The captain's cabin of the Scorpion was not spacious.
In contrast to the ostentatious luxury of the Black Reef Prince, it appeared cramped, yet it was filled with a kind of barbaric abundance.
Crumpled silk carpets were carelessly laid on the floor, several crudely crafted yet substantial gold ornaments hung on the walls, and at the corner of the table, gilded wine utensils from the South were piled like a heap of forgotten scrap metal.
Rosa sat at the table, slicing open white bread with a silver knife in hand, the blade sinking into the soft crust with almost no resistance.
Butter was lavishly spread on top, gleaming with a greasy and enticing sheen under the dim candlelight.
Outside the window, muffled chewing sounds could be heard.
It was her sailors squatting in the wind on the deck, gnawing on hard black biscuits.
Dry crumbs fell into the gaps of the deck, soon being trodden deep into the wood grain by bare feet.
Of course, not everyone was like this.
