Stavanger Bay O Captain my Captain

The two had been thrust into a moment of awkward fumbling. Smokestep was young, and he had never truly been privy to conversations of that nature. He was still immature and insensitive. In light of the serious tone, it was not as though he had made a fool of himself. Surely, he could never understand what she had endured, and he didn't know how he could speak about such an incident. The pale girl apologized and made mention that it wasn't something she should have brought up so casually with him. He wanted to agree with her – tell her she was absolutely right and move on with their rounds. Some part of him knew that it wouldn't have been appropriate.

“Nah don't ye apologize to me, lass,” he assured her with a shrug. “Was only thinkin' o' me sister an' wot I'd do to a man who had the rank to do anythin' o' the sort to her.” It was a brief flash of honesty and one that was rare to cross his spirits. Smokestep never had been fond of being sober. It was a wicked and soulless thing to have done to any unwilling creature. It warranted a moment of solemnity.