Muhirian Icosahedron

[Silver]

Anxiety and ambition beat tandem in his heart. A coin flipped idly into the air, maneuvered by adroit fingers. He made a promise to a man. Told him that he'd bring him the best treasure from the first expedition that they went on. Silver thought to trick him with his own words, play that 'best' was too subjective and give him a handy little trinket before moving on to greater things.

Unfortunately the man was a bit sharper than the captain expected. Valentine insisted on tagging along with the crew on their voyage, and it had been agreed that he would get first pick from the treasures amassed on this expedition. All in all, not a bad deal, but it mean that Silver had to wait. He had a map that only three other people in the world knew of, one of them on this very ship, and that only Silver himself knew how to navigate. And where that map lead, he refused to take Valentine. Refused to bog himself down with a glorified accountant who fancied himself a pirate, and refused to give that man the pick of a litter too grand for his dreams.

He had to wait one more trip. Just one more.

"Do we near?"

Silver called out. He stood proudly on the deck. The boat swayed this way and that, not violently but noticeably, and Silver held his ground as if rooted to the spot. The tails of his bandana whipped wildly in a vicious, but short-lived, wind. His hands were out in front of him, the left holding onto a saucer and the right gently gripping the handle of a teacup. His single eye looked ever-forward as he sipped whiskey like tea.

The crew had been briefed on what awaited them. If their captain and the various avenues he explored for information were to be trusted, then what awaited them was surely something for the history books. After all, the simple message paralleled by any sailor worth his salt in these parts was simple; the Muhirian Icosahedron was not something to be scoffed at.

[Afflatus]

Donovan Cutlass leaned his back easily against the rail in front of his captain; had been standing there for approximately twenty minutes now, conversing easily with the Captain over drinks. His elbows propped him against the side of the Bumbling Fool, and he cast his head imperiously to the right, as though to search for the would-be source of information. After approximately thirty seconds had passed, he procured a miniature black book from one of his myriad pockets and clicked his tongue with no small amount of vehemence. "Dat be deckswabbin' fer Renault fer two weeks. 'E might hafta clean Ausra fer good measure too..." Then he remembered the man's collection of titles, and that Ausra was, after all, shaped like a woman. "Den again, maybe 'e won' be doin' Ausra."

If there was a reason for the assignation of said duty, Derathod kept it to himself. He stowed the notebook into the right front pocket of his vest, where the gold frames of his bifocals could be seen protruding.

As far as anyone on the ship was concerned, save John Silver, Derathod was just another pirate, albeit one who had more toys than your average seafarer. He could swear, he could fight (sloppily), and he could drink his way out of any memory, but beyond this, was nothing special. Why, then, was he Silver's first mate?

Maybe it had something to do with his impeccable sense of fashion; the man had abandoned his equipment for a simpler approach to pirating. His cloak, along with his bracers, his quiver, and a fair share of his rings, were stowed away in some unseen location, leaving him comfortably bare, save for a pistol slung across his hip on a belt. A vest, accenting the deck nicely, was his most pronounced article of clothing, and all in all, he looked quite dignified, even if his speech did not lend credence to that notion. Still, the ability to look chic and a simply stunning pair of eyes did not a captain's first mate make...

"Dey say da Gods don't play wif icosahedrons, Cap'n." If he knew whether the Bumbling Fool was near its eventual destination, he didn't show it. His fingers stayed close to his pistol. Was Donovan... on edge?

[Inalitalllane]

Sucking in her cheeks until they looked so hollow and sunken as to be considered ghastly, the young Vaughn stood upon the flying jib boom (bowsprit) overlooking the sea. It was morning - and she seemed to be looking into a small device similar to a reliquary that was icing on the glass and dangling from a golden chain. The curious apparatus swung like a pendulum. The soft clicking of her lemur could be heard, nevertheless, remain ascetic, she did. All of her muscles were stiff and her shoulders were curled back - clearly a woman who never relaxed.

Brow creased in cogitation as her brazen, angry eyes bitterly looked at the horizon. "Red sky in the morning - sailor take warning," muttered she, not having any sort of roughly strewn accent. Her voice was poignant, serious, and deeper than a woman's wont - easily able to harbor sarcasm and solemnity in tandem so that one could never tell if a dry line was meant to cut a man down or give him hopes for tomorrow.

