Dawn, 19th of Chad, 2005
“Land ho!”

Asim heard the call of land and jumped to the railing and his sharp young eyes spied it in the distance. He, like his people the Ashar, loved the sea; but he also looked forward to his times in the town from time to time.

“Trim us down tae fightin’ sail, boys,” the Captain called and the boy man sprung into action; he climbed the ropes like monkey as he clamored aloft and assisted in reefing the sails in as they made their way into Freeport.

As he went about his business he looked down at Captain Jericho where he spoke to the helmsman. Asim was a bit ashamed at his outburst the other day regarding the woman they had brought aboard from the ship Rapier that they had attacked and later sunk. He had stupidly voiced his opinion that the woman should be sold and the spoils divided.

The Captain had bashed down that nonsense; he would not condone slavery. He had made it clear that any who refused to accept his judgment had only two courses of action; to jump ship or to cross blades with him, neither of which the lad was not about to attempt. But the offer of splitting some shine amongst the crew when they hit port had put any grumbles to rest and Asim had joined in with the others at the prospect.

As the ship drifted neatly into it’s berth, the lad nimbly slide down a rope to the deck. His bare feet slapped on the planks and he ran to assist in mooring the ship; once all was secure he tended to the other duties required of him as he watched the Captain and others of his staff depart the ship. He would leave later of course, he was a simple deck hand and didn’t rate being one of the first privileged to go shore.

“Rowr!”

“Dear Gods, my eyes! Not sure you could get any louder!”

“Don’t threaten me, Chez,” Willow replied, making a rude gesture at one of the deck hands, “I could be wearing a hat.”

“Watch it, Will! Don’t yer go settin’ t’deck on fire!”

“There she goes! Lookin’ for work, Will? “

“Just a meal that doesn’t involve seafood,” she called back.

Hearing the ruckus, Asim turned from where he was securing a halyard rope to a cleat and watched as Saercyn Willow walked across the deck and gracefully handled the calls the other hands sent her way. The lad turned away with a slight blush on his cheek; he could never speak in such a way to Willow, or Will as many called her. The boy man wouldn’t admit it to anyone but he had a bit of a crush on the older woman. He was barely 16 years of age and she was more than twice his age so he knew it was only wishful thinking, but such thinking never hurt anyone.

Willow was exotic and enchanting, well at least Asim thought so; whenever she was around he found it hard to speak and many a time he tried to not run into her. He would only embarrass himself as he stumbled with what to say to her; he always wound up sounding like and idiot he was sure. When she played upon deck he was often somewhere, most times up high in the rigging, listening enraptured.

He turned again to watch as she finished talking to the Captain and sauntered off of the ship; he watched her swaying form as it moved down the dock and out of sight then turned back with a sigh to finishing his duties. He hoped to get them done and off the ship by the afternoon; he hoped to have a few drinks and eat a decent meal later.



The Rusty Hook, Afternoon
Asim was dressed in his best clothes, tan leather pants, leather boots, a faded shirt that had few stains and no tears in it and his scraggly mess of blonde hair looked like he might have attempted to run a comb or something through it, he walked into the Rusty Hook.

Immediately he heard singing and recognized the heavenly singing of Willow; his eyes were immediately drawn to where she sang from atop of a table. The place was jumping and why not she was superb. He lowered his head and turned towards the bar needing a drink more than ever. He slapped one of his meager coins upon the bar and ordered a ale, and scanned the rest of the room. He saw that several others from the Smuggler’s Moon’s crew had chosen this place to rest and partake of refreshments.

He saw the Captain and First-mate were there and saw them conversing with a comely bar maid who seemed to be spending a long time at their table; she even sat down and spoke with the first-mate Khash for a time.

He even watched as the Captain got up, leaving Khash there with the barmaid, and walked over to another table that seemed to have a man with a monkey? He ordered another ale and it had just arrived when Willow’s playing came to an end. The applause caused him to turn back to her as she hopped off of the table; his own applause was lost in the tumult from the other patrons.

Asim smiled as he watch Willow graciously accept the accolades and thn the smile faded from his face as he watched some rogue manhandle her in an obvious attempt for a ‘private’ performance. He stepped from the stool, his right hand came to rest upon the hilt of his long dagger on his belt and he had taken a couple steps trying to get through the crowd. But before he could even get close he saw her extricate herself from the situation and make her way over to where the Captain sat.

The lad stood there a moment as the anger in him faded; then as he watched Willow slipped into the lap of the Captain and his jaw visibly dropped. He had assumed that the Captain and Willow had always had something going on but had never really seen evidence to support it. His red eyes widened as he watched for a couple seconds; it seemed obvious what was going on.

The lad turned back to the bar and his ale; with his face buried in his mug he paid little attention to the other goings on in the establishment.

Smuggler's Moon
Afternoon, 19th of Chad
Davian watched through the farthest reaches of her vision as the rope runner made his way down the side of the ship.

"'ello my Lady. Never thought I'd see one so proud as you scrapping crap off the bottom of the Captain's pride. I'm sure she appreciates it though. Care for a hand?"

Proud? she mused to herself as the man began to work at the barnacles a few feet from her. Is that what they think?

That that thought and the way the salty sea air surrounded her and the uplifting tune of her son actually let a smile pass her lips for a moment. She turned so that she could peer at him from under the bandana not completely tying her hair up.

“Not your pride? If she isn’t yours I might suggest gettin’ off here at Freeport… they never take too kindly to being anything other than everyone on boards greatest love. She’s proud, not me. Besides these…” and she flicked another of the barnacles into the dirty water below them to emphasize her point, “will only slow us down.”

A slight smirk crossed his lips as he glanced over at the strange woman.

"As you say." He thought a bit, working in silence as he swiftly cut the barnacles away.

"So who are you really?" His eyes pulled from his work and settled on the woman beside him.

The question was put forth so plainly that it threw her off guard for a moment. Her dagger stood still in the space between herself and the ship for a moment before falling to her lap. Silently her eyes followed it and found themselves looking down at the head of her snake.

When she brought them back up they ticked off to the East for a moment, noticing, once again, the distant skyline of Freeport. With a deep breath she pulled them off the skyline and to the man hoisted in the ropes beside her. The eyes that appraised him were dark and glacier like, taking in the gypsy man in the black trousers.

"That is the question isn't it? I suppose the crew has me for a witch..." she gave a slight nod to her own statement before continuing. "Of course nothing is ever that simple, the truth is very complicated.

"Once... a long time ago... that was an easy question for me to answer." Her nod shifted to a shake of her head, and without thinking about it the serpent began to coil itself around her torso again.

"Sometimes I wonder if I even know the answer to that question anymore... surely no one else does.

"But... if you want the truth, here is what I can tell you, my name is Davian, I was being transported against my will on that ship you scuttled, and now I am here as a passenger thanks to the charity of your Captain. All of that I swear by the Serpent herself is true. The rest I do not share." She trailed off and shrugged slightly.

"Or, if you would prefer lies I can talk all afternoon with you..." she gave a small smile she did not feel.

"I am , and there is no need for lies. The captain seems to trust you. That is enough for me. Nevermind what the rest of the crew whispers. They are good men but superstition sometimes gets the best of them."

He pauses again, popping another barnacle from the hull of the ship he has called home for so long.

When he speaks again, his voice takes on a slight edge, even as his tone feels so soothing.

