"We Been Keel Hauled Fer Shur!"

Shark Tooth squinted through his swollen right eye at the wounded man who lay bleeding on the floor with his own dagger protruding from his left leg.

"Muh Name's Shark Tooth ... Wylie 'Shark Tooth' Stryker ... Ah Best Be Gittin Yer Leg Ta Stop Leakin Ballast ... Shur Dun Look Purty!""

Blackheart listening to his new found friend feels relief that he is receiving help.

"Me name tis Daxon Blackheart mate. I am indebted to ye fer yer help."

Daxon doesn't move quickly. He awaits instruction from Wylie as to not further cripple the situation. He notices wylie took a beating himself. Not sure why someone would do that for a stranger they don't even know. Suddenly this Sundog with a female captain seems more like a sure thing.

Daxon checks his pockets for a token of payment to help Wylie get whatever he needs to assist. Assuming he wasn't robbed in the mugging. (OOC: Luck Check )

Cracker stood on shore with Fin looking at the port of Tortuba. It was an island with a fort and a small town and a bunch of ships at the docks. In other words, it fit every stereotype of a new-world port he could imagine. The big difference was that this one didn't seem to have a significant naval presence, although that fort could make things awkward for a visiting ship. But he wasn't concerned with the fort, he wanted to see the ships and the docks.

He wandered with Fin along the docks keeping his eyes open to try and identify any cargo being unloaded or, more significantly, loaded onto a vessel. There were ships of all sorts and Tortuga proved an interesting port as the pair moved along. After a while Fin approached a dockhand and attempted to get some information from him. Cracker hung back feeling that a second lurking presence would only make the dockhand feel uncomfortable. Instead, he moved towards the ship that seemed to have the most appealing cargo getting loaded.

(OOC: Skill check for identifying what is being put onto (and off) of ships. Assuming he finds a ship that seems to be loading something of interest he approaches the vessel in the following manner.)

As Fin continued to talk to the dockhand behind him, Cracker moved on to a ship that had caught his attention. It appeared to be loading a cargo of (Whatever the GM determines, but surely it is a cargo of solid gold statues, diamond necklaces and chests full of jewels! Right? No? Are you sure? Ok.). Cracker approaches the ship next to his target first and approaches what appears to be the quartermaster who was busy loading a cargo. His real goal was to watch the target ship, but he spoke briefly to the man in front of him, asking where this ship was heading.

"I've sailed on a number of ships, so I could help you. But right now I'm without a crew. And I need to get home. So I'm wonderin' where yer headed. If I might be of service on this ship here. I'm experienced, as I said." He ducked his head low, trying to seem like a man desperate for a job. He wasn't disappointed when the man sent him away, as he hadn't really wanted a job anyway. This man would be a poor replacement for Fin and the Cole sisters.

The ship's quartermaster responded to Cracker's 'I need a job' routine by sending him away. "We're headed to London sailor, but I have a full crew, so unless you want to pay your way home, this ship isn't your answer. There's more here headed out soon - and a few taverns where hiring happens." The man looked at Cracker and was about to add a curt "more on!" but Cracker had already done so.

(OOC: While there Cracker also cased this ship to see what it might be hauling.)

Cracker moved off quickly - his move on the first ship had just been a feint. If he was looking for work, it was best to look like he was moving ship to ship and be sure his story could be checked if needed. So he moved directly from this ship to the one he was most interested in, being sure that a couple of sailors saw him approach from the other vessel. He found a man directing the loading of goods onto the ship - probably the quartermaster, although he might well be a Bosun like Cracker himself.

Cracker approached the man with his hat held in his hands. "Sir. I'm looking to ship out with a good crew sir. I've been a good boatswain afore sir. I can do good work." When the man looked at him, he rolled his hat a few times in hands to give the look of a man who was desperate. "Where are you headed to sir.? My Mam, Sir. I have received news it goes poorly. I need to get home. but I can work my way there. I'm a good sailor. It is a fine ship, sir., I've served on her like afore. Where is it headed, sir.? If only . . ." He kept a running commentary of his need to get home going, but without ever giving the location of his home.

(Cracker wants the officer to give away their destination. If he does, the rest of the conversation will go as follows.

If the man demands to know where Crackers home is he will say "Carolina" because he has spent some time in Charleston and could flesh out a story if needed. The Carolinas are also big and might give him an ability to say "no" even if the ship is headed there. He will try to get the man to give up the destination again by suggesting that "maybe by going there first I can find a ship going home.")

As soon as the man told Cracker where the vessel was headed Cracker completely changed his demeanor. "Oh, no, Sir. That is no good, Sir. I need a vessel going to America, Sir. (OOC: Or change the location if this ship is headed there.) My Mam, she is in Carolina, Sir. No, that won't work. But I thank you, Sir." He dropped his head a bit and turned to go, but stopped. "Sir. Carolina, Sir. I need to get home. Do you know if any of these other ships are headed that way? Or even to the mainland at all? I may need to settle for just getting closer. Do you know sir? Could you help a fellow seaman?"

(OOC: Cracker will say, "a fellow bosun" if he believes that to be the rank of this man. If he is at all uncertain he will not, wanting to be sure not to insult a higher ranking officer.)

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 10:35 A.M.; The Le Porc Fattest Tavern

"New here, eh?" the chubby man says after eyeing the Portuguese sailor up and down. "I wasn't aware any trade was due this day. Please, be seated." He points to the remaining chair at the table between the other two and continues. "I am Captain Thomas Levy of the Azure Seas. This is my sailmaster," he motions to the wiry fellow,"Mr. Olsen, and this is my quartermaster, Mr. Fernandez. We thank ye kindly for the libations, Mr,?"

Goncalvo takes the offered seat. "My name is difficult to pronounce for most not of Portuguese blood. Call me Mr Jonnie for ease sake, it is what most end up calling me anyway." Motioning for the bar wench, "A round of ale for my new friends and another of the same as I had before for me.

"As for arriving cargo, we made an unscheduled stop to repair some damage and replace a few lost souls. Ran into a bit of nasty weather. It is up to the captain to choose whether to unload here or maintain our cargo for another port. I just take the ship where told."

This elicits a knowing chuckle from Mr. Fernandez and a smile from the other two while having the necessary effect that the Portuguese sailmaster is looking for and breaking the ice a bit more. Conversation is guarded, but friendly enough. Beginning with simple talk about the local weather patterns this time of year to which Fernandez has a great deal to expound upon. Occasionally, Olsen chimes in with a wry comment about how certain conditions make the transport of sugar more difficult than others, or the risks of losing cargo to flooding in heavier storms. There's even the story of a ship that was lost in the recent Spring gales somewhere north of Bahie du Mole with no survivors. One hundred and thirty men lost their lives during that storm and the local cane farmers lost hundreds in profits as well as a good fifty slaves. The captain is grim as he retells the tale like he had been there, which, of course, was impossible. The three appear to be ready to relax and willingly accept the drinks Goncalvo plies them with (OOC: Watch your coin. You'll need to let me know how much of it you're willing to spend. You can purchase enough ale for one person to get drunk on by spending 1 penny. I've posted a breakdown of currency on the 1st post of the QA thread) but they also do not seem to be in any kind of hurry. This may take a while.

After a time, the Dog's sailmaster presses for the information he's seeking. "From what you mentioned about knowing the arrival of cargo, I infer that you are men who know things. Always good to meet someone with an eye towards business.

"Soon as repairs are done we head toward the American coast. I cannot say I have been there before so I am not familiar with the wind patterns or the safest routes. I'd hate to be stuck with my sails hanging limper than a eunuchs peter. And, it would be a shame to run into any trouble on the way, especially any trouble that brings its own ship."

Captain Levy settles back in his chair and smiles softly at his battered clay mug as he turns it slowly about with two fingers at the base. "Winds be as they are about channels and shorelines. Currents too. Ships, now, ships are another tale to be told, Mr. Johnny." He raises his eyes and Goncalvo can sense mistrust in that hooded gaze. A quick glance towards Fernandez and Olsen reveal that they've fallen mysteriously thoughtful and contemplative, the skinnier of the two wearing a deep frown to boot.