Violent winds ripped through her black hair which had pieces of eight braided therein, the other hand having to hold onto her tricorn. Coat tails flapping in the wind, she seemed to stand halcyon with astute balance (who in their right mind would stand on the jib/bowsprit?!) absolutely lost in fond nostalgia or rapt thought. While her clothing was beautiful, her face was fierce and wild - as untamable and as harsh as the sea. Vaughn spoke to no one and was always seen staring at the horizon - as if she were searching for something that should be closer than her heart dared to believe.

Predictions on inclement weather for her were always correct, but as she was not the meteorologist, her voice remained silent. A long sigh was given - those heavy, stiff shoulders heaving as an orange slice was passed up to her lemur - he crawling about across her musket whose intaglio abolone words read: Let them say I have no heart. The long sigh obviously a silent expression of, "Really? - a storm on our first night?" painted on her cold features.

Tactics. The sea was naught but a violent chess board, and she cared little for her crew. She doubted any of them even knew what starboard was. Dripping with apathy, Vaughn continued to stare at the horizon, the sky, and breathe the bitter taste of the salty wind.

[Aleksei]

"A quarter mile ahead Captain."

Ausra appeared beside the Captain with a small cup settled in the palm of her hand and a small smile on her face. She was able to feel the anticipation and taste the anxiety that clung desperately to the air. It was a strange mixture of emotions that put her on some edge but why allow a question to hang itself upon her brow or a frown to peck her lips? There was no way to predict what was going to happen, you just had to take the first step and pray it’s the right one.

The 'woman' lifted the edge of the cup to her lips to sip the contents of sweet tea, sadly, she was not as wayward as the rest of the crew to imagine the taste of heavy liquor. Savoring the taste of her light drink she turned salt eyes towards the proud man.

"I've decided that I would join you Captain on this expedition as I have the capability of being at two places at once."

She had the capability of leaving the ship or her other half like any other but would refuse depending on the perception of danger. With her accompanying them it would be easier to thoroughly prepare themselves for whatever danger calls their name; dodging wasn’t an option. Besides, she could still easily protect their pillar from over there and she was the only one with questionable skills of travel. The ship was her body and she the heart, nothing could happen to it before going through her and she would never allow such a situation to occur.

Taking the final sip of her tea she turned to the unsettled man that had mentioned her name and a cleaning, which wasn't needed at all. A smile was crisp along the lines of her lips as she floated his way a bit. She noticed his fingers carressing his weapon in a manner of calming his nerves in knowing that he was able to protect himself.

"No need for a cleaning, especially by those hands," she nodded towards the man in question with so many titles floating about his head, "I'm pretty capable of handling that on my own. Ausra handed over her cup of tea -full to the rim- to the man as if to offer a sip of something warm.

[Afflatus]

His meeting with Silver was cut short by the navigator's presence; there were some things you didn't need anyone else to hear, especially when the line between machine and person became dangerously thin. The last thing Donovan needed was for one of the varied cretins aboard the Bumbling Fool to sift through Ausra's memory to find out what kind of secrets they could use against him. It was as he thought this that he made a mental note to discover exactly where Ausra's brain was kept on the ship for blackmail purposes against the lower crew members. The black book came out, and he jotted down yet another line, just in time to have tea shoved in his face by the artifice. A pointed glare at the woman sufficed to convey his discontent with their arrangement, and then he stowed his miniature book, shoved his pencil beside it. A casual scan of her figure, and then he spoke, "No, ye be keepin' dat. Looks like ye need'it more den I do."

He walked away wondering how it was possible for the heart of a ship to drink - or consume, for that matter - anything. By the time he had taken two steps, however, the thought was ushered from his mind at the sight of the woman who seemed to conquer the bowsprit with her presence. His hand shied from his gun with a cursory flick of his fingers, as though he was attempting to rid them of some manner of dirt or mud before approaching.

His footsteps announced his approach, the rap of brass knuckles on a wooden door, although he did not wait to be invited before stepping over the threshold. From where he stood, looking up the bowsprit, he could admire her shapely legs quite effectively and, although he did not consider himself a lecherous man, gazing upon a masterpiece was often the prerogative of lonely men. Thus, he waited a moment or two before voicing his mind. When he did, it was in a softer tone than that with which he addressed most of the crew, as though he understood the feeling of having one's feet balanced on a bowsprit, or the taste of the wind as licked from a crow's nest. "I'm not sher dat be made fer standin' on, lady."

