Meanwhile...
...Edric was devoted enough to the consumption of fine tavern spirits not to be sarcastic in the slightest when he called the particular spirits of the Laughing Jackel fine. That was never to say he knew the finest of sweet wines and bitter brews, but he was a much better pirate when there was something fierce warming his belly. Made him louder than sobriety typically allowed. Edric the Timid Introspective Cautious Guy didn't have the same intimidating ring as Gruesome happened to. Without that addition, he was about as scary as if he went around calling himself Fred.
Or so he thought, anyway. Edric was rarely forced to face the depth of his own scowl. Wasn't as though he practiced in the mirror regularly. That seemed more a Yori thing to do.
On this particular evening, Edric's belly was warm for the sake of Monty, and Claradella indirectly, who were off somewhere, wedded and blissful, and far from inclined to endure another round of brotherly feuding. Yori was nearby, he was always nearby, but Edric was ignoring him. The cold, salty, damp, wind-weathered, but artfully-clothed shoulder. He was dressed for a wedding, after all.
"S'a fine ship. Ye'll never find a finer one. And, if ye were to, have faith. It'd fail to last the seas long," he informed an unassuming tavern wench. Not the politically correct term, but Edric was never up to date with current Romarica events, and tavern people were changing their preferred title of reference at least twice between every trip he made to land. Indecisive lot. And he was allowed to say as much. His mother was one of them, after all. "Ah! Grog all 'round. To the Scourge!"