⟬ Twenty minutes later... ⟭
"You sure can eat, LT," Krysaos said, his tone flat. "Where does it all go? You uh-- you ain't that big of a guy."
Tycondrius glared at the gentleman Captain out of the corner of his eye.
"Whatever you think you're doing, Sea God," Tycon groaned. "I don't appreciate it."
The Captain pursed his lips and nodded, "Huh? That so? Well, there's a public trash can. Go ahead. Throw 'em away."
Tycon looked down. In his hands was a brown, oil-stained bag, likely made of paper. And in that bag were several balls of fried dough, dusted with sweet powder.
He had no complaints about the bag's contents.
Fried balls of dough were born without sin.
His major complaint was that he was being treated like a child-- distracted by sugary goodness to allay a tantrum.
"...I'm not going to *waste* food," He muttered-- "Korr, where are you taking us?"