He made it a point not to be staring at her legs if and when she turned around and, in fact, would not even be looking in her general direction. Instead, he stared down to where the water began to break against the bow of the ship, his eyes sinking into the sea like a pair of forgotten sailors.

[Inalitalllane]

Footfalls behind her roused great suspicion from her lemur, who purred and clicked with his throat at Derathod. He turned ‘round to peer at him with enormous amber eyes and they were soon met with a very angry pair of green. If you can imagine a pair of eyes that were consistently wild or harsh but without any of the facial expressions behind them, you might understand the look a woman gives a man when she wishes him to drop dead, or to at least bore holes through his larynx…

Kohl had half-smeared beneath her eyes, outlining their smoky appearance, making the look that much more obdurate. She now stood facing him – two loud ‘clacks’ heard as her spatted boots stood upon the bowsprit. Despite him having not been looking at her legs when he addressed her, she knew all-too-well that awkward delay between his footfalls and his speech. She simply folded her arms behind her back and stared down at him – and all of her glittering coat-tails, lace, ornate beads, cowry shells, pieces of eight, hair, and every loose piece of clothing rippled violently in tandem with the sails.

Continuing to stare at him, she simply backed up – not even looking back to see her footing – and with perfect balance went to the farthest part of the bowsprit, turned back ‘round and didn’t give him the time of day.

“It will do you well, sir, to remember that a lady’s eyes are above her knees.” And with a tone like that, Derathod knew he had absolutely botched his first impression.

[Afflatus]

Der be plenty above a woman's knees, milady. Donovan's face did not change, although he did not speak his mind, instead attempting to discern how, precisely, she had caught on to the fact that he had taken in more sights than just the ripples in the water today. As she turned, his gaze didn't shift, even when he could feel her stare burying itself into his body, not because he feared what he could find in eyes like those, but simply because it was enough to have been accused without having to look his accuser in the face. Given the circumstances, it seemed wrong to scold her further about the dangers of walking on the bowsprit. Besides, she didn't seem the type to lose her footing and fall to a lonely, hopeless death; an unseen speck amid roiling waves.

"Tanks fer da reminder, miss, but I got to confess -" If there is, I haven't noticed it in more than fifty years. His own accouterments, sparse as they were, shook with the wind spraying off the front of the boat. "-I be wonderin' why it be ye thought now a good time ta ejucate me..." After all, maybe he'd just walked to the front of the boat, stared down to the waves, lost himself in them for a moment, then snapped back into reality to address Vaughn. Maybe, just maybe, she'd misjudged his character.

The sense of doubt had always been Donovan's best friend.

He continued. "When da real issue is what ye be doin' playin' about on da bowsprit instead'a induljin' wif yers truly in a humble game'o spades." His hands revealed what they had been up to for the past few seconds by running a fingertip atop the deck, a muted snap of cards slapping back into place mingling with the salt-laden air. Vaughn wasn't the only tactician on board, even if she was the only one who wore the title. Call attention to one thing, draw it from another; a game of cards in exchange for her acquiescence. If she was lucky, Donovan would keep things that simple.

And although there was no furniture in sight, the wind would be weak enough at the stern of the ship to allow the two to play a hand or seven with relatively little interference. He didn't move for the time being, just raised his arm and stuck a thumb toward the stern, the universal sign for "that's exactly where we're going to be playing cards, and therefore I suggest we move in its general direction." "'Ow 'bout it? I win, I spend a day wif yer little beastie dere."

He was a subtle man, Derathod.

[Inalitalllane]

With exceptional footing, you could hear the heeled boots cross the bowsprit. She said nothing, but merely walked for a good forty paces toward the stern. Rachel's pace was very quick and very stiff, and she had certain soles so that they made an odd noise when she walked (possibly for intimidation - giving the feel that her steps were heavier than they truthfully were). Coming up to only about Derathod's nose-level, it was Vaughn's tricorn that gave her height.

Jangle-jib murred and ran all over the woman's body up and down at the thought of having to spend a day with a total stranger. How awful! He was big and smelly and had a harsh, brutal, vulgar accent. Hiding beneath the young woman's teal hat, the lemur stuck his ringed tail out so that it seemed as though the lass had quite the gaudy hair ornament.

