(Untitled)

[merrimanlyon]

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[destruction1_0]

Some distance down the dock a figure stands with his back to the commodore, and even with the dying light there's no mistaking that red hair.

[merrimanlyon]

The tapping starts to slow, gradually, as does the sound of footsteps on the dock. Both finally come to a stop.

At the moment, Merriman is half-turned away from the figure nearby. His gaze is fixed on the sluggishly moving waters of the tidal Thames.

Then, quietly:

'...will it rain, do you think?'

[destruction1_0]

"You're asking the wrong man. Sir."

He turns around slowly, head raised to the sky -- but when he looks at Merriman, his gaze is direct, and his smile is full of teeth.

"That's a piss-poor conversational gambit, too."

[merrimanlyon]

Merriman bites back the first unpleasant reply that comes to mind.

Also the second.

The third is a little better. 'Do pardon me for attempting to keep up some semblance of the expected stereotype, for the moment.' He even manages to sound civil as he says it. 'Considering the circumstances last time, I thought it appropriate.'