Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement; The Rub Del Monte, roughly 11:29 A.M.

"We got pork on the spit an' beer on draft," the slip of a serving girl says without meeting Fin's 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?"

Hard, narrowed eyes peer at the girl through the veil of smoke Fin had just blown into Tortuga's clinging air. "A bit o' the pork, cheese, an' bread, snippet," he rasps after a moment, his breath and a faint breeze teaming to dissipate the lingering smoke, "an' a mug o' yer beer. Ye can bring th' food when th' bread's done but I'll be takin' th' beer quick's ye can fetch it."

((OOC: Assuming nothing more from the girl than a positive response and her turning to go.))

The Sun Dog's quartermaster nods curtly at the serving girl's response, his eyes scouring her, as she turns to go, for any sign of a slaver's mark. He'd seen none as she had approached and, likely as not, given her station as a serving wench, any such brand would be in a place easily covered by blouse or skirt. Regardless, Fin looks, Fin always looks,

As the child skitters away, disappearing back into The Rub's interior, Fin draws on his smoke, again, and reclines into the chair in such a way as to balance its lopsided legs before letting his gaze, once more, sweep the bustling street below. Awaiting the serving girl's return, his eyes are keen for the appearance of a long-hated, familiar face and his hearing piqued for any other news of note that may waft from the crowd.

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 5:35 P.M.; Beach

"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,"

Goncalvo is surprised as the woman extends her hand and agrees to his suggestion. But, he also notices her obvious look over her shoulder into the alley. It is obvious that something is in there. Her inquiry into the name of the inn might be to allow a companion to overhear and prepare. Pulling her close, Goncalvo whispers into her ear, "Time to end the act, lass. Who is it that lurks in the alley and makes you so nervous?"

Leaning into the sailsmaster, the young woman shudders but refuses to meet his gaze. With her full bottom lip extended into a pout she affects a tremor in her voice, but it is obvious to the Portuguese sailor that it is an act. She is not truly afraid of him, at least not as much as she fears whatever awaits her elsewhere. "I can be whoever you want, master."

Small body pressing against his, she is seductive in her proximity and the scent of jasmine wafts into Goncalvo's nose as her hair passes just beneath it. "Your grip is strong. I'll be the servant girl you an' yer wife need to punish."

Turning in his grip, she practically melts into him, a delicate hand against his chest seeking the skin beneath the cloth while her face finally turns up towards his. Eyes half-hooded in the act of proffered pleasure, the whore breathes heavily through slightly parted lips that offer a world of pleasures.

(OOC: Time is roughly 5:36 PM.)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 11:29 A.M.; The Rub of Del Monte

"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?"

Hard, narrowed eyes peer at the girl through the veil of smoke Fin blows into Tortuga's clinging air. "A bit o' the pork, cheese, an' bread, snippet," he rasps after a moment, his breath and a faint breeze teaming to dissipate the lingering smoke, "an' a mug o' yer beer. Ye can bring th' food when th' bread's done but I'll be takin' th' beer quick's ye can fetch it."

Dipping her head, the serving girl turns and quickly weaves about the tables and through the peeling doors.

The Sun Dog's quartermaster nods curtly at the serving girl's response, his eyes scouring her, as she turns to go, for any sign of a slaver's mark. He'd seen none as she had approached and, likely as not, given her station as a serving wench, any such brand would be in a place easily covered by blouse or skirt. Regardless, Fin looks, Fin always looks,

As the child skitters away, disappearing back into The Rub's interior, Fin draws on his smoke, again, and reclines into the chair in such a way as to balance its lopsided legs before letting his gaze, once more, sweep the bustling street below. Awaiting the serving girl's return, his eyes are keen for the appearance of a long-hated, familiar face and his hearing piqued for any other news of note that may waft from the crowd.

Low conversation from the next table drifts tantalizingly close to being comprehensible but is carried away on the wind and drowned in the cacophony of the street. Left to his smoking, Fin cannot help but be lost in his dark thoughts. After what seems like an eternity of basking in the flavor of tobacco and the sticky breeze that lazily kisses his bronzed skin, the Dog's quartermaster is drawn from his reverie to the doors as they spit out the waif of a girl with a tin mug in hand practically spilling over with frothing beer.

Thunk, splosh, the mug is set before him almost too late as the wench spins about and quickly makes her way back inside. Perhaps luck is smiling on the foul-tempered man, or maybe his God-given instincts for self-preservation are at play, either way, as she leaves his table Fin's narrow eyes are drawn to a table near the other end of the balcony.

Five men occupy the seats and ten eyes appear to be fixed upon him right up to the moment when his two meets theirs. Quite suddenly, the five men find their conversation, drinks, and the settlement's skyline more interesting than the quartermaster. One, a wide-faced individual with ruddy features and a shaggy mane of dishwater blonde hair, braves another glance Fin's way and though it is furtive, the quartermaster is fairly certain that there's recognition behind that gaze.

Again, Fin Crowe searches his memory for the identity of the man and once again, he cannot place him. To the best of his recollection, Splotchy-Face is an unknown.

(OOC: Time is roughly 11:36 AM.)

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

Maggie weighs her options, she doesn't want to stand on the bottom of a boat, that would expose her to unwanted attention from the 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.

Now comes the boring part of the work. Sit. Wait. Watch. Sometimes for hours on end and even as long as days on end. Of course, she couldn't very well sit atop crates for days and she doubts that Anna will give her that much time to get this all sorted out. A ship cannot sit in harbor for long before the crew begins to search for another captain.

Settling in for the long haul, Maggie is engrossed in the activities surrounding the unloading of a wagon by three black men hoping that the boss will show when she's caught off-guard by a the clearing of a throat behind her. Twisting about, the red-head sees a tall, lean man wearing a smallish tri-cornered cap, a brown coat with tails, and a dingy white shirt collared by a loose black tie. His pants are knee-length, dark brown, and plain but fairly well-kept and his cream stockings nearly reach the cuffs of his pants. He wears worn leather shoes with dark-gray iron buckles on the outer sides. Forehead creased beneath the cap, he stares at the first-mate with a deep scowl on his thin lips but contradicting half-hooded eyes.

He is accompanied by a man of average build wearing a black tri-cornered cap with dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and tied off by a black ribbon. He wears a white, high-collared blouse with billowing sleeves the underarms of which are stained yellow from sweat. Dark blue pants cuffed at the knee are tucked into