A voice calls him from his task, and the stag turns to survey his compatriot. What he sees is both surprising and deeply reassuring - it's another stallion, but one of the same chimeric colouration as Bartholomeo himself. Like the pirate, this one's mane is braided - although, to his shame, Bartholomeo has allowed a lot of his braids to fall out in the past few years, with only a few stubborn strands still held in place by tightly-wound coloured beads - and a tattoo stands out in stark contrast to the rest of his body. This other man is bigger, but their builds hold the same work-hardened muscles and raw, unrefined masculinity, telling silent tales of the wilderness, the sea, adventure.

Just to make the overall appearance even more appealing, this newcomer smells of ale. Bart's nostrils flare with distinct interest, drawing in the deep, hearty aroma of whatever tipple the stranger has chosen. Rum, he thinks, the king of all beverages. It's been months since he had anything to drink, and he's rather afraid that his tolerance will be next to nothing. Time was, he could out-drink each and every one of his crew, but the alcohol levels in his system are next to nonexistent now, which is a crying shame. All in all, the stag's interest levels are truly piqued, and he scrutinises this new man with great curiosity. A reformed (or not so reformed) pirate, perhaps? A former captain, or a once-loyal crewmember? There's definitely something of the wild there, something that Bart recognises openly because of its presence within himself, too.

The pirate offers his thunderous boom of a laugh at the newcomer's first words. "Ah, sometimes a man is too proud to ask for help," he says, wincing slightly as he moves and feels the shoulder he's used to push the driftwood suddenly throb its displeasure. The stranger remarks about the approachable-ness of Helovia's inhabitants and Bartholomeo nods his agreement, even if, to his shame, he hasn't done a great deal of socialising with anybody other than his family. Helovia is the proverbial sweet shop, but he's been too busy to dip his hand in and sample the myriad delights. Too busy hunting for his missing possessions, which he is still no closer to finding. That's the irritating thing about thieves - they're far too good at blending straight back into the shadows from whence they came.

The man offers his flask, and Bart tilts a brow. "A man after my own heart!" he declares, gratefully taking a swig (I also dunno how this would work but SHHH) before passing it back and grunting his thanks. Damn, it tastes heavenly! Immediately the stag's muscles are filled with renewed vigour, and the pain in his shoulder lessens considerably. He's not had enough to get all-out drunk - when he's left propping up the bar, slurring and leering at anything with a vagina - but he's pleasantly tipsy, enough to relax him and make the world seem that much less objectionable.

"I'm Bartholomeo," he introduces to the newcomer, taking a momentary rest from his work in order to speak. "Is it safe to assume you are not from these parts?"