"No captain in his right min' would talk ‘bout courses with any other than his own sailmaster an' navigator. So, beggin' yer pardon but I'll politely ask tha' we change the subject."

(OOC: Time is roughly 11:35 AM.)

------------------------------------------------------------------

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 10:45 A.M.; The Wharf

"Th' more things change," Fin rumbles, nudging Cracker with an elbow and nodding towards the wharf. "Best place ta start huntin' prey, Cracker," he continues as he takes his first steps in the direction of the quay, "is ta check th' places where it eats an' s**ts," Without another word, Crowe strides for the wharf, pausing only once, and, then, just long enough to pull a smoldering twig from the remains of some salt's campfire and use the thing to finally light the cigarillo he's been chewing.

Cracker says nothing in response and wanders with Fin along the docks, keeping his eyes open to try and identify any cargo being unloaded or, more significantly, loaded onto a vessel. There are ships of all sorts, perhaps numbering in the ten to twelve at anchor, and Tortuga proves an interesting port as the pair moves along.

Once quayside, Fin mounts the salt and sea stained docks and moves through the throng of folk milling about the crates and cargo that are stacked and scattered along the planks of the piers. As he walks, he smokes and surveys the array of shipments along with the faces of the people he passes. At the end of one long dock, Crowe catches sight of a bedraggled wharf-hand whom, it appears, has taken a moment from his task of stacking piles of provisions in order to prop himself against a cluster of rum barrels and enjoy a puff or two from his pipe. A long draw on his own cigarillo and a few steps brings Fin alongside the barrel stack where the wharf-hand stands puffing on the pipe and staring wearily out over the harbor. Fin leans casually against a barrel and, for a long moment, says nothing. He simply stands and smokes and, like the wharf-hand, lets his gaze skim from ship to ship where they bob in the bay.

Cracker hangs back, feeling that a second lurking presence will only make the dockhand feel uncomfortable. Instead, he moves towards the ship that seems to have the most appealing cargo getting loaded.

The wharf-hand puffs absently on his pipe and, with something of a discontented sigh, blows a smoke ring into the air toward the boats that buoy on the blue waters of the harbor. For his part, Fin blows a jet of smoke past his own lips, shooting it through the middle of the hand's smoke ring as it slowly expands and roils away on the wind.

"Long day ahead," Fin's rasping voice finally breaks the silence, though neither man's gaze falls away from their surveying of the ships. It is more a statement than a question.

"Aye," the wharf-hand returns, sparing only a sidelong glance at the dark man who leans against the rum barrel, "an' she looks ta be a hot'n, as well."

"Mmm," Fin rumbles with a fractional nod as he takes another drag from his smoke; his squinting stare still dancing over the bay.

"I‘m a'ready wringin' in me own juices," the wharf-hand fumes softly, poking at the dregs of his bowl with a splinter he pulls from a deck board, "an' by th' time th' next boat sallies out, I figger I'll be all but melted, an' fer what? A penny' an' a half-pence." The man sighs his exasperated sigh again, spits into the water off the side of the dock, and clamps the stub of his pipe back between his teeth.

"Sounds 's if ya might need anoth'r line o' work," Fin grumbls in reply.

"So says you an' th' missus," the hand answers around his pipe stem. "It's God what don' seem ta agree."

Fin snorts out a short chuckle at that, sending a cloud of his own smoke billowing out on top of it. "Tha's th' way it seems ta work," he says. "Anythin' o' interest goin' out er comin' in?"

The wharf-hand's shoulders tense a bit and he turns to actually look at the surly man who is now crushing out the remains of his cigarillo on top of the rum barrel. "Reckon tha' d'pends on who's askin'," he remarks cautiously, his eyes going from weary to wary.

Smiling a mirthless smile, Fin flicks the crushed stub of his cigarillo into the water, dips his fingers into his belt, and draws them back out with a silver coin pinched between them. "Th' man who'll give ya more'n a penny' an' a half-pence fer th' right scuttlebutt, mate."

Staring at the proffered coin, the wharf-hand's brow furrows into a webwork of crisscrossed lines deepened by a lifetime of weather abuse. Sticking his pipe abruptly into his mouth with a click of clay to tooth, he says nothing further to Fin, but pushes from the barrels and walks slowly away. After a few feet of this casual strolling, the man retrieves his pipe and taps it completely out before slipping it into a pocket of his trousers. He doesn't grant the Dog's quartermaster another look as he sets about his duties once again. The best, Crowe can hope for at this point is that he'll keep his mouth shut merely because that's what people do who wish to live.

(OOC: Sorry, but the roll failed.)

As Fin continues to talk to the dockhand behind him, Cracker moves on to a ship that has caught his attention; a barquentine of a dark, rich coffee color with three masts and about three hundred tons. It appears to the bosan to be loading a cargo of large, square crates that could contain anything from sugar to coffee, potentially good prizes if a buyer can be found and the crates remain in good condition in the taking. Cracker approaches the ship next to his target first and advances on what appears to be the quartermaster, who is busy overseeing the loading of the cargo. William's real goal is to watch the target ship, but he speaks briefly to the man in front of him, asking where this ship is heading.

"I've sailed on a number of ships, so I could help you. But right now I'm without a crew. And I need to get home. So I'm wonderin' where yer headed. If I might be of service on this ship here. I'm experienced, as I said." He ducks his head low, trying to seem like a man desperate for a job. He isn't going to be disappointed when the man sends him away, as he doesn't really want a job. This man is a poor replacement for Fin and the Cole sisters.

As expected, the ship's quartermaster responds to Cracker's 'I need a job' routine by sending him away. "We're headed to London sailor, but I have a full crew, so unless you want to pay your way home, this ship isn't your answer. There's more here headed out soon—and a few taverns where hiring happens. Look there." The man looks hard at Cracker and is about to add a curt "move on!" but Cracker has already done so.

Moving off quickly—his attempt on the first ship just a feint as if he actually is looking for work, it's best to look like he is moving ship to ship to be sure his story can be checked if needed. So, he moves directly from this ship to the one he is most interested in, being sure that a couple of sailors see him approach from the other vessel. He finds a man directing the loading of goods onto the ship—probably the quartermaster, although he might well be a bosun like Cracker, himself. The game is afoot despite the boatswain's inability to determine the type of cargo being loaded.

Approaching the man with his hat in his hands, Cracker states in as pleading a voice as he dares, "Sir. I'm looking to ship out with a good crew, sir. I've been a good boatswain afore sir. I can do good work."

Turning from his duties, the broad-shouldered individual with a closely shaved head and a scar under his left eye looks the smaller individual up and down while Cracker rolls his hat a few times in hands to give the look of a desperate man.

"Where are you headed to sir?" William presses. "My Mam, Sir. I have received news it goes poorly. I need to get home. but I can work my way there. I'm a good sailor. It is a fine ship, sir., I've served on her like afore. Where is it headed, sir.? If only—"

"We're already at full muster, salt," the fellow replies in a deep voice that practically resonates in Cracker's bones. "I'm ‘fraid you'll no' find passage here."

William persists, still wringing his hat. "My Mam, sir,"

Sighing, the fellow looks over his shoulder at the activity on board and then turns back to the boatswain of the Dog. "Look here, we're due in the Colonies within five days. Where's yer port o' call?"

"Carolina, sir."

"Well, we're t' put in at Georgia, but I could, perhaps see if the quartermaster has a need. It will at least take ya tha' far."

"Oh, no, Sir!" Cracker becomes agitated. "That is no good, Sir. I need a vessel going to Carolina, Sir. My Mam, she is in Carolina, Sir. No, that won't work. But, I thank you, Sir." He drops his head a bit and turns to go, but stops and turns to look over his shoulder at the dismayed sailor. "Sir? Carolina, Sir. I need to get home. Do you know if any of these other ships are headed that way? Do you know sir? Could you help a fellow Bosun?"

Frowning and shaking his head, the other bellows while waving William away, "I care no' where others be sailing, salt! Get off with ya."