"The captain welcomes you, but you aren't a part of the crew yet. Nonetheless, I know what it is to wander lost..." his voice trails off into silence.

"The past the follows you is no business of mine. No is my past any business of yours. So if you choose to be silent, so be it. If not, feel free to talk about anything and nothing if you wish. But the simple fact that I am working here beside you, and the others see that..." with a nod of his head he indicates a few of the crewmen that were not-so-discreetly letting their gazes drift to the gypsy and the new arrival "will give them pause should they wish to do anything unworthy of a man under the captain's command."

Her eyes, which had been openly reexamining the man beside her as he spoke, followed his up to the deck and churned slightly at the spectators above. With a resigned nod she let her eyes fall back to their previous engagement.

A small smile pulled at her lips, "I shall thank ye for that. Being a woman onboard a ship at sea is not always easy."

Forcibly she drew her attention back to the barnacles. "Ye might pardon me for my tenseness as well. 'Wanderin' lost' as ye call it is very lonely business. I'm not that good with people anymore."

Davian paused for a moment and swept a lock of hair from her eyes, stealing yet another glance at the dark man beside her. "And I'm not sure why I'm telling you this... " a light laugh finished off the sentence and she shook her head once again returning to the ship.

"So... tell me about life aboard this Smuggler’s Moon..."

With a smile and a faint nod he went about doing just that. An hour or two later an entire swath of the hull lay free of barnacles before the two of them hoisted themselves back up toward the deck. The comfortable conversation about sea storms, recycled stew and sleeping in hammocks seemed to do them both well and when they parted each bore scrapes and cuts upon their hands, but also a warm glow to their cheeks and a lighter step upon the deck.

Morning: 19th of Chad, 2005; Freeport Harbor

As his feet hit the main deck and he turned for the hatchway that led to the “officer’s” cabins, he came face to face with Davian… She seemed to almost huddle in the shadow of the sterncastle, her limpid eyes skimming over Freeport with what the corsair could only interpret as great uncertainty. “G’mornin’, Missus Passat,” he said, sketching a bit of a bow, “Fer th’ life o’ me I dinnae expect tae be seein’ ye on deck, giv’n th’ reluctance ye had in comin’ an’ all…” He looked over his shoulder at the sprawl, again, and chuckled; “She do draw th’ eye, though, don’ she?”

If nae th’ heart…

Davian pulled her eyes, full of whirlpools, off the horizon and to the Captain. “Could ye keep your eyes off the gallows if ye were due for a hangin’?”

“Ne’er fear, lovely,” he said from behind a roguish grin as he turned his gaze back to her, “we’ll nae tarry here, long, I don’ reckon. Jus’ long enough tae close a contract, repack our stores, an’ find us a new swab or seven, aye?…”

“Aye… the sooner the better…” she nodded and turned her eyes back to her own personal gallows.

His eyes danced over her, taking note of the borrowed tunic, belt, and dagger she still wore. If the girl was staying on as she had indicated, she’d need better fare than that (lovely as it was on her)… he’d have to see to it that she got something appropriate, he supposed, though he had no clue as to even how to start to buy a dress or other such.

“…An’, if ye’ll nae be needin’ me cabin fer a moment er two, I’ll be goin’ tae make meself more presentable so’s we c’n make this stop’s quick’s we can,” Jericho flicked a wink at the girl, then, and, stepping around her, disappeared through the hatchway.

“Good day then…” she whispered but it was clear her mind was on things other than his attire.

Afternoon: The Rusty Hook
“Dinnit count on being more then one of ye,” Willow said from behind that smile, louder than a whisper now, “I hope yer dinnae want t’ change our arrangement.”

“Nae, Willow-luv,” Jericho answered, only half acting, “I still wan’ ye jus’ fer meself, aye?” He couldn’t keep himself from leaning in to brush his lips quickly but ever so softly over her own before he tilted his head to indicate the big black man and the monkey on the other side of the table. “Jus’ conductin’ a bit o’ bus’ness wit’ Cap’n Bobo an’ Horse, here…”

Willow’s lips twitched slightly. Her gaze took in the man that sat across from Jericho, and his pet monkey, “Its nice ter meet cha, Cap’t Boh-Boh,” she said with a smile that showed several of her teeth, "Horse wuld be an interesting name fer a monkey. Did 'e come wit tha name, or did yer give it to 'im?"

Bobo’s little face took on an indignant cast and, Jericho was fairly certain he’d seen Horse’s face twitch a bit, too… He simply cringed slightly and held up a hand to forestall the monkey-rage that was sure to have been stirred up by Willow’s honest mistake. “Heh heh, no, me beauty,” he corrected gently, gesturing at the befrocked capuchin with one hand and absently stroking the flat of her stomach with the fingertips of the other, “Cap’n bah-BOH be th’ monkey an’ Horse, here,” he nodded at the enormous black fellow, then, “be his… er… man… firs’ mate, I reckon…”

"I...er..." Will's body shifted on Jericho's lap. She swiveled around to look at the pair full in the face, masking her own from her captain, "My apologies." Her voice had lost the grungy quality, and her tones had turned to cold politeness.

At that, Jericho’s hand, that had to this point been absently toying over the half-elf’s stomach and hip, moved to rest on Willow’s back – she had turned her face so that he was unable to see, so it was hard to gauge her expression, but the tension in her body had become a suddenly palpable thing – and he offered the curious pair of potential clients a rather apologetic grin of his own. “Th’ lass dinnae know, Bobo,” he murmured…

Bobo’s face, as expected, had scrunched up into an irritated scowl and the expression on Horse’s face had become flatter and tighter lipped than before (if such a thing was even possible)… but the monkey-Captain, after a moment spent scowling at Willow’s unintended slight, flicked his eyes to Jericho and then offered a curt nod by way of acknowledging the bard’s apology… but Horse nearly came out of his seat when Khash made a sudden appearance and, whatever the monkey-Captain had opened his mouth to say was lost behind the sudden snapping sound of his little jaw clamping shut.

“Well Cap'n,” his brother grinned, dragging a chair over and plopping himself down to join them, “how's da job sound?”

…It was Jericho’s turn to tense, now. Even the warm tingling of the rum in his belly and the still warmer sensations that had been stirred with Willow on his lap were washed away by the sudden waves of uneasiness that had just crashed over the table. “I’m hopin’ we still be inna position tae find out, Khash-mate,” he said, flicking only a quick glance at his brother before fixing Bobo in his gaze again.

“Ye’ve me own apol’gies, Cap’n,” Jericho murmured to the scowling capuchin, “These here be me lieutenants…” He gave a quick, sideways tip of his head to indicate the half-orc; “Me firs’ mate, Khash…” Then his hand climbed the shanty singer’s back and came to rest on her shoulder; “…an’ me second, Willow…”

“Hmm,” Bobo glowered, his tiny eyes darting from one face to the next as the cigar rolled from one corner of his mouth to the other, “This’ll be all th’ interruptions we can expect, then, Cap’n Hawkes, er will, per’aps, the rest o’ yer swabs be joinin’ us unannounced?”

“Nae,” Jericho hoped, his own eyes skimming the crowd in the Hook’s common room in search of any more of his – Asim was hunched over an ale at the bar and there were a handful of others, here and there, but none that seemed inclined to head this direction, “I reckon this’ll be it…”

“Ye bloody well hope so,” the monkey grimaced, “I don’ fancy anymore surprises, aye?”

