The Really Old Man and The Sea [Windwards]

[Terminally Chill]

The fiery horizon had given way to a clear night at sea for the Windward Wanderers. Honestly, even if the ship was caught in a typhoon the waters would be calm compared to the grizzly end they all could have met at the harbor of Orange Town courtesy of a certain marine mauler. A bright moon illuminated the surrounding ocean as The Messenger gently sailed across the dark waves, bobbing along its course to the wanderers' next particularly important destination. The East Blue was being kind to the four, perhaps a parting gift for the last night they would spend on its waters. Come morning, the Windwards would be scaling up the notorious Reverse Mountain and begin their adventures in the Grand Line. That was the plan, anyway.

One of the young wanderers in question was still face down on the ship's deck, having sunk into sleep like a stone the minute he decided upon it. Gavin Amadeus D'Arras had not been asleep for long; only long enough for the sun to disappear behind the distant mountains. Although the musician had asked his comrades to wake them up when they got to the fast-approaching sea of dreams, his tired eyes opened from the self-induced coma much earlier than expected. Gavin blinked, stubbled face still pressed against the hard surface of the deck. The guitarist sat himself up, cracking his neck loudly back and forth after the short but surprisingly rejuvenating nap. Speaking of neck, Gavin's was feeling better. His face was too. Aside from a bit of dried blood, the songwriter had shaken off the damage from the earlier snail lariat for the most part. After a loud yawn, Gavin looked around at the moon-bathed vessel.

There was always an initially discomforting feeling upon waking up in the dark. However, there was a different feeling that held the drifter's hazy head. The Messenger was a different vessel from when they stepped off to begin their adventure in Orange Town. Yes, the addition of the mysterious Gordon Gecko to the wanderers' group had obviously brought about a change to some extent, but it was something more than that. As the Grand Line approached, there was the sense that things would never be the same. Gavin and Jun's journey with their canine captain had begun in fast-paced fashion, but whatever they had experienced would pale in comparison to the adventure that awaited beyond that mountain. Fenrir's determination in meeting his goal was admirable; for him, Grants Foehn's mystery destination his collar pointed to was one step closer to becoming a reality. It was this determination that lined the night air. Dreams were on the line!

Gavin wasn't too concerned with much of this; the feeling was shook off fairly quick as he stood up with a chorus of cracking joints. Not the most comfortable sea deck he'd slept on. One would expect the Windwards to be nervous for the coming task, but the Six-String Slinger wasn't sweating it. Although he hadn't known Fenrir for very long, he already trusted in his skills as a navigator. Gavin just figured they'd make it; the prospect of failure wasn't on his mind. However, there was the issue of Gordon Gecko standing solitary at the rails, staring into the night. The musician hadn't talked to the older man much considering he had been asleep since Gordon stepped foot on The Messenger.

“Hey man,” Gavin said, greeting the new arrival as he leaned against the railing beside him. “My name's Gavin. You're Gordon, right? Nice to meet you, man.” The bargain bard joined the passenger in staring out over the black sea and pale moonlight. The night really was beautiful. “So... Pro wrestling, huh?” The attempt at small talk became a rhetorical question once the smell of cooking food wafted in from the cabin and past Gavin's nose. The troubadour turned toward the cabin, looking to the rays of lantern light that seeped through the cracks in the door. Jun must have been cooking a meal. Yeah, they had just ate not too long ago at the Drinker's Pub but... you know. Growing boys and stuff. Growing dog. Growing... 40-year-old-man?

“Smells like Jun is cooking something up, man. I'm gonna head in.” Gavin began making his way to the cabin, giving a wave the scruffy sculptor. “You're welcome to join, man.” And with that, the drifter opened the door and went inside to dine with his companions. This would most likely be their last meal in the East Blue... At least for a very long time.

SPOILER: Click to show

I guess it'd make more sense for you to post next, Jack.

[BEX]

Escape had been the easy part. What to do after, the future of the band of misfits who were barely acquainted seemed the paradoxical question. Gordon’s eyes shimmered with the reflected light of the moonlit sea as thoughts towards his purpose rolled through his minds as calmly as the docile waves that lapped against the sides of the ship. Since boarding no events had taken place—in fact everyone had taken to their own desires, each man—or canine retreating into reclusive contemplation. Of course this was the old man’s assumption. He hadn’t actually seen where the long haired stranger and the animal captain of the crew had taken off to. A small sigh came from behind him and he smiled without turning to examine the origin of it. Apart from having inhuman durability the slow-going bard slept quite well for someone slammed through solid looked dock boards and even more astounding was how quickly he’d gone to sleep after asking everyone to wake him later on.

