“Ugh, not so loudly, lass… Just because I call you vulture doesn’t mean you have to screech like one.” MacNichols protested groggily, finishing his business as he watched the bottle roll ahead, spilling its precious cargo into the long grass after landing with a muffled thud. “I’m fine, and you owe me a drink.” He said, shaking himself clean before fastening his trousers. The Scotsman turned to the furious woman, her bird-like features glaring in the dark of the night. He crossed his arms in turn, staring back. [I]I can be standoffish too, you uppity wench.[/I] he thought, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know if it escaped your notice, but I had been well on my way to getting right tipsy when you approached me, and then you want me to socialize in a tavern full of the lads to convince them not to up and murder our beloved captain.” He leaned forward, eyes defiant. Despite his intoxication, he wasn’t slurring his words, lending credence to him not being nearly as bad off as he looked. “You expect that lot to listen to me if I’m stone sober? Know who stuck out like a knife in the wall in a room full of drunk pricks? Pegleg Jackham and his boys. They’re the reason I noticed you slipped on up behind them like a madwoman.” He sighed, his head slowly shaking. “I’m in danger, am I? I suppose you heard something you weren’t supposed to, then.”