“Aye,” Jericho nodded, “I’m saavy. Now, I b’lieve we were tae th’ point where ye were gonna tell me ‘bout the hunnerd percent?”

Bobo eyed them all…skeptically, at first…then, when whatever it was he had been looking for in their eyes didn’t present itself, he nodded, took one long puff from his cigar, stubbed the thing out on the table, and nodded faintly. “I be guessin’ a hunnerd thousan’ Lords, all said’n done,” the monkey said, clamping the extinguished stump of the cheroot back between his little teeth and arching a brow at the Smuggler’s Moon trio, “Th’ ten percent I be offerin’d be aroun’…”

“Ten thousan’,” Jericho finished, nodding even more faintly than Bobo had, “I reckon, though, fer tha’ kinda boodle, I’d best be askin’ aft’r th’ circumstances, hadn’t I?”

The monkey’s nervous eyes ticked, again, from Jericho’s face to Willow’s, then, to Khash’s and back… as impassive as Horse remained, Bobo seemed to consider every possibility and weigh every word before it was spoken (unless a body called him BoBo). “Aye,” the monkey said after a moment of doing just that, “I s’pose ye’d be fools if’n ye didn’t ask, a’ least.

There be an island a few days sail south an’ west o’ th’ Serpent’s Teeth. It ain’t an island ye’ll be findin’ on any o’ yer charts, mind… Only I be knowin’ th’ location o’ th’ place… which is why I decided ta bury me swag there, ye see? Tweren’t long aft’r’ards tha’ I run afoul o’ th’ bokor wha’ cursed me wit’ this shape…”

Jericho felt one corner of his mouth twitch at the mention of ‘bokor’ and he cast a quick glance between Khash and Willow but said nothing. He reached for his tankard, though, took a swig and, dragging a hand across his lips, returned his attentions to Bobo who had skittered back up onto Horse’s shoulder.

“…an’ still sooner aft’r when th’ salt crusted, festerin’ tar-stains I had fer crew mutinied,” Bobo growled, “Lost all respect fer me, they did, once I were made a blasted monkey… Marooned me, they did, th’ mast-huggers! Me an’ Horse an’ a handful o’ me more loyal salts an’ left us ta rot!

We managed ta escape our fate, though,” the monkey said, patting Horse appreciatively on his head, “an’ found our way here. Now we be lookin’ fer a likely ship an’ crew wha’ can take us back ta th’ Isla de los Maldecidos afore me once an’ former crew figgers th’ code in me log books an’ learn precise where I buried me loot.

As I tol’ ye, a’ready; I’ll be willin’ tae give ye ten percent o’ th’ haul jus’ ta ferry me an’ my mates back there, aye? Th’ rest I’ll be keepin’ ta replace me beloved Dragon an’ hire me on some more trustworthy salts ta crew ‘er… So, what say ye, Cap’n Hawkes? Ten thousan’ lords fer a four day float…”

As he blew an unconvinced sigh past his lips and leaned back in his seat a bit, Jericho’s gaze floated away from Bobo and took in Khash and Willow…

An uncharted island may be jus’ th’ spot Davi’d be lookin’ fer tae hide away from this Wiles, bloke, wouldn’it, he mused, But a bokor?! S’posin’ there be more tae th’ yarn than Bobo be spinnin’ out fer us… an’ surely there’ll be tha’… I dinnae fancy playin’ hide an’ go hang yerself wit’ no sort o’ bokor…
… “What say ye, me hearties,” he asked after a moment, “Et sounds’s if there’d be a deal o’ coin tae be made fer li’l less’n sailin’, aye?”

((OOC: Okay… there’s more coming, of course, but I figured I’d throw this bit out there for some RP fodder, now… Khash? Will? Anything here? Back with more later…))

"Ye bes be gettin back ta work Lyri; the salts be gettin rowdy an' da last thing we want be ol' Wine causin more o' a rucus den dem afore we get ye outta here."

And well he would, Lyri knew. Karl Wine hated losing any of his women, either from sick or from sick and tired, and Lyri had been with him long enough that she was reasonably certain some fuss would be made about her leaving. She merely nodded, knowing there was work to be done, but having well enjoyed the conversation.Her eyes, however, moved from his to Taro, to the man in the corner, with whom the captain was in discussio. The question was already in her eyes without leaving her tongue.

"Ne'r fear Lyri" He said with a wink "We Hawkes c'n 'andle an'thin."

And so she rose, a light blush blooming high on her cheeks, and returned his warm smile before scampering off.

An observant fellow would make the comparison of Lyri's giddiness as she went back to tending the patron's needs to the excitement of a small puppy at play. Indeed, had she a tail, it would have been well wagging. And it was this change in her temperment that caused one of it's own in Taro. His mood had darkened enough when he saw Lyri sit at the brothers Hawkes' table, had become an unsettling wrath as she smiled and chittered away, and became downright murderous when she blushed and giggled and GAH! Stupid girl, he seethed, knocking back his tankard and emptying it.

He'd warned her, he'd tried to convince her of her own foolishness. Women didn't belong on ships any more than they belonged anywhere but the bed and the kitchen fires. THat was a woman's work, not this ridiculous notion of sailing around and looking for fun and profit. Women had no sense of that at all, and only served to complicate things. And now his woman was there, making moon eyes at another, while his mug became emptier and emptier. Should be there, serving him, subservient and under his control. You know, where he could keep her safe.

Had Lyri known what thoughts ran in maddened, livid currents in Taro's mind, she may well have done something to stop the unfortunate business that would come to mark the end of her life as a Freeport barmaid, and the start of her her wild adventures on the high seas. Perhaps she could have stopped it, but Lyri was far too happy to notice - she was almost de-lyri-ously giddy as she danced between tables, refilling tankards and refreshing bowls.

Surely they really would take her with them, right? She banished the uncharicteristically uncertain idea. She was always certain, and she would be about this, as well.

As she moved about the room, she kept tabs on the party in the corner: the adorable little monkey and his quiet but increasingly unnerving owner, the charismatic captain, and the strong, reassuring first-mate, and Willow, who had already made a friend in Lyri. But no inkling of their dealings could she discern, and so remained content in her current role.

She never saw the fire in Taro's eyes till it was too late to stop him.

“Jus’ so,” Jericho nodded following the commentary (spoken and otherwise) from his most trusted mates, a cunning smile played across his lips as he turned to regard Bobo again, “Et’s tae me own way o’ figgerin’, Bobo, tha’ thirty p’rcent be soundin’ more a reas’nable cut fer me an’ mine, aye?”

The monkey’s eyes went wide at that and even Horse’s brow twitched a bit. “Thirty?! I don’ think ye’ve all yer oars in th’ water, lad,” Bobo chittered out a laugh, “I only be askin’ fer ye ta take me an’ mine on a wee sail…”

“Aye,” Jericho agreed, the shrewd grin never faltering, “tae an’ island none’ve heard o’, per’aps flyin’ inna face o’ a bokor tha’s a’ready got a more’n apparent bluster wit’ ye, an’ only th’ gods be knowin’ wha’ be awaitin’ us betwixt here an’ there… ne’er mind ‘bout wha’ might be waitin’when we arrive, saavy?”

