[Hector makes a noncommittal hum. Human politics mean little to him; for all of the variations between their practices and policies, most civilizations agree that they won’t suffer a necromancer to live.]

Your father has the right idea, not tying himself down to a single place and having to weather the changing tides.

[Hector steals a piece of baklava for himself, then starts to wipe his fingers clean.]

So is that how you want to spend our time on the boat? I’m not opposed.

[The mental image of Alucard, draped on a couch, accepting morsels from Hector’s fibgertips... um, bath soon? Cold bath soon??]