#seasopen

At first he heard footsteps but he paid them no mind, continuing his playing. It wasn’t until he heard someone humming along did Hideyo stop. “Ah, “ He quickly turned, “So you know this song then?” He played the following notes, humming along to the next verse. 

The sun was already starting to sink down, so all he needed to do was wait until it was too dark for people to see him, and haul ass back to the Holy Wench. Until then…

Kit whistled a note, checking his pitch before singing, “What do you do with a drunken sailor, what do you do if your jest’s a failure, who sews your pants if there is no tailor – problems for the mooooorning!”

"If you need my help again, just say the word-" Florian blinked when the door was slammed shut in his face, effectively cutting him off.

"Alright then."

Another job, lost; Florian hadn't known before today that bread baking could go so horribly wrong. He likely had flour in places he didn't want to think about.

Florian had stationed himself in Nassau for about a week, now, and had yet to earn a proper dime. He needed to find work, and fast, else he'd be dead of starvation by week's end. That, or the exposure would get to him- places to sleep when one had no money were in short supply.

Florian sighed and wiped off his hands as he started down the street. There had to be a pub in need of a cook, or something. He'd take anything, at this point.

Lost in his thoughts, he paid no mind to where he was walking. Which was how he managed to knock bodily into a stranger, sending them both staggering back a few paces. Florian squinted up at the person and opened his mouth, ready to apologize.

Calais reared her arm back and let the last knife fly, watched as it pinned to the center with a triumphant grin. She reached down to her right, picking back up the handle of rum she’d procured and taking a swig.

Soon he grew bored though and stood to look for a card game. It was at this moment that he bumped into someone causing them to spill their drink all over his perfect clothes. Arno clenched his jaw, looking down at his clothing. “I do hope you know that you will be paying for this, with coin preferably.” He looked up at the person then, slowly taking off the coat that was now ruined.

“What am I meant to do with a roll of silk?” She scoffed, dragging the knife through the material. She spun her blade between her fingers and admired her handiwork, lips pursed in thought.

She glanced up at the sound of footsteps, and raised her eyebrows at the unwelcome guest.

“You want this?” She gestured to the ribbons of silk scattered on the table in front of her. She took a seat, her gaze on the other person expectant.

Back then, he'd had a certain level of independence. Simple tasks that required little to no thought were barely blips on his radar. They were routine. But the Santa Sophia had taken that away from him. Gone were the days of his dexterous fingers and steady hands. All he had left was a shadow of his previous skill.

And yet, he'd learnt to adapt. With a lot of concentration, he'd managed to stop hammering his fingers while making repairs to the ship. The only real issue he'd yet to overcome was shaving. He certainly couldn't do it himself (one slip of the hand and he'd be a goner), and there was no way he'd put his life in the hands of any of his crewmates. His only solution was to wait until they had docked in port, and find a reliable barber.