“It’ll be a smooth sail, Cap’n Hawkes,” Bobo grinned, scampering down Horse’s arm again and relighting his cigar from the taper on the table, “Less we come across a sea serpent er a kraken er sommat longst th’ way… An’ I’ve no inclinations runnin’ ye lot afoul o’ th’ bokor wha’ done this ta me… but I take yer point, lad. This be a matter o’ great import ta me,” he puffed on the cigar and, taking it from between his teeth, used it to gesture at Jericho and his company, “I’ll give ye fifteen.”

“Thirty,” Jericho said again, his eyes twinkling, “Ye said yerself, Cap’n Bobo, tha’ ye be racin’ ‘gainst yer ol’ crew, aye? Tha’ means ye’ll be wantin’ ta weigh anchor sooner’s ‘posed tae not, I reckon…”

“Aye,” the monkey confirmed.

Jericho shrugged and smiled all the brighter. “Tha’ means I’d be needin’ tae resupply quicker’n intended, Cap’n,” he said, “fence off me own spoils wi’out the usual parlays as tae price an’ forgo them same sorts o’ dealin’s where me supplies’d be concerned, dunnit? I figger th’ thirty p’rcent’d more’n compensate fer th’ profits I’d be lettin’ slip off in me wake.”
“Aye an’ sure it would,” Bobo agreed, “but so’d fifteen. B’sides, th’ island’s no’ but five days out under full sail… I like ye, though, Hawkes… eighteen.”

“Thirty,” Jericho repeated, still unswayed and still smiling, “An’ aboard Smuggler’s Moon I’ll add the guar’ntee tha’ yer five day sail’s cut tae four er less… make sure ye get there well afore yer former mates…”

“Ahhhh, so th’ Smuggler’s Moon be yer ship, eh?” Bobo chewed on his cigar, trying to hide the change in his monkey-smile that indicated he’d heard tell of the Smuggler’s Moon and that Jericho wasn’t simply boasting for the sake of the deal, the guarantee to cut a day off the sail was just that… “A’right, lad,” the monkey said, turning his back to ascend Horse’s arm again since he couldn’t hide the smile, “Twenty p’rcent. An’ I’ll give ye five hunnerd in advance if’n ye take tha’ as final.”

Aye, Jericho’s eyes sparkled like the promised gold at that, twenny thousan’d go a fair site tae makin’ the crew happy, now, wouldn’it? Swallow tha’ hook, Bobo-mate. He reached for the tankard again and tipped the thing to his lips to hide his own satisfied smile and, after a quick glance at his lieutenants, was set to accept the monkey’s offer… Willow had been dead-pan and tense for the duration and her face was still hidden (and, he imagined, unreadable even if she hadn’t kept it turned just so)… Khash’s expression was one that said for the promised haul he might take up magic his own self… but there was another half-orc face just beyond his brother’s that caught Jericho’s attention even moreso just then and forestalled the answer he’d been about to give Bobo.

“Yarr, an’ this’n’s got a murderous look in ‘is eye don’ ‘e?”

The words had barely passed Jericho’s lips by the time the other half-orc had reached their table and, secured to his seat as he was with Willow on his lap, Jericho didn’t have the time to react as he might have liked when the stranger grabbed Khash by the shoulder, spun him around, and took a swing…

“Ye founderin’, wind-blown, scuttle-hound,” Taro snarled as his fist descended on Khash’s cheek with a meaty thud, “I’ll learn ye ta come in here an’ try ta take wha’s mine!”

((OOC: Oooh! Lookit! A tussle!))

The Rusty Hook, Afternoon, 19th of Chad, 2005
Asim sat at the bar drowning his thoughts in a ale; and after 4 mugs his mind was a mass of alcohol infused haze. He downed each mug almost as fast as he could and in no time at all he was swaying atop his bar stool. He reached into his shirt pocket for another coin but after a few moments of feeling about he found nothing.

“Jusst Greaat,” he sighed as he lifted the mug and turned it upside down to drain every last drop. Setting the mug down he stood up, swayed for a moment and turned. His blurred vision scanned the room and finally found the table where the Captain sat with Willow still on his lap. He noticed others at the table but his eyes only fell upon Willow.

Deep down Asim always knew that he didn’t have any hope of anything with the older woman, but he had always still had dreams. He stood there for a moment watching them but surprisingly there was no anger like he thought he would have had. He couldn’t be upset at Willow, but he was surprised that he didn’t have any resentment towards the Captain.

But as he turned towards the door and staggered through the patrons he realized why he didn’t have negative feelings towards the man; Captain Hawkes was the man who had saved his life.

As the lad left the Rusty Hook and staggered down the street he thought back to the day a little under a year ago when the Kizmiri ship he had been on had a run in with the Smuggler’s Moon. Asim had been a cabin boy for the Kizmiri Captain, a man who had mistreated the lad and beat him mercilessly almost every day.

He never knew why the two ships had fought but in the end the Moon had won; the surviving members of the Kizmiri ship were gathered together on deck. Captain Hawkes had come before them appearing to Asim as a giant of a man; a walking god, a figure of a Captain that the boy could look up to and strive to be like one day.

The survivors had been given two choices; be put ashore at the next port of call or to join the crew. Asim had decided that as long as he wasn’t going to be beaten each day then he would stay aboard the Smuggler’s Moon as a deck hand. He had strived each day to learn the job, to prove that he had been worth saving. He looked up to Captain Hawkes and he even got the impression that the Captain liked him in return.

So even though it seemed his suspicions about Willow and the Captain’s relationship had been correct, he still couldn’t be mad at the man; he kind of thought of the Captain as the father he never had.



Dock District, Afternoon, 19th of Chad, 2005
Asim staggered down the street lost in thought; normally he would have stuck to the main roads where it was usually safer, but in his inebriated state he chose to take a shortcut down a dark alleyway.

“Lost boy?”

The lad staggered to a stop and looked up and after a few shakes of his head he saw a blurry form before him that had spoken.

“naaaa,” Asim slurred in response, “jusst makinn ma way back ta ma ship.”

He couldn’t quite make out the man’s features in the darkened alley and the blurry haze but something about him he didn’t like.

“Well na,” the man said as he took a couple steps closer and Asim could see him better now and the club he carried in his hands, “thar be a toll far th’s alley. Give us yar money.”

Asim shook his head and was about to tell them that he had drank all his money and didn’t have any left when he realized something the man had said, “Us?”

He heard a noise behind him, the sound of a boot on the damp cobblestone of the alley, and started to turn when he felt a stabbing pain in his right side. He grunted in pain as a dagger slipped into his side. As he sunk to the ground the alleyway started to fade from his vision, he thought he heard someone say something.

“Why ya do that? He was‘na goin ta be any trouble.” It sounded like the man who had been in front of him he thought as he lost consciousness. Asim briefly wondered if this was the end; he had hoped he would die someday in a better more memorable manner.

The Rusty Hook, Late Afternoon
"I...er..." Will's body shifted on Jericho's lap. She swiveled around to look at the pair full in the face, masking her own from her captain, "My apologies."

A monkey. The contact was a damned monkey. Willow never did like primates; there was something unnerving as to how humanoid they appeared. They had expressive faces, dexterous hands, and defined intelligence. Yet with blatant crudeness, odd behaviors and frequent disgusting acts it made them seem, to Will at least, like feral, demented, overly hairy humans. Captain Bobo did nothing to alleviate these misgivings; in fact with his appearance and demeanor it was making it worse. The fusion of a human mind with a capuchin; it struck Will as an absurdly cruel punishment that the borkor had inflicted. She felt no pity though; it was more akin to repugnance. The bard trained her face to be blank, but she couldn’t shake the tenseness running through her body. Jericho’s hand moved to the middle of her back. She wondered idly if he was trying to steady her.

