Riley Lynch listened politely to Ticky's list of questions. "I don't know that you need a full crew list," he said, "as you don't know who will be going with you. However, I'd be happy to help you with everything else. What happened to the Osprey, that is an easy one: there was a storm, and we ran into the island. The lookout couldn't see shit, the captain couldn't see shit, and because of that we missed an entire godsdamn island until it was too late."
He paced back and forth, carving a little trail through the sand. "You're going to the Unknown Continent," he said, almost absently. "I'm not sure how many people will want to go with you. You're probably not going to come back, you know. No one else has. Might be safer to wait here for another ship going in the other direction, you know?"
Deslock, meanwhile, was suffering from smoke inhalation. Several sailors had showed up with braces of crabs over their shoulders, asking where they should put them to be cooked, and had gotten into an argument with the people building the fire over some absurd technicality. Meanwhile, the man with the gluepot was still hovering, unwilling to go off and build his own fire when there was this one already set and burning. In the middle of the confusion someone had unwittingly thrown a few green branches on the fire, and now everyone had retreated, coughing.
"Right," said Deslock. "Fuck this. You," indicating Larissa, "you've got fruit. Good. You lot," indicating the sailors, "make something of the crabs. In the meantime, we have fruit, which does not need to be argued over."
He paced back and forth, carving a little trail through the sand. "You're going to the Unknown Continent," he said, almost absently. "I'm not sure how many people will want to go with you. You're probably not going to come back, you know. No one else has. Might be safer to wait here for another ship going in the other direction, you know?"
Deslock, meanwhile, was suffering from smoke inhalation. Several sailors had showed up with braces of crabs over their shoulders, asking where they should put them to be cooked, and had gotten into an argument with the people building the fire over some absurd technicality. Meanwhile, the man with the gluepot was still hovering, unwilling to go off and build his own fire when there was this one already set and burning. In the middle of the confusion someone had unwittingly thrown a few green branches on the fire, and now everyone had retreated, coughing.
"Right," said Deslock. "Fuck this. You," indicating Larissa, "you've got fruit. Good. You lot," indicating the sailors, "make something of the crabs. In the meantime, we have fruit, which does not need to be argued over."