Inspector Fritzgilbert and the Ploughing Goat

"Ooooh! What do you do with a drunken saaaaailor?!"

The Alexandria City docks are a spicy place in the early evening, and not just because of the street vendors attempting to sell exotic spices that make most people sneeze while expats from the Jade Islands and other exotic, far away set up food stalls make some silver and gold by catering to foreign ship crews and the enlightened people that are attempting to expand their world view by experiencing different cuisine. Among those? A slender, auburn haired young man with an easy grin and expression that is equal parts good humor and an *terrifying* lack of rational thought. Skyler's wearing his greatcoat and sword, along with a large floppy purple hat with the brim pinned up and a *massive* collection of feathers sticking out.

He's also the source of the singing, a ribald sea shanty delivered in a pleasant enough tenor... Provided he wasn't painfully off key. He's currently sitting on a short wall, kicking feet in shiny black boots as he munches on what looks like kraken tentacles. He pauses, brow furrowing with the tentacle halfway to his mouth. "What *do* you do with a drunken sailor?" He asks the empty air, looking mildly confused before he shrugs and takes another bite of the tentacle.

"You're breakin' my stones, boyo. Breakin' my stones."

The Ploughing Goat might be the smallest of all the ships docked at the Alexandrian port, but it's also the sturdiest. These are two of the least valuable qualities for a merchant vessel, perhaps. 'Small and Slow' might not seem like an especially profitable way to do business, but dwarves do business their way, and the Bludstein Family has a well-established preference for tradition. Hence... the dwarven ship docked here in port, with many of its crates already in the process of being unloaded.

And it would have gone smoothly, if there weren't a new customs inspector on duty today.

A tall, reedy, officious sort of human stands before a couple of opened crates, putting quill to tablet in order to verify that his inspection turns up the same quantity of items that are on the Bill of Lading. There is a bit of nervousness among the dwarven laborers unloading the vessel, who all seem to be surly, sallow sorts of people covered in dwarven tattoos and smelling of pickled fish.

And none smells more pickled than the best dressed of them, currently looking up to the customs officer as he smokes from a pipe that seems to have been chiseled from granite by a very large hammer.

"I swear onna name of Grimble Stonebeard that we's honest chaps. You're all honest chaps, ain't that right boys?"

There is a general murmur of assent.

Does the dwarven laborers and their reedy human officiant have *anything* to do with Skyler? Absolutely not. Most intelligent people would keep themselves separate from such obviously touchy business. Eat their kraken tentacles, even if the massive rings of the suckers are kinda sus, and sing their off key sea shanties while philosophizing over the meaning of the words. 'Put him in a bed with the Captain's Daughter'? Is that a coarse, foul joke about setting some poor scum to be caught by the captain with his (presumably) nubile daughter? Or is a commentary on how Captains rule their ships through the use of fear and intimidation tactics?

Such thoughts, though, slide off Skyler's brain, which is smooth, no ridges or lumps, or valleys or bumps. All ideas slide right off... Like a water slide! And so when he sees an group of nervous dwarves and an officious sort with a tablet? He doesn't think, but lets the intrusive thoughts win.

"Hi there!" He tells the other human brightly, even as he bites off a bit of wrinkled sucker, and holds the tentacle up to the official to offer a bite, "You try this yet? It's *insane*. A little like eating a butt, to be honest, but, hey, don't threaten *me* with a good time like that!" And as he prattles with an utter certainty that the officiant is his friend, he uses the hand behind his back to make a shooing motion at the crates, intent obvious: he'll distract if they got any cargo that the guy shouldn't see. "... And you can pop them with your *tongue*! Just like... THIS!" He continues, stepping sideways slightly and hooking his cheek with one finger to make a popping noise that's equal parts fascinating and disgusting.

"I'm afraid that the discrepancies are simply too numerous. By order of the Port Authority, I am... oh..."