“The sea holds such interesting characters…” Gordon said to himself. His coat rustled as a sea breeze would on occasion toss it around for amusement. East Blue was indeed being subdued, but the sea itself had never been known to be temperamental; none of the seas in the Four Blues were especially known for malevolent unpredictability.

“Hey man, my name’s Gavin. You’re Gordon, right? Nice to meet you man.” Gordon nearly jumped out of his close as his mind was abruptly ejected from the peaceful lull of his thoughts. The musician had casually taken post beside him, unkempt locks dancing on the wind as The Messenger continued her determined passage to…wherever they were going. “Ah, Gavin…it’s nice to meet you properly. You’re looking much better despite the brutal beating you took.” Turning back towards the sea which drifted by in wave after wave, one unable to be told from the other, there was a sense of passive familiarity between the two men. It was the kind of thing that one expected when two men of artistic world mingled together. A rarity in a violent world that heralded absolute tyranny or uncivil disobedience, the days of simply enjoying nature’s gifts were long forgotten by most of society. A moment of regret at the loss of his equipment passed, but before he could put forth the thought of stopping for replacement supplies Gavin spoke again.

“So…Pro Wrestling, huh?”

“Well…you see…that is to say….Ummm…”

“Smells like Jun is cooking something up. I’m gonna head in.” Gavin said as he turned from the beauty of the outdoors towards the source of the suddenly not-so-subtle sent of gourmet meals being concocted. Or not. Gordon was no cook either way. What interested him more was the final thoughts of slightly off fellow as he left the older gent’s company, “You’re welcome to join, man” A simple invitation spiced up with the unusual commitment to add the word ‘man’ to every statement uttered and yet it warmed Gordon’s heart thoroughly. He thought for awhile after Gavin had gone in. Shame creased his forehead, an unusual sight for someone who hadn’t the time for ill-intentioned gestures. Lying to these lads seemed…foul given the courtesy that they had shown him. Nodding with no around except the sea in all her glorious beauty the craftsman swore solemnly that when the time came he would reveal his dishonesty to them and give them the right of deciding what to do thereafter.

For now, food was a luxury he couldn’t pass up. Turning away from the star filled scenery he patted his belly as if to suggest to his digestive tract that Christmas had come early.

[Tsin]

There was a strange hint of domestication in the scene being played out before Gavin as he moved his way into the ship's galley. Despite the time of day, or rather, the time of night the wanderers were drifting in at current, the interior of The Messenger was bright and moderately cheery, a series of wall-mounted and hanging lanterns casting their glow to all corners. A few places remained a bit dark, namely the underside of the lengthy oaken dining table set off to one side, but nobody could really do anything about it. Or rather, it was likely nobody would really do anything about it since the Captain had once again succumbed to his canine instincts and taken shelter under the thick board. There was no map splayed out before him for intensive study this time, but he did seem to keep a compass close at paw.

It wasn't getting much attention though, with Jun on the other side of the kitchen. All doggy eyes, ears and noses were on him for the moment, the flicker of a flame, the sizzle of a pan and the scent of a meal enveloping the temporary cook like a divine aura. He stood there in front of the stove, one hand using a spatula to viciously dig at the crew's new wok, and the other hand holding a book aloft in front of him. It wasn't the writer's usual sort of tome, either handwritten in his unknowingly ancient script or full to bursting with the fanciful adventures of another; not at all. This book had pictures. Mostly of food. And a lot of instruction.

It was, of course, a cookbook. Figures that the only way the young Yetine native would sign himself up for a job like this would be that if it involved picking up another hardcover.

He seemed perfectly content though, pouring over the pages while pouring the liquid contents of a measuring cup at the same time. A great plume of steam rose up, filling the galley with its choking humidity for just a moment before making a successful bid for freedom and escaping through an open porthole. Thankfully left behind however, was an unmistakably beefy scent, knocking out the lingering smell of dried dog food in a single hit. Jun was thankful for that, a little bit, though he might not admit it.

