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

"Me name is Daxon, Thank you for yer help. Ole sharktooth here has been one saving grace. T'is good to meet more of yer mates. What do you do on the ship?"

(OOC: Daxon is trying to get to know cracker since he will be boarding the ship.)

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 5:15 P.M.; The Le Porc Fattest Tavern

As the ale flows, the others become more talkative. It may have taken several hours but Goncalvo has 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 the crew returning late." The drunk captain almost manages a remark but his eyes drift shut instead. Concalvo thanks the bar maid and then heads out the door and back to the long boat. He intends to share what he has learned with the captain.

Heat still boils the very air around the sailmaster and the streets of the settlement are just as busy as when he had arrived hours past. It is stifling, but not too unlike his native Spain along the southernmost coast. Remaining free from jostling is also a stifling task due to the traffic along the way back to the water. Nothing missing, Goncalvo is left waiting for the longboat to return. He can see it in the bay, still bobbing next to the sleek lines of the Dog, but there's not a soul in it.

"You seem the lonely sort," a soft voice sings behind him, drawing his attention.

She stands, perhaps, ten feet from him, a small woman of petite build with frizzy brown hair that sits atop her head and ragged skirts. White was once the color of her blouse but it is now soiled and gray, thin and drifting in the wind. Plain brown eyes stare up from beneath too of long lashes, flitting up and down his frame but refusing to rest upon his face.

"Do ya wanna be un-lonely?" she timidly asks with a simple and barely recognizable jerk of her head back towards the buildings. "Jus' a few pennies for a sailin' man whose been too long at sail?"

(OOC: Time is roughly 5:32 PM.)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 11:12 A.M.; The Town

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

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

A wolfish grin starts to tug at the corners of his mouth and his eyes glint a bit bluer as they lift to find hers. "An' why wouldn' I be, Raisa-luv," he asks, his gravelly voice softens a bit with the smile. The hand that isn't resting on the hilt of his blade lifts to capture hers and pry it gently away from his chest. He keeps her hand trapped in his as his grin moves slowly from wolfish to shark-like; "If I dared believe it, I'd think ya din't miss me,"

Eyes narrowing, Raisa presses her lips together and defiantly meets his gaze, "I didn', but I know someone who did—someone who's been lookin' forward t' this reunion fer some time now."

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

Tugging her hand free with no exaggeration of effort, the woman stops dead in her tracks and forced Fin to turn from his progress once again to face her. "Yer no' listenin' to a word I'm sayin', Fin Crowe."

More than a few heads turn, but the glances are fleeting and cautious enough that though Fin can be sure there were many he catches but a few.

"He swore he'd see you dead fer what you did," Raisa continues in a lower tone. "He'll do it too. He won' rest until he's avenged LeRoux."

(OOC: Time is roughly 11:13 AM.)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), The Sun Dog, 12:25 P.M.

"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.

"Aye, Mags," Anna nods into the feather. "I want you t' figure the lay o' the land an' quick like lightnin' as we're no' t' have much time fer it. Gather what men ya need t' do it." Lowering the quill, Anna levels her stare at Hellfire Maggie, her younger sister and only living family. "Ya need yer head ‘bout ya in this, Mags. Fire'll sink yer ship."
(OOC: Time is roughly 12:27 PM.)

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

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

Cracker steps into the One-Eyed Parrot and lets his eyes adjust to the light. He is looking for a good meal, or at least the best meal this establishment can manage. As he stands in the entrance he has visions of beef and bread and ale even as he knows stew of questionable origin and biscuits are more likely. But a sailor can dream.

As his eyes adjust, he leaves his reverie behind and starts to step into the room for whatever reality might serve up. But what it serves up is an odd assortment of people on one side of the room and... Shark Tooth and an injured man on the other side. The Shark doesn't seem to have noticed him and for a moment thoughts of quickly fleeing to another public house flit across his mind. But he shakes the idea out of his head because he knows he can never just ditch a shipmate in need. With an inward groan and a glance at the kitchen, he moves towards the two who seem to have half a tavern to themselves.

As he approaches, Shark Tooth seems to hear his steps and turn warily in his direction. When he turns, Cracker gets a full glimpse of the fun that he has been having. His shipmate has 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 won't be overheard by the other side of the room, Cracker shakes his head saying, "Ah, Sharky, what'd you go and get yourself into?"

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

When all Cracker does is shake his head and inspect the man on the table, Shark Tooth takes 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 looks over the man on the table and can't help but notice the bloody rag tied around his leg and the look of pain on his face. Hopefully he'll end up a good gunner, because right now he looks more like a gutter rat. "Looks like he needs the surgeon before he'll be manning any guns."

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

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

"Aye Cracker! Yur Hep Me Git Mah Heartie Ta Dah Sun Dog 'N Ye Be Gittin Yur Sharky Meal Fer Shur!" Shark Tooth grins against his pain and moves to do his part.

"Me name is Daxon, Thank you for yer help. Ole sharktooth here has been one saving grace. T'is good to meet more of yer mates. What do you do on the ship?"

(OOC: Cracker's response,)

Blackheart's leg throbs as the three men move from the tavern. Beat up and wounded, Daxon and Wylie glance about but their concentration is more on their own cautious movements and avoiding impacting their injuries which result in stabbing pain lancing throughout their bodies whenever they fail. Cracker, on the other hand, is very much in full control of his senses and scans the lopsided tavern crowd with impunity as he bears a good portion of the potentially new gunner across the worn and stained planks of the establishment. The promise of a future meal does nothing to satisfy his hunger for the moment, Shark Tooth's involvement in another man's troubles is alarming enough that the boatswain does not feel comfortable letting his guard down. No one in the Parrot's patronage turns their curious gazes from the trio, but who can blame them? It is quite the spectacle. To the Dog's junior officer, they seem nothing more than curious.

Passing through the door and back into the fully oppressive heat, Cracker keeps one eye shut and the moment he passes into the penetrating light cast by the equatorial sun, he closes the open eye and opens the closed. It's an old trick he learned from a sailor on in the British Navy to adjust more quickly between light sources such as when coming up from below deck into the bright sunshine during a combat situation.

Peering first to the left and then to the right, the ex-navy man can see no immediate threat. It would appear to him that those who had dealt out the sever punishment to his brother and the possible new recruit have no further interest in the matter. Turning the hobbling Blackheart in the direction of the bay, Cracker and Shark's Tooth practically drag Daxon on the long-haul, again, drawing many a curious glance, furtive though they may be.

Sand is a merciless floor upon which to walk when not burdened. When assisting a man who is essentially rendered one-legged, the tiny dead bodies of ocean creatures and shells under boot become downright bothersome. Worse; when the beach is achieved, the longboat is barely making its way back from the Dog with a single passenger to deposit on shore requiring them to wait for ten minutes or so before the bow cuts into the sand.

