'Where am I meant to find 5,000 gold pieces?' Cuthbert asked, exasperated.
Dave sighed. 'You know,' he said, 'some people aren't made to be heroes. And if you put a sword in their hand anyway and tell them where the dragons are who need stabbing, you're only...'
His face turned green.
'Well, you're only making dog chow.'
'So the dragons have the gold...' Cuthbert murmured, already formulating a plan.
Stepping carefully over the cracked and burst wood that had previously been the stairs, Cuthbert teetered and tottered his way to the below decks.
It was still technically below decks, he supposed, though the amount of deck it was below had been drastically reduced. It was far less above water than he remembered it, though. He waded in the direction he thought his quarters had been in. It was hard to judge with so little of the ship left.
There is something in the human nature - some deep, primal instinct, some knowledge from the cave times - that sees something dangerous and repulses at it.
It's what has helped mankind survived, stopped them trying to house-train sabre-toothed tigers, stopped them putting poisonous things in their mouths.
Cuthbert wasn't certain the hideous pink lamp could be considered dangerous - unless it was to good taste and housekeeping - but it was definitely repulsive. He had no desire whatsoever to put it in his mouth.
'If you've lost a contact lens, I know a great optician,' Cuthbert called out helpfully. 'He's - well, full disclosure - he's my uncle but only on my father's side by marriage. His name's Ethan Mellender and he's wonderful. He never burns off your eyelashes when he shines the candle in. Well,' he admitted, rubbing at his eye, 'once, but I think that was because I sneezed.'
'So, fairy guide,' Cuthbert said brightly, clapping his hands together, 'any ideas where I can get a sword?'
The fairy looked at him. His lips were a thin blue line. 'There's a difference,' he said dryly, 'between being a fairy guide and being a fairy does-all-the-work-for-no-pay-and-no-glory-for-an-absolute-doofus-who'd-wear-butter-if-you-told-him-it-was-a-hat.'
He took a swig from his bottle. 'Since I'm to be working with the Cuthbert Tattersall,' he continued in a voice that didn't carry the same impressive tone those words usually did when Cuthbert said them, 'proven hero of consequence, genius, all round awesome guy, I'd assume it's the former. I'd assume you've already thought of shop.'
'Let's get this show on the road!' Cuthbert cried encouragingly, clapping his hands. No one cheered. He slowed to a gentle pat. He stopped.
The lead singer looked at him curiously. 'I thought you said we had to do this show on the bridge,' he said uncertainly. 'Yo, is the road going to be better for passing trade?'
'I know a lot of people who walk on roads,' the lute player said, nodding.
‘That’s right,’ Cuthbert oozed in his most seductive voice, as he remembered a line from a book about flirting during job interviews. ‘I’m here direct from your dreams.’
The judge in green shot up in her chair, staring at him, aghast. The judge in blue’s monocle fell into his drink with a loud plop. The judge in burgundy’s face slowly turned a rather clashing puce.
Cuthbert wondered idly if the tip had been to not flirt during a job interview. ‘Erm...’ he salvaged things, cleverly.
