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-From behind closed doors, the dark, and private quarters, that seemed to stretch in and out of shape, and mind on external glacnes, due to simple lack of formality, and regular presence within them, on the crew's half, their captain made a very informal appearance. Slightly frustrated, the two way door (built into the doorway with pull-hinges) opened outwardly, and only the sun cast over his incoming appearance. His well-kept hair, a natural black afro, with an explosion of bleached bones blode about his forehead, appeared first, with his body following. An eye patched over his left socket, sliced through the mass, equating it somewhat, but hardly detering its granduer, with its tie strap. His expressive scowl seemed a slight less of a frown, and more of a lined inemotion. Over his shoulders, and down his middle, a fine, dark grey pea coat, deep in it's color, flowed below his waist, halfway ending down his behind. His legs carried him out, wearing those short black canvas rugby-styled pants, that flowed only a few inches below the coat. Beneath, as his first knee bent outward, from the depths of his inner sanctum, his mainstay outerwear, out of climate, white long johns. Then stepping forward with his other, his large, light-weight boots with his personalized anchor motif. One arm was still emerging behind him from the darkness, and as he took another step out, past Mud, giving him a slap on the left side of his face as he did, appeared to be having trouble carrying something behind him. In full view under the warm sun, it could be seen he was trudging behind him an anchor.
The door shut behind him on it's own. He then turned to Mud, replying "I'll decide when we are taken care of." Then he slung the great anchor over his back, dispelling the effort it appeared to impose on him, and wielded it as if it were an extension of his arms. To the dockboy, the captain tossed a bag from under his coat, at his waist. It was a puffy brown bag, with the letter 'K' on it, representing how much it could hold. "Here", to the dockboy, "Take this K bag, and wax the hull. All of it... hahahaha." He could see the look on the boys eye as it flung through the air, and caught it, beaming. He would have the ship raised, and begin work as soon as the crew had left the ship.
Grabbing Mud by the collar, before he could do so though, the captain kept him on board, but he was used to the swab forgetting his manners, and his unfortunate tendency to put drink before freind. Crunk scuttled over to the crow's nest, and gave it to hefty kicks, looking up with a smile, trying to find old Glassy, their rifleman, and caretaker of the ship. Then as he waited for the Squall to appear, he reached in his pocket, dug out his omnipotent shellphone, with it's cute spines pricking outward, and held it to his ear, calling Dahlia not 50 yards away, on another dock, tightening things up on the Petal Treader. He let it bubble a few times, before simply talking into it: "Dahlia, just tell me when you are ready, and we'll go drink our dry." His voice carried through the shells, an anticipation, and held it, as he winked at Mud, and waited for the rest of his crew on the Leviathan to make themselves present. His mood was much the opposite his countenence implied.-

As those kicks came into contact with the massive pillar that held up the crow's nest a loud moan could be heard, compariable to the sound of a slowly dying animal. He would roll over, his large frame curled about the pillar in a 'c' like shape in the crow's nest, with his arms pressed together around his head and his hands on one side of the pillar while his legs were pressed together with his feet opposite his hands. Slowly he would sit up, reaching blindly for the large bag he carried since he had just recently stowed away his weapon of choice, and still the massive rifle was somewhat obvious in the bag. Strapped to the left hip of his was a simple, and almost rusty, chinese broad sword which only he knew of how he had attained it and quite enjoyed telling different stories about it at each new place. On his right hip was a brown leather satchel, its ingredients known only to himself, though most could figure it out on their own for it made sense to carry bullets when you have a rifle. He would sling the strap of the bag over his shoulder as he grabbed onto a rope and leaped out of the nest in a rather epic manner, the downward rushing of his body would cause his light brown hair to fly about wildly in the wind while his blindly white pants reflected the sun in a rather horrific manner for those who looked directly at the loose hanging and somewhat puffy pants. He wore a rather plain red and silver vest over a dusty brown shirt, which could be odd considering the small fortune he had attained.
He would bend his knees up to his chest as he fell, and once he was slowly coming to a halt he would let his legs strech down to touch the lovely deck of the ship. His skin was dark, well darker then most of the crew's he figured, the heavy bronze of his flesh making him seem larger then he really was. With the hand that held the rope he would offer it out to Mud, without a word to the man, his white pants had settled and seemed to be light and fluffy almost from the descent. His left eye would swing to look at Crunk, the blue iris had a light burst of yellow just around his pupil, it was at that exact moment that his right eye followed suit. The right eye made of glass just seemed to point right behind Crunk, the crosshairs eteched in red in the middle of the eye, he had been told that it looked like he never really focused on anything with that eye. He was trying his best not to grin, for if Mud was to take the rope from him, and he figured Mud would, then off Mud would go for on the other end of the rope was a weight, which was much greater then Mud."Greetings and salutations Crunk, headin' into the port I assume?"

With the persian handing him a rope he begins to reach for it. Staring hard into the other mans eyes he never even noticed the fact that his gold bands where glowing hard with a sparkle. Used to the additional weight they would give his arms he didnt notice the extra strain to lift them either. He grabs the rope and his arm slightly raises, piveting at the joint. Not understanding why the persian would hand him the rope. He holds it for a second seeing that the mans attention was now turned to the captain. His own attention was also on the subject of the captain. He could only think about all the gold the captain had just given that man. Letting the rope go and stepping in front of Long Shot, completly cutting him off from the veiw of the captain he says "Good god, why waste so much gold?" From his release, the rope now flew up from the weighted end pulling it up. From the speed of the rope the pully would get cought by it and rip it from the mast making the weight, pully and rope crash onto the deck. Catching Muds attention and most likely the rest of theirs. Mud whips around and scoffs at the persian "We are about to leave, why would I need in the crows nest?"