(OOC: Time is roughly 11:00 AM.)

----------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), 11:15 A.M.

"I'll show ya mine if ya show me yours," Anna Cole states coldly after a moment's thought.

Grover flashes a wily grin, "Delightful."

"Mags," Anna begins without taking her eyes off the wide features of the proprietor. "Head on back t' the Dog an' prepare t' receive a visitor."

Maggie turns her head to look at Anna as if she hasn't heard her correctly. If Anna is to look at her, she will be able read the thoughts dancing in her head. Why should we give in to this man? Why not find someone else? But she knows that Anna always has a plan and that she doesn't always share the details with her; so she simply gets to her feet with an audible deep sigh.

"Aye, Captain," she replies and, without another word, turns and strides from the Tavern into the blazing sun and the rising temperatures. Her angry strides leave no doubt to her thoughts on her orders.

She returns directly to where the longboat had previously beached without obstruction and then waits for five minutes while it brings the third round of Sun Dog sailors ashore. Most on the Dog know not to pester her even good naturedly, but being hungry for wenches and ale they barely pay her any heed as she commandeers a seat on the return voyage, allowing the assigned sailors to row back to the ship as ordered. Once aboard, she gathers some of the watchmen left aboard and makes sure to address anything she thinks might seem out of place to a fence. She has the men clean up the deck, though most of it is already shipshape as the sailmaster doesn't allow the men to go ashore without all the lines properly stowed and secured.

Maggie next turns her attention to the hold and organizing their sparse prize of goods that for sale to the merchant when he comes aboard. Once everything is ready (approximately twenty minutes after arriving on board the deck of the Dog), she has the men return to their duties as she stands upon the forecastle and looks out over the water towards the dock to keep an eye out for the longboat that would bring Mr. Grover and her sister.

She hasn't much longer to wait and can see through Anna's long glass the pair approach the shore from the town. The Dog's longboat is still beached with a single man stationed to protect it and man its oars should the need be. Mags watches as her sister engages in brief conversation with the sailor and then, when Mr. Virgil Grover boards, Captain Cole assists the crewman in pushing the boat into the softly rolling surf before climbing in herself. Another few minutes and the longboat is aside the Sun Dog, the rope ladder hanging over the side and a couple of watch sailors standing by.

Anna is first to board, followed by Mr. Grover who pauses at the rail to scan the deck before swinging his leg over and fully boarding.

"Seen some rough seas, have ya?" Grover remarks dryly as he spots the still unrepaired damage from their last hunt.

"Rougher than some," Anna replies. "Satisfied tha' we are who we say we are?"

"No' quite," Virgil rolls his thick jaw about and considers the lay of the land, as it were, but Captain Cole is tired of playing the complacent and presses the issue.

"You asked t' see the ship, Mr. Grover," she narrows her eyes strikes a stubborn pose, feet shoulder-width apart, fists on her hips. "You've seen ‘er. I'll allow fer you t' inspect the cargo seein' ‘ow yer here, but mind yerself, sir. I'll no' accept a wit further insult withou' answerin' it in kind."

Grover lazily turns his tiny eyes to the protesting woman and with as little release of energy as possible, raises his eyebrows into the sweat beginning to form on his forehead. Beneath his walrus mustaches, the large man presses his lips together as his shoulders square to the much smaller captain. The watch sailors shift warily and drop their hands to their pistols and swords but make no further move. Virgil's beefy hands remain relaxed, however, and after a moment's further consideration he motions with his left and accompanies the extended arm with a low, "Then, t' the hold, captain."

Motioning the watch to the hold grating, Anna turns sharply on her heel and strides purposefully to the latched door they open. Hovering at the top of the descending stairs, she stiffly mimics his recent motion by extending her left hand towards the opening and offering, "After you."

Knowing Maggie's moods, Anna meets her eyes and gives a slight shake of the head before following the hulking tavern owner into the lower reaches of the Sun Dog. The message isn't so much to dissuade Mags from following and participating in the engagement as to warn to rage off and remind her to keep a cool head about her.

Mercifully cooler than the deck, the Dog's hold is mostly empty. Faint odors of saltwater, sweat, and other unpleasantries hang in the air with a persistence. Stronger whiffs of lime and oil caress the nostrils of all who have made their way into the shade, farming implements are tied against the small stack of barrels containing the raw lime, rough cut lumber in a pile approximately six feet tall and eighteen feet long runs up to the other side, and set next to the lumber are various pieces of residential furniture. The "treasure" is embarrassing to the captain, but she cannot run a ship without what little money it will bring in and is determined to negotiate the best price for it.

"This be it?" Grover folds his arms across his chest and rocks with the delicate sway of the ship.

"Aye," Anna cagily watches his response. "This be it."

"Wha's tha' smell?"

"Lime," Captain Cole replies steadily.

"Lime? Wha' the ‘ell is that good fer?"

"It's good fer somethin' or they wouldn' be shippin' it, now would they?" Anna boldly proceeds. "The furniture an' the wood'll bring a fair price on the market. As will the farmin' goods. I'll wager a pretty penny tha' the barrels o' lime'll fetch a fairly decent price as well. I'm willin' t' part with the whole cargo lot fer five hundred crowns."

To his credit, Virgil doesn't openly scoff. Doing so might have won him a shortsword in the gut by an irate Hellfire Maggie and it is possible that he sensed as much. Instead, he calmly counters with, "A hundred crown in cash, two hundred in promise at the sale o' the goods, an' another ten shillings in drink fer each o' yer crew at my tavern."

Anne begins a methodical stroll about the hold, her thumbs hooking her belt as she mentally works through the offer. After a time of consideration she turns to face the large business man and counters, "Four hundred an' seventy five crown. Two hundred in cash, two hundred in promise on the sale, an' seventy-five t' split amongst my crew in food, drink, an' women courtesy o' yerself."

And that's how the negotiations proceed for the next few minutes before Mr. Grover concedes to a price of four hundred crowns, one hundred and fifty in cash, two hundred and twenty-five in promise, and twenty-five in food, drink, and wenches for the crew. Anna accepts Virgil's outstretched hand and allows hers to be engulfed in its mass for a few shakes before extracting it.

"I'll see ya back t' shore, Mr. Grover," she declares and starts for the stairs.

"There be one last thing, Captain Cole," Virgil tilts his head on his thick neck and waits for her to turn around and face him again. "I'm wond'rin' if I can sweeten our relations a little."

"Careful, Mr. Grover," Anna Cole cautions, a wary look resting on her beautiful, freckled face.

"There was a time when I held a much larger share o' the sales here," Grover ignores her warning and charges forward with his offer. "Tha' is ‘til Davenport muscled me out. I wan' me share back an' I wouldn' mind seein' ol' Davenport experiencin' some o' the hurt he's put on my business as well."

"An' what makes you think we're the types t' handle tha' sort o' thing, Mr. Grover?" Anna refrains from looking to her sister to catch Maggie's reaction.

"Yer new t' Tortuga," Virgil replies easily. "Ya ‘ave little t' nothin' ‘cept what I jus' ceded in these here negotiations besides yer ship an' crew. People in these parts rely on reputation as much as skill an' ya do this, you'll be building on tha' reputation quickly and fiercely."

"Besides ‘avin' you owe us a rather large favor," Captain Cole states.

"Besides the favor," Virgil repeats.

"I'll think on it, Mr. Grover," Anna turns and begins ascending the stairs. "Meanwhile, I'll ‘ave me crew deliver the cargo t' yer warehouse if you'll tell Maggie where it be."

As the captain achieves the main deck, Virgil turns to Hellfire Maggie and scratches at his jaw. "I no longer ‘ave access to the main warehouses. Those be Davenports' now. Yer crew can deliver the goods t' me tavern. We'll put it in with the stores fer now.

"Davenport thinks he's dug in quite well, Maggie," Virgil shares in a quiet voice. "He won' be expectin' trouble. Should be easy, an' might include a nice haul fer the Sun Dog too. I'll be happy t' discuss shares o' whatever Davenport holds with yer captain at her leisure."

