@ask-the-wench
It’s as rowdy as ever in the tavern, dozens and dozens of Bilgewater residents slamming glasses on wooden tables, erupting into arguments with one another, and letting out loud, hearty laughs at some perverse joke or another.
Gangplank is thankful for it. In a bar this full, even his hulking presence blends into the masses of patrons drifting in and out of the bar. Some might stare at him and offer a hushed whisper to their friends, “Do you think that’s— No, it couldn’t be—” but most are far too drunk to care, even if they do recognise him.
He works his way past someone belting an off-key shanty and over to the bar, where he breaks into a rotten-toothed smile. “Monette!” he calls, ignoring the few people clamouring for a drink. “How’ve you been?”