“Th’ lass dinnae know, Bobo,” Jericho murmured across the table. The monkey captain’s face scrunched up in a rather comical scowl, but the situation was far from that. The stand-off lasted a few more seconds before Bobo nodded at her captain. Whatever foothold had been gained was teetering on being lost. The monkey opened his mouth again and shut it almost as quickly. A chair scrapped against the wooden floorboards, and Khash sat down at the table.

…and there goes the footing…
“Well Cap'n,” the first mate said pleasantly, “how's da job sound?” Things remained tense as Jericho attempted to smooth over the sudden appearance of herself and Khash. For a moment it looked to Will as if the monkey had reconsidered, but then the negotiations were on.

Willow sat quietly as Jericho began bargaining with Bobo. She had always admired how he handled contracts; it was something she never had a talent for much past a meal and a few coins. His persistency granted them twice Bobo’s initial offering price. Something kept tickling at the back of her mind, but she passed it off as her disagreeable nature towards monkeys. Her mind had drifted off towards the violin at her feet, and she wondered if they would be staying longer or if the conclusion would take them back to Smuggler’s Moon.

Jericho’s rumble brought her swiftly back to reality, “Yarr, an’ this’n’s got a murderous look in ‘is eye don’ ‘e?”

Her head snapped around to Khash. A surly looking half-orc stood behind him, and sure enough, murder danced all across his face, “Ye founderin’, wind-blown, scuttle-hound,” the half-orc raised his fist and brought it down upon Khash, “I’ll learn ye ta come in here an’ try ta take wha’s mine!”

It was as if the patrons had been waiting for the cue. Pandemonium was instantaneous. Will stood up swiftly, and Jericho’s legs knocked into the back of her knees as he scrambled to get up out of his chair. The action knocked her into the table, and her hands slammed down on the surface to prevent herself from laying out across it. The violin case rocked gently against Will’s foot as the table shuddered under her weight.

Rose.
As Jericho was launching himself on top of Taro, Will dove under the table to retrieve her instrument. Ceramic exploded around her as the tankards were knocked from the surface above.

Why the hell haven’t they switched to wood or pewter? Probably to prevent too much bludgeoning to death. she thought to herself as she looked out from under the table. The bard watched as the large legs of Horse strode away. By the bodies in his wake, and with the way he was laying out other people, it looked to Willow like he was headed toward the door. Thanks to Horse, the bar brawl was probably going to spill out into the street.

Shouts and curses came from every corner of the room. As Willow stood up, she couldn’t be sure as to how large the fight had become, but she knew two things. She had to get outside, and if they wanted to continue to do business here at Wine’s ‘fine establishment’, she had to do it without bloodshed. The rapier at her side hung heavily as she refused to free it from its scabbard.

Clutching her case to her body with her right arm, the bard began to head towards the door. Willow ducked a flying tankard and dodged around an upturned chair. Bodies pressed in against her, and it was hard to discern any clear path to the door. The musky smell of adrenaline was heavy in the air. A man with a quickly swelling lump upon his forehead was heaved suddenly into her path.

Saercyn Willow never was much of a fist fighter. It was a blade she had always favored. A blade that, held in her hand, could threaten, incapacitate, and kill if necessary. The slender hand that held it was no use in a fist fight; in fact, she avoided it because a bruise to her knuckles caused serious problems in her ability to create music. It was all laid out in front of her. Stab that guy’s leg, step around the body, stab Mr. Punchy’s hand and kick his knee, dodge the downed table, swat that guy with the flat of her blade in the rear and she was free. But without her rapier, it was a whole different game.

Bodies undulated in various states of fighting. Bottles and crockery smashed onto the floor. Willow clutched her case tighter and began dodging around the room. A blow hit her from behind in the side, but a glance around told her that it was a rogue punch. The women ran for the kitchen, heads ducked to avoid more flying objects. As Willow slid on a mixture of blood and glass, she saw that the tavern toughs had joined the fray. Each one of the bulls held a wooden cudgel, and they used them to ruthlessly subdue anyone who looked like they were a part of the fight. One tough sank his weapon into the back of a man wrestling on the ground with another. He rolled off, and the tough began to kick the other combatant on the floor. A drunken sailor doubled over and spewed the contents of his stomach as a cudgel made contact in his midriff.

She avoided the pool of sick and ended up near the end of the bar. The bartender held a long wooden bat with crooked nails sticking out of it, and he bared his teeth at her. Not wanting to look like she was after his bottles of liquor, she back away from the counter a few paces and received a sharp kick in the leg. Willow spun around ready to engage only to glimpse something flying at her. A half full tankard hit her square in the face. Her nose splayed across her face and broke from the impact. The force of it threw her back into the bar, and she sat down hard on the floor.

Broken ceramic, rum, and blood covered her face and body. She sat there for a few seconds, completely stunned and blinded by her watering eyes. Willow was aware that she was still clutching her case, and probably bleeding all over it, but she didn’t move it away from her chest. Her scabbard was sticking painfully into her back, and the frog it was attached to was halfway to ripping the belt off her hips. The bar fight started swimming back into her vision, along with the sensation of being choked. The bard sat up a little straighter and began coughing up the blood that was running down her throat.

Mid-morning, 19th of Chad, 2005
Askurt straightened, his back tight. He wore a large smile in spite of the pain. He was close. Very close. Construction was almost finished... it could be tested tonight.

He looked around, surprised to see that it was already late in the morning. Must be close to noon... I could do with a drink....
Askurt had left the ship nearly as soon as it had docked. As the cannon master, he had to make sure they had powder and munitions, sure, but it was not those duties that had him rushing for the edge of town. Askurt had worn his iron and gunpowder look for days, and now was finally putting ideas to use. The Moon will be the armed from stem to stern before I’m done...
Heading into town, the dwarf decided to swing by the Rusty Hook. He was sure the drinks wouldn’t be as strong as they should, but the Captain was sure to come through at some point, and it was time for him to see Askurt’s new toy.
By the time he arrived it was just past noon. He smirked to himself, as he usually did when proved right. On a table farther back stood Willow, in the middle of one of her “rabble-raisers.” It always amused him to hear such things pour from her delicate mouth, but it would provide the cover the Captain wanted, Askurt was sure. Speaking of the Captain....

As he got to the bar, his eyes swept the room, though it was no chore to pick out the Brothers Hawkes, grinning like fools and chatting up some bar-wench. A slight shiver passed through Askurt as his eyes fell on Khash, but he quickly shook it off. Half-orc or not, Khash had earned Askurt’s respect several voyages ago, and while the dwarf certainly had no love for the race, he would never raise a hand to Khash.

He turned to the man behind the bar. “Give me the strongest you have, and none of that Elven bilge either!” Elven drinks were stronger than their human counterparts, to be sure, but had always been a little to airy and fruity for Askurt’s taste. He received his drink and drained it in one go. Far too watery. What i wouldn’t give for a stout dwarven ale....
The Captain had been talking to a big man in the corner for awhile. Willow made her way to the table, her song finished, and perched on the Captain’s lap. He’s not complaining much, Askurt observed with another smirk. They were joined shortly by Khash. It was unusual for all three to be there. Must be important. Now that they are all there, it shouldn’t take long for them to finish. Askurt laughed a bit when he saw the monkey perched on the big man’s shoulders. He had seen few things more ridiculous than a pet monkey...

