Fit the Sixth, in Which Gibbs Pines, but Only a Little. He Also Grievously Misuses a Funeral Urn.
[Anyone passing the greenhouses today might hear a rusty sailor's voice singing a melancholy tune. If you go inside to investigate, you will come upon Joshamee Gibbs arranging flowers in a rather funereal urn
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A change would be right good, but it be easier to fight against foes with masts an' sails. How do ya fight against somethin' with no form?
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[But then, the thought reached his alcohol-addled brain.]
That's it! If we could build us a giant vacuum cleaner, we could just suck the Mist away!
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And then? Science!
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[He drapes one arm across Gibbs' shoulder and takes a deep swig from his flask.]
We're GENIUSES, Gibbs! Bloody GENIUSES!
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[Gibbs staggers a bit under the weight of Silver but takes a drink from his own flask nevertheless.]
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