And finally seeming satisfied with whatever he had in front of him, the scarved scribe shut his book* and set it on the countertop, giving the wok one last stir in a rambunctious racket of stainless steel against steel before taking it off the fire. He turned to the arriving artist and the bard busting in, taking off his jacket and wiping a mist of either sweat or steam from his face with a towel though leaving behind a smile on his lips. "I didn't know if professional wrestlers had a strict diet, Gordon, but I hope this'll do. I'm rather certain that Gavin and I just eat anything that is fortunate enough to come our way." The improv chef chuckled a little at the concept of that, true though it might have been. "Anyways, help yourself you two. There's rice in the pot as well."

While that was hopefully happening, Jun kindly scooped some of his creation into a bowl on the floor, one that Fenrir had politely nosed up to the man's foot earlier. And in no time at all, the pup's face was back into that bowl again, chomping away happily at whatever was placed therein. Bell peppers and other assorted vegetables, all stir-fried in a sauce redolent of a good cut of beef... Even if there wasn't any actual beef in the pan.

... Jun would still call it Bell Peppers and Beef though**. If you asked him.

SPOILER: Click to show

*Book Title:

Yetine In Fifteen!
Minutes
...Or More.

**Spot the reference.

[Terminally Chill]

The door gave way to the moon-bathed deck of The Messenger as the windward pair arrived in the cheerfully-lit galley. Gavin closed the door with a creak, nose catching the deceiving scent of beef that was filling the room. Keeping saliva at bay, the ship's musician turned to the welcomed sight of a home-cooked meal straight out of Yetine. Gavin dragged the feet of a chair against the wooden floor with an obnoxious grind, sitting down on the shabby chair with the seat of his shabbier shorts. The goofy guitarist gave a closer glance at the food in question, expecting to see some trace of meat in the dish judging by the smell that had greeted him. Maybe it was hiding? Either way, Gavin showed his gratitude to Jun with a grin. The minstrel had no idea his writing companion was so handy in the kitchen... But then again, supplies were never exactly in stock for the Yetine native to show off his culinary prowess.

“Anyways, help yourself you two. There's rice in the pot as well.”

“Thanks man.” And with that, Gavin did help himself. Scooping out a spoon of rice, the bard made a bed for his helping of assorted cooked vegetables to rest on. The beef-esque sauce was the last component to complete the steaming mound of deliciousness, pouring over the contents and finally settling at the bottom. Before eating, Gavin did a preliminary search for the meat his nose swore existed, but alas: just vegetables. Like Jun mentioned before, the duo had been content with eating whatever came their way. Anything above dog food was a luxury. Even dog food was kind of a luxury that one time; the more they crunched, the more they kind of get the meat ta – Err... Nevermind. BUT! Speaking of dog food... The deceptively-named dish of Bell Peppers and Beef was definitely a step up from the past meal in question. Gavin happily munched away at the contents of his bowl, the meal marking the first supper enjoyed in the company of Gordon Gecko. The sleepy gaze of the guitarist meandered about the galley as it often did, before finally resting on Fenrir involved in his own conquest of cuisine.

“So... Tomorrow's the big day, huh?” Gavin said, directing the question through a mouth full of food at his canine captain. It wasn't the smartest idea to interrupt a dog during dinner, but when did a little conversation ever hurt? Probably when someone got their jugular ripped out. Probably hurt then. Either way, Fenrir could hopefully afford a conversation. After all, the wiley wolfkin's dream was the reason they were about to go hurtling off the top of a mountain into the notoriously dangerous Grand Line. Fenrir could at least weigh in on the topic.

“I mean, how are we doing this, man?” Gavin asked, continuing to chomp away. “Going like... Up a mountain or something? In the middle of the sea? To... another sea? It's tripping me out, man.”

SPOILER: Click to show

Apologies for the wait.

[BEX]

As the door opened, an array of aromas overtook his senses. Hints of well seasoned vegetables—was that bouillon in the background? Instantly relaxation settled his previously tensed muscles allowed him to walk languidly into the homey seaside kitchen that the Windwards called home. Opening his eyes slowly after the blissful trip to sensory heaven, the dogged traveler’s glasses flashed with a hungry light as he eyed the food which Jun indicated with breathy dismissal. If only the lad had been unfortunate enough to shove half slaughtered gruel down his throat! In a ship filled with seventy men no less!