"Ho, thar!" Cyril Daumier is the sailor manning the longboat. A friendly Frenchman with a long, narrow face and a prominent nose, he usually works the sails. "Who's this an' wha' in the bloody ‘ell ‘appened t' you Les mecs?"

(OOC: Whatever reply, by whomever,)

The passenger, a large man with no neck whom none of the three men on the beach have seen before, disembarks without so much as a nod in their direction. He doesn't even look back choosing to trudge willfully across the beach as he departs.

Shaking his head and clicking his tongue, Cyril turns away just a little too late to hide his smile. Holding the longboat steady, he waits until Daxon is loaded and the others are situated before pushing the vessel into the surf and quickly splashing aboard (an act that sends droplets of seaspray across his passengers).

"Ya think tha' Captain Cole will fancy takin' on a wounded man, hmmm?" Daumier puts his back to the act of rowing. He eyes Blackheart with half-hooded eyes the mood of which cannot be discerned by the others. "Je suppose que cela dépend de combien de temps nous sommes à l'ancre, non?"

(OOC: Whatever replies are appropriate. Remember to check your character sheets to see if you speak French before using Google Translate to see what he said.)

Ten minutes later and the longboat draws up alongside the Sun Dog. Cyril reaches out and grabs hold of the rope dangling next to the thick rope ladder dangling over the edge and raises his eyebrows. "Does he need t' be ‘oisted up, perhaps?"

(OOC: Decision,)

On deck, the sun almost directly overhead, Cracker catches the eye of one of the sailors on watch named Chimwemwe, a man of average stature with skin as black as the night who prefers to fight with a mooring hook, and asks after Hughes.

"He be ashore," Chim replies, looking both Shark's Tooth and Blackheart over with his beady eyes. Nodding to Daxon, the man asks, "Who be him?"

(OOC: Answer as you see fit,)

(OOC: Time is approximately 12:33 PM.)

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 11:12 A.M.; The Town
"Why are you back?"

"An' why wouldn' I be, Raisa-luv? If I dared believe it, I'd think ya din't miss me,"

Raisa's eyes narrowed as her full lips pressed together and she defiantly met Fin's gaze. "I didn'," she said, "but I know someone who did - someone who's been lookin' forward t' this reunion fer some time now."

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

Tugging her hand free with no exaggeration of effort, the woman stopped dead in her tracks and forced Fin to turn from his progress once again to face her. "Yer no' listenin' to a word I'm sayin', Fin Crowe."

More than a few heads turned, but the glances are fleeting and cautious enough that, though Fin was sure there were many, he had caught but a few. His eyes chased the onlookers as his mind chased memories, Where'n th' hell do I know ya from, Raisa, he kept wondering, an' wha' in th' f**k're ya goin' on about?

"He swore he'd see you dead fer what you did," Raisa continued in a lower tone as Fin's gaze settled on her again. "He'll do it too. He won' rest until he's avenged LeRoux."

The mention of LeRoux's name cracked his memory like a lightning bolt might crack a mainmast. His fingers curled into tight fists, a phantom burning licked at the brand on his chest, and his storm-filled eyes might have blinked as the recollections came rushing back,

Raisa Taïa was a whore. One favored, all those years ago, by his former "master," LeRoux. In those days, Fin had only had passing interactions with the woman and, aside from her looks, nothing beyond that stood out any clearer in his memory. She may have been there when Fin finally killed the slaving bastard but Crowe couldn't remember for certain, the red cloud of rage clouded most everything but the violence he'd visited on LeRoux , and there had been many people there on that blood-soaked night - slaves and servants, foremen and crackers - there could be know way he'd have remembered them all.

Fin did remember one person who hadn't been there, though, and in that thunderclap of remembrance, he knew precisely to whom Raisa referred. Temesgen Kidane, a giant of an African with a lust for blood and more than enough skill with a sword to satisfy it. Kidane had been LeRoux's right hand man and, on that night, had been off-island (procuring new slaves or "enforcing timber contracts" most likely). Had he not been, well, that night might have sailed on a much different tide.

,Despite the cold fire that burned in his gut and the fact that his hand no longer just rested on the hilt of his blade but, instead, curled purposefully around it, Fin Crowe offered the woman a cold, mirthless smile. "Good ta know someone's losin' sleep over me," he rumbled.

"Is it Kidane's rest er my safety tha' concerns ya more, Raisa-luv? If it's th' former," he leered, gesturing at a random street or alleyway, "steer me a course to ‘im an' I'll loose ‘im from ‘is restlessness, aye?" His hand swept back, then, and came to rest at his waist, a thumb hooking over the top of his belt as he arched a brow at the woman; "If it's th' latter - which I can't imagine, as ye've a'ready said ya din't miss me an', I reckon, I must've cost ya a pretty penny er two by spillin' LeRoux's guts - but if it is, poppet, ya just point me ta where I c'n find a prize ta hunt an' I'll be gone ‘fore th' rum's empty."

As Daxon listened to Sharktooth's tale about the brawl in the bar, the new guy finally proved he wasn't quite dead yet and spoke up. "What do you do on the ship?"

‘At least he is alive enough to speak,' thought Cracker as he helped Sharktooth get the man to his feet. "Boatswain. It's a job that generally requires two legs. I'd have thought gunner did as well." He grinned at the man as he groaned in pain when they moved towards the door. Keeping his eyes on his surroundings he responded to the man's pain with a bit of sympathy. "Hopefully doc can get that leg fixed and you'll fit right in. The Dog is a good ship."

The walk across the town and then the sands was certainly not fun. About the only enjoyment Cracker got out of it was knowing that the other two were both enjoying it even less than he was. It was small consolation.

After a wait on the shore, annoying but welcome after the adventure of the sand, Cyril Daumier and the longboat finally arrived. After it had deposited its occupant, a large man William Wiley had never seen before, Cyril grinned and reacted to their new crewmate. "Who's this an' wha' in the bloody ‘ell ‘appened t' you Les mecs?"

‘Les mecs?' thought Cracker. He hated it when these guys spoke French, which Cyril immediately proceeded to do. He knew Cracker didn't understand it, so he was probably just trying to get a rise out of them. He'd give the man crap about being a frog some other time, but for now he was just curious about the big guy. "Kill the froggish, Cyril. Sharky found himself a gunner in mid' brawl. Hopefully he can aim a gun better'n he aims a knife. Who was the big guy?" The boatswain knew such information was probably above his paygrade, but curiosity made life a bit more interesting.

When they finally arrived back on the Dog they heard from Chimwemwe that the Doc was ashore. Sighing, Cracker looked at Sharky again. "Well, not much to do, but wait. Help him into the shade. Doc has to return sooner or later. Sober or not."

