happy little pirate

Entering his room, deathfledge unbuckles his cutlass and tosses it nonchalantly on the bed, followed by his hipflask. glancing at the oil painting, he notices the fog bank is in the middle distance. some time yet, good he says to himself. Closing the door, he slips out of his heavy cotton shirt and moves to the wardrobe, selecting a purple silk one of the same style, and a cclean pair of leather pants, these in the style of denim jeans. Placing his clean clothes on the pillow of his bed, he heads into the bathroom and runs the shower, taking off his boots as the steam starts to fill the room.

Removing his pants, he enters the shower and stands under the steaming jets of water, thoroughly soaking himself. Then he leans against the wall under the streaming water and contemplates the last few weeks from his departure to his return. Funny how thing turn out, but all is good and happiness reigns. Thats what is important. whistling softly, he reaches for the shower gel and scrubs himself clean of the fortnights roaming thriugh the grounds and city, glad to be home again, if only for a short time.

finishing his shower, he turns off the water and reaches for the towel. Drying himself off, he wraps the towel around himself and re enters his room, sitting on the bed while taking in the surroundings. Sighing contentdly he proceeds to get dressed before reaching for his cutlass. Drawing the weapon, he inspeccts the blade, checking the razor sharp edge for nicks from his sparring session with Shadow. He smiles at the memory of the meeting between him and the two young lovers. good kids there he says to noone in particular.

Going over to his trunk, he touches the pommel to the lock and, with an audible click, it opens. Reaching inside he takes out a whetstone and a silk cloth. Closing the lid, he sits in a cchair in the corner of the room and carefully polishes out the nicks in the weapon, mumbling incoherently under his breath. As he hones the blade, it begins to hum in time with his mumbling, as if reacting to him. A soft rose hue starts to colour the blade, along with a barely audible hissing, as though the blade, heated by the mumbling incantation, was being cooled by water droplets. After a few minutes, deathfledge takes the silk cloth and rubs the rose hued blade with a circular motion. As he rubs the blade starts to shimmer, returning to its mirror like silvery colour. Just a highly polished old cutlass, an heirloom of times past. Getting up, he resheathes the blade and places it on the tallboy, patting it lovingly before placing the stone and silk cloth back in its trunk.

Pushing down on the lid, the trunk locks itself with an audible click. He then reaches for his hipflask, taking a light pull on it. The single malt warming the back of his throat. Returning it to itts customary place inside his seaboot, he opens the window to the night air and reaches into his left sleeve. Though nothing was there when he put on his shirt, he withdraws his tobacco pouch. Making himself a cigarette, he gazes out at the moonlit night, a whimsical smile on his face as he lights the cigarette he just made.