#i dont actually know when this is meant to be set
He can’t find his damned jacket.
It was a casualty of his eagerness to be naked as quickly as possible the night before, dumped inelegantly on the floor with the rest of his things. Pants, shirt, boots, various other accessories, they’re all accounted for.
Stede’s things, as usual, are tidy and put away already. He worries about things like wrinkles creasing his fine fabrics and ruining the aristocratic aesthetic he’s cultivated. Polite society thinking he’s dead isn’t an excuse to dress sloppily, according to him. He intends to run with the Gentleman Pirate moniker he’s so fond of, fussy clothes and all.