After helping Daxon to a reasonable seat, William Wiley took a seat just a few feet away. As much as he'd like to, there was no point in going back into town. His next shift might well start soon and while he had not been on the Dog all that long yet, it was long enough to know that it was unwise to anger either of the Cole sisters. He'd be here, on time and sober, when his shift started. But if he had to be on the dog, that didn't mean he needed to go below decks just yet. After weeks of seeing nothing but water all around, just the sight of land, a town and people was worth staying on deck.

"Boatswain. It's a job that generally requires two legs. I'd have thought gunner did as well." He grinned at the man as he groaned in pain when they moved towards the door.

Daxon laughed the best he could at the Boatswains humor. "It's good to hear some light jokes considering the situation."

Daxon hearing the doctor is not aboard still is still feeling a sense of relief. Knowing that at some point a possible solution is near.

"Never been stabbed in the leg, Not suggesting it for others. Have you guys been on the Dog long?"

"Lass, if that I was free to enjoy the pleasures you peddle. Alas my heart still belongs to another. The only 'service' I seek is one that tells of the coming and going of ships and sailors."

"Do ya wanna be un-lonely?" she timidly asks with a simple and barely recognizable jerk of her head back towards the buildings. "Jus' a few pennies for a sailin' man whose been too long at sail?"

"Lass, if that I was free to enjoy the pleasures you peddle. Alas, my heart still belongs to another. The only 'service' I seek is one that tells of the coming and going of ships and sailors."

Dipping her head, the whore looks up at Goncalvo with what must surely be a demure and inviting flutter of her eyelids. Chewing on her bottom lip, she sways her hips and shoulders in opposite directions giving a flutter to her skirts. "Yer misses could join us," she draws the sentence out longer than is natural and very subtly thrusts her chest outward. "Who knows? Maybe a little play will shake my memory an' a li'l somethin' might be shared."

Again, her sharp chin follows her eyes as they move to look back at the alleys and streets of the settlement, "Won't take but a li'l time."

(OOC: Time is roughly 5:33 PM.)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 11:13 A.M.; The Town

"He swore he'd see you dead fer what you did," Raisa continues in a lower tone. "He'll do it too. He won' rest until he's avenged LeRoux."

The mention of LeRoux's name cracks his memory like a lightning bolt might crack a mainmast. His fingers curl into tight fists, a phantom burning licks at the brand on his chest, and his storm-filled eyes blink as the recollections come rushing back,

Raisa Taïa was a whore last he remembered. One favored, all those years ago, by his former "master," LeRoux. In those days, Fin had only passing interactions with the woman and, aside from her looks, nothing beyond that stands out any clearer in his memory. She may have been there when Fin finally killed the slaving bastard but Crowe can't remember for certain, the red cloud of rage obscurs most everything but the violence he'd visited on LeRoux, and there had been many people there on that blood-soaked night—slaves and servants, foremen and crackers—there could be no way he could remember them all.

Fin does remember one person who hadn't been there, though, and in that thunderclap of remembrance, he knows precisely to whom Raisa is referring to. Temesgen Kidane, a giant of an African with a lust for blood and more than enough skill with a sword to satisfy it. Kidane had been LeRoux's right-hand man and on that night had been off-island (procuring new slaves or "enforcing timber contracts" most likely). Had he not been, well, that night might have sailed on a much different tide.

,Despite the cold fire that burns in his gut and the fact that his hand no longer just rests on the hilt of his blade but, instead, curls purposefully around it, Fin Crowe offers the woman a cold, mirthless smile. "Good ta know someone's losin' sleep over me," he rumbles.

"Is it Kidane's rest er my safety tha' concerns ya more, Raisa-luv? If it's th' former," he leers, gesturing at a random street or alleyway, "steer me a course to ‘im an' I'll loose ‘im from ‘is restlessness, aye?" His hand sweeps back, then, and comes to rest at his waist, a thumb hooking over the top of his belt as he arches a brow at the woman; "If it's th' latter—which I can't imagine, as ye've a'ready said ya din't miss me an', I reckon, I must've cost ya a pretty penny er two by spillin' LeRoux's guts—but if it is, poppet, ya just point me ta where I c'n find a prize ta hunt an' I'll be gone ‘fore th' rum's empty."

"Yer a fool!" She hisses and glances about. "Kidane'll know yer here ‘fore the hour is closed an' if ya know what's bes' fer you an' the crew you sail with, you'll be long on the wind afore then.

"You comin' back here is the black cloud on the horizon. A storm was brewin'. Jus' a taste on the wind, but you, you be a stormbringer, Fin Crowe. Don' say I dinna warn you."

With a rustle of whirling skirts, Raisa turns about in anger and strides into the watching crowd. Nearby, a bird cries—a crow, harsh and just as angry sounding as the whore looks. Sounds rush back into Fin's senses and a quick look about shows that many a person is studiously about their business as though they hadn't just witnessed what they'd witnessed.

(OOC: Time is roughly 11:14 AM.)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), The Sun Dog, 12:27 P.M.

"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 isn't a bad idea to play rivals off against each other, and let them fight it out while the sister's benefit.

"Well," she continues 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 raises her left hand and brushes 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 leaves no doubt that she isn't sure if that is a wise choice or not.

"Aye, Mags," Anna nods into the feather. "I want you t' figure the lay o' the land an' quick like lightnin' as we're no' t' have much time fer it. Gather what men ya need t' do it." Lowering the quill, Anna levels her stare at Hellfire Maggie, her younger sister and only living family. "Ya need yer head ‘bout ya in this, Mags. Fire'll sink yer ship."

"So you keep telling me," Maggie spins on her boot heel and makes her way to the door, pausing in the act of opening it. Looking back at the red-headed captain she meets her eye and asks, "Are you expecting trouble already? Anything me and the boys need to be aware of?"

"There's always trouble t' be ‘ad, Mags," Captain Cole replies with a playful turn to her lips. "Bes' be prepared fer it."

"Whatever," the younger sister huffs and steps back into the sweltering heat of the deck. Hellfire Maggie doesn't stop on the main deck, but makes her way up to the poop deck where she finds her favorite spot near the aft port cannon. Settling her butt against the rail she takes a couple of deep breathes. She loves her sister, but that woman can be aggravating!

"Go get the lay o' the land," she quietly mimics her sibling's heavier dockside accent. "Bes' be prepared fer it." Escaping her throat, the groan is lost to Caribbean winds. "She knows this isn't my wheelhouse, and she knows I've no designs on ever being a captain of any $%^&@! ship. Why the !%$@&*^ hells does she force the &$@&*&#ing !#$# on me."

"Does he need t' be ‘oisted up, perhaps?" Words drift up from the quiet starboard side of the ship and Maggie frowns.