Stymieing the reflexive wince at the thought of his marine days Gordon bid the long haired scribe a hearty welcome for his hard efforts, “Please, I’m happy enough eating at the table of heroes as is….really you’ve outdone yourself yet again” The suspenseful trail was caused by the events of his finding an unused chair somewhere in the barely lit regions of the small cooking quarters, but his attention never settled on the actual seat. No, his thoughts were far too occupied with the humble assortments of….How odd... he thought. In all his travels he couldn't quite recall ever having such a meal. Keen on ridding himself of his virgin palate’s inexperience he promptly dropped his chair—and the bowl which he’d hurriedly snatched en route to the cornered table—and sat down. As Gavin spoke he listened with only half a mind. After all the shaggy locked minstrel had already had his fill while hunger gnawed angrily upon Gordon’s innards. And unlike Gavin, Gordon had little use for order or in this particular case, the act of sorting the varied colored veggies in his plate instead simply taking a fair amount before depositing the multicolored mess into his plate where it was quickly and efficiently devoured. “Yummm...” he sighed, fingers already nimbly searching for another helping of Bell Peppers. The absence of meats had been completely overlooked as the warm zesty nourishment he took in with each gulp overtook any thoughts of higher dining etiquette that demanded the presence of an animal carcass. Had Gavin not stumbled onto the subject of scaling the mountain, one which Gordon knew quite well after patrolling it for many years, he would not have removed sight from his food even once.

“Ahem, might I ask if you mean ‘Reverse Mountain’?” asked with a furrowed brow. Beneath the table his feet shuffled anxiously though his face remained bland enough as he picked at his plate—which had been somewhat greedily filled with a second helping of Jun’s cooking in the moments of his questioning Gavin. “Never mind my inquiry, it’s just I hadn’t thought you’d be daring to take such a dangerous route. Not that you aren't capable…it's just...it seemed an odd means to take for men of such profound sense.” he added vaguely, face still angled down into his plate. His glasses fogged up for the scented steam that rose lazily up to meet him.

As quickly as he’d immersed himself in the conversation he was as abruptly torn from the reality of the ship around him and drowned thoroughly in ponderings of whether he should delay his revelation to his newfound companions to a later date. Especially now since they were intent on taking Reverse Mountain of all routes. The rims of his glasses shone metallically every now and again when a faint ray of lantern light fell on it, but he continued to eat his meal in ashen silence, all the earlier delight of having eaten something not scrounged up from the soil or stolen from the hands of a working man drained from his face.

Guilt had turned a perfectly exquisite meal into a feast of ashes and tears.

[Tsin]

Jun had been unfortunate enough to be in a ship filled with seventy or more men, elbow to elbow on a worm-eaten wooden bench in a dingy marine mess hall and shoving 'half-slaughtered gruel' down his throat, as somebody might put it. Not him though of course; his memories of the experience of working on a marine vessel weren't so bad afterall. He never was a marine, but on a few occasions he had worked for passage from one island to another on a military boat, balancing their funds and writing letters to mamas and papas. The memories might even be good... Plus, the gruel wasn't actually that bad when eaten on the deck, under the stars.

... And the chairs were in good repair, despite his own penchance for embellishment.

In any event, eating a bowl of rice with his own homemade Beef and Bellpeppers over it in the cheery kitchen of The Messenger beat the hell out of being in the mess hall of any marine ship or base so far as Jun was concerned, including the highly regarded and famed eatery of G8. Even though he had only cooked a single meal in it successfully, it was already feeling like home... The image of Gavin and Gordon chowing down at the table helped. Of course, what helped even more was the rhymic 'woogity woogity woogity' noise of a bowl spinning around on its edges, the telltale sign of a canine licking at every corner of the plasticware for sauce and scraps.

"I mean, how are we doing this, man?..."

Fenrir was going at that bowl with gusto too, not even sparing a single moment to glance at the man speaking to him. For as noble as the hound had seemed earlier, there was definitely a puppy-like charm to his actions now, the lingering smell of beef causing him to constantly lick at the smooth walls of his dish over and over and over again. It was a good thing the more senior-in-age member of the group had an answer for the musician.

"... I hadn't thought you'd be daring to take such a dangerous route..."