With a look that instantly communicates both annoyance and disgust, the customs agent appraises the appearance of this new arrival in all his piratical finery. It's as if he went to Pirates 'R' Us and asked for 'The Pirate Suit.' Which, in a way, makes him look less like a pirate, and more like someone in a bawdy play about pirates. Judging by his reaction, the customs agent isn't a fan of either pirates, or plays about pirates. But the jury is out regarding his feelings about butts.

The customs agent doesn't seem to have a great deal of fear for the group of dwarves, despite many of them being armed with things that are both sharp and rusty. But what does he have to fear? After all, he's armed with the most dangerous weapon around these parts, an official quill.

For his part, the dwarf wearing the Ne'er-Do-Well Special is fairly quick on the uptake, and communicates with the crew by tapping his oversized nose. Not all of the crates vanish, but not all of them need to. A few specific crates, however, get hurriedly shuffled to the other side of the vessel, and to the waiting rowboat hidden over the side.

It's a lot of fuss for four crates. But then the most illegal things often come in small packages.

Like the dwarf wearing the Ne'er-Do-Well Special, who smells of pickled things and cheap halfling pipeweed.

Oh, there's some little signs that suggests the man in pirate costume might be more than just an eccentric cosplayer: His sword hilt is worn and perfectly positioned for a quick draw, his coat is mended but it's more damage from violence than anything else. And on his chest, pinned to the lapel? A pin that marks him as a sworn member of the Society of Dagger Dames and Gentleman Adventurers. As an organization? It's a little stodgy and outdated, but it's *full* of nobility and very dangerous people. He's also utterly confident that the official wants his company... No, that he *needs* Skyler's wisdom!

Pale grey-green eyes cut from officiant to the pickled ne'er-do-well and crew to gauge their progress. And when the officiant reaches down to brush a bit of tentacle off his tablet, Skyler winks at the leader and waggles one eyebrow before he beams brightly at the other human. "Seriously! I love Alexandria City! Sure, there's a chance that a giant stuffed animal will come to life and try to kill you, but then you can eat tentacles and wrestle flaming dragon-men." He snaps his finger, and reaches up to grab the officiant, dragging him close... and turning him further away, "Ohmygods! You have to come and officiate my match with Aelwyn! I'll get you VIP tickets, and when our friend Bryn writes the *epic* ballad, you will get an entire verse!" Beat. And he cocks his head, "Um. So. What's your name?"

"Er..."

The poor government official doesn't seem to be able to keep up with the questions, and isn't entirely sure how he ended up agreeing to any of this. It'll probably be a few hours later before he finally figures out the level to which he has been hoodwinked, but since the ship is more or less clean now it won't really matter. Here's hoping the crew of The Ploughing Goat gets a friendlier customs agent next time. If only Inspector Pike's wife hadn't chosen this very week to have her stupid baby.

"It's... Fritzgilbert... Inspector Fritzgilbert."

He certainly looks like a Fritzgilbert.

With the rowboat moving away from the ship in a pretty stealthy fashion, the dwarf with the pipe looks a bit more relaxed. Dwarves aren't very good sailors, but they're very good rowers. You do not want to challenge them to any paddle-related activities. The crew will be fine. Or at least they'll be far enough away to evade this particular asshole. And they didn't even have to pay a bribe!

Dumping out the contents of his pipe, the dwarf who's apparently in charge of receiving the goods clears his throat, giving Inspector Fitzgilbert a welcome break from the barrage of charm.

"The boys will halt their unloading, good sir. For I can see that you're a fair and just sort of man, and we've nothing to fear from a thorough inspection from the Alexandrian Port Authority. I'll just be off then, to tell my Auntie that her yarn will be a couple of days late."

The inspector looks confused. He won, right? Surely, he's done a great job this day.

"You look like a Fritzy, Fritzy!" Skyler says with a grin and a cuffing of his arm in a friendly manner, the almost frantic energy relaxing as he sees the dwarves row row rowing their boat merrily down the stream. "But I've kept you long enough. You're such a hard worker, Fritzy!" And he shakes his head in admiration, "Gods, the Port Authority doesn't pay you enough, y'know?" A sentiment that Fritzgilbert probably agrees with, right now.

