( Would've been the old days, they be hangin'em off the yardarm for running their slack mouths each way like rabid dogs, would be the whip, aye! Would be stones and leaving them to dry for seagulls to pick their eyes, would be something wicked slow, somethin'terrible.
Instead, they're putting them to rest, and second-mate Mr. Eames of the good ship Queen Zanyra has got himself no delusion that this here rascal, they've put him to the long sleep. He'll be snoring, next Mr. Eames wanders, so he keeps his current visitation short, stares at the infidel through the bars and rattles'em a little for show. )
Ye want a floggin', lad? So we trim the fat off you?
( And 'lo, he's unpeeling a bundle of clothes, slow and slower when he bites into a stale biscuit, aggressively staring at the jailed man. Be teaching him manners. )
scallywags | the brig
Instead, they're putting them to rest, and second-mate Mr. Eames of the good ship Queen Zanyra has got himself no delusion that this here rascal, they've put him to the long sleep. He'll be snoring, next Mr. Eames wanders, so he keeps his current visitation short, stares at the infidel through the bars and rattles'em a little for show. )
Ye want a floggin', lad? So we trim the fat off you?
( And 'lo, he's unpeeling a bundle of clothes, slow and slower when he bites into a stale biscuit, aggressively staring at the jailed man. Be teaching him manners. )