[center] [img]http://i.imgur.com/XalelKH.png[/img]
[h3][color=#b28f00] Nabil.[/color][/h3][/center][hr]
[color=#b28f00][b] “H[/b]ow long has it been now, Marxo?”[/color] he asked his companion, dragging the unconscious body of a pirate hunter by the collar. [color=#b28f00][b] “S[/b]ince we’ve eaten?”[/color]

His stomach growled, deep and ravenous. The sea had not been kind to them and they had long since emptied the rations. Was it four or five months? Perhaps six or seven. Time escaped him now. His stomach was his clock; every minute, every second that a meaningless noise rumbled from it he felt an infinite amount of time pass. 

As he approached the tavern with steady steps, he pushed open the door and let the pirate fall from his grip. Drunkards, skeezers, and questionable figures rested inside the dim shack. But he could care less for them. His only ambition was doing damage to the marines in any way possible. He and his companion had come to terms with each other’s ambitions. It was mutual agreement to travel together. 

As he took a seat at an empty table, next to a fishmen and pointy-eared woman, Nabil raised his hand up lazily for the barmaid to take his order. Slow at first, the blue-haired woman approached with a casual rudeness.

“Welcome to the Rusty Wench, how may I help you two gentlemen?” she asked, bored. 

[color=#b28f00][b] “B[/b]read. Lots and lots of bread. How about you, Marxo?”[/color]