Skyler then grins, turning away to go sit down on a barrel near enough to keep an eye on what happens next. He whistles his sea shanty, *still* off tune.

As the inspector makes his excuses to get back to work, the crew of The Ploughing Goat is ever so compliant for a crew comprised mostly of people who have committed a felony. It seems that the shadiest-looking of them isn't really a member of the crew though, for his interests seem to lie elsewhere. Probably in the direction of the rowboat that snuck off. But in truth, he doesn't look like the sort of person who has spent much time aboard a ship of any sort, with classic dwarven features that look much more geared toward a life in the mines.

But he looks a little sneaky to be a miner.

"Appreciate the help there, boss. Problem with the world these days... nobody looks out for the workin' man, but I can see that ain't a character defect that you suffer from. P'raps we should get a little distance from Lord Fritzy before he starts gettin' any more great ideas though, eh?"

Nimbly, Skyler jumps to his feet with a broad grin as he's approached, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, hey, no big deal, man." Skyler says with a 'jolly-gosh' sort of laugh, "Us honest working folk gotta stick up for each other, hey?" He grins broadly. Coupled with the emphasis on 'honest', it's clear Skyler probably figured out most of the subtext.

At Zigrun's suggestion, Skyler nods sadly, finishing up his tentacle and wiping his hands primly on a white handkerchief before tucking it away in his coat... showing the vials and bags lining the inside, along with the dagger strapped for safe keeping. "Probably a good idea. I'm thirsty, anyways." He shakes his head, "Lying and subterfuge always leave me parched." He pauses, and adds, "You gotta drop point or they prepay? My old crew always preferred drop offs after the fact when we worked with... ahem... outside contractors."

Though his gratitude is apparent, Zigrun is still a cautious sort of individual. A man in his line of work needs to be, and his Aunt isn't especially forgiving of mistakes. So it follows that the information that he offers up is a bit on the vague side, though delivered with a fairly affable sort of demeanor.

"The boys know the new dropoff point, no sense in my waitin' around for it like some kind of loiterer. Loitering is a terrible embarrassing thing to get pinched for, and the guards really have it out for the working folk today."

His pipe is almost comically oversized, but at least it breaks down into two pieces. The case for it takes up a pretty big chunk of real estate on his belt, but just about everything else on his belt looks extremely suspect. Most Alexandrian citizens don't roam around with a grappling hook or quite so many smoke bombs.

"I know a spot near abouts that always has plenty of jars of salt pork. Real cheap too. One of the only bars that stocks a decent dwarven stout in these parts. Not that I mind a good halfling porter, mind... but I like a little sediment in my beer, the way the gods intended."

The swashbuckler human looks ready to protest the dwarf's commentary on loitering, before he frowns, staring past Zigrun... at a poor little street urchin trying to sell flowers in a threadbare dress. He grimaces, and nods, "Yeah, guards and other unwholesome types. Like children." He grimaces, and gives Zigrun a slap on the shoulder. "C'mon, my new pickly friend. I'll get the first round, you can get the second round, and we can trade off until we get kicked out for public indecency!" He says cheerfully, "So what's your name?"

"The folks around here call me Zigrun."

It's a vague enough answer, and one which also happens to be true. There's no need to be bringing up his last name, and the connotations it might carry with it. Never know how might be an expert on dwarven organized crime families, though it's an admittedly niche area of study this far away from the mountains.

He seems to be leading the way to one of the nearest bars. The kind of port establishment frequented by seafaring folks of all stripes, where the wenches are even cheaper than the salt pork, and all sorts of unconventional objects are used as spittoons.

"But I'm in your service, sir. So's I must insist on buyin' the first round, and a few rounds following... we dwarves are picky about debt, you see."

That's also not a well known fact. Or even a true one. But what is a fact, but a shared delusion? It matters only that the shady dwarf in the grubby leathers seems to feel a sense of debt.

Must have been something pretty illegal in those crates...