Invergordon Sumit

[TFinnegan]

A gentle repeated ping drifted from the work alcove of the Clan Chief of Gordon, high in the slowly rotating con tower of Invergordon.

Tim Finnegan sat up, rubbed sleep from his eyes and glanced blearily over his shoulder at the mass of flame-red hair spilling over the pillow next to him. He smiled and ran one hand through his ruffled mohawk, reaching for his kilt with his other.

Tess mumbled a bit and pulled the tartan plaid covers over her head as he stood, yanking his kilt around him and staggering toward the desk, .

"Coffee. Bloody hot" he spoke into the air as he sat, and a gurlging sound answered from the kitchen.

After glancing over the summons, he peered through sleepy eyes out the massive curving viewport at Arbiter Crow's vessel docked at bay one.
The Aristotle gleamed in the reflected blue light of Cannish.

He tapped a panel on his desk.
"Dockmaster MacCreary." he spoke at the commset. "Do 'ave a case o' 'Gordon Oban an' a keg o' 'Gordon Black Ale sent t' th' Arbiter's quarters on th' Aristotle, aye? Me 'tanks, lad."
Tap.
He stood, stretched, grabbed the cup of coffee and downed it in two gulps.

He bent over the sleeping Tess and kissed her gently behind the ear.
"Oi'll be back, me bonny lass." he whispered.

He strode from his quarters into the gangway, smiling widely.

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