The thing about finding Sal is that, much like finding religion, if you think about it you probably know where to start looking. Unlike religion, finding Sal has nothing to do with a deep and personal journey, and more to do with searching out the most comfortable out-of-the-way place you can think of and shouting for him. The benefit of a new ship, Sal had realized long ago, was that it wasn't yet broken in. There were no established sleeping patterns, no claimed bunks or broken in bedrolls, and so the first man below deck looking for shut eye got prime pick. Salacious Sal had also realized, long ago, that all one really had to do to be comfortable on a ship was to be that first man.<br/><br/>Thus, on every voyage that Captain Tom Leumas had ever launched, Sal's first act as first-mate had been to climb below deck, find the most auspicious spot for his hammock and set up shop. Let the men above deck slave and swab away to get the ship ready--let them figure it out without him for a bloody change. Lying back in a mass of sodden down, ladies silks and lashings that more closely resembled a four poster bed than a hammock, Salacious Sal figured he'd already got the hard part of the journey down. The rest was just work.<br/><br/>And work could be delegated.<br/><br/>A look at Sal would not have shown you a man you'd think fit for a life at high sea. Swathed in the nicest clothing he'd managed to steal of late, hair done up elegantly beneath a rather fancy three-corner hat and feet adorned in a pair of luscious leather boots that would have made a courtesan swoon, he looked rather more like a hostage than a proper pirate. Some drunk nobleman's son, surely, forgotten by his family for too long and not yet deposited back at port. This man, the new squabs among the roster would likely mutter for the first few days of voyage, was no pirate. This fellow, they would surely think, lubs his land.<br/><br/>The little squid-suckers would learn, of course, about the time he shot one for mussing his pillow.<br/><br/>By the time Mad I-Rina (as he liked to call her when she got uppity) found him, he had already managed to commandeer himself a small supply room on the ship, where his hammock hung over a vast and rather impressive supply of liquor. His fingers plucked at an instrument of some kind (guitar, sitar, lute, balalaika, you never could really tell when it came to Sal) while he relaxed, a bottle from his stores half empty within reach, he groaned slightly at her attempt to roust him and lowered himself to his feet. She'd learned not to come within arm's reach the first time she'd been sent to dredge him up, the sly thing--the bump on her head from last time must have been sufficient incentive not to try and press him too vigorously. Still, Captain called, and if there was one thing Sal was it was a cracking good...<br/><br/>Well, everything, really.<br/><br/>Up the stairs and out on deck with nary a stumble in sight, the march of progress on the ship's surface went completely unnoticed as he marched his way to the Captain proper, bottle hanging idly at his side. If his eyes were listless and dark with baggage as ever, his hooded eyes glittered with trademark amusement.<br/><br/>"Cap'n, my Cap'n, n'ere I thought we was holdin' for a proper crew--these gulls ain't like to know mizzen from mast!"