Welcome to Purgatory

[Mr. Kennedy is sitting in Good Spirits. Since he got sick of trying all the different types of Scotch in a vain search for one that tastes like it was made in the eighteenth century, he's settled on something someone called "Romulan ale," unfortunately expecting it to be something like real ale. It's not. As a result, he's singing a sea chanty rather mournfully to himself.]

When I was just a little lad, or so me mammy told me
Away, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe
That if I did not kiss the girls, me lips would grow a' moldy
Away, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe

Away--ho! Haul away, we'll haul away together
Away, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe
Away--ho! Haul away, we'll hold for better wea--

[He stops, then puts his head down on the bar. Maybe it's not the same without a bunch of off-key male voices barreling in on the familiar bits. Either way, someone's a bit homesick. And drunk. Then he gets an idea and opens his journal.]

Does anyone wanna learn a song?

Oh, and Jilly! I found paints! You should come and get them. Maybe when I'm less drunk, though, this thing called Romulan ale being very bad for you, by the way. They're in my quarters. When would you like them? Oh, and Mr. Scott, I've also got something for you. Don't let me forget, because...

[With that, he just stops talking. He'll be in Good Spirits for most of the night. At some point, he'll have to stumble home. The invite is open.]