The spontaneous chef was showing signs of listening at the very least, eyes aimed at Gordon while he chewed his food thoughtfully and clicked the two lacquered halves of his choice eating utensil together. The continuing 'woogity woogity' and 'click click' provided a soundtrack to to Gordon's entire spiel about Reverse Mountain... Jun stopped as he himself went to say something though.

Fenrir did not. 'Woogity woogity.'

"I had heard and read stories that the entrance to Grand Line was something of that sort, but I wasn't sure if they were true or just flights of fancy..." Jun deftly picked a single mushroom from the stir fried mix and dropped it from standing height into the navigator's bowl. It was unsurprisingly gobbled up with haste. "Reality is even more fantastic than stories sometimes..."

Finally the spinning bowl stopped and the noble Captain returned to his crew, seating himself on the wooden boards of his own ship and licking his chops. There was an aura of immense satisfaction surrounding the canine, aided in no small part by the tail attached his butt flailing around wildly like it was on fire. Impressively however, he was apparently still entirely aware during his feast. "Rrrowf rrowf!" Fenrir interrupted himself for a healthy post-dinner scratching-at-his-ear-with-a-hind-leg, though only for a second. "Rrrrooooooowwwoooooooorrrrrrr..."

Jun considered those spoken words for a moment, then nodded in agreement. Even more important than being the leader, Fenrir was the navigator, and if his knowledge couldn't be trusted on this matter then the Windwards were truly lost.

[Terminally Chill]

Gavin took a break from shoving grub into his mouth to chew, but also to listen to the seasoned words of Gordon concerning what route they would be taking. The guitarist's sleepy eyes rested on the steely-haired sculptor, jaw moving slowly in a circular motion with lips and cheeks speckled with rice. Gordon's evaluation of Reverse Mountain as a “dangerous route” certainly did not help Gavin from “tripping out” anymore than he already was but... You couldn't tell that by the usual dull look on his face. With a shrug, Gavin continued munching away as the conversation about their upcoming ascent continued. Luckily, Fenrir was able to take a break from his bowl-licking to make some sense of the discussion.

“Rrrowf rrowf! Rrrrooooooowwwoooooooorrrrrrr...”

“Yeah man.” Gavin joined Jun in a nod of agreement. “When you put it like that, I guess this is the best way to do stuff. Still kind of sketch though, man...” Gavin's sentence trailed off as he continued his meal. The musician's experience with vessels did not extend very far past using them as temporary lodgings, so trusting the canine commander with The Messenger's voyage came with no protest from Gavin; all the Windwards could do at this point was following their captain. With any “sketch” thoughts put to rest, Gavin finished up the remaining rice and vegetables at the bottom of his bowl. A few pieces of rice remained scattered on the sides of the dish, the bard's cleaning job not being quite as efficent as Fenrir's. Gavin let out a content sigh all the same, satisfied with the uncustomary second dinner they had been able to eat together. Any dinner at all used to be a stretch.

Although the meal was one of zero complaints, there was still another issue in the ship. Gordon was sharing the same table with them, but there was still not much known about the older man. The introductions between the minstrel and painter out on the deck had been pleasant enough, but at the moment it just seemed like they had picked up some random old guy. Actually... they pretty much had picked up some random old guy. The man claiming to be a pro-wrestler was a curious figure considering he appeared to have knowledge about the sea. Sure, knowledge could come with age but... Something about the enigmatic artist's story didn't seem to be adding up.

Of course, Gavin wasn't catching onto that at all. It was just that silence at the dinner table was kind of awkward, you know?

“Professional wrestling must be pretty important to you, huh man?” Gavin asked, resting a cheek on an elbow-propped hand. “I mean, you even said it was a dangerous trip. You must be pretty into, man.” The dopey drifter began scratching at his hat, another puzzling thought apparently having popped into his hazy head. “Actually... I don't know if I've ever met a pro-wrestler. Do they all start as old as you, man?”

It was pretty bold for the young musician to be (unintentionally) prying into Mr. Gecko's past when neither he or Jun ever felt inclined to reveal very much about their own histories. Had to talk about something though, right?

[BEX]

The rolling acceptance that came with Fenrir’s emphatic dog speak was oddly…empowering. When the mutt cracked open his jaws for something other than to down dog food and chase his tail in happy canine like bliss—was he even canine?—there was the dignity of a captain in every syllable. Metaphorically speaking of course.