(OOC: Time is roughly 12:15 PM.)

-------------------------------------------------------------

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga (Ile de la Tortue), 11:17 A.M. - Port of Tortuga - The One-Eyed Parrot

"We been keelhauled fer shur!" Shark Tooth squints through his swollen right eye at the wounded man who lies bleeding on the floor with his own dagger protruding from his left leg.

"Muh name's Shark Tooth... Wylie 'Shark Tooth' Stryker. Ah best be gittin yer leg ta stop leakin' ballast ... shur dun look purty!"

Blackheart listens to his new found friend and feels relief that he is receiving help. "Me name is Daxon Blackheart mate. I am indebted to ye fer yer help."

"Ah be needin uh rum ter clean yer leg," the other man replies before turning gingerly to flag down one of the wenches swishing about in her skirts serving the remaining patrons.

A brunette with large, watchful eyes and pouting lips that give her the appearance of one none-too-pleased with being the one to answer the summons approaches if a little slowly. Shifting her gaze from the beaten man requesting her attention to the one still bleeding all over the floor, she stops a good four paces from Shark Tooth's right side and awaits his word.

"The salt ‘ere needs uh hand, miss," he struggles to look upon her face with his damaged one eye. "Is thar a surgeon about?"

"This be Tortuga Bay, mister," she winces as though feeling his pain as he talks. "We're no' like Boston ‘r the like with doctors an' such."

Wylie allows his head to droop a little with the news but presses on, "Then ah needs some o' yer ale an' a cloth."

"I'd be beat fer sure if I let ya bloody up one o' the cleanin' rags," the woman gasps.

Daxon moves slowly. He has been awaiting instruction from Wylie as to not further cripple the situation, well aware of the beating Shark Tooth took intervening and not being sure why someone would do that for a stranger. Now, at the onset of her argument, he checks his pockets for a token of payment to help Wylie get whatever he needs to assist and is comforted to find his coin purse still beneath his belt. Removing the leather bag made from the scrotum of a large bull he'd picked up in his travels, Blackheart grimaces as pain shoots up and down his leg. The sensation is nearly enough to do him in but he manages to keep his wits about him as he lies back down fully upon the floor. Fishing two fingers into the mouth of the purse, the wounded sailor finds a half-penny and holds it up high enough that the wench might see it.

"I'll see what I can do," she mumbles while taking the long way around Wylie's table and timidly approaching the fallen Blackheart to snatch the coin from his fingers.

As the serving girl makes her way to the bar under the watchful eye of the grizzled barkeep, Shark Tooth grunts away the pain coursing all through his body from the beating and does his best to help his new friend up to a tabletop. It's a challenge due to the wounds both have sustained but by the time the serving wench returns, Daxon the Blackheart is positioned somewhat securely on the table, his injured leg propped up on the back of one of the chairs, his other foot resting on the seat of the same chair.

"The ale is a farthin' an' the cloth's another," the woman says with obvious disgust in her voice while waiting to deliver the mug and stained cloth for the money to exchange hands. Once she's in receipt of the coins, the amber colored liquid is placed to Daxon's left along with the cloth and she quickly returns to the bar.

Dipping the cloth in the rum, Shark Tooth begins to explain his position. "Ah run me a gun crew aboard the Sun Dog—we jus' dropped anchor—bu' some time ago ah los' me a man an' need t' fin' a replacemen'."

Fire ignites within the wound in Blackheart's leg as the cloth is administered and Wylie grips the hilt. Again, Daxon is able to stave off the desire to pass out.

"This'll ‘urt, mind ya," Stryker casually says just as he yanks the dagger free and another jolt of lightning snakes through Blackheart's body. Darkness threatens the edge of Daxon's vision and he presses his lids together tightly to ward it off, gasping through the effort. Shark Tooth continues his work by pouring a large portion of the rum over the bubbling wound mixing the golden liquid with the bright red in a torrid spill of color.

"The Dog—she be a righ' swift ship—is captained by Anna Cole. Ah know, ah know. A woman, ya say! Bu' she's go' more guts than mos' men an' a ‘ead on her shoulders t' boot. Her li'l sis is the first mate—Ah know, ah know. It works on the Dog t' have a first mate. We call her Hellfire Maggie an' she deserves it, too."

Tying the rum soaked cloth around Blackheart's thigh, Wylie unsympathetically pats his work drawing more groans from between Daxon's clenched teeth. "Got us a good quartermaster as well, an' our sailmaster is gifted. You'll need t' meet with Fin—he's the Dog's quartermaster—an' Hellfire Maggie afore ya can sign on, but what say ye? Oh! An' we ‘ave Mr. Hughes too. He's our ship surgeon. He'll do ya a lot better than ah did fer tha' hole in yer leg."

(OOC: Time is approximately 11:25 AM.)

The captain asked for a change of subject in the discussion. "So tell me about the cities in the Americas. Having never visited what can I expect. Are they civilized or filled with uncivilized savages?" Not yet ready to concede defeat, Goncalvo settled into his chair. Motioning the barmaid again he slipped her a silver. "See that these men's throat do not get parched while they regale me with tales of their adventures."

OOC: Goncalvo will stay as long as the men continue to converse. He will try to steer the conversation back to the info he seeks. He will do checks to determine their "openness" to talking when he sees they are more inebriated.

She hasn't much longer to wait and can see through Anna's long glass the pair approach the shore from the town. The Dog's longboat is still beached with a single man stationed to protect it and man its oars should the need be. Mags watches as her sister engages in brief conversation with the sailor and then, when Mr. Virgil Grover boards, Captain Cole assists the crewman in pushing the boat into the softly rolling surf before climbing in herself. Another few minutes and the longboat is aside the Sun Dog, the rope ladder hanging over the side and a couple of watch sailors standing by.

Anna is first to board, followed by Mr. Grover who pauses at the rail to scan the deck before swinging his leg over and fully boarding.

"Seen some rough seas, have ya?" Grover remarks dryly as he spots the still unrepaired damage from their last hunt.

"Rougher than some," Anna replies. "Satisfied tha' we are who we say we are?"

"No' quite," Virgil rolls his thick jaw about and considers the lay of the land, as it were, but Captain Cole is tired of playing the complacent and presses the issue.

"You asked t' see the ship, Mr. Grover," she narrows her eyes strikes a stubborn pose, feet shoulder-width apart, fists on her hips. "You've seen ‘er. I'll allow fer you t' inspect the cargo seein' ‘ow yer here, but mind yerself, sir. I'll no' accept a wit further insult withou' answerin' it in kind."


Maggie stood by watching and at Anna's words, she moved he hands to rest on the sword on each of her hips. Her hands seemed to be just resting there, but it was obviously a move meant to put her in a position to draw her weapons quicker if Anna gave her any signal that she was to dispatch this disrespectful cretin.


Grover lazily turns his tiny eyes to the protesting woman and with as little release of energy as possible, raises his eyebrows into the sweat beginning to form on his forehead. Beneath his walrus mustaches, the large man presses his lips together as his shoulders square to the much smaller captain. The watch sailors shift warily and drop their hands to their pistols and swords but make no further move. Virgil's beefy hands remain relaxed, however, and after a moment's further consideration he motions with his left and accompanies the extended arm with a low, "Then, t' the hold, captain.

Motioning the watch to the hold grating, Anna turns sharply on her heel and strides purposefully to the latched door they open. Hovering at the top of the descending stairs, she stiffly mimics his recent motion by extending her left hand towards the opening and offering, "After you."

Knowing Maggie's moods, Anna meets her eyes and gives a slight shake of the head before following the hulking tavern owner into the lower reaches of the Sun Dog. The message isn't so much to dissuade Mags from following and participating in the engagement as to warn to rage off and remind her to keep a cool head about her.


Maggie seemed a little disappointed, but she turned and followed Anna and Grover into the hold. She saw Anna's head shake and she rolled her eyes; her sister was always trying to get her to keep her cool when dealing with men such as these. Kill one little merchant because of a little understanding, and she never lets her forget it. It wasn't like people had liked the man much anyway. Once in the hold she stood back and watched her sister handle the negotiations; this was the part where Anna excelled; Maggie on the other hand preferred to handle things differently. A sword point at a throat did wonders for obliging negotiations.


