Actually, it looks like a bunch of sailors, along with some other people. But you don’t see any alcohol.
“Can you believe the captain said no drinking until the festival starts?” one of the sailors grumbles. “I mean, I’m not gonna mess with them, but that don’t mean it ain’t ridiculous.”
“Don’t mention drinking to me,” a skinny man shoots back. “That’s how I ended up here. And the day after they put me in here, Redlake moves his brewery right down the street.”
In here? You glance at the nearest sign. Looks like this is a recovery house. Why the sailors, then?
“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, sorry,” says the sailor awkwardly. He pours himself a glass of water. “I’m just sayin’, I’ve had enough of lukewarm water already. Can’t this place even afford a freezer?”
“I never said you had to come with me, Potts,” says an older sailor. “You all tagged along because you were desperate for something to do that wasn’t a fight, as I recall.”
The sailor just folds his arms and looks annoyed. There’s definitely a story here, but you’ve got little reason to think it’s important to you.
That is, until a couple of strangers pop by. A man and woman wearing weird uniforms, and carrying someone unconscious in an overcoat. You think this warrants a look, because there’s definitely a strange story here.
And one of the sailors walks right up to them.
“Why exactly are a couple of Redbellies showin’ their faces in this town?” she says angrily. “I didn’t even know you losers were still around.”
And as soon as the woman answers, you realize you’ve got a problem on your hands.