Lifting his gaze beyond that of his own bowl he casually took in Jun, Gavin and finally Fenrir. A trio of odd standings to be sure, yet their cohesive atmosphere suggested that these were citizens of the free worlds, patriots to the rights of the people they unwillingly served. Maybe, just maybe these were the future leaders that the world had been awaiting since the World Government’s fall into corruption. Or maybe he was simply becoming senile in his fortieth year of age. It happened to some. Sighing at the fact that his age seemed to be the focal point of his existence to many he lifted the bowl up to lap up the steamy, pepper water that had been wrung in the process of sitting in the bowl. Very refreshing. I wonder what other meals Jun knows how to cook. I might live a few years longer after all. thought Gordon when Gavin suddenly broached a subject that just then gave him a queasy feeling in his stomach.

Inquiries about his wrestling career would have to be fielded carefully until he worked out the nerve to outright tell them. Shooting a worried glance Fenrir’s direction liking didn’t improve his standing with the four legged captain. Sometimes…those eyes were like lances of truth that would simply spear through his deceit and spill all the ugly facts onto the deck for everyone to ogle at before keelhauling him overboard. The thought nearly made him shiver. Compose yourself! You’re too old to shaking like a leaf. I just called myself old didn’t I? Phaw…everyone pointing out my age is starting to wear on me. When he was composed enough—and the plate had been set back on the table Gordon answered as if his profession was the blandest story one could ever tell.

“Truth of the matter is that Pro Wrestlers almost have to start off a bit on the old side.” he fibbed. Pulling at his sleeves to distract himself from dwelling upon how ridiculous the story sounded he continued, “Oddly enough old people usually have had enough hip replacements that they’re practically indestructible. Why, I remember my old wrestling buddy back at the ‘Y”. Anthony Wahlberg—we called him ‘No—Heart Anthony’ after his heart surgery…yep…lotta old people wrestle. It’s a kinder way to go out if you know what I mean…ahem.”

A bead of sweated rolled down his wrinkled forehead hitting every bump on the way before falling onto the high necked gold trimmed collar of his coat. Possibly an unbelievable story, but he was a sculptor not a…a salesman! Worse comes to worse he would tell his tale and be done with it. He’d swum more leagues than it would take to get back to Orange Town—he hoped. To stave off any questions that might blow his cover he decided to point one of his own at each of the other members of the ship, “And what can be said of the heroes of Orange Town? How did you all meet? How long have you been together? How do you both understand what Fen here is saying?” He blinked upon his inadvertent nicknaming of the dog.

Adjusting his gaze towards the lounging captain he asked, “You don’t mind being called ‘Fen’ do you?”

[Tsin]

Though Mr. Gecko might've treated his fabricated foregoings with no small amount of blandness, Jun listened to them quite intently, his head nodding without question at the tale for it's unfortunately short telling. And the young man had no real reason to question it either; the chief of his homeland was quite an aged fellow himself afterall, and a more than capable combatant. Even if the scribe couldn't pin down Gordon's age to an exact digit or two digits, given his physical appearance... This professional wrestling thing was not completely unbelievable.

A group of like-minded 70 or 80 year olds all stomping on each other's faces and suplexing each other into guard rails... Better than sitting at home in a wheelchair at any rate.

Fenrir did not, however, seem so easily convinced. That long canine muzzle and those fang-sharp eyes... They were the perfect poker face. Maybe the Captain could smell sweat and fear in the air too, smell the lies cascading from Gordon's lips like old, rotting throwup. And it wasn't a good smell, judging from how those already narrow eyes narrowed just a little bit more... If the navigator knew anything though, he certainly wasn't letting on about it.

... Not that the old man would've been capable of understanding him anyways, apparently.

"And what can be said of the heroes of Orange Town? How did you all meet? How long have you been together? How do you both understand what Fen here is saying?... You don’t mind being called ‘Fen’ do you?"

"Rrrrrrrrroooooowf!" There was a bit of a snarl laced in that one, which should've made the answer quite clear even without any words understood.

Jun couldn't help but comment on it in a sort of explanatory way though. "He does mind, it looks."

Then, there was a stacatto of woofs, bow-wows and barks that followed that single elongated one, which the scribe allowed to carry on as he deposited his bowl into the sink and secured his prized chopsticks away... somewhere. It was quite a speech that Fenrir was making too if time spent listening to him was any indication of its majesty...