Mercifully cooler than the deck, the Dog's hold is mostly empty. Faint odors of saltwater, sweat, and other unpleasantries hang in the air with a persistence. Stronger whiffs of lime and oil caress the nostrils of all who have made their way into the shade, farming implements are tied against the small stack of barrels containing the raw lime, rough cut lumber in a pile approximately six feet tall and eighteen feet long runs up to the other side, and set next to the lumber are various pieces of residential furniture. The "treasure" is embarrassing to the captain, but she cannot run a ship without what little money it will bring in and is determined to negotiate the best price for it.

"This be it?" Grover folds his arms across his chest and rocks with the delicate sway of the ship.

"Aye," Anna cagily watches his response. "This be it."

"Wha's tha' smell?"

"Lime," Captain Cole replies steadily.

"Lime? Wha' the ‘ell is that good fer?"

"It's good fer somethin' or they wouldn' be shippin' it, now would they?" Anna boldly proceeds. "The furniture an' the wood'll bring a fair price on the market. As will the farmin' goods. I'll wager a pretty penny tha' the barrels o' lime'll fetch a fairly decent price as well. I'm willin' t' part with the whole cargo lot fer five hundred crowns."

To his credit, Virgil doesn't openly scoff. Doing so might have won him a shortsword in the gut by an irate Hellfire Maggie and it is possible that he sensed as much. Instead, he calmly counters with, "A hundred crown in cash, two hundred in promise at the sale o' the goods, an' another ten shillings in drink fer each o' yer crew at my tavern."

Anne begins a methodical stroll about the hold, her thumbs hooking her belt as she mentally works through the offer. After a time of consideration she turns to face the large business man and counters, "Four hundred an' seventy five crown. Two hundred in cash, two hundred in promise on the sale, an' seventy-five t' split amongst my crew in food, drink, an' women courtesy o' yerself."

And that's how the negotiations proceed for the next few minutes before Mr. Grover concedes to a price of four hundred crowns, one hundred and fifty in cash, two hundred and twenty-five in promise, and twenty-five in food, drink, and wenches for the crew. Anna accepts Virgil's outstretched hand and allows hers to be engulfed in its mass for a few shakes before extracting it.

"I'll see ya back t' shore, Mr. Grover," she declares and starts for the stairs.

"There be one last thing, Captain Cole," Virgil tilts his head on his thick neck and waits for her to turn around and face him again. "I'm wond'rin' if I can sweeten our relations a little."

"Careful, Mr. Grover," Anna Cole cautions, a wary look resting on her beautiful, freckled face.


Maggie's hand grasped the hilt of her swords at the man's words, and what it 'sounded' like he was suggesting. But hearing the man's next words, it seemed they both had perhaps misunderstood his meaning. She slowly relaxed and moved her hands back to rest on her belt as the man continued speaking.


"There was a time when I held a much larger share o' the sales here," Grover ignores her warning and charges forward with his offer. "Tha' is ‘til Davenport muscled me out. I wan' me share back an' I wouldn' mind seein' ol' Davenport experiencin' some o' the hurt he's put on my business as well."

"An' what makes you think we're the types t' handle tha' sort o' thing, Mr. Grover?" Anna refrains from looking to her sister to catch Maggie's reaction.

Maggie's reaction was to raise an eyebrow at what she thought the man was suggesting. She was intrigued and paid closer attention to the man's words.


"Yer new t' Tortuga," Virgil replies easily. "Ya ‘ave little t' nothin' ‘cept what I jus' ceded in these here negotiations besides yer ship an' crew. People in these parts rely on reputation as much as skill an' ya do this, you'll be building on tha' reputation quickly and fiercely."

"Besides ‘avin' you owe us a rather large favor," Captain Cole states.

"Besides the favor," Virgil repeats.

"I'll think on it, Mr. Grover," Anna turns and begins ascending the stairs. "Meanwhile, I'll ‘ave me crew deliver the cargo t' yer warehouse if you'll tell Maggie where it be."

As the captain achieves the main deck, Virgil turns to Hellfire Maggie and scratches at his jaw. "I no longer ‘ave access to the main warehouses. Those be Davenports' now. Yer crew can deliver the goods t' me tavern. We'll put it in with the stores fer now.

"Davenport thinks he's dug in quite well, Maggie," Virgil shares in a quiet voice. "He won' be expectin' trouble. Should be easy, an' might include a nice haul fer the Sun Dog too. I'll be happy t' discuss shares o' whatever Davenport holds with yer captain at her leisure."


"The Captain will let you know if she's interested," Maggie replied as she guided the man back to the launch which would take him back to the shore. She watched the man descend the latter to the launch, and instructed the rowers to deliver him back to where they picked him up. Once the launch was away, she turned back and sought out Anna. As she walked up to Anna, her sister could probably read Maggie's thoughts before she even voiced them.

"We are going to do this job right?" Maggie said, her excitement evident in her voice. She wasn't usually the thinker of this pair, but she thought this could be a major boon for them. Anything that might bring them more coin, and better trading relationships was always welcome. She knew that having a favorable relationship with a trader, in a port like Tortuga, was a good thing. They could often steer you towards good prospects to 'hunt' in the future.

Cracker moved off quickly when the man from the ship headed towards Georgia sent him away. He moved off a bit and took a quick look around. He saw the dockhand pointedly ignoring Fin and decided his shipmate must have struck out. Well, if it had gone badly, Cracker didn't want to be seen by the man with Fin. And he didn't want the two ships he had just been at to connect him to another sailor casing the place. He looked around at the ships and then moved off down the dock as if he were headed towards another ship to ask for a posting. Once he had disappeared into the crowds he moved away from the docks.

He wanted to talk to Fin about what he had learned - he didn't know much about the cargoes, but at least he knew the destination of a couple of the ships harboring here. That might prove useful. But for now he also wanted to enjoy a bit of time with his feet firmly on the ground. He found a tavern not far from the harbor called the One-Eyed Parrot and went in to find the best meal he had eaten in months.

At least that was what he hoped for. Mealy biscuits and watered down rum could only keep a man happy for so long. Real food, that was what he wanted. What he got was tavern food, but it served the purpose. It was better than ship food.

(Coming in later he does not look for or notice the remains of the fight, but if approached would help his shipmates. I'm assuming he missed all of the action while at the docks.)

Later, his meal consumed and a small dose of unwatered rum consumed, he made his way back to the ship. He'd only had a small dose of the liquid as he was due back at the ship for his turn on the watch and he wanted no part of being caught drunk on watch. Plus he was a bit nervous about the port as a whole and didn't want those on watch to be drunk anyway, whether it was him or anyone else.

Arriving back at the longboat to make his scheduled trip back he met up with Fin again. Seeing the ships Quartermaster, he offered up the information he had acquired. The nicest ship had been headed to Georgia loaded with crates of presumably valuable agricultural commodities. The other was headed towards London - and he'd had a small glance at that Cargo as well. It was something anyway.

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 10:45 A.M.; The Wharf

Staring at the proffered coin, the wharf-hand's brow furrows into a webwork of crisscrossed lines deepened by a lifetime of weather abuse. Sticking his pipe abruptly into his mouth with a click of clay to tooth, he says nothing further to Fin, but pushes from the barrels and walks slowly away. After a few feet of this casual strolling, the man retrieves his pipe and taps it completely out before slipping it into a pocket of his trousers. He doesn't grant the Dog's quartermaster another look as he sets about his duties once again. The best, Crowe can hope for at this point is that he'll keep his mouth shut merely because that's what people do who wish to live.

"Aye. Fine," Fin grumbles, tapping the edge of the coin on the top of the rum barrel as the wharf-hand moves away, "Per'aps we'll offer it ta yer wife, then, fer somethin' more entertainin' than jus' information." The Dog's quartermaster pushes away from the barrels, himself, then, and, slipping the refused silver back into his belt, turns and strides back up the wharf towards the town.