In the end, though, the two sat perched on a rickety bench outside the Captain's Cabin where a singular round table was bolted to the deck. "And if I win, young lad, you will be bound to the oath that you will remain blindfolded for an entire day."

Obviously, Vaughn had a keen mind to teach an ogler a lesson.

[Thaiis]

An idle jingle could be heard amongst light commotion on deck. A single finger pressed to several trinkets of metal dangling from the cartilage in hear ear. It wasn't that Belle had found a knack for playing the earrings on her person, it was simply a tick she had when lost in thought. A quill pen in hand, she stared lazily at the parchment on her lap. Numbers and letters were riddled across, complex hieroglyphs of a mathematician or a mad woman. She scribbled across the bent and crinkled surface for a short while, mumbling words to herself out loud, though the jingle was becoming louder each time she pressed a finger forward.

The jargon in the background only sought to draw her even deeper into her trance before reaching forward every few moments to scribble down another number or letter. It was seconds later she wrote down a final number, nearly stabbing the pen through the thick parchment as she marked the last serif. Setting the parchment along the railing to the ship, she stamped it by impaling the paper with her quill pen, severing the thin metal of the pen slightly as it sunk into the material of the ship.

The mad scribbles on the paper were just that, maddening symbols sketched throughout would mean nothing to anyone unfamiliar with her work. She wrote to produce formulas for gunpowder and weapons for the ship. Her current project insisted on a smokeless gunpowder, which required a trace amount of sulfur in order to concoct. Without much education she found herself only specialized in certain areas. She had the literacy of a child and only understood her own formulas.

A slow glance turned toward the Captain's Cabin where her eyes then led to the table where two sat. 'A game?' she thought, tilting her head back slightly to feel a short zephyr over her skin. Stepping a bit closer, her person remained a distance away, enough of a distance to spectate. Letting the weight charge to her left side, she leaned, resting a shoulder against the wall of the ship, spectating upon the game-to-be. Shifting her legs, she crossed one so it rest behind the other, the foot behind she tapped, poking the deck lively with the tip of her boot.

The wagers suggested, she snickered in amusement, "Better hope ya win, else ya won't know which way to aim." She carried a lightly drawl to her voice, though she had been around enough people to shift her accent.

[Afflatus]

As the lemur agitatedly worked its way along Vaughn's body, Donovan cast it a glare, as if to reprimand the wee beastie for thinking a day with the First Officer of the Bumbling Fool would be anything but glorious and filled with treats. He followed behind the woman graciously, taking in the minutiae of her stride, how she almost exaggerated her presence in order to be noticed more fully, how rigid she kept her body, as though she walked on planks, and the odd sound her footsteps made as she crossed the ship from bow to stern. His own stride was significantly less pronounced; he walked nearly heel to toe, his hands crossed behind his back. If he seemed lax, it was because that was exactly the impression he hoped to convey to any onlookers; unprepared, a haughty officer who could bark, but whose bite was not to be feared.

He enjoyed the feeling of underestimation, which was why he relished the thought of trouncing this woman in their contest. Of course, this could hardly be helped, since he would be playing with two decks.

From where he sat across from the uptight tactician, Donovan considered the terms she had offered. "Ye be askin' a lot wif yer side o da bet..." He briefly weighed the thought of upping the ante in his head, but, not wanting to lose the prospect of a game, decided to stick to her terms. "But since ye won't be winnin' anyway, I s'pose der be no harm in dat." Some men might have chuckled briefly at that point, to hint at some unknown variable, but Derathod was not those men. He had not survived for seventy years in the assassin's profession by tipping his hand before its time had come.

As the gunner sought to chime in, Donovan's response would be laughter. "Aye, but mebbe yer time'd be better suited tryin' not to blow yer damned hands off." Punctuating his statement with a wink, he turned his attention back to the game.

Of course, he had not been idle. By the time he had finished, the deck had been shuffled three times and placed on the table between them. "Pirate's rules." You can do whatever your opponent can't stop you from doing. It was time for the drawing of hands, and Donovan played the gentleman, gesturing calmly to the deck. "Ladies be first... first rule o piracy."

Another wink. If they hadn't known better, onlookers might have thought he was trying to get under the woman's skin.

[Silver]

"Dey say da Gods don't play wif icosahedrons, Cap'n."

"Den it's da gods who'll miss der destiny."