"Well!" Jun suddenly broke up the lengthy monologue with his sudden exclimation. "With all those questions and more answered in excruciating detail, what can we expect from you, Gordon?" The Windward writer gathered up his book from the countertop as he spoke and lightly pushed himself off of it, navigating around the navigator, meandering by the minstrel, and dropping into a seated rest by the wrestler. "You too, Gavin. We're all really sort of along with Fenrir free of charge and should do our part, right?" These sorts of conversations... The sounded suspiciously like the ones that parents use on children, always starting off innocently enough but then ending in some ridiculous request...

And never one to disappoint... "And since I cooked... I wouldn't be ungrateful if you took care of the dishes." There we go.

"Woof!" Fenrir voiced his agreement whole-heartedly, perhaps knowing that his lack of opposable thumbs kind of excused him from the duty anyways.

Besides, when do captains ever do something as boring as the dishes?

[Terminally Chill]

Gavin gave Gordon's tale a listen with the look of waning interesting that most of the wanderers had surely associated with the songwriter by now. The bespectacled artist's cleverly, or perhaps clumsily, cobbled-together story of his past of spandex and suplexes seemed to be enough for Gavin; if Fenrir's eyes were like lances, the musician's were more akin to... clouds. Just apathetically floating by without judgment. And so Gavin's hazy gaze drifted away from Gordon, settling on Fenrir as the canine captain gave the lowdown on the trio's journey thus far; it was surprising so much had happened with the short amount of time they had known each other. The minstrel closed his eyes and crossed his arms, giving a slow nod to accompany Fenrir's howls.

“Yeah man. That's pretty much it,” Gavin chimed in after Jun put an abrupt end to the wiley wolfkin's magnificent monologue. A captain, a navigator, and an orator! The Windwards were truly lucky to be sailing under the banner of the howling wind. But before anyone could partake in pride, there was a more practical matter to be attended to that the scribe of the group wasted no time in bringing up.

“You too, Gavin.”

The bargain bard could not help but blink at Jun's question of contribution. Gavin was at a loss for words to say on the spot; the dopey drifter had always believed his role in their group to be obvious. Gavin provided one of the most precious commodities of all: music! The wanderers' days at sea would be but a monotonous coast from island to island without the melodies that flowed from the songsmith's six strings! Sure, music didn't exactly buy groceries... and Gavin tended to do more sleeping than actual performing. But still! The dragoon-turned-cook prepared one meal and already he had the right to question others about how they would b–

“And since I cooked... I wouldn't be ungrateful if you took care of the dishes.”

… Okay, so it looked like the “prized” guitarist of the ocean-wanderers was going to be on dish duty. With an unenthusiastic sigh, Gavin sluggishly sat up from his seat at the table, stretching out and yawning loudly after the filling meal. Pulling at the edge of his bowl with piano-player fingers, the troubadour began gathering the dishes. Gordon's bowl was placed into his own next, Fenrir's own following after a quick trip to the floor.

“Alright man, but you gotta dry,” Gavin said, glancing toward Gordon as he retrieved the empty pot and wok that had once housed the contents of their second dinner. Dish-washing tended to go smoother in tandem anyway. Precariously balancing the collection of dinner dishes, Gavin placed them in the sink along with Jun's empty bowl and began the “arduous” task of cleaning up after the meal with an abundance of mumbled complaining.

The romantic life of a wanderer at sea: washing dishes on a ship.

[BEX]

After the thoroughly humbly berating monologue that had been laid upon him in canine tongue, Gordon wasn’t quite sure whether to redden with shame or to become even more enthralled by the mystique of having such a unique captain. Uncertain where he fall, he chose the neutral of the two extremes; no reaction at all. Sitting innocently with hands folded in his lap he listened intently though stiffly. Not so much as an old man shudder after matters had been decided and Jun took the floor. Even then he remained utterly immobile.

Maybe he was thinking that if he remained motionless they would simply forget his presence and he could make the journey to the Grand Line with no more thoughts of guilt badgering his wizened brain. Maybe. Or perhaps he’d decided that to adopt a more Zen approach to understanding ‘Fen-who-did-not-like-to-be-called-Fen-but-would-still-be-called Fen’. By sitting motionlessly on stool he might have been trying to unearth an archaic capacity to understand the four legged mammal whose banner he would be following under for days to come. Maybe.

