"You've [i]shat[/i] yourself?" Zahir looked deeply concerned at the man sitting across from him. He stared out to the small crowd around them, searching for clarification. "What is this word, [i]shat[/i]?"

"He shit himself!" A grime-soaked spectator whistled a chuckle through the gaps of his yellow smile. "Dropped brown anchor! Pranced around with the puddin princess! Let loose a soddin mud dragon!"

This was a confusing explanation to the bronze-skinned foreigner. He demanded further enlightenment. Several patrons began pantomiming wild gestures with their hands, swirling them about from their rear ends. Zahir finally put two and two together. He cocked his bald head back and let loose a burly guffaw, releasing his hand from his defeated arm wrestling opponent, then proceeded to wipe said hand on the man's shoulder. 

"Keep your coin [i]shatty[/i] man," Zahir didn't know if he was using that word right, but it achieved its desired effect as everyone around them hollered with laughter. "Save it for the washmaidens!"

Zahir rose from his chair, careful not to bump his head against the candled light fixtures. As he did, he looked over to the table across the room where a man sat interviewing a line of potential deckhands. The queue was finally thinning out. 

"Fellow drunkards, this is as good a time as any for me to take my leave," Zahir bowed, his golden jewelry clinking about like tiny wind chimes. Despite their protests, he insisted. "I've enjoyed your company, but now I have more pressing matters to tend to." 

He grabbed the red poncho hanging from his chair and draped it around his chiseled frame. It no longer felt weighed down by Seacliffe rainfall, but his sandals were still damp. He'd much rather chuck them all together and peruse bare if he could, but, as he quickly learned, such a notion was frowned upon around here. Not to mention that exposing himself in such a way only drew unwanted attention, and he needed to lay low, for there were daggers out for him. Zahir approached the pony-tailed man, grinning at his question.

"My name is Zahir," He held out his calloused hands as if he were making an offering. They were riddled with scars and toughened skin, forged by sea and scrap alike. "Use these to smash a man's skull, or work the deck of any ship. I can rig my way around most, fore-and-aft, or square masts, it matters not. Good climber. Can scale crossbeams, or go as high as top gallant if needed. Can also do oar work, or maintain ballasts below deck."

A moment of silence passed between them. Zahir stroked his chin. He wanted to add something else, something humorous, but nothing came, so he shrugged his broad shoulders and clapped his hands to signify that he was done talking. Almost.  

"Spear fishing! This, I am also good at!" Zahir finally remembered. "Yes, yes! Speared three lungfish at once. Like..." 

He struggled to find the words, wishing his drinking companions were there to pantomime for him. Then he remembered a delicious treat he ate at the wharf market, picturing the small stick stabbing through pieces of dried squid.

"Like, shagrashi-tkebralla babmata-ka-rattai!" Zahir frowned, realizing he was using a variation of the word from his native dialect. He proceeded to chip it down to its more popular moniker. "Shat kebab, yes? No, ...no! Wrong word. Shits Kebab. No, not that either... Shish! Shish Kebab! Hayasham molama-setriad la!" 

The Arad Luin trailed off in his native tongue, cursing at himself for his foolishness.