Steward's Log; May 12, 2014

Anchored still. It is beginning to seem as though our ship is in a purgatory of some kind from which we may only be released with the proper timing or proper bribe. Rumors suggest our non-operation is business-oriented in nature, though in truth I can scarcely feign to care as I have no head for figures or for beurocracy. I will simply dein to wait without worrying myself with the details.
Some European gentlemen comprise a percentage of our crew. One fellow is of Russian decent, while the other man's I have yet to determine, as we have had little acquaintance. He is possibly Bulgarian. The two have a lewd tendency to debate Western politics over supper, much to the bemusement of the ship's remaining staff. I say "lewd" not due to their topic of conversation, but rather the fervor by which they conduct it. Within minutes, voices are raised and breasts are beaten by seemingly nationalistic fists. These 'discussions' in time seem to verge on the countenance of 'argument', and their angered tones beget uncomfortable chuckles from the adjoining crew mates. When not engaged thus, however, the two seem as fine men. The Russian fellow in particular seems a chipper sort. He greets me at daybreak whilst arranging his morning tea, favoring a private tankard that he carries about at all times, claiming it has been thus employed for eleven years. Keeping such an item for even eleven months seems beyond me. His accent is thick and nearly archetypal in its sound, echoing the Russian-English accent as it seemingly should be heard, though I'm hardly an authority on such a matter. Regardless, this musical dialect carries with it a certain charm, so long as it is not shouting points regarding the Russian government's approach to property tax.