You've been at sea for weeks and you're bone-tired. The tattered sails need repairs and your crew is working frantically to mend them; storm clouds loom on the horizon. They are fatigued from a full day's labor. Murmurs and complaints linger on the breeze. The faint stench of mutiny. Your mates grow weary, wondering if they'll ever see port again. Lily-livered bastards. Is it the weeks of subsisting on mussels and whale meat? Straw mat beds and the churning waters that ceaselessly toy with our vessel? No matter. This is what they signed up for and you've got bigger fish to fry. The crew continues sewing the sails as you plot the next move. Your throat is raw from barking orders. The briny sea air and your pipe tobacco haven't helped a bit.
Your first mate pokes his head through the door, "Your tea is ready, Captain."
Each cake is 200 grams.
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