Izzy the Silver Tongued

Izzy attempts a bow.

Ah. Plumes, bleeding plumes, yiss sah.

Wot ever 'appened to makin' yer own clothes...? Seems nowaday folk like ter be purchasin' their garbs off o' thy internet than actually grab a pair o' scissors an' some clothe to cut at. By 'eck, I love makin' me own, but I be admittin', me coat was bought at a price nought thy cheapest. Aye. Yiss. An' as fer boots. Thine 'uge big ol' floppy 'uns that Corsairs strut round in... I only wear 'em when I be at sea or if'n I'm walkin' salt. They be 'eavy, cumberin' when ye wear 'em too much, an' they tend to make yer feet sore. But yiss, that be wid' only thy floppy 'uns. Thy big floppies.

A man sat there on the dock aft, an old, weatherly damaged falcon resting on his left shoulder and leaning slightly to tangle with his hair. Quite the feral fellow, he looked to be about one hundred and ten pounds and was wearing his garments of torn stature and distressed care. Two long daggers rested to the sides of his hips, and he was hunched over so that the leather frock coat he adorned looked slightly too small for him. Tangled, wild hair flew out of his head in every direction under his tricorn, and it seemed to twitch when he moved his head round. This was Izzy.

Ah, I be sayin' er that thou be wore anythin' the scurvy dogs could fackin' get their 'ands inter.

'Ere be some. Ah, yiss matey. I 'ave te recommend thy leather. Tis the coat I 'ave, tis distressed leather, aye yiss.