Dunimir exited another perfectly good inn, and in spite of the wonderful ale he'd bought, his mouth still longed for the taste of a good splash of spirit, such as mariners drank.
His feet led him toward to ports, where he looked longingly at many of the lesser ships, being no great admirier of the larger shios with their vast crews and petty politics.
Dunimir was a mariner, not a sailor. The largest crew he'd ever sailed with was fourteen men, and that was so that they could execute a revenge raid on those that had pillaged them a season earlier. His conduct in that raid had earned him te right to be given his axes, their familiar weight behind his shoulderr-blades.
He longed for the simple talk of one ocean-farer to another; those who are so often confronted with their death, and who are only alive because of their own strength, or their good luk, that all the illusions about themselves have been washed away. Men who can talk honestly about their true weaknesses, and without shame. Men who are often lonely, all too aften lonely. Dunimir must have visibly hunched upon himself. For the last woman he had opened himself up enough to adore, had married another, albeit a more deserving man...
He heard the familiar tones, the jibing, and yet all-too-serious talk of sea-farers, who would be turning to food and drink soon, the sun beginning to touch the surface of the ocean.
Berindel, invited to play for a ships captain, was enjoying a fine enough ale with the crew after the captains performance. But as the men became steadily more unruly, he found himself sidling away, and stood on the pier, watching the last light of day waning at the horizon. He noticed a mariner walking by, completely sober, which was out of the ordinary.
"Hail neighbour." He said, and leant, looking out over the railing.
Dunimir looked up, popping out of a reverie of thought. "Evening!" He smarted away from the musicians' breath. "You've been in the company of sailors no doubt!" He laughed. "I know the smell of that spirit they drink anywhere.