[There is a bomb sitting in the tavern. There's a bomb sitting in the tavern, wearing an admiral's cap and with a bristly white moustache. Descry is sitting in a corner and staring with mixed reactions of fascination and unease. Most of the unease comes from the other people in the tavern, the ones who belong to the island and are staring--or emphatically not staring--and stammering answers before escaping the, er, patron's conversation.

[Descry, however, is friends with a living skeleton. Then again, he's never seeing a living bomb before. He wouldn't have minded getting inside this one's head, except that ... well, he's a bomb. He obviously doesn't have a physical biological brain, because Descry certainly can't read his mind.

[Eventually Descry gets up and moves over with his tankard of cider, and sits down opposite the, er, bomb. He's not even really trying to hide the fact that he's staring. Or fascinated. At least he doesn't lead off with the many, many questions about physiology he would have liked to ask in lieu of being able to read the answers directly from the admiral's head.]

How long were you in the Navy?