Another shiver passed through Askurt, this one more persistent. He turned and the reason became readily apparent. Another half-orc, this one with murder in his eyes, was striding towards the table. He thought to give warning, but it seemed Captain Jericho had already spotted him. He looked around. That one didn’t walk across the bar for conversation... As soon as he starts in..... people who drink in places like this never shy away from a brawl. Askurt reached for his axe, then let it be. A fight would be broken up, but largely over-looked. It was Freeport after all. A death however....

Askurt never completed the thought, as the bar erupted into fighting. Khash was more than a match for his opponent, and had the Captain there besides. The big man barreled though the crowd through the exit, the bar’s brawling patrons parting like water before him, then rushing back in his wake. Askurt was deciding whether to follow the big man’s lead or to help the Hawkes’ when the decision was taken out of his hands. Through the crowd as quick as she could came Willow, clutching her precious fiddle. He thought to help clear a way for her to the door, then saw she was headed towards the bar. Askurt struggled through the fight, moving to meet her at the end of the bar. Being the faster and more agile, Willow got there first, quickly backing up when the barkeep menaced her. What happened next set Askurt off like one of his own guns.

Whether a coward looking for an easy fight, or a berserker beyond caring, the man kicked out at Willows leg. As she spun to defend herself, he threw his mug at her, breaking it over her face at close range. Willow fell back into the bar looking dazed, blood dripping from the various cuts she now sported. Pushing through the last of the men in his way, Askurt drew one of his axes, fighting for control of his anger. He gained it at the last second, his axe arcing low, pulling the feet out from under the man, who stared up as Askurt threatened him now with both axes. “Willow! Can you stand? We need to get out of here!”

The Rusty Hook, Late Afternoon
…It was Jericho’s turn to tense, now. Even the warm tingling of the rum in his belly and the still warmer sensations that had been stirred with Willow on his lap were washed away by the sudden waves of uneasiness that had just crashed over the table. “I’m hopin’ we still be inna position tae find out, Khash-mate,” he said, flicking only a quick glance at his brother before fixing Bobo in his gaze again.

“Ye’ve me own apol’gies, Cap’n,” Jericho murmured to the scowling capuchin, “These here be me lieutenants…” He gave a quick, sideways tip of his head to indicate the half-orc; “Me firs’ mate, Khash…” Then his hand climbed the shanty singer’s back and came to rest on her shoulder; “…an’ me second, Willow…”
Between the formalities, Jericho's tone, and the flicker of Willow's eyes Khash started to second-guess his decision to check in on the dealings. Jericho handled things quickly, smoothing over the situation, but what happened next caught Khash off guard. Rather than the 'spooky man', as Lyri had put it, the response to his brother's apologies came from the monkey; Khash paled.

Thar don' be anneethin norm'l anneemor His mind rebounded to the thought of their most recent passenger as he tried to recover from his shock. M'ybe.... m'ybe Miss Passet could make 'im righ' again... The cheeky thought didn't do much to settle his mind; maybe if he suggested it to Jericho later. thar be mor' magick 'roun din I be wantin ta handl
Within his head Khash began to wonder how deadly the little creature could be, being so incredibly small compared to himself....then he shook away the thought; they were here on business, not to fight. Willow was silent as Jericho resumed bargaining with the small Cap'n, and Khash decided it was best to follow her lead on this one; listen and take in the dealings. His brother did well with the negotiations, which was the norm, managing to get double what the monkey was offering. Khash had noted the monkey having a significant temper, and lack of patience; he grinned over his brother's success.
“Yarr, an’ this’n’s got a murderous look in ‘is eye don’ ‘e?” Jericho's words brought Khash back to reality just in time to brace himself. He had a feeling he knew what was about to happen even before there was a grip upon his shoulder. Soon Khash was being spun about, his chair squealing as it accepted the sudden motion and ground against the floor. He knew his attacker even before he glimpsed the furious hatred in his eyes; Taro had decided to act.
“Ye founderin’, wind-blown, scuttle-hound,” the half-orc raised his fist and brought it down upon Khash, “I’ll learn ye ta come in here an’ try ta take wha’s mine!”
Despite the words he spoke, Taro's eyes seemed ready to kill.

The brief warning from his brother had allowed Khash to brace himself, though it only did so good. As the fist pounded into his cheek Khash felt a ripple of pain as it resonated through his jaw. Allowing himself to move with the motion of the blow, Khash fell to meet the floor, but not before bringing his own fist in behind Taro's knees and kicking out the brute's feet, toppling him onto his back. The rustling of motion came to Khash's ears as the rest of the table moved into action, but Khash didn't look back. Jericho flew from his chair and over Taro as the half-orcs fell together, missing his mark and delving into the crowd that had, unsurprisingly, erupted into chaos.

Khash brought his fists to bare on his foe, bringing them down together upon Taro's armoured chest, but not without receiving a heavy boot to the ribs. Snarling a curse Khash moved back, a hand gripping his side, and barely escaped a second boot aimed for his skull. Taro began to rise as Khash moved back, still upon the floor; seeing Khash remained in good condition seemed to set Taro into a deeper, seething rage. With a low growl the brute dove through the air to grapple Khash, but his eye's reflected that he wouldn't stop there. Khash managed to catch Taro's forearms to keep from being completely suppressed, but had to grit his teeth to hold back the pain from Taro's knees driving into his gut.

With growing fury Khash gripped Taro's arms like a vice, increasing the pressure until the raging half-orc had resorted to clawing at Khash's forearms in an attempt to draw blood. There was a moment where it seemed that Taro was out of tricks, but then the brute seemed to leap up and drive the bulk of his weight onto Khash once more. The force of the blow felt as though it cracked ribs, causing Khash to let out a gasp as he lost his grip on Taro's right arm; the brute smashed his fist into Khash's face. In return Khash snarled, twisting Taro's left arm with all his might as he tried to refill his lungs. In defiance Taro spit into Khash's eyes just seconds before the utterance of pain as the bone snapped.

Recoiling in pain Taro left himself open, but Khash's swing hit only the metal of the guard's armour. Taro laughed despite his pain, mocking Khash's futile efforts; then Khash grabbed him by the collar. Completely dumbstruck, Taro's eyes grew a tad wider as Khash head-butted him twice in the face.

With a final feat of strength Khash drew his legs up and pushed into Taro's chest, forcing the brute overhead and flipping into the table the party had just been sitting at. It shattered under the half-orc's weight, and Taro laid there, motionless and groaning in pain. Rising to his feet, a steady trickle of blood ran down over Khash's left eye from his foe's tusk cutting into his brow. Looking down upon Taro's form Khash reached to his belt for his mace but decided against it; they weren't here to be killing folks.

His senses suddenly snapped back to reality. The two half-orcs, because of their size and power, had been left to their own devices, but that hadn't stopped the rest of the bar degenerating into madness.

Jarek! Wil! Lyri! concern coursed through Khash as eyes began searching for his friends. He didn't question his concern for Lyri; he had told her not to fear, that the Hawkes could handle anything. Without thinking further he dove into the brawl to find them.