For a brief moment, so brief that it almost didn't warrant mention, Silver swiveled his eye to the bowsprit and the woman precariously positioned there. He recognized her as Vaughn. A woman who entertained no meager amount of disdain and made no attempt to hide it. Commendable, to some degree, that the woman maintained honesty, but equally irritation because her honesty played a tandem beat with condescension.

"A quarter mile ahead Captain."

His attention shifted from Vaugh to Donovan to Ausra. Donovan, either disconcerted by Ausra's presence or swept up in the air of self-purported intrigue that the Vaughn woman shrouded herself with, parted ways with his captain and made his way to the bowsprit. Silver held his post, mulled something over, then reached into his vest pocket to remove a silver flask. Unscrewing the cap adroitly with a single hand, as the other still held the saucer and teacup, Silver poured its contents into the waiting receptacle.

"Thank ye Ms. Mykolas. Welcome aboard, in a manner o' speakin. Anchor da ship heer befor' we go too far."

He sipped at the cup idly. Silver remained absolutely still in this enigmatic fashion, studying something in the far-away horizon where the blue of the sky and the blue of the sea were almost indistinguishable.

Without warning Silver turned about quickly, bandana tails whipping softly against the back of his neck, and made his way about the ship and down to his cabin.

"Bertrand!" Silver's voice bellowed out for all to hear but addressed only a single person among them. "Into mah office, if ye please."

He passed by Donovan, by Vaugh and by Annabelle with a stiff-legged gait and a passing nod. A distant courtesy, if anything at all. He whisked open the door to his cabin, downed the contents of the teacup before stepping inside and slamming the door behind him.

[Inalitalllane]

With the Captain off-deck, Vaughn had to make little use of time and could not fully preoccupy the First Mate. With the deck shuffled, she quickly grabbed it with a delicately gloved hand. Pressing her fingers against the back of the cards, they were well-used and very pliable - good. From one hand to the other, the cards flew like some passive gesture of sleight of hand. Her tricorn's brim fell over her eyes and there was a wry grin: that bastard was going to cheat. She could feel the thickness in the cards, and no man played an honest game with long sleeves.

Once the two had been enraptured in game play, it was all aces out and twos to match. Both were rather cut-throat and immediately played to win. But if anyone was any attaché with counting cards, he'd notice two decks were being used. Perhaps the two were simply too busy staring down each other in some ridiculous test of manhood or penis-measuring contest to notice, though the end result was rather serious...

Both of them had won. Both of them had cheated. It was an even tie.

Now, normally, this is the part where a devilish brawl erupts, and the two opponents did stand abruptly, sit down slowly, and Vaughn adjusted the brim of her hat. There was a long pause, and yet another devious grin. This worked as he had also gotten the short end of the stick on their bet.

"Well..." came the deep, nearly aristocratic voice of Rachel. "I've always been a woman of honor." The irony of such a statement amongst cheaters was more than amusing.

Nary twenty minutes later, Jangle-jib chirped in what sounded like a scream and ran all over Derathod's body in full-blown anxiety attacks. That damnable man kept running into the mizzenmast; which is to be expected when two opponents both win a passive aggressive game of spades.

Vaughn grinned, lying down on the bowsprit and staring off onto the horizon - the horizon which washed away all of her happiness in only a few seconds. Jangle-jib's jawing, purring, yelping, and screaming could be heard from bow to stern.

[Julius Aldoid]

As the captain called, a ghostly “aye, aye” lingered upon the air. After the captains door had shut, there was the sound of footsteps, moving heavy up the stairs. He had brought only two sets of clothing with him, and both were the uniforms of an executioner. His top had rose above the steps first. His hair was a bit more wild today likely needing it cut, and the dye of his hair was starting to fade, leaving ash colored streaks in it. He wore a black overcoat, likely made of tweed, and in his hands he held a block of lumber in one and a rolled up piece of leather in the other. The leather seemed to jingle with every step. It likely contained tools of some sort.

He stopped atop the stairs and glanced around, taking in the slights from beneath his round, mirrored spectacles. He smiled for a moment. His eyes made their way to the three gamblers for a moment. He smiled even wider, actually showing his teeth, before he stopped and just sighed and made a slight click sound out of the corner of his mouth. The captain's door opened, but without him touching it, and he wandered inside, closing it again in much the same manner.

He looked around for a moment, setting down the wood and leather container, before removing his coat and hat on the hat-rack.

“Yous wanted to see me boss?” His accent as heavy as the others, but a different sort all together.

