Chatterbox: Inkwell

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I'm writing a story. Constructive criticism appreciated.

A good day, I thought as I sat perched on one of the massive docking posts. I breathed in the warm salty air. The brine-and-seaweed aroma of the harbor wasn't pleasant, but it was everywhere on the port city of Jeor, so the locals were very much used to it. The alley-kids found it amusing to see newcomers and smug merchants hold thier noses and puke at the stench. I found the scent ugly, but homelike.

The merchants of the newest caravan had been so busy complaining at the filth and the smell, and the busy streets that I had come up with a good haul. I'd even been able to snatch two silver crests.

I absentmindedly rubbed my fingers against the dried barnacles on the post. The sailors were done unloading, and were now singing rowdy songs and drinking. On another day I might have entertained them, juggled knives of stones for a few copper crests. Not today. The sultry air was making me feel lazy.

The captain strode onto the gangplank, looking smart in a clean jacket and slacks. He was greeted with whoops and yells. I suppresed a laugh as the captain started barking at them. They sprung to attention, for the most part. One man stumbled along drunkenly. The was a yell and a loud splash as he tripped over a docking line and fell into the harbor. The captain shouted at them until his face turned bright red, but there was no returning to order now.

A peacekeeper, or Ferret, the kids called them, came along at a self-inportant stroll to see what the matter was. I escaped quickly and quietly over the harbor wall. As entertaining as it would be to see the captain tell off the Ferret, I couldn't risk capture. I slipped through the crowds, hidden among thousands.

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