Stavanger Bay I hope we stay thick as thieves, butter and bread

"—and mayhaps ye can name yer ship Ol' Bones, get it?" he prattled on, but Ferahgo's response steamrolled over his. If he realized the captain had been ignoring him, Blurry didn't show it. He lived in his own little world most of the time, and the rest of the time he was on captain's orders and at least a little less self-absorbed.

Ferahgo fished the skull out of the pile, and declared that the rest would be split among the crew. When the next piece was offered to him, Blurry's face lit up and he said, "thank ye, cap'n, thank ye!" It was clear he wasn't used to being the first to get any pick of any treasure. Hell, the swab was lucky if he didn't get the shittiest bits of loot the crew dug up. It was his lot in life, though, and he didn't mind it. He was, perhaps, a little too dim to be overly envious of those above him. "Aye aye, cap'n, I be makin' sure e'ery buccaneer be gettin' his piece o' eight." It was an easy task. Even the skinny Omega couldn't possibly screw it up.

From the pile, he selected a sturdy femur. The bone was thick, much thicker than his own bones would've been, but Blurryface would not have guessed its owner had been a thickset viking in life who had died with illusions of grandeur in his head. He was just a dead man, sunk to Davy Jones' locker, and now he was naught but Ferahgo's crew's booty.