"What the hell?" the young woman walks across the poop deck and stands at the top of the narrow stairs leading down to the main deck,

* * * * * * * * *

"Ho, thar!" Cyril Daumier is the sailor manning the longboat. A friendly Frenchman with a long, narrow face and a prominent nose, he usually works the sails. "Who's this an' wha' in the bloody ‘ell ‘appened t' you Les mecs?"

‘Les mecs?' thinks Cracker. He hates it when these guys speak French, which Cyril immediately proceeds to do. He knows Cracker doesn't understand it, so he is probably just trying to get a rise out of them. He'll give the man crap about being a frog some other time, but for now he is just curious about the big guy. "Kill the froggish, Cyril. Sharky found himself a gunner in mid' brawl. Hopefully he can aim a gun better'n he aims a knife. Who was the big guy?" The boatswain knows such information is probably above his paygrade, but curiosity makes life a bit more interesting.

Peering past his shipmates, Cyril looks back up the beach towards the back of his previous passenger. "Oh, dat is a merchan' who is likely t' buy our las' prize." Shrugging, Daumier grins showing spindly yellowing teeth. "He's a bastardier from wha' I witnessed, bu' who's to say for certain, no?"

Shaking his head and clicking his tongue, Cyril turns to the task of shoving off. Holding the longboat steady, he waits until Daxon is loaded and the others are situated before pushing the vessel into the surf and quickly splashing aboard (an act that sends droplets of seaspray across his passengers).

"Ya think tha' Captain Cole will fancy takin' on a wounded man, hmmm?" Daumier puts his back to the act of rowing. He eyes Blackheart with half-hooded eyes the mood of which cannot be discerned by the others. "Je suppose que cela dépend de combien de temps nous sommes à l'ancre, non?"

Receiving no reply, the gangly man continues rowing. Ten minutes later the longboat draws up alongside the Sun Dog. Cyril reaches out and grabs hold of the rope dangling next to the thick rope ladder dangling over the edge and raises his eyebrows. "Does he need t' be ‘oisted up, perhaps?"

Blackheart manages the ladder with some ginger athleticism that's impressive considering his condition. No additional ropes are needed and no one is going to hold his hand if he has anything to say about it.

On deck, the sun almost directly overhead, Cracker catches the eye of one of the sailors on watch named Chimwemwe, a man of average stature with skin as black as the night who prefers to fight with a mooring hook, and asks after Hughes.

"He be ashore," Chim replies, looking both Shark's Tooth and Blackheart over with his beady eyes. Nodding to Daxon, the man asks, "Who be him?"

Hearing from Chimwemwe that the Doc is ashore, Cracker sighs and looks directly at Sharky again, "Well, not much to do, but wait. Help him into the shade. Doc has to return sooner or later. Sober or not."

Daxon, hearing the doctor is not aboard, is still feeling a sense of relief. Knowing that at some point a possible solution to his situation is near brings him some comfort. "Never been stabbed in the leg," he mutters. "Not suggesting it for others. Have you guys been on the Dog long?"

"What in the *$%@#$ hell is this?" Maggie storms down the stairs and onto the deck in a rush that causes her coat to billow out behind her like a cape. "I'd like to $@&^ing have an answer to Chimwemwe's question, and make it $%@&ing snappy."

(OOC: Replies and explanation rendered by whomever,)

Hellfire's gaze falls directly on the wounded Blackheart. The size difference between the diminutive first mate and the grim gunner is rendered impotent by the heat radiating from the pretty woman's eyes. "Your solution to being down in $%*#ing crew is to get your ass beat and bring the @#%ing fool who started the fight back to the Dog?"

Turning back to glare at Shark Tooth, Maggie wrinkles her nose at the brim as she scowls, "I'll let Fin deal with that #$&@ing horse$%^ when he gets back. For now, you'll answer for any #$^&ing trouble he causes while you're gone, and you—" sharp as a whip, her eyes dart back to Daxon's bearded face. "—If Fin decides to keep you on, the cost of repairing your wound'll @#%ing come out of your #$^@ing share of the first prize we take.

"Cracker, Shark Tooth," she sniffs as though what she has to say carries with it a bad taste, the scowl never leaving her otherwise pretty, freckled face. "You two come with me. We got some reconnaissance to do back on shore.

"You, Blackheart is it?" Maggie eyes him suspiciously. "You find yourself a shaded spot here where Chimwemwe can keep a $%&#ing eye on you and wait for Hughes, or Fin."

Stepping up to the rail, she pulls her coat aside and hooks her leg over the rail while taking the rope ladder in hand. (OOC: assuming Cracker mentions that his shift would be starting soon,) Peering back at the boatswain, Maggie's scowl deepens, "Then ^#$&ing get someone to cover it."

Back in the longboat with Cyril rowing once again, Maggie stews in her juices until the group reaches the beach. Striding away from the boat, she says, "There's a gent here goes by the name Davenport. We had oursleves a ^&*@ing visit with @#^&ing Grover who's supposed to be a prominent man, or some other bull%#^&, but before we go making deals, we need to know more about this Davenport. Rumor has it that he and %@#&ing Grover are butting heads. Either of you swabs have any ^&#$ing idea how we go about this?"

(OOC: Time is approximately 12:55 PM.)

Goncalvo watched the woman swish her hips. He had to admit she was a very attractive woman. In fact she was perhaps a bit too attractive to be a street worker. There was no doubt in his mind that a rendezvous with her could leave him with a very wide smile. A part of his mind whispered 'she is not what she seems' and though it was a whisper he heard it clearly. Perhaps he would find rapture in between her legs; then again, perhaps he would find himself nursing a sore head from a blackjack.

"T'would be a pity to deprive my wife of a chance to discover your treasures. She is a lady of breeding and would never deign to a meeting in a dirty alley. Come with me, she is in our room at a fine inn nestled between clean, comfortable sheets made from the finest cotton. Take my hand and I'll lead you to a night you will remember for some time." Goncalvo extends his hand to call her bluff.

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 11:13 A.M.; The Town

"Is it Kidane's rest er my safety tha' concerns ya more, Raisa-luv? If it's th' former," he leers, gesturing at a random street or alleyway, "steer me a course to ‘im an' I'll loose ‘im from ‘is restlessness, aye?" His hand sweeps back, then, and comes to rest at his waist, a thumb hooking over the top of his belt as he arches a brow at the woman; "If it's th' latter—which I can't imagine, as ye've a'ready said ya din't miss me an', I reckon, I must've cost ya a pretty penny er two by spillin' LeRoux's guts—but if it is, poppet, ya just point me ta where I c'n find a prize ta hunt an' I'll be gone ‘fore th' rum's empty."

"Yer a fool!" She hisses and glances about,

"Been called worse by better," Fin responds flatly as Raisa's eyes flit about.

"Kidane'll know yer here ‘fore the hour is closed an' if ya know what's bes' fer you an' the crew you sail with, you'll be long on the wind afore then.

