Berlin gave a low chuckle, eyes gleaming. “Aye, I’d imagine I’m not the first. Not the last either.” He was now fully slouching, hands splayed loosely on the barrel used as a table, and his eyes were no longer quite as sharp. It took half a bottle of rum, but he was finally proper drunk, and was now sucking on the lime again as he spoke. “But I got a lotta years left in me before I might get the itch to wander ashore. This ship here is my home. I ain’t got a home anywhere else. And I sure as hell ain’t goin’ back to Cavastan.” Cavastan was a rather large port city in the far north of the country of Daegis, which was known for both having excellent whaling waters and miserably cold weather year-round. Every whaler worth his salt had spent time in Cavastan, or somewhere near it, and it was sung about in many songs as being awful but profitable. It was also where Berlin grew up and got his start sailing.

Berlin’s face turned to a scowl, the same sort of stern look he’d just given Hana for being called a gentleman, though Pieter knew him well enough to recognize it as grimly thoughtful. He leaned back (a little clumsily) to crane his head upward and search the dark night sky for any sign of the young shifter boy, but doing so was hopeless. The lad would be gone for hours and ranged very far from the ship. Even if it was daylight, he would not see him. “No,” he said almost darkly. “Rheoaan will never be free. Out here, yes, or in the quiet of the wilderness. But he will never have the freedom that Uban or you have in society. He’ll never be able to buy or sell goods, and I’d be shocked if any human lass would have him. And even if she did, it’s not like they could have children. And something tells me that even if he ever did find his way home, he could never again be content with a stationary life. He’s as much a slave to this life as your many brats are to theirs, even if he won’t admit it. But....” he leaned back, taking another sip from the mug that he realized was never empty, as if he had never noticed Pieter filling it at a certain point and assumed it kept filling itself magically. He smiled then, a warm grin with that equally inviting look in his eyes that was so typical of him. “I suppose if you’re going to be a slave to any life, this is as good as it gets.”

Berlin thought for a moment, then lifted his mug a little waveringly and toasted with a small laugh, “to freedom.” For that was what he loved most about pirating and the sea. He was free. Free to go as he wished, to take or not take what he wanted, and he was the master of his own destiny. He never had to adhere to polite society, never had to dress a certain way, speak a certain way, and never had to apologize to anyone for being as drunk as he was now.