Despite the fact that Willow had stopped playing, things were still fairly rowdy. Lyri felt the weight of every moment now as an unscratchable itch, the hellfire of waiting just beneath the surface of her skin, but she did her best to contain it as she tended tables and soothed sore spirits between the little pockets of patrons here and there who'd gotten a bit too enthusiatic over Willow's performance.

So caught up as she was in trying to keep busy, she missed Taro's threat, and took no notice till ceramic shattered and tables overturned. Even then, it took her a few moments to register the sight at the corner of the room. And suddenly, the passage of time took on life of its own as it slowed, moving like the sick thick remnants of days-old stew, while a thin wisp of calm and quiet surrounded her. In this perfect clarity, she watched in subdued wonder as Taro's instiggation ignited brawls from other patrons not even involved. She watched Khash tusseling with Taro, watched Willow's nose erupt in a bloody fountain, and the scaryman drop those in his way with a single curled fist. She saw a dwarf enter the fray, and saw Colin move to the door, trying ot get out of the way of danger. Lyri stood still in the eye of the storm and...

Lyri gasped, shattering the wierding as a grin spread across her face. This wasn't how she's intended to go, but as leavings went, it was damn sure exciting. She knew Khash would be fine, big and strong as he was, and the dwarf had reached Willow. She couldn't see the captain in the scuffle, but Khash had said they could handle anything. Which meant she need only look out for herself at present, and the thrill racing along her limbs at this understanding was nearly tangible. Pockets of fighting moved near her, and she she lost her footing as a body crashed against her. Brushing aside one of her ribboned braids, she kicked out, planting her foot squarely in the back of the man who'd fallen against her. His companions seemed not to appreciate her assistance in getting him going, and advanced on her, swinging.

She dodged one of the fists by accident - One of the pair moving t her, fists swinging, caught her in the chest, high near the shoulder, jerking her back in a twisting stumble, which let the other fist sail cleanly by the place her left eye would have been. Righting herself, she swept out with her leg, hooking one of theirs - she couldn't tell which at this point - and purposely tripped forward as she drew her foot back, causing her quarry to stumble and fall hard on one knee. Lyri took advantage, and steadied herself, drove her elbow down against the base of his skull. His companion shouted something about Lyri's mother being a troll, and she laughed. The slight angered her opponent; he charged, swinging his fist up in an uppercut that caught her on the tip of her chin and snapped her head too far back - the pain rang out as stars swam in her vision and she staggered back, into another little brawl, catching an unfortunate fist with her right eye.

At this, Lyri cried out in a mixture of rage, pain, and flushed excitement. Blood pooled in her mouth and she realized she'd bitten her tongue at some point. She turned her head slightly and spit it out, then looked back to her accidental assailant. Without words, she moved towards him and brought her knee up into his groin. When he doubled over, she grabbed a fistful of hair at the back of his head and brought up her knee again as she brought down his face to meet it. THe two connected in a sickening crunch that brought a smile of triumph to her eyes. Rather, to her eye, as the other was puffing considerably now.

Her moves weren't pretty. They weren't polished nor honed by years of practical training and application. No, her style was more organic, and came from instinct and a little teaching, and she still got results. Despite this, one thing could still be said for her: What Lyriandel Evermoon lacked in technique and finesse, she made up for in determination and excitement.

The Great Unknown
The world swam in sea of inky black; he seemed to float on pure darkness.

He felt weightless as he drifted along feeling numb.

Slowly in the darkness a pinpoint of light slowly grew brighter and larger.

He began to drift in that direction; towards the warm glowing light.

It called to him; he felt as if all would be well once he reached the source of that light.

Before he reached the light he heard something; a faint sound that caused him to pause in his drifting as he tried to identify it.

The sound grew in intensity; music, it was music.

Not just any music; he recognized it. It was Willow’s music.

The floating form turned in the darkness and began to move away from the light and towards the source of the music.

The current in the blackness seemed to pull against him; trying to prevent him from approaching the music.

He struggled against the current knowing that to reach the beautiful music would make everything alright.

The current increased the more he struggled; yet he fought with all his might.

He began to make headway against the flow and gradually the music volume increased.

Ahead he began to make out another light in the blackness; a Rose colored light from which the music emanated.

As he drew neared the music, he noted the current now starting to draw him towards the Rose light.

He began to move faster and faster and even without trying he was flashing towards the music.

Suddenly the music was all around him as he was drawn into the Rose colored light; with the light and music came the pain.



Dock District, Afternoon, 19th of Chad, 2005
Asim groaned and awoke and pain shot through him as he moved. He found himself lying on the wet cobblestones of an alley. At first he didn’t know how he got here but then he remembered being accosted by some ruffians; one had stabbed him in the side.

He reached down and felt his right side and flinched as he touched it and drew his hand away and saw it covered with blood. Not good!

He tried to rise but found himself too weak; he knew he had to get help otherwise he would die. Unable to rise he looked around and saw the street, in what seemed an impossible distance away.

Slowly he began to crawl toward the street and help; each movement was a flash of fresh pain in his side. He left a thin trail of red upon the cobblestones to mingle with the rancid water of the alley.

He managed to make it halfway to the street before his right hand slipped on some slime and he crashed to the cobblestones and the impact on his side caused a intense flash of agony which caused him once more to slip into unconsciousness and visions of wondrous, marvelous music.

(OOC: Sorry I got bored and just had to post something. Hoping someone comes to Asim's aid soon otherwise it might be a short role for me. )

The Rusty Hook; Late Afternoon
The span of time between Taro’s attack on Khash and Jericho’s near-instinctual response was only somewhat longer than the blink of an eye but, in that blink, enough had happened that Jericho’s instincts might have just gotten the better of him this go around… In his haste to be out of his seat and defending his brother, Jericho had come close to knocking Will off of her feet and, in the half-heartbeat of hesitation that had caused, Khash had managed a maneuver that took Taro out of Jericho’s line of sight just as he dove over the table intent on tackling the raging half-orc. Rather than driving a shoulder into Taro’s chest, then, Jericho found himself sailing over the growling and grappling tuskers and into the fray that had erupted around them. The shoulder that had been intended for Taro’s breast bone, instead, impacted with the floor; Jericho crumpled into it and let the momentum roll him back to his feet.

Aye, an’ there be wha’ I get fer playin’ me brother’s keeper, innit? he managed to smirk as he (somewhat foolishly) turned his back on the chaos before him to check on that in his wake… Khash, of course, was giving the other half-orc as good as or better than he was getting… “Tha’s wha’ ye get fer bein’ s’fargin’ pretty, Khash-mate,” he bellowed behind a laugh just before he noticed that Horse (with Bobo riding his shoulder) was clearing a path to the Rusty Hook’s door and, worse, that Willow had seemingly disappeared.

Drek, he thought, trying to pick the bard out from the churning maelstrom, I bloody well hope this dinnae cost ‘er a job, aye? He thought he had caught sight of her but, as unruly as the Hook had become, the fleeting glimpses of the sandy hair and brightly colored clothes were just that, if not less. It wasn’t easy to miss Horse and Bobo, though. They were making for the exit, leaving a trail of bruised and bleeding salts as they went. An’ I hope we’ve nae lost tha’n either… He turned, eyes following the big black man and the monkey towards the crookedly hung door and…

“Wink a’ this, ye fargin’…”

Whatever words had finished that particular insult were lost to the ringing in Jericho’s ears when the man that had groped Willow (or, more precisely, the fist of the man who had groped Willow) earlier appeared in his vision for a fraction of a second and he felt the punch land square and solid on his face. For as drunk as the man was, it was a good punch… hard enough to rock Jericho’s head back, send beaded braids clattering against one another, and initiate the first tingling sting of what would surely become a shiner about cheekbone and forehead… but Jericho had spent his earliest years being beaten by orcs aboard the Bloodtusk and by better and worse on the twisting and tangled streets of this very town, so, after he had recovered from the intial surprise of the sucker-punch, the captain of the Smuggler’s Moon reframed the man in his sight, smiled, winked as requested, and then delivered a vicious headbutt to the man’s face.