Actually he’d simply fallen asleep.

In the time that it had taken for the Howling Wind to sniff out his lies and make no small amount of comment on him or it took for Jun to quickly begin delegating kitchen duty to the partakers of his meal the slightly older, drastically more bearded sculptor had dozed off to happier dreams where his friends weren’t under false pretenses about his intentions. So far gone was he that Gavin’s passing comment, “Alright, but you gotta dry” did not just fall on sleeping ears, but in fact evoked a boisterous snore in response. Hunched over and eyes peacefully shut behind his horn rimmed spectacles a world every bit as fantastic as the one he currently lived in unfolded in his mind’s eye. Together with Fenrir, Gavin, and Jun he tore up the wild currents of Reverse Mountain and the small group splashed into the Grand Line without a hitch. They had done it. Made it safely to the other side of a treacherous path without losing anyone.

And then he told them his white lie.

At first they seemed to take it well which pleased him greatly. Smiling and clapping all on the back—except Fenrir whom he scratched beneath the ears—the relieved dream Gordon laughed easily at his anxiety on sharing his real purpose upon joining them had been. He’d told them everything. The deal with the Revolutionary Army hounds, his days as a marine, and even how he’d come into the clutches of Torsh Short-whatever his name had been. Telling the truth had been exhilarating and more importantly cleansing to the soul. That was, until Gavin suddenly sprouted horns while Jun’s pen-polearm was splashed with blood, its bladed point hovering ever closer to him. Fenir…oh mercy, the dog had grown eight times his normal size and now spoke in clear, understandable man-speak; telling him to jump overboard or be devoured and poo’d out into the sea.

“GAH!” Panting with eyes wide open Gordon came to find Gavin quietly working on the dish problem while the ever majestic Fenrir had begun busying himself with more important matters—self grooming. Jun, well Jun, had already shoved his nose into another book it seemed. None seemed to have been involved in any demonic rituals to cast him overboard…not yet. That sent a shiver down his spine. “I think I’ll help with the drying…” he muttered as he rose up to aid his fellow seaside companion unbidden.

[Tsin]

The gentle lull of running water from the kitchen sink accompanied by the intermitten rhythm of dishes softly clinking against one another... It wasn't music by any standard of the word, but Jun couldn't think of any soundtrack he would've preferred for the moment. It added so much to the peace of the kitchen, the perfect environment for taking naps, studying a map, reading a book... even if 'cookbook' wasn't what the silent scribe had in mind for that last bit. Judging by how happy everybody seemed after the meal however, it was a worthwhile expenditure.

The silent scribe turned a page to a new recipe and a new bit of (often incorrect) history surrounding its Yetine origins. His eyes just floated over the letters without taking in a single concept though...

Jun was happy too, to have cooked, and to have presented a flavor of his homeland to others. But anybody-- there was a bit of hesitation in the young man's thoughts at his point as he discretely glanced upwards at Gavin washing the dishes... Yes, absolutely anybody could be successful in this limited nature so long as they had a cookbook on hand. Standing over a wok wasn't why the dragoon had gone to sea though, even if it was a useful little life-skill. Leave that to the chefs.

The pages snapped closed suddenly, drawing a brief turn of the head from Fenrir. The canine captain continued to watch as well, as his crew scribe pushed his way out of the kitchen with hardly a noise but the squeak of a salty door hinge.

A blast of the crisp night air struck the scribe full on, but it was refreshing in comparison to the heat of the kitchen. Jun took full, deep breaths of it as if the opportunity would be stolen away from him at any second. Inhaling completely, lingering on the frost in his lungs and the unmatched scent of nature in his nose, and exhaling completely, a tiny white cloud against the obsidian background of the night sky...

That night sky, its stars twinkling like a million watchful eyes... The same night sky over North Blue, West Blue, South and East... And Grand Line. What kind of stories had it seen? What kind of stories was it seeing even now? Were there any stories left to be told...?

Jun: the Dragoon, the Scribe. Fenrir: the Captain, the Navigator. Gavin: the Musician, the Warrior. And even Gordon, the Artist, the Sage. Pirates some and Revolutionaries others, but Wanderers all. New stories, old stories, funny and sorrowful, exciting and boring; Grand Line held it all.

And, for the Windwards, it was their next stop.

... Hopefully.

~The Really Old Man and the Sea~
~End~

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