Rook turns towards him, grins, and bows. A bow was a bit formal for his liking, but clapping Tharos on the back didn’t seem like a good move either.
“And you, a fine Caelin! Many thanks.”
Nico, thus far had done nothing little to upset Rook. At the very least, he appeared to be a competent young man. An intellectual too, perhaps.
Rook awards him the right to speak without getting glared at.
A blatant lie. Count Coal was an infamous prisoner, yes, but he was never known to be a seafarer.
Rook’s eyes narrow.
[OOC might add a short filler paragraph here in the next couple of days, I was having trouble wording it]
“It’s rather disappointing. You’ve decorated yourself with armor and a worthy blade, yet you’re the least prepared for what is to come. At sea, looking NICE is nobody’s concern — and if you think it is… perhaps you would’ve been better off staying behind.”
He pauses for a moment, and then adds a final remark:
“Surely, the bartender at The Drunken Mule would have been delighted to hire a performer for the night.”
Rook grunts and sharply twists his body to face away from the rest of the group.
He had made his case. There was nothing to do now, but to wait. My fate rests in the hands of imbeciles.