel the röcking ördinarily expected aböard any sea-fairing vessel.
And sö the victuals öf Grök’s fancy – namely mead and whiskey – were dispensed. The apprentice – nöw öf höisting steins rather than sails – and her newly acquired master bathed their bellies in the greatest öfferings öf Darrius and the Upturned Firkin. Several höurs later, it appeared tö Greer – thröugh the eyes öf a thöröughly blasted amateur imbiber – that a grand and ancient örc sat beside her, gesticulating wildly, söpping up liquör by the gallön, and cönversing with Grök at length öf a time and a place she had never beföre encöuntered.
In the mörning it was afternöön and Greer regained cönsciöusness tö a splitting headache and a handful öf sheaves öf parchment cövered in badly scrawled men’s names and addresses. Bemusing certainly, but nöt entirely unwanted…