- Influence
- 24,712.00
Meanwhile...
The galley scullery was a cacophony of steam, clangs, and the ever-present dull, muddied aroma of last night's stew. Swifttail had managed to wedge himself between two racks of drying pots, leaning over a shallow washbasin while scrubbing over his muzzle with a rag. Whale oil didn’t just cling, it soaked, working its way into every whisker and seam of fur. It had taken several rounds of coarse soap and elbow grease just to make a dent.
He was halfway through rinsing his head fur when disaster struck. The water, mixed with suds, oil, and whatever lingered at the bottom of the basin, ran straight into his right eye. He flinched hard, knocking into the side of the basin with a muffled thunk.
“Gah! Sunken hull!” he cursed under his breath, clutching his brow and squeezing the good eye shut.
By the time he stumbled into the infirmary, the fur along the right side of his face was sopping wet, his headfur was skewed upward in one ridiculous tuft, and his right eye was clenched shut and red at the edges. He didn’t look injured so much as wildly inconvenienced.
He stepped through the door and blinked against the lantern light, ears twitching at the sound of voices. A tired smile found its way to his muzzle as he caught sight of the group. He crossed the room in a half-blind shuffle and perched on the nearest free surface.
“It’s been a day, let me tell you,” he huffed with a faint grin. “First I spill oil, then I wear it, now it's seeped into me eye with the remains of breakfast!”
He tilted his head in Finnian’s direction. “When you’ve got a free paw, Finny, think you could rinse this out before it turns in gets any worse?"
As he waited, he watched the group with one eye.
“Still searching for the tommynicker?” he asked, brow lifting with amusement.
The galley scullery was a cacophony of steam, clangs, and the ever-present dull, muddied aroma of last night's stew. Swifttail had managed to wedge himself between two racks of drying pots, leaning over a shallow washbasin while scrubbing over his muzzle with a rag. Whale oil didn’t just cling, it soaked, working its way into every whisker and seam of fur. It had taken several rounds of coarse soap and elbow grease just to make a dent.
He was halfway through rinsing his head fur when disaster struck. The water, mixed with suds, oil, and whatever lingered at the bottom of the basin, ran straight into his right eye. He flinched hard, knocking into the side of the basin with a muffled thunk.
“Gah! Sunken hull!” he cursed under his breath, clutching his brow and squeezing the good eye shut.
By the time he stumbled into the infirmary, the fur along the right side of his face was sopping wet, his headfur was skewed upward in one ridiculous tuft, and his right eye was clenched shut and red at the edges. He didn’t look injured so much as wildly inconvenienced.
He stepped through the door and blinked against the lantern light, ears twitching at the sound of voices. A tired smile found its way to his muzzle as he caught sight of the group. He crossed the room in a half-blind shuffle and perched on the nearest free surface.
“It’s been a day, let me tell you,” he huffed with a faint grin. “First I spill oil, then I wear it, now it's seeped into me eye with the remains of breakfast!”
He tilted his head in Finnian’s direction. “When you’ve got a free paw, Finny, think you could rinse this out before it turns in gets any worse?"
As he waited, he watched the group with one eye.
“Still searching for the tommynicker?” he asked, brow lifting with amusement.
