Right beneath Wallyn's bookstore...
Morton replies that it's quite alright that the esteemed shopkeeper is busy at the moment.
"Ah, no bother at all madam. One of the benefits of having four legs is that it's as if I'm perpetually sitting. Quite comfortable, to be honest."
Morton glances around the room - it's not exactly luxurious, he would say, and definitely not overdone in any way. It evokes a rather pleasant middle-class charm, one has to conclude. The furnishings are somewhat tasteful, yet not too expensive. There's artwork on the walls as well, but most of it is of somewhat dubious quality, albeit mildly pleasant to look at, mostly pastoral landscapes.
"Wonderful. Can I get you two anything, perhaps? Food? Drink? Conversation to pass the time?"
On the Second Shank...
Scott, after he realizes that the Captain has as little clue on how to operate this ship as he does, tries to figure out where everything is and how it works. He finds out that there is definitely a wheel. There are also sails, and they seem like they would work if somebody would unfurl them. The rest of the ship's inner workings seem quite obtuse.
Well, except the anchor. That thing has a wheel to raise and lower it.
Sigmund and Kevin, meanwhile, continue feeding Justine information.
"He had a kind of weird addiction to his kitchen implements. He used to be a cook, a foreign one that cooked things raw in a disturbing way. But he had lost his tools when he had that incident with Erin that somehow ended in Mark attaching his head to a giant catfish-like monster. Then he swore that he would murder Erin, so I told our master about that, and he decided that he should be transmuted into a chair. Overall, he is a very disturbed and disturbing individual."
"He left our bookstore raid to get some better chairs for his arms. The guards promptly busted us without him, tough."
"The more I hear about him, the less I want to find him. Nevertheless, I will try, if only to get you people off my back."
She closes her eye again.
"Ah, there's your problem. He's not made of chairs anymore, or particularly magical - he's a molten pile of slag currently, although distressingly alive despite said fact. A foreign cook, disturbed and deranged, unusually ethnic, oozes twisted macho sensibilities only very distantly related to the culture he claims to hail from? That sound like your guy? That one's in the western part of the trade district, in the middle of a glassed patch of cobblestones on the corner of Gardener and Pinkgate - can't miss it. Will probably be difficult to peel him out of there, but I'm sure you'll either figure something out in due time."
She looks at Sigmund, raising her single eyelid ponderously.
"Will that be all, or do you have other enormously pressing inquiries?"
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Topic: Life Begins At Death - Epilogue: We Live And Live Again (Read 542790 times)