[There's Stede, smiling and chipper and readily welcoming Edward further into this incredible time and place. It's a comfort to have the man slotted neatly into place beside him--a warmth, even.
He feels his lips twitch up at the corners as he half-turns to be helped into the robe (a lovely colour, a wonderful soft fabric, a faint familiar scent lingering from some soap or oil or powder that smacked immediately of Stede).]
The poetry.
[It doesn't matter, really. Whatever Stede drags from the shelf, there will be dramatic reading and a drink of something that doesn't burn and the lazy comfort of lingering here in one of the final places Edward Teach still exists.]
no subject
He feels his lips twitch up at the corners as he half-turns to be helped into the robe (a lovely colour, a wonderful soft fabric, a faint familiar scent lingering from some soap or oil or powder that smacked immediately of Stede).]
The poetry.
[It doesn't matter, really. Whatever Stede drags from the shelf, there will be dramatic reading and a drink of something that doesn't burn and the lazy comfort of lingering here in one of the final places Edward Teach still exists.]