"You comin' back here is the black cloud on the horizon. A storm was brewin'. Jus' a taste on the wind, but you, you be a stormbringer, Fin Crowe. Don' say I dinna warn you."

With a rustle of whirling skirts, Raisa turns about in anger and strides into the watching crowd. Nearby, a bird cries—a crow, harsh and just as angry sounding as the whore looks. Sounds rush back into Fin's senses and a quick look about shows that many a person is studiously about their business as though they hadn't just witnessed what they'd witnessed.

The Sun Dog's quartermaster, one hand yet resting on the hilt of his blade and the other, now, perched easily atop the butt of the pistol tucked into his sash, lofts an irritated snort at the whore's warning and spits into the dirt at his feet. "Storms don' brew up on their own, Raisa-luv," he says to the retreating woman's back, "Stirred by outside forces, they are!

Aye! I may be bringin' th' storm, but it were the likes o' LeRoux an' Kidane tha' summoned it!" The hand resting on his pistol lifts, then, and Fin throws a dismissive wave in Raisa's direction before spinning on his heel and storming off in the opposite direction. The brand on his chest burns and itches as if it were newly pressed, the cawing of the crow echoes in his mind along with Raisa Taïa's admonition, a grimace sets tightly over his mouth and he squints skyward, checking the sun's position in the sky,

Kidane'll know yer here ‘fore the hour is closed an' if ya know what's bes' fer you an' the crew you sail with, you'll be long on the wind afore then.

, An hour, Raisa had said.

Storms c'n do a bloody fair sight o' damage in an hour, Crowe muses, his eyes tearing from the sky and settling back to the street before him. If Kidane's lookin' ta face th' maelstrom, let's make it easy fer ‘im ta find, But th' black bastard'll be goin' nowhere near me crew!

His eyes scan each face and shadow and nook as he strides along the street in search of a tavern or grog shop in which to await Kidane's promised coming and, as he walks, his fingers busy themselves with the workings of a fresh smoke,

((OOC: As noted, Fin's off in search of a place to wait out Kidane (with any luck a place bereft of any of the Dog's crew - Fin doesn't want Kidane to be aware of any of them, especially the Coles). Assuming he finds and arrives at such a place, unmolested, he'll order up a bottle of rum, find a spot where he can keep his back to the wall and his eye on the entrance, and sit, allowing the tempest to churn, so to speak.))

Cracker was not surprised by Hellfire's firey response to their arrival on the ship. He was, however, happy that neither Blackheart's presence or his condition were his responsibility. At least, not much of his responsibility. He did help get him here.

"Cracker, Shark Tooth," Maggie spoke rapidly,"You two come with me. We got some reconnaissance to do back on shore." Cracker knew enough not to question an order from the redhead, but also knew he had other duties to take care of. It was important that she knew he took those duties seriously. Hellfire and all that. He didn't want it aimed at him. He quickly spoke of his coming duties. Her response was pure hellfire. "Then ^#$&ing get someone to cover it."

What else did he expect? Nothing else. But he'd had to ask. He quickly turned to Chimwemwe. "Chim. Keep your eye on this guy so he doesn't limp off somewhere. But if you see Kellen, tell him he needs to take my shift. If you don't see him, YOU need to take my shift. But make damn sure someone is keeping one eye on Blackheart and another out for the Doc." With that he moved to follow the first mate back into the boat from which he had just escaped.

As the moved towards shore the first mate spoke again. "There's a gent here goes by the name Davenport. We had oursleves a ^&*@ing visit with @#^&ing Grover who's supposed to be a prominent man, or some other bull%#^&, but before we go making deals, we need to know more about this Davenport. Rumor has it that he and %@#&ing Grover are butting heads. Either of you swabs have any ^&#$ing idea how we go about this?"

Cracker shook his head. "I've never been here before. I spent my time today down at the docks looking to see if there were ships leaving - the nicest ship I saw seems to be headed towards the Carolina coast." (At this point, if she is interested he fills her in on everything he saw.) "But I can't say who they were working for or who was organizing anything in this town. At least one dock hand seemed to be afraid to talk to anyone. Might say somethin' about the boss. But otherwise I can't help you any."

(OOC: I just made up the name Kellen for a crewmate. Feel free to change it to something appropriate. Also, I am not sure about rank on the ship. Does Cracker outrank Chimwemwe? Are his orders reasonable? If not, he wouldn't make them and I need to change it. It was a guess.)

Back in the longboat with Cyril rowing once again, Maggie stews in her juices until the group reaches the beach. Striding away from the boat, she says, "There's a gent here goes by the name Davenport. We had oursleves a ^&*@ing visit with @#^&ing Grover who's supposed to be a prominent man, or some other bull%#^&, but before we go making deals, we need to know more about this Davenport. Rumor has it that he and %@#&ing Grover are butting heads. Either of you swabs have any ^&#$ing idea how we go about this?"

Cracker shook his head. "I've never been here before. I spent my time today down at the docks looking to see if there were ships leaving - the nicest ship I saw seems to be headed towards the Carolina coast."

Maggie groaned an allowed Cracker to tell her what he had learned while out; she didn't really care about that, unless it lead her to this Davenport. He finished up as the longboat drew in and she hopped out onto the shore.

"But I can't say who they were working for or who was organizing anything in this town. At least one dock hand seemed to be afraid to talk to anyone. Might say somethin' about the boss. But otherwise I can't help you any."


"Well what @#^&ing good are you Cracker," Maggie says as she strides away from the boat. She stands for a moment, her hands on hips as she surveys the dock area.

(OOC: I don't know if Sharktooth had any suggestions. I will backpost and adjust if he does respond)

"Damn it!" Maggie said with a shake of her head, "Alright, you two worthless sons of %&#*@*^, see if you can dig up anything from the dock workers unloading these ships. I know you already asked, but maybe you will get lucky this time,"

She looked about and thought for a moment before striding off, "I'm going to look around."

(OOC: I understand that Maggie has a streetsmart skill, which she will use as she walks the docks and observes and try to spot the right sort of person to ask about this Davenport fella. If she finds anything, or not, she will use her Surveillance skill to observe the warehouses, whether found on her own, or from information. If she finds anyone she thinks might work for this Davenport, she will flat out ask them about meeting with Mr. Davenport.)

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 5:33 P.M.; Beach

Again, her sharp chin follows her eyes as they move to look back at the alleys and streets of the settlement, "Won't take but a li'l time."

Goncalvo watches the woman swish her hips. He has to admit she is a very attractive woman. In fact she is, perhaps, a bit too attractive to be a street worker. There is no doubt in his mind that a rendezvous with her could leave him with a very wide smile. A part of his mind whispers 'she is not what she seems' and though it is a whisper, he hears it clearly. Perhaps he would find rapture in between her legs; then again, perhaps he would find himself nursing a sore head from a blackjack.

