"Not at all," he replied easily. "I'm just respect our promise not to pry. But, he was a major part of your life. It's natural to have stories to share."

He eased back in his chair to slouch and stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankle. "Speaking of that promise though. It's alright with me if you pry. I want you to know me."

Fletch chuckled at the thought of Theo roughing it. "That much I can do. Traveling, I mean. Got so bloody used to it." He tilted his head to the side just a little, considering whether or not to go on. "Would it bother you if I talked about him some?"

He listened intently, nodding along in understanding. "Aye, I've seen my father's ledgers back when I was still meant to be his heir. The supplies to support the journey there and back, the insurances for injuries, the routes and times of year that are best for each and what that means for cargo changeovers. None of that of course is something you can experience through paper but we've suffered damages enough time to squalls to imagine the true horrors."

Theo offered a small sympathetic smile and shook his head. "I know my books are just fantasy. They're a good escape but nowhere near reality I know, it's okay. Don't need to let me down gently on that one. As for sailing...it's your cage. I can't in good conscience place you back in it just to be free of mine...traveling could be fun though. Maybe one day..."

His face fell. He'd been harsh in making his point, and now there was something hanging between them yet again. "You couldn't have known," he said gently as Theo looked back from the fire to read him. "It's...cramped. Smelly, on account of the latrine pots and however many unwashed wankers you've got sailing with you. Always rats in the bilge, like a fact of life. The food's terrible on longer voyages, as I'm sure you can imagine. If you're lucky, like me, you're the captain's son and you get your own cabin. If not, you sleep in the hold with the other men. Which...isn't what your books would make it out to be, mind. There's no privacy and there's always some arsehole who's either sick or snoring or he's farting up a storm down there.

The rest of it's two things: hard work, and danger. When I say I don't want to start from the bottom again, what I mean is I probably can't at my age. It's back-breaking. There's always something to be doing. And if that something is climbing a mast during a storm, you're fucked no matter how strong you are. I seen a lot of men die senselessly. I seen more lose a leg or a finger to being thrown or crushed or falling from a height. And this was even on Dad's ship, where it was run like a damned machine meant to minimize losses to his business. The smugglers were ruthless."

He paused, gauging Theo's feelings on it all. His expression softened again as he took the man in. "To me, it was a cage, and I'll always look at it that way in some respect. To you, it might very well be freedom. So...come with me sometime. See it for yourself. Don't take the word of some old bastard and leave it at that."

Theo hummed softly. "Right." He felt like a fool. Of course his privileged self had hardly endured hardship in comparison to the other man. He was not the one covered in scars that spoke of horrors like Fletcher was. He kicked himself for being so naive and out of touch with things.

"Sorry," he muttered. "That was stupid you're right." Theo sighed and for several moments stared quietly into the fire. "What's it like living at sea?"

Fletch set his hands to his hips. Something about this rubbed him the wrong way, but he was hard pressed to find exactly what it was. It just seemed like such a...strange question. Because it was from someone who hadn't really lived, he realized, and then it all came together. He sighed and joined the man by the fire, legs spread wide as he leaned back. The way he regarded Theo was a bit like a challenge. "I don't. You can fix that by telling me, you know. As for me: I'll be plain. Not all of us have the luxury of sitting around all day being served. Until recently, I certainly didn't know life could be like this. I worked hard every damned day, mind. And if you don't know what that's like, I can't really explain to you why my outlets are women, and drink, and fighting, and gambling, can I? Hobbies are for the bored. Boredom is for nobles. The rest of us survive and we find small pleasures where we can. So ask me about my work instead, I suppose. Or my life. Hobbies aren't a part of it."

"No, I'm not," he replied, lowering his voice. "I'm asking the man I care about his interests so that I may get to know him better. The drunk and the rake I do not believe are the entirety or main personalities and interests of my beloved bodyguard. But you may correct me if I'm wrong."

Theo sat down in his chair by the fire and looked to Fletcher expectantly. "Or do you know everything there is to know of me and I've fallen woefully behind?"

"Nothing you haven't seen," Fletch said. "Besides cards, maybe. I tried picking up a banjo years ago, too. That didn't pan out. I don't really read. ...Used to write, back when I thought a memoir was important. I think it all burned down with the cabin. Either way I'm a shit writer," he snorted. "You really asking a drunk and a rake his hobbies to keep us from messing around, though?"

Morthil woke up with a disoriented groan. What had happened? He couldn't remember. Oh...the village...goblins....the village had been sacked...he had been captured. And killed...but no, he wasn't dead. Where was he , exactly? In the arms of some...goblin....no, that goblin kid, he realized as he woke up more. 
He noticed she had taken care of his paw. 
Very nice of her. Now to get up—oh no.
The kid had Morthil in a vice grip. 
"Oh come on," he muttered angrily to himself, seeming to notice his surroundings for the first time.
Where were they? 
The place was cozy, and comforting.
And the bed was soft. 
Morthil tried to wake the kid. He tried moving around, he tried growling, he tried yowling. Nothing was working.
So, his ears flattened in trepidation, he yowled again...loudly.

Eyes narrowed, teeth bared in a somewhat unhinged grin. Blood yet dripped freely from the still bleeding-out corpse on her spear, rolling down it's length and coating her spearhand in steaming red. Indeed, Goblinda looked practically feral at the moment; Ready and willing to rip and tear into each and every one of the goblins before her. Why? Well heck, why not? They were being mean to the humans, after all! Linda was a human. Linda didn't like when goblins were mean to humans-- so naturally, she had to kill any goblins that were mean to humans!

It was basic common sense, honestly.

The standoff felt as if it lasted ages-- yet there were really only seconds that passed between her declaration and the eventual approach of a... well...

"KITTY!!"

The little orange thing was exhausted to the point of collapse by the time it approached her, which the now-ecstatic, no-longer-blood-crazed Goblin warrior took as permission to abandon her previous train of thought entirely for sole purpose of swooping down and collecting the critter with one fell glomp. Indeed, were it not for the fact that the cat seemed to have lost consciousness already, it might've fainted from the simple fear of her crazed, obsessed expression alone.

And so, darkness claimed the little cat...

...Until it did not. Who could truly say how long had passed in the critter's unconscious state? Certainly not Goblinda, who, along with the orange cat, was now comfortably sleeping in a warm, plush, bed-- certainly not the sort to be found in a burning, ruined village, nor a goblin's den. No, the stone walls and calm, interior decoration of wooden dressers and wool rugs gave the impression that they were somehow much, much removed from the chaos that was Yermomstead.

Two things were rather apparent, wherever they were. The first, surprisingly, was that the right paw of the cat had been attended to; soft cotton and soothing balms wrapped around it's leg, as if it had been cared for rather intensively in it's resting state. The other, more pressing note was... well, Goblinda-- who's still-sleeping, unconscious snuggle-grasp on the cat was essentially vice-like. Nevermind her snoring.

What on earth had happened, and where the heck were they?