Jericho saw the light in Mr. Grabby’s eyes dim and continued smiling as the man’s knees started to buckle. “Oi, an’ where ye goin’ then,” he asked, grabbing a fistful of throat first, to keep the man from dropping to the floor, and, also, a fistful of crotch to rouse the man closer to consciousness, “I thought ye were wantin’ ta dance, aye?”

Mr Grabby’s eyes went wide and he squeaked an almost piteous squeak as Jericho hauled him upright.

“Nae?” Jericho sneered, hauling the green-at-the-gills man a bit closer. “Saavy. I’m nae’s pretty as th’ bard am I? But, laddy, I’ll be guar’nteein’ ye tha’ if’n I so much’s smell th’ scent o’ lech about ye when next I see yer face, I’ll be takin’ off yer hands…” His own hands tightened vice-like around the other man’s throat and gonads… “Ef nae worse, aye?”

Jericho had to give Grabby credit, then. The man actually managed to nod somewhat vigorously in reply. “Aye,” Jericho affirmed as he hoisted the man by neck and nuts, then body-slammed him to the floor, “an’ dinnae s’much as dream o’ fergettin’!” He stepped over the man before the floor had stopped vibrating from the impact and was calling “Will!” even as he intercepted and returned blows from others as he waded through the ruckus.

His cinnamon eyes had turned the color of swamp mud and there was no glitter in them at all as he shoved through the melee, his gaze dancing nevrvously… angrily… from Khash, across the tumultuous floor of the barroom, to where Horse with Bobo perched tightly on a massive shoulder, strode ever closer to the exit, and across the fray again in search of Willow… “Will!” he shouted, palming one face and elbowing another as he continued on his path through the mayhem, “Saercyn Willow!!! Where be ye, lass?”

“Willow! Can you stand?” the voice, as familiar as it was, seemed to have an almost ethereal quality to it…

Maast? When’d he get here? Even as he tangled a swinging arm in his own, dislocated the elbow, and shoved the faceless bloke to which that arm was attached unceremoniously aside, Jericho’s head swiveled in search of the dwarven Master Gunner as opposed to Willow, now… surely he’d be with her, wouldn’t he?

“...We need to get out of here!”

“Guns ahoy,” Jericho shouted even as his eyes fell on Lyri…

He grinned, noting the girl’s expression as a mix of fear and excitement all at once, and grabbed her by the elbow; “Ef ye’ll be sailin’ wit’ us, lass, I reckon now’d be th’ time, aye?” The corsair captain never stopped moving, never gave the half-elf barmaid a chance to respond; he simply adjusted his course when he heard Askurt’s gravelly voice boom out an answering ‘Yo ho, the guns!’ and dragged the copper haired lass along towards the bar.

The Rusty Hook, Late Afternoon
Blood continued to stream out from Willow’s nose, and down her throat and face.

“Fugk,” she muttered, holding a sleeve to her nostrils. Doesn’t this ever stop?
Willow coughed more blood onto the floor as a stout figure stepped out and knocked a man over just beyond her reach. At first she thought it was one of the tavern toughs, but as she focused on his back, she recognized the frame of Askurt. He gripped his axes, the struggle to stop himself was evident in his posture.

“Athkurd?” she asked thickly.

“Willow! Can you stand? We need to get out of here!”

“I thing so,” the bard rocked to her knees to have a better chance of not falling over backwards. The brawl continued to ebb and flow; a table splintered in half under the weight of two men, a woman cried out, more tankards shattered. She attempted to stand, but her head was still spinning, probably from the quick loss of blood.

“Guns ahoy!” Someone shouted above the din. Jericho?
Askurt’s head snapped up and he boomed out, ‘Yo ho, the guns!’

“Athkurd, could you gib me ah hand ub?” she asked, raising her voice so he could hear her over the renewed shouts. Willow held her left arm out towards the dwarf, and mentally braced herself for the swift return to her feet.

The Order of the Sisters of Mercy Home
Freeport
19th of Chad - Early Evening
The boy was still unconscious Haspia noted as she replaced the no longer cool washcloth resting on his forehead with a fresh one. A tendril of his hair spilled down over it as she did and tenderly she pushed it back with the rest. She tugged the edge of the white blanket covering him up a little further on his chest and smiled lightly. Soon he would wake up again.

Haspia turned away from him and started taking care of the used washcloth when the door to the small room they were in opened. Mother Frendula stepped in and as always Haspia could not help but be in awe of the older woman.

Frendula had founded and now ran the Order of the Sisters of Mercy. Much of her life before she became the Mother was unknown, rumors abounded among her younger members of course (everything from a runaway princess to a streetwalking harlot), but no one knew the truth. All the Sisters, and anyone else, knew is that she came into a large fortune suddenly and used it to create the Order, whose main mission was to tend to those in need. In a city such as Freeport they were never lacking in work.

Mother wore her normal plain dark grey gown, her hair, also a dark grey, was pulled into a tight bun on the back of her head. She laid her slate colored eyes on Haspia when she entered. Taking in the young woman, her small delicate (if slightly round) frame, the dark waves of her hair, the spark in her green eyes, the light blue gown worn by all junior members of the Order.

“He hasn’t woken yet?” The elder woman asked.

“No Mum… soon though. He has started some stirring, they always do before they wake up.” Tenderly Haspia drew her attention back to her patient. “Who do you think he is? By the way he smelled I’d guess a sailor of some kind, no one can get salt that far into their soul without living on the sea. Handsome lad…”

Frendula’s gaze sharpened. “You have more important things to be concerning yourself with right now.”

Haspia looked back at the Mother and rose a brow.

“Word has come down. He seeks the Serpent again.”

A deep sigh fell from Haspia at this news. “Again? Poor dear. Shall we do like last time if we find her?”

Now it was time for Frendula to sigh. Her stoic eyes dropped to the floor and she lightly shook her head. “I think not. He grows suspicious of us. And his temper is only growing worse.” Her eyes rose again to her underling, “If you find her, quietly bring her to a room and let me know immediately, we will decide what to do then… I don’t want to turn her over, but…

“Let us pray that we don’t find her this time so those decisions won’t have to be made by us…”

“Yes Mum… and this young man?”

Frendula gave a slightly dismissive wave. “The usual… when he wakes give him back his clothes and things, a napkin of food and send him on his way. Just remember to ask for a donation.” At this last bit she smiled.

Haspia nodded and returned the smile with a slight laugh. “Of course… charity is not free. Good day Mum…”

“Good day Sister…” and at that the grey woman turned and left Haspia alone with the young man.

((Asim lays in the bed, washed, healed and naked save for that sheet. RP if you want to get with me we can collab what goes on between Asim and Haspia before getting him back to the ship, up to you how much of the conversation she just had with the Mother he overheard))