The fellow smiled, and Zechariah stared judgmentally back. The sailor’s eyes had dropped a little too far down to meet Zechariah’s … and he wondered if all those jokes about seamen held a grain of truth.

So, when Zechariah took a seat, he steepled his hands between his legs and leaned forward, offering what could be chalked up to an accidental view down said shirt of his abs (and if he strained or had nice night vision, the top of his pubis, too).

The sitting room was clean – overly so. As though the main human interaction it saw was a dusting. There were knicknacks from here and there. A set of German cutlery, opened for the sheer sake of showing what it was rather than usage; a full bag of coffee from some far-off plantation. Most of them pulp novels, bookmarks still in them – most of them toward the middle or end. Most of them looked to be murder mysteries, though he may or may not recognize the titles of a few of the racier bodice rippers (particularly the French ones). The majority of his library was in English, though there were a fair amount in German, too.

Ah! Fresh from the waters. Perhaps he did it all the time, then.

The fellow with the wandering eyes was quick to emphasize his mission, and Zechariah heard the call all too clearly. Underlings! There was no greater pleasure in life than underlings. Whip a Catholic, fuck a Methodist, screw an Anglican on paper and remember with fondness the time he stepped on him, but what brought true joy to life? Power and authority over others!

“What is your experience?” he asked, confidently, with absolutely no basis to be confident on.