"T'would be a pity to deprive my wife of a chance to discover your treasures. She is a lady of breeding and would never deign to a meeting in a dirty alley. Come with me, she is in our room at a fine inn nestled between clean, comfortable sheets made from the finest cotton. Take my hand and I'll lead you to a night you will remember for some time." Goncalvo extends his hand to call her bluff.

Catching herself before she turns her head into a full look over her bare left shoulder, the girl makes a feeble attempt to disguise her action with a flip of her hair and an embarrassed dip of her bedroom eyes.

"Which inn, sir?" she purrs, looking up at Goncalvo from beneath her lashes. "There are some that's not friendly to people stowing away and such when a room is only paid for two."

Reaching out her dainty (if somewhat dirty) hand at about waist level she allows the tip of her tongue to touch her lips invitingly. "We could walk there together,"

(OOC: Time is roughly 5:35 PM.)

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

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 11:14 A.M.; The Town

With a rustle of whirling skirts, Raisa turns about in anger and strides into the watching crowd. Nearby, a bird cries—a crow, harsh and just as angry sounding as the whore looks. Sounds rush back into Fin's senses and a quick look about shows that many a person is studiously about their business as though they hadn't just witnessed what they'd witnessed.

The Sun Dog's quartermaster, one hand yet resting on the hilt of his blade and the other, now, perched easily atop the butt of the pistol tucked into his sash, lofts an irritated snort at the whore's warning and spits into the dirt at his feet. "Storms don' brew up on their own, Raisa-luv," he says to the retreating woman's back, "Stirred by outside forces, they are!

Aye! I may be bringin' th' storm, but it were the likes o' LeRoux an' Kidane tha' summoned it!" The hand resting on his pistol lifts, then, and Fin throws a dismissive wave in Raisa's direction before spinning on his heel and storming off in the opposite direction. The brand on his chest burns and itches as if it newly pressed, the cawing of the crow echoes in his mind along with Raisa Taïa's admonition, a grimace sets tightly over his mouth and he squints skyward, checking the sun's position in the sky.

Kidane'll know yer here ‘fore the hour is closed an' if ya know what's bes' fer you an' the crew you sail with, you'll be long on the wind afore then.
, An hour, Raisa had said.

Storms c'n do a bloody fair sight o' damage in an hour, Crowe muses, his eyes tearing from the sky and settling back to the street before him. If Kidane's lookin' ta face th' maelstrom, let's make it easy fer ‘im ta find, But th' black bastard'll be goin' nowhere near me crew!
His eyes scan each face and shadow and nook as he strides along the street in search of a tavern or grog shop in which to await Kidane's promised coming and, as he walks, his fingers busy themselves with the workings of a fresh smoke.

As is the case with most every port, finding a drinking hole isn't difficult. The Rub of Del Monte is a right proper establishment. Consisting of a lower dining hall with three gaping openings that allow wobbly tables to spill out onto the street as well as an upper balcony and enclosed dining, The Rub appears a lot more seductive than it actually is. Teeming with sweaty, smelling humanity all seemingly shouting out in lively banter, there's barely a path wide enough for the serving girls to navigate between the bar, the kitchen, and the tables. Further, as Fin steps into the masses the odor of ripe flesh far outweighs the occasional wayward aroma of food.

Pushing through the sharp elbows and solid shoulders, the Dog's Quartermaster eventually finds the stairs and whether it is just luck or the look on his face, those lingering in his path step aside providing him with final purchase of the enclosed dining.

Here, the air hangs heavy, thick with humidity and pipe smoke. Captains and officers of ships, merchants and city officials, as well as a few Spanish soldiers have taken control of this floor and their eyes come to rest on the lean sailor with wariness. But, if Crowe is to keep an eye out for trouble, he needs a clear view of the street, so across the floor, between the tables and chairs, and to the white washed folding doors he strides the whole while being well aware of the scrutiny he's under.

Stepping onto the balcony just as a slight breeze descends upon it, Fin catches the scent of the ocean as well as a faint aroma of mint, or is that jasmine? Either way, it is a brief distraction as he ascertains the best available strategic position.

As luck has it, a small table with flaking sky blue paint across its surface and red embellishments stands welcomingly at the far end of the space. Two chairs painted to match the table flank it and a potted plant hangs just behind and over the rail obstructing the view of whomever is seated in that position from the street. There are eleven patrons at the four larger tables taking up space across the platform. These appear to be more of the same from the interior dining area. These, too, look towards Fin with curious wary detachment while he strides to the smaller seating—a location that he finds is empty primarily due to the unevenness of the chair legs and the wobbly table. A little discomfort is a small price to pay for a position that allows him a wide view of the street and the series of folding doors separating the balcony from the inner dining hall.

Drawing long drags on his cigarillo, Crowe glowers at any who meet his eye and broils in his own stewing thoughts. Testing his position's ability to give him warning of the arrival of trouble, the Quartermaster is wrought to watch as three members of his crew stop a polite distance from the edge of where the balcony's rail obstructs Fin's view of them and enter into a discussion that he cannot hear. In this case, though, it is obvious that they are discussing whether to brave the crowd at The Rub, or to seek entertainment, drink, and food elsewhere.

Emanuel Tenorio, a Mexican man denied of height but gifted with brawn suddenly grins at something Aleksi Rautio says. Aleksi has his back to Fin, so the quartermaster cannot begin to fathom what is so humorous, but Ljudevit Zec—a Croatian with ratty blonde hair, a scar that runs the whole length of his square jaw on the left side of his face, and a bent nose—stretches his neck with a roll of his head and responds to the jest with a very deliberate pointing towards The Rub. Rautio shakes his head in return and points further down the street while whatever he has said in response is countered by Emanuel. The diminutive Latin places his left hand on his Finnish shipmate's shoulder as he walks by and out of sight into the open air dining area of The Rub of Del Monte drawing Zec with him by an invisible rope. Obviously exasperated, Aleksi shakes his mop of dark hair animatedly as he turns and follows, his expression lost within the thick, curly beard he always wears.

Just as the Dog's crewmen vanish from sight, the folding doors open and a young black woman of maybe fourteen steps out with a tray bearing four dented tin tankards. Wearing a white, low cut blouse with the billowing short sleeves pulled down off her shoulders and a green and black skirt, she is barefoot and shaved nearly bald. A look that does nothing to dampen the cherubic beauty of her face. Making her way to the table next to Fin's she replaces the tankards already there with the new ones and glances furtively towards her new, lone patron in the corner. With all of the old, empty containers back on her cracked and stained wooden tray, she quickly swishes past the inquisitive hands of a thick looking man she had just served and brings herself up in front of the Dog's gloomy quartermaster.