Given the hand's reaction, Fin didn't imagine that any of the other workers along the quay would be any more forthcoming. Something in the man's eyes spoke of more than just skepticism toward the proffered bribe, fear, perhaps, though, not necessarily fear of Fin. Fear, instead, it seemed, of something or someone with a much broader, farther reaching influence than what a gruff pirate quartermaster might have. A well-heeled merchant who had cultivated his money into power over the town, maybe, or a British-installed governor positioned to stake and hold the crown's claim on the island and the waters surrounding it. Crowe's gaze, bluer and darker than the Mediterranean, squinted toward the fort as he clomped up the pier and contemplated the wharf-hand's reluctance.

"Always someone a' th' top dumpin' their pot on th' heads o' those b'neath," he rumbled under his breath, shouldering his way through a knot of workers and sailors on the dock, "Prob'ly's got a lash an' a leash fer each o' these.

No matter. There's always someone in ev'ry port tha'll respond ta silver over shackles, jus' th' matter o' ferretin' ‘em out."

((OOC: Crowe will keep a weather-eye out for anyone along the docks that seems likely to provide info and, if he spots a likely candidate, he'll stop to engage. Otherwise, he'll proceed along the wharf and into town until he comes upon the One Eyed Parrot (or whatever tavern/grog-shop he might come upon first.))

"Aye Shark tooth mate ye gander Mr. Hughes sharp to fix this ole leg?"

Daxon begins asking questions about the ship the Sun dog and the crew, Not so much as of interest in the moment but to keep his mind off of the pain he has been in.

"Me last Captain gone, no one like a man that he was. None. Think about him every ship I see. I'm not looking to replace the ones lost but it be nice to find me place in this world again."

Daxon tells sharktooth about himself his background and where hes come from. He figures he better get to know the man who is trying to save his life. He owes him as much.

(OOC: Daxon is going to listen to instructions carefully he knows that his injuries are not something to take lightly and he wants to make sure the situation doesn't get any worse.)

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga (Ile de la Tortue), 11:25 A.M.
Port of Tortuga
The One-Eyed Parrot

Shark Tooth spent the next few minutes exchanging histories with Daxon, while the Master Gunner did his best to patch up the damage to Blackheart's wounded leg, by tying a rum-soaked cloth around the knife wound in his thigh, after pulling the knife out of his thigh and returning it to its owner.

He also told Blackheart about the Sun Dog's captain and crew, having made up his mind that Daxon was exactly the type of man who would not only fit right into the vacancy on his gun crew, but also would be a welcome addition as a fighter for the Sun Dog and Captain Cole!

Shark Tooth also spends some time explaining his nickname, as he helped Blackheart to stand upright, in spite of all the aches and pains coursing through his own body from the merciless beating!

"Time Ta Get Yer Ta Der Dog," grunted Shark Tooth, "Ta Git Mr Hughes Ta Fix Yer Laig Proper!"

(OOC: Roll Checks for Shark Tooth to find any crew members of the Sun Dog or anyone else who can assist him to get the wounded Blackheart back to the Long Boat and on board the Sun Dog for the ship's surgeon to attend to his wounded newly found friend.)

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 11:35 A.M.; The Le Porc Fattest Tavern

"No captain in his right min' would talk ‘bout courses with any other than his own sailmaster an' navigator. So, beggin' yer pardon but I'll politely ask tha' we change the subject."

The captain asked for a change of subject in the discussion so Goncalvo obliges. "So, tell me about the cities in the Americas. Having never visited, what can I expect. Are they civilized or filled with uncivilized savages?" Not yet ready to concede defeat, Goncalvo settles into his chair. Motioning the barmaid again he slips her a silver. "See that these men's throat do not get parched while they regale me with tales of their adventures."

Dull brown eyes widen at the vision of the shilling and the maid delicately takes the coin between her index finger and thumb. "Aye, sire. They'll no' want fer drink this day. I'll see t' it."

Plying the sailors with drink should be a tactic all too familiar to those sailing the lanes, after all, pirates are crafty folk. Tales told about pirates at the pubs and taverns are propagated by those who would strike fear into the hearts of pale women and wan-eyed children; often by pirates, or the agents of pirates, as such tales limit the actual necessity for brutal fighting when chasing down prizes. Time, however, is the ally of the patient man and the Portuguese sailmaster is a patient man.

Stories and drink, more time, more stories, more drink, and tongues become more glib, more free. As the afternoon wears thin, da Nazare begins to feel Lady Luck tickling his ear.

Captain Thomas Levy of the Azure Seas is so red in the face he might as well be cooked by the sun instead of the liquor and more to the point, he's a lovely drunk. Following his very friendly lead, Mr. Olsen and Mr. Fernandez begin to open up as well.

As it turns out, charts are very hard to come by in Tortuga. Should Mr. Johnny wish to procure some new charts he'll need to go someplace more established like the French and Dutch populated Port-au-Prince, Santiago de Cuba, or even the newly founded Charles Town in the Bahamas. Information is more freely shared concerning shipping lanes and seasonal winds but it is convoluted and difficult to immediately piece together like a series of puzzle pieces on a board waiting to reveal a work of art.

This is slow work, gathering information from reluctant purveyors, and is even slower gathering coherent and useful information from drunken purveyors. By the time Goncalvo feels that he has exhausted this source, Mr. Olsen's forehead is firmly planted on the battered tabletop with snores regularly rumbling into the wood. Mr. Fernandez is sprawled in his seat like a child's ragdoll tossed without care into the wobbly chair his head lolling backward, mouth agape, bulbous Adam's apple rolling up and down his elongated throat with each gurgled breath. Only Captain Levy remains even remotely coherent with his right arm acting as pillow to his chubby, ruddy face. Thomas stares blurrily at the clay mug he is tilting precariously on edge and rolling about with the threat of spilling the half-drunk contents at each turn.

Bustling folk still wander the streets and the afternoon sun has sank into a position of repose. He has spent all of his time ashore cultivating and plucking what he can from their alcohol seeped minds.

OOC: Goncalvo will stay as long as the men continue to converse. He will try to steer the conversation back to the info he seeks. He will do checks to determine their "openness" to talking when he sees they are more inebriated.

(OOC: Time is roughly 5:15 PM.)

------------------------------------------------------------------

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 11:00 A.M.; The Town

"Aye. Fine," Fin grumbles, tapping the edge of the coin on the top of the rum barrel as the wharf-hand moves away, "Per'aps we'll offer it ta yer wife, then, fer somethin' more entertainin' than jus' information." The Dog's quartermaster pushes away from the barrels himself then, and slipping the refused silver back into his belt, turns and strides back up the wharf towards the town. Cracker nowhere to be seen, Crowe saunters on.

Given the hand's reaction, Fin doesn't imagine that any of the other workers along the quay will be any more forthcoming. Something in the man's eyes spoke of more than just skepticism toward the proffered bribe, fear, perhaps, though, not necessarily fear of Fin. Fear, instead, it seems, of something or someone with a much broader, farther-reaching influence than what a gruff pirate quartermaster might have. A well-heeled merchant who has cultivated his money into power over the town, maybe, or a British-installed governor positioned to stake and hold the crown's claim on the island and the waters surrounding it. Crowe's gaze, bluer and darker than the Mediterranean, squints toward the fort as he clomps up the pier and contemplates the wharf-hand's reluctance.

"Always someone a' th' top dumpin' their pot on th' heads o' those b'neath," he rumbles under his breath, shouldering his way through a knot of workers and sailors on the dock. "Prob'ly's got a lash an' a leash fer each o' these.

"No matter. There's always someone in ev'ry port tha'll respond ta silver over shackles, jus' th' matter o' ferretin' ‘em out."

Striding deeper into the bowels of the settlement, Fin scans faces, searching the crowds for the telltale signs of those wanting more and willing to act upon their desires. These are the people someone in Fin's line of work can appreciate. However, in the ports along the northern coast of the New World, the faces of the townsfolk are less guarded. Here, they all read wary and furtive. None willing to meet the narrow-eyed gaze of the hardened sailor and most walking with eyes turned down. Bereft of soldiers, the streets should be bustling and filled with raucous life. Not in Fin's path, however. Crowe is a shark among minnows.