He turned and stared at his boss, removing his spectacles. It would be a disappointment that the eyes beneath were not changing color.

[Silver]

When the door closed, Silver regarded Bertrand with a grave countenance. Silver walked towards the magewright in a brisk, stilted manner. Reaching into one pocket Silver withdrew a decently sized cast-iron key that, upon crossing past Bertrand, he fit into its respective lock and turned it. Silver left it there and walked back to his desk slightly slower than the electric blue sheen that flashed into place throughout the cabin and then fizzled away.

"Gud werk wit' da room. Yer a man of yer werd."

Silver, his tread much more natural and relaxed now that they were someplace a bit more secure, walked around his desk and positioned himself in the chair behind it. The chair on the other side of the desk was the same make as his own. Same size, same composition, and entertained equal wear it seemed. Silver did not appreciate it when power-plays were leveraged against him and, so, offered the common courtesy of approaching all he interacted with on as near equal terms as the situation called for.

Here, they stood on even ground.

"I have a mission for you."

Perfect pronunciation. Perfect clarity in syntax. Perfect shaping to the words that left his lips. The smooth, civilized voice that left Silver's lips now abraded sharply with his demeanor and with the memory of who he seemed to be.

"I could trust others with this, of that I am sure, even if these others number in the very few. But I've chosen to trust you Bertrand, for reasons I will not divulge, even in the sanctity of my cabin."

In one hand Silver now held a coin, specifically the coin he had been flipping about idly earlier on. This coin he slammed on the table and slid it to the table's edge quite unceremoniously. He removed a second key, this one smaller and made of silver, which he used to unlock a single drawer at his desk. The lock whispered open, belying its impressive fortitude, and Silver removed a small cloth bundle from its depths, held together by frayed twine.

The knot he undid with a simple motion of one hand, and the cloth he delicately parted. When the cloth flower had fully blossomed, Silver slid the entire thing from his end of the desk to the opposite side. A coin looked back to Bertrand even as Bertrand looked to it.

A coin with no polish. It did not glitter in the light of the cabin. Gold, perhaps, but more likely a metal half its worth which coldly mocked gold's illustrious hue. Its face, and its back, was riddled with nonsensical curves and delineations.

"You die before this coin finds itself in the hands of anyone else. Am I understood?"

[Afflatus]

Looking at how the cards lay on the table, Derathod's first instinct was not toward anger, but toward a morbid sort of curiosity, as though fascinated by the twin procession of spades as they marched their way along the woodwork. Right. Suddenly, he was standing, his right hand fondling his pistol fondly, his eyes matching Vaughn's step for step in terms of intensity. Later, when he was sitting, readying his blindfold with lemur perched precariously on his shoulder, he would question why he had not simply caught Vaughn across the jaw with a pistol whip. He didn't bother asking her how she had done it; it was very likely the same way he had.

The feel of the creature's clawed feet on his clothes was trumped in annoyance level only by the excited shrieks it gave as Derathod ran into the mizzenmast for the first time. Admittedly, he had stumbled into it on accident the first time, but then a devilish thought crept into his head, and he began to shift his body to try to pin the lemur between his form and the wood of the mast; further terrorizing the creature - to get his dignity's worth. To the onlookers, it would seem that he stumbled about aimlessly, arms extended; the archer without use of his eyes! Beneath it, although he was disoriented, every step had a purpose, for how better to know a boat than to walk it without looking?

Now then, it was about the time for him to make his grand exit.

A hand, quicker than the little lemur could ever hope to be, darted to where the beast scuttled around his form, grabbing it by the nape of the neck. What was best described as a confused whimper was the last sound the creature would be heard uttering before Derathod, as though he had known the contours of the Bumbling Fool all along, walked unerringly to his quarters; of course, they were not that far from the stern, and it was a relatively straight walk, so this wasn't an impossible, or even improbable, feat.

The door closed shut without a sound.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, it opened again, and the lemur was tossed out onto the deck with a distressed screech, the blindfold now tied around its head with a note attached. If and when somebody chanced to see it, it read, in a polished cursive script:

You didn't say a day straight. I hope your friend enjoys the wardrobe change.

For in his quarters, Derathod had shaven the lemur from head to toe, leaving it devoid of any vestige of fur. And maybe, just maybe, the crew members heard a satisfied chuckle coming from the First Officer's quarters.