"We got pork on the spit an' beer on draft," she says without meeting his eyes. "If'n ya want wine, we gots that too. There's fresh baked bread comin' outta the oven in a moment if yer so inclined t' wait, an' we've some goat's cheese if you like the bite of it.

"What'll it be, sir?"

(OOC: Time is roughly 11:29 AM.)

----------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), The Sun Dog, 12:55 P.M.

What else did Cracker expect? Nothing else. But he'd had to ask. He quickly turns to Chimwemwe, "Chim. Keep your eye on this guy so he doesn't limp off somewhere. But if you see Kellen, tell him he needs to take my shift. If you don't see him, YOU need to take my shift. But make damn sure someone is keeping one eye on Blackheart and another out for the Doc."

"Aye," the tough as nails African man nods and turns his hollow gaze on their injured guest.

With that resolved, the boatswain moves to follow the first mate back into the boat from which he had just escaped.

* * * * *

Back in the longboat with Cyril rowing once again, Maggie stews in her juices until the group reaches the beach. Striding away from the boat, she says, "There's a gent here goes by the name Davenport. We had ourselves a ^&*@ing visit with @#^&ing Grover who's supposed to be a prominent man, or some other bull%#^&, but before we go making deals, we need to know more about this Davenport. Rumor has it that he and %@#&ing Grover are butting heads. Either of you swabs have any ^&#$ing idea how we go about this?"

Cracker shakes his head, "I've never been here before. I spent my time today down at the docks looking to see if there were ships leaving—the nicest ship I saw seems to be headed towards the Carolina coast."

Maggie groans and allows Cracker to tell her what he has learned while out earlier in the day; she doesn't really care about that, unless it leads her to this Davenport.

"But," Cracker finishes his report, "I can't say who they were working for or who was organizing anything in this town. At least one dock hand seemed to be afraid to talk to anyone. Might say somethin' about the boss. But otherwise I can't help you any."


"Well what @#^&ing good are you Cracker," Maggie says as she strides away from the boat. She stands for a moment, her hands on hips as she surveys the dock area.

Bruised and battered, Shark's Tooth remains a sullen shadow next to the boatswain and offers nothing to assist in their task.

"Damn it!" Maggie says with a shake of her head, "Alright, you two worthless sons of %&#*@*^, see if you can dig up anything from the dock workers unloading these ships. I know you already asked, but maybe you will get lucky this time." She peers about and thinks for a moment before striding off, "I'm going to look around."

"Uh," Sharky forces out as their first mate begins to depart, "When we be meetin' again, sir, an' where we be doin' it?"

(OOC: Maggie's response,)

Receiving his orders, Wylie winces as squinting in the sweltering warmth of the merciless Carribbean sun causes his swollen eye to throb, and begins to trudge through the sand towards the docks.

"What're we supposed t' be doin'?" he asks Cracker in genuine confusion. "Thar be a reason I'm ne'er up fer the quartermaster vote. I got me no skill in that end o' the work."

(OOC: Cracker's response, if any,)

Ignoring the general grumbling that comes with orders given, the lithe and volcanic-tempered woman lengthens her stride to gain distance between her and the two scallywags she's brought with her. Achieving the wooden planks of the docks before them, she ignores the looks she receives from a few of the dockhands and considers where best she might learn more about Davenport. What makes sense is that he would be known by other captains or quartermasters, but she's not likely to find those on board any of the ships anchored here. Unlike her sister, most spend their time ashore whenever they can and tracking down those types in the maze of varying establishments throughout the settlement would likely be a waste of time. After all, if one of them approached her asking after the Dog's business contacts, she'd tell them to pound sand. The next logical place would be amongst the warehouses used to store goods and keep them from cooking in the sun. Those are at the far end, past the majority of the ships, and on the fringes of the settlement. And it is to those that she makes her way.

Arriving at the birth of the dock's gangway, Sharky sneezes and wipes his nose with the back of his forearm while groaning at the pain spreading through his bumpy face, "Shouldn' ‘ave allowed tha' swab t' rough me up so much.

"So, we spreadin' out then? Me to the left, an' you t' the right?" Motioning towards the direction Maggie is rapidly advancing on, the gunner adds, "There be plenty o' hands t' jaw with."

(OOC: Cracker's reply,)

Height is what will present Maggie with the vantage she seeks over the warehouses, but on the nearly flat docks there's not much in the way of height to work with. Quickly scanning the scene before her, the red-headed woman notes possible perches.

Stacked one on top of another are crates that build a small pyramid. They have a tarp over them with thick rope bindings to keep it from blowing too much in the wind. Crates of that size are normally quite sturdy and it doesn't appear like anyone is concerning themselves with them at the moment, so, they present an option whereupon she might gain a couple of meters.

Alternatively, a rowboat is turned upside down sitting atop a couple of sawhorses. While not as tall as the crates, it is further away from most of the activity on the dock and closer to the warehouses location. Still, standing atop an overturned boat might draw some attention, but is that entirely a bad thing?

One last position for surveying is a tall, thin building directly across from the first of the warehouses with a bell tower at the front of it. Sitting in that bell tower would provide her an aerial view of the warehouses but it might be too far away to really do any good.

(OOC: Time is approximately 1:08 PM.)

Goncalvo was surprised when the woman extended her hand and agreed to his suggestion. But, he also notice her obvious look over her shoulder into the alley. It was obvious that something was in there. Her inquiry into the name of the inn might have been to allow a companion to overhear and prepare. Pulling her close, Goncalvo whispered into her ear. "Time to end the act lass. Who is it that lurks in the alley and makes you so nervous?"

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Warehouse District, 1:08 P.M.

Ignoring the general grumbling that comes with orders given, the lithe and volcanic-tempered woman lengthens her stride to gain distance between her and the two scallywags she's brought with her. Achieving the wooden planks of the docks before them, she ignores the looks she receives from a few of the dockhands and considers where best she might learn more about Davenport. What makes sense is that he would be known by other captains or quartermasters, but she's not likely to find those on board any of the ships anchored here. Unlike her sister, most spend their time ashore whenever they can and tracking down those types in the maze of varying establishments throughout the settlement would likely be a waste of time. After all, if one of them approached her asking after the Dog's business contacts, she'd tell them to pound sand. The next logical place would be amongst the warehouses used to store goods and keep them from cooking in the sun. Those are at the far end, past the majority of the ships, and on the fringes of the settlement. And it is to those that she makes her way.

Height is what will present Maggie with the vantage she seeks over the warehouses, but on the nearly flat docks there's not much in the way of height to work with. Quickly scanning the scene before her, the red-headed woman notes possible perches.

Stacked one on top of another are crates that build a small pyramid. They have a tarp over them with thick rope bindings to keep it from blowing too much in the wind. Crates of that size are normally quite sturdy and it doesn't appear like anyone is concerning themselves with them at the moment, so, they present an option whereupon she might gain a couple of meters.