Face lined with worry, a woman breaks from the crowd as he draws near. She's familiar while unfamiliar at the same time; a confusing mix of recollection. Black-skinned that's dark as the jungles of Africa, she stands a full half-foot shorter than the quartermaster. Her hair is tightly braided beneath the broad-rimmed hat Fin has seen on Asian tradesmen and her clothing is of a light enough fair to practically float about her body. Wide in the hips, she is forced to saunter as she walks, a sway that attracts attention. Not burdened with a heavy chest, she is perhaps a little disproportionate but not in an unpleasing way. Fin readies himself for the unpredictable as she draws near.

"Why are you back?" Hissed words pelt his right ear as she leans in, stopping his progress with a dainty hand on his chest.

Her voice is dusk. Throaty and rich like the promise of the exotic location her accent promises and it strikes a match in his memory. Raisa Taïa. The name rushes to the tip of his tongue carried on wings of an invisible bird. The problem is, that's all the memory he has of her.

(OOC: Time is roughly 11:12 AM.)

----------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), The Sun Dog, 12:15 P.M.

"Davenport thinks he's dug in quite well, Maggie," Virgil shares in a quiet voice. "He won' be expectin' trouble. Should be easy, an' might include a nice haul fer the Sun Dog too. I'll be happy t' discuss shares o' whatever Davenport holds with yer captain at her leisure."

"The Captain will let you know if she's interested," Maggie replies as she guides the man back to the launch which will take him back to the shore.

"It seems t' me tha' you're the voice she'll listen too," Virgil Grover states lowly as he mounts the rope ladder. "There are powers that control these waters, Maggie Hellfire. There's no fence-sittin' in Tortuga. No fence sittin' at all."

She watches the man descend the ladder to the launch, and instructs the rowers to deliver him back to where they had picked him up. Once the launch is away, she turns back and seeks out Anna, finding her in the captain's quarters sitting at the desk, booted feet crossed atop her opulent desk (a prize from their first hunt). As she walks up to Anna, her sister raises her thin brows reading Maggie's thoughts before she even voices them.

"We are going to do this job right?" Maggie says, her excitement evident in her voice. She isn't usually the thinker of this pair, but she thinks this could be a major boon for them. Anything that might bring them more coin, and better trading relationships was always welcome. She knows that having a favorable relationship with a trader, in a port like Tortuga, is a good thing. They can often steer you towards good prospects to 'hunt' in the future.

"You think so, do ya?" Anna graces Maggie with the contemplative look of one who knows something the others in the conversation do not and are not asking the right questions to win over.

(OOC: response,)

"So, we're t' jus' flip up our skirts and offer ourselves t' the firs' sweet talker we come across in port, Mags?" the captain instructs by patiently posing questions, something she's done as long as Maggie can remember.

(OOC: response,)

"We need t' get a better picture o' the tides before we become bedfellows with anyone," Anna takes up the quill from the cork holder in the writing set on her desk and delicately runs the feather along her lips. "We need t' see ‘bout this Davenport. We need t' see ‘bout the others as well. Any others. How're we going t' go ‘bout that, my dear sister?"

(OOC: Time is roughly 12:25 PM.)

-------------------------------------------------------------

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga (Ile de la Tortue), 11:25 A.M. - Port of Tortuga - The One-Eyed Parrot

Tying the rum soaked cloth around Blackheart's thigh, Wylie unsympathetically pats his work drawing more groans from between Daxon's clenched teeth. "Got us a good quartermaster as well, an' our sailmaster is gifted. You'll need t' meet with Fin—he's the Dog's quartermaster—an' Hellfire Maggie afore ya can sign on, but what say ye? Oh! An' we ‘ave Mr. Hughes too. He's our ship surgeon. He'll do ya a lot better than ah did fer tha' hole in yer leg."

Shark Tooth begins exchanging histories with Daxon, while the Master Gunner does his best to patch up the damage to Blackheart's wounded leg by tying a rum-soaked cloth around the knife wound in his thigh. After pulling the knife out of his meat and bone, he returns it to its owner. Barely able to hold onto consciousness, Daxon accepts the weapon by the hilt and fumbles to return it to its sheathe while the swarthy, one-eyed sailor shares more about the Sun Dog's captain and crew, having made up his mind that Daxon is exactly the type of man who will not only fit right into the vacancy on his gun crew, but also be a welcome addition as a fighter for the Sun Dog and Captain Cole.

Once Cracker disappears into the crowds he moves away from the docks at a leisurely pace, the heat building to a baking resonance between the clay structures and swell of people. He wants to talk to Fin about what he has learned—he doesn't know much about the cargoes, but at least he knows the destination of a couple of the ships harboring here. That might prove useful. But for now he also wants to enjoy a bit of time with his feet firmly on the ground. He finds a tavern not far from the harbor called the One-Eyed Parrot and enters in to find the best meal he has eaten in months.

At least that was what he hopes for. Mealy biscuits and watered down rum can only keep a man happy for so long. Real food, that is what he wants. What he receives is tavern food, but it serves the purpose. It is better than ship food despite the cook's best efforts.

Stepping from the sweltering equatorial temperatures into the stale, dust mote-filled air of the Parrot it takes a moment for Cracker's eyes to adjust. Dim light battles for ownership of his pupils and eventually beats back the brilliance of the sun. Within this newfound vision, the Dog's boatswain is able to survey the elongated room.

Population is not something that this establishment can currently boast. But there's more than just a lack of people. Immediately apparent to William is the unbalanced nature of the occupation. Heavy to his right, the left side of the chamber is practically empty but for two shadowy figures, one of which is lying on the table while the other is chattering away. Whether due to the dim lighting or the angle by which Cracker is viewing the two, seconds pass before he realizes that the hefty build and dungy clothing are familiar. Two further steps into the room and William is not only further relieved of the intense heat but is able to gain a better view of the mens' faces. Familiarity turns into immediate recognition.

(OOC: I leave it up to the players to engage, or not,)

"Aye Shark Tooth, mate, ye gander Mr. Hughes sharp to fix this ole leg?" Blackheart manages through clenched teeth. Rolling waves of ache still accented by the occasional sharp sting of the alcohol are right prevalent.

Daxon proceeds to asks questions about the ship—the Sun dog and her crew. Not so much as of further interest in the moment, but to keep his mind off of the pain he is in. He begins with, "Me last captain gone, no one like a man that he was. None. Think about him every ship I see. I'm not looking to replace the ones lost but it be nice to find me place in this world again."

Forcing conversation, Daxon tells Shark Tooth about himself, his background, and where he's come from. He figures he better get to know the man who is trying to save his life. He owes him as much. Wylie is just as eager to share and whether that's because of the weeks at sea, or the need to build rapport, it matters not.

The two men are talking themselves in circles and finding himself repeating information about the crew, Shark Tooth shifts to explaining his nickname as he helps Blackheart to stand upright in spite of all the aches and pains coursing through his own body from the merciless beating.

"Time ta get yer ta der Dog," grunts Shark Tooth. "Ta git Mr. Hughes ta fix yer laig proper."

(OOC: Time is approximately 11:35 AM.)

With the wharf behind him and the town ahead, Fin's frustration grew by the step. In ports such as these, with a notable lack of soldiery present, he would expect the streets to be bustling and free, with more than one set of eyes willing to, at least, meet his gaze from time to time. The deeper he waded into this settlement, though, the more he came to realize that something was more than a little off and the fear by which he'd imagined the wharf-hand to be afflicted seemed epidemic. Where there weren't eyes downturned altogether, the only glances cast his way were of the cagey and cautious sort, and even those glances were excessively fleeting.

