While fog hung low over the dry docks of London there wasn't much to be considered alive at that point save for the cats, rats, and dogs that scurried the dampness far below. That is, save for one dry dock crew awake before dawn and without but a few grudging words to the hard labor the day pressed on began with balking laughter and hearty insults of one mother or another while groups broke off to return to designated tasks. Atop the rigging hanging by bare foot and hooked elbow around one of the thick ropes that criss-crossed where the sails of the merchant ship Our Lady Marie, a man let forth a sharp whistle. With only one hand to cup his mouth Cobiah Sibill took a deep breath before he bellowed. "Ho-Ho an' up she rises! Ho-Ho an' up she rises!" His voice echoing across the otherwise quiet river long before even the church bells told the early hour, even the sun hadn't caught up with the man who lead his crew with iron mace and deep cups. "Early in the mawnin'!" Came his resounding response from down below, even below the second deck where cargo would be stored and sorted to keep the ship sailing. "What do we do with the drunken sailor?!" Cobiah cried out as he swung in slight tune to the shanty he'd gotten started. "Put'im in the long boat an' make'em bail'er!" They called back with near practiced unison as each man attended his duties with an infectious smile cracking on each of their faces. The baudy song continued on with a few others added to its chorus as one man or another or Cobiah himself found it necessary to be creative in their dealings of drunks and adulterers alike, all in good humor of course. Were it not for the nature of their work this sort of behavior would likely have the clergy calling for blood with a few of the choruses. "Mista' Sibs!" Came a shout from below. Not two moments later he landed on the decks, a set of brown trousers his only attire and a belt to keep them up as his hands fell to his hips with that boyish grin that simply refused to dim as he grew ever older. Upon one side of his belt hung a four sided mace, an archaic weapon when these new rifles could kill a man at fifty paces with hardly a risk to the shooter, on his right side was a thick piece of driftwood shaped into a club with bands of iron while below that swung a rope knife, a mercy for a man caught in the rigging to be sure. "What's the call, Adam?" He asked with a grin and a twinkle in his eye. "News from the court." The graying man stated, offering him a rolled slip of paper to pour over. A few brief curses in at least two different languages came from his lips as he handed the paper back and climbed back to his riggings. If there was one thing Cobiah couldn't stand, it was rich upper class folks.