Alternatively, a rowboat is turned upside down sitting atop a couple of sawhorses. While not as tall as the crates, it is further away from most of the activity on the dock and closer to the warehouses location. Still, standing atop an overturned boat might draw some attention, but is that entirely a bad thing?

One last position for surveying is a tall, thin building directly across from the first of the warehouses with a bell tower at the front of it. Sitting in that bell tower would provide her an aerial view of the warehouses but it might be too far away to really do any good.

Maggie weighs her options, she doesn't want to stand on the bottom of a boat, that would expose her to unwanted attention to many eyes in the area. She prefers to work in the shadows and is never comfortable with strange eyes lingering on her too long.

She glances again at the tall, thin building with the bell tower; while it would giver her a nice aerial view, if she could get up there, she would be at a greater distance away and might not be a good idea.

She looks at the pyramid of stacked crates and nods as she chooses this as her most obvious choice; yes it would probably attract a little attention, but currently no one seems to be paying any attention to the covered crates. With a glance around to see if anyone is paying her any attention, she strides over to the crates and quickly, but steadily, makes her way up so that she has a good look at the warehouse area. She looks for any sign that might giver her any clue of where she might go to find information on warehouse owners. (Using Surveillance).

William Wiley watched the first mate storm away. She had a tendency to storm. It was kind of her thing. His thing was not messing with those who could and would remove his head. His observations were interrupted by the battered Shark Tooth.


"What're we supposed t' be doin'?" Sharky asks Cracker in genuine confusion. "Thar be a reason I'm ne'er up fer the quartermaster vote. I got me no skill in that end o' the work."

"I don't think this is Bosun paygrade either, but you gonna tell her that?" He glanced at the other sailor and saw that Sharktooth had no more interest in asking questions any more than his head was full of ideas. He sighed inwardly. "That is a bit unclear. All we know right now is the name of two individuals who deal in cargo and that the Dog needs information on them." He glanced again at the other sailor. "At this point I'd assume it is because we are looking at partnering with someone." Seeing surprise in the other's eyes he quickly added, "Not splitting the Dog or anything like that. Someone to sell a cargo to. Someone who might have a job needing doing. Someone who might get upset about a job getting done. Everyone needs to know about the powers-that-be in a port. That power tends to extend onto the water." He looked around to make sure nobody was watching, but Maggie had not stopped to speak in an area with ears, so the two of them were still alone. "We need information. Almost any kind of information. About whoever is running this show. So what we are going to do is this . . ." He paused as he made a mental list. "We each go down by the docks and talk to the sailors on the ships. Maybe a low ranking officer if you can find one on his own. (Her own, he thought? No, that was only on the Dog.) Don't mention the Dog by name. Just ask about anything that comes to mind or seems of interest. If you can pull it off, say you're from a ship looking to pick up a cargo or drop one off. Or maybe, who would you go to if you were looking to get onto a ship. Whoever is in charge is likely to control the warehouses and organize the sailors. See what you can learn. Try to get a sense of what people think of them." He tugged a bit at his beard in thought. "Be open to possibilities. We don't really know what we're looking for, so see what you can find. Remember, you look like hell after that bit in the Parrot. Maybe that'll give you an opening - a reason for a new crew or a reason to wonder how they'll look at you. Be clever, Sharky."

Cracker looked up and down the docks for a minute. He pointed Sharky in the direction he had gone this morning. "I've already been down there this morning. It probably be best if I am not seen poking around a second time. You go down there, but avoid those two ships," he added, casually pointing out the two ships where he had enquired that morning about a job. "I spoke to their quartermasters this morning and having too many people coming around at once might attract notice. You could also keep your eyes out for information on whatever cargo their carrying or see if you can find out where they are headed. But DON'T mention the Dog and don't make any of this obvious. You are just a sailor looking to find some work, or some such thing." He looked straight at Sharky. "Got it?"

The battered sailor looked like he would rather be almost anywhere rather than here. Even as Shark Tooth answered, "Sir. I got it. Ok," Cracker couldn't help but think that maybe his greenish tinge and battered appearance would keep anyone from seriously suspecting him of espionage. Perhaps. Smiling just a bit, he finished, "I'll be headed the other way down the docks doing the same sort of thing. And remember the First Mate's orders on where and when we are to meet again. I wouldn't recommend being late." They both grinned a bit at that as anyone who had spent 10 minutes on the Dog knew how bad an idea that would be. (Insert details from wherever and whenever Maggie directed them to meet again.)

Leaving Shark Tooth behind him, the Bosun moved off down the docks in the opposite direction from where he had gone earlier. He didn't stop at the first ship he saw, but kept moving, looking for some sailors standing away from the ships. A little farther down he saw what he was looking for - what appeared to be a couple of low ranking officers sitting on some crates a little way away from some ships. They appeared to be just enjoying some time ashore. As Cracker approached, another man arrived and the three men turned and made their way off into town. Cracker could hear a bit of what they said and it was not hard to deduce where they were headed - they didn't just want their feet on the terra firma, they also wanted the other sweets rewards that time ashore could provide and were going to start in a nearby tavern.

Cracker thought about heading to the ships, but thought this might work just as well and followed them into a tavern only a couple of blocks away called the Three Headed Goat. (Feel free to change the name if desired.) He followed his usual pattern and closed on eye as he went in to the darkened interior and then switched eyes once he was inside. As usual, his vision quickly returned to normal and he was able to see the three sailors approach the bar. He followed. As the three ordered a beverage, Cracker did the same. The smile wasn't feigned, he'd been wanting one anyway.

When his mug came he raised it in salute to the other three and said, "Ah, One of the two main reasons to return to shore!" The other three raised their mugs in response and one added, "and to the other reason we will hopefully be enjoying soon!" with a look at the barmaids at work in the tavern. Cracker allowed his eyes to follow the others gaze and alight on a very nice, if a bit young, employee.

"I have been at sea for awhile . . . " then he grinned a bit. "But not so long you forgot some things!" He took a swig of his drink and asked the nearest of the three, "Where you gentlemen (that got the grin and eyeroll he had been hoping for!) coming from?"

(At this point he will talk a bit about where they are from, sharing stories as needed. When a chance arrives he will ask if their ship already has a cargo and plans to ship out again soon. Time ashore was always so short . . . )

"I'm on a ship what needs a load. I'd love to stay ashore a bit, but . . " and here he stared a bit at his mug, " . . . Sitting in a tavern is a good way to spend one's pay, but doesn't make more. The first mate on ship is lookin' for work, but will they find it? Always great when your . . . lovelyhood . . . oh my . . ." he seemed to lose focus as a very lovely young lady passed through the tavern. His companions eyes followed his this time. "Ah livelihood, depends on some other's labors. We'll see what they find or I might be lookin' for somethin' new."

He waited to see how the others would respond.