"What'n th' bloody hell's wrong with this place," he growled under his breath, his gaze chasing away yet another as he strode by. Almost absently, as the circumspection of the townsfolk felt to be seeping into his own bones, one of Fin's hands came to rest on the hilt of the cutlass at his hip and the other sought out his tobacco pouch. Perhaps another smoke would help to dull the edge being rapidly honed on his nerves until he could find a place to more properly deaden it with rum. He'd just pulled the pouch from his belt, deigning to cast a glance at the crowd in the street ahead before he set to twisting together another cigarillo. For an instant he is almost heartened when a pair of eyes looking back at him doesn't dart suddenly away, even if the ebon-skinned face in which they are set seemed to be lined with worry.

As he drew nearer, the dark-skinned woman broke from the crowd and approached, the troubled expression still playing on her dusky features. The moment she was free of the throng in which she had been standing, a spark of recognition was struck in Crowe's memory. The tobacco pouch was forgotten and returned to its place in his belt as he tried to kindle that spark into a more enlightening flame, Everything about the woman was familiar - from the hue of her skin to the way she dressed and moved - despite that familiarity, though, Fin couldn't quite place why or precisely from where it might have come. By the time the space between them had been diminished enough for her to have reached out a hand and pressed it against his chest to stop him in his tracks, the only thing he had managed to recall with any sort of certainty was a name, Raisa Taïa.

"Why are you back?" The woman's voice hissed in his ear as his gaze dipped, momentarily, to where her dainty, black hand rested close to the brand hidden beneath his shirt.

A wolfish grin had started to tug at the corners of his mouth and his eyes glinted a bit bluer as they lifted to find hers. "An' why wouldn' I be, Raisa-luv," he asked, his gravelly voice softened a bit by the smile. The hand that wasn't resting on the hilt of his blade lifted to capture hers and pry it gently away from his chest. He kept her hand trapped in his as his grin began to move slowly from wolfish to shark-like; "If I dared believe it, I'd think ya din't miss me,"

((OOC: Any reply.))

His hand tightened a bit around hers and his eyes let go of her just long enough to scan the streets around them before he began walking again, not quite forcefully hauling her along beside him as he continued his progress into the town. "Don' mind refamiliarizin' me wit' th' place, do ya, poppet?"

"We are going to do this job right?" Maggie says, her excitement evident in her voice. She isn't usually the thinker of this pair, but she thinks this could be a major boon for them. Anything that might bring them more coin, and better trading relationships was always welcome. She knows that having a favorable relationship with a trader, in a port like Tortuga, is a good thing. They can often steer you towards good prospects to 'hunt' in the future.

"You think so, do ya?" Anna graces Maggie with the contemplative look of one who knows something the others in the conversation do not and are not asking the right questions to win over.


"F***ing yea, I do!" Maggie responds a little testily, which she often gets when it seems as if Anna is addressing her like she was a child. Anna loved to play this question/answer game where she would answer her question with a question, and try to get Maggie to make the right response; at first, it always irritated her. She was glad that they were in Anna's quarters and not in front of the crew; Maggie seldom raised her tone, or showed any disrespect, to her sister around the crew. She respected her sister and her position as Captain, and she wouldn't do anything that might give the crew members reason to doubt their Captain's decisions.


"So, we're t' jus' flip up our skirts and offer ourselves t' the firs' sweet talker we come across in port, Mags?" the captain instructs by patiently posing questions, something she's done as long as Maggie can remember.


See, another question. Maggie visibly pauses and tries to calm herself, she knew that was what Anna expected of her. It was a technique that Anna always used, and it usually worked.

"No," Maggie responded after a few seconds, "of course not." She was calming herself and starting to consider the options and what her sister might be working at here.


"We need t' get a better picture o' the tides before we become bedfellows with anyone," Anna takes up the quill from the cork holder in the writing set on her desk and delicately runs the feather along her lips. "We need t' see ‘bout this Davenport. We need t' see ‘bout the others as well. Any others. How're we going t' go ‘bout that, my dear sister?"


"Well, there's nothing that says we must have only one 'bed' partner." Maggie grins at the thought. It wasn't a bad idea to play rivals off against each other, and let them fight it out while the sister's benefited.

"Well," she went on while trying to think of an answer to Anna's last question, "we could try and contact this Davenport guy and get a feel for what he's like." She raised her left hand and brushed it absently through her hair; Anna would recognize this for her sister's frustration at not being very good and coming up with 'plans'.

"Do you want me to go check him out?" Her questioning tone left no doubt that she wasn't sure if that was a wise choice or not.

(OOC: Time is roughly 12:25 PM.)

Cracker stepped into the One-Eyed Parrot and let his eyes adjust to the light. He was looking for a good meal, or at least the best meal this establishment could manage. As he stood in the entrance he had visions of beef and bread and ale even as he knew stew of questionable origin and biscuits were more likely. But a sailor could dream.

As his eyes adjusted, he left his reverie behind and started to step into the room for whatever reality might serve up. But what it served up was an odd assortment of people on one side of the room and . . . Shark Tooth and an injured man on the other side. The Shark didn't seem to have noticed him and for a moment the thought of quickly fleeing to another public house flit across his mind. But he shook the idea out of his head because he knew he'd never just ditch a shipmate in need. With an inward groan and a glance at the kitchen, he moved towards the two who seemed to have half a tavern to themselves.

As he approached, Shark Tooth seemed to hear his steps and turned warily in his direction. When he turned Cracker got a full glimpse of the fun that he had been having. His shipmate had clearly had a tough go of it and the man on the table even worse. Stopping only a couple of feet away so that their conversation wouldn't be overheard by the other side of the room, Cracker shook his head saying, "Ah, Sharky, what'd you go and get yourself into?"

(OOC: I'm putting in a few words for Shark Tooth here since he said I should in the Q&A. I am making no attempt at getting his dialect right unless I have time to come back and get it fixed.)

"Well, this fine sailor here was being set upon by a ships worth of ruffians and I thought it a bit unfair, so I helped out." He grinned a battered and bruised grin and, pointing towards his swelling face, added "see? I kept all of these blows from hitting him? A victory I call it!"

When all Cracker did was shake his head and inspect the man on the table, Shark Tooth took a more serious line. "It may prove to be a victory. My gun crew needs a man. This is Daxon and he is interested in the Dog. If a few bruises gets a good crew, it is worth it!"

The boatswain looked over the man on the table and couldn't help but notice the bloody rag tied around his leg and the look of pain on his face. Hopefully he'd end up a good gunner, because right now he looked more like a gutter rat. "Looks like he needs the surgeon before he'll be manning any guns."

Shark Tooth grinned a bruised and battered grin. "You said it! Yeh see the need! Help me get Daxon back to the Dog, Cracker."

Cracker looked at the injured man and sighed audibly. "I wouldn't leave a mate like this, but . . ." and here he could not help but glance at the kitchen, "you owe me a good meal next time we get to shore, Sharky." He moved to the side of the new sailor named Daxon to assist the man to his feet. "I'll welcome you to the Sun Dog, Daxon, if we can get you there. Come on, lets get you to the doc."

(OOC: Cracker will help Shark Tooth get Daxon back to the ship. Assuming it goes well, they would then seek out the surgeon. Also, since clearly these two had been in a fight, Cracker will keep his eyes open as they leave the tavern and on the walk for anyone watching them closely or following them. That may be a check.)

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga (Ile de la Tortue), 11:35 A.M.
Port of Tortuga
The One-Eyed Parrot

"Aye Cracker! Yur Hep Me Git Mah Heartie Ta Dah Sun Dog 'N Ye Be Gittin Yur Sharky Meal Fer Shur!"

(OOC: Sharky makes any necessary checks to get Daxon safely to the Sun Dog with Cracker's help. If possible he will team with Cracker to return to town for any reason that is acceptable to Maggie and Captain Cole so he can buy Cracker a well-deserved meal, while the Surgeon tends to Daxon.)

As the ale flowed, the others became more talkative. It may have taken several hours but Goncalvo had gathered valuable information. "I thank you for the company gentlemen but I must be getting back to my ship. You know how captains are about late the crew returning late." The drunk captain almost made a remark but his eyes drifted shut instead. Concalvo thanked the bar maid and then headed out the door and back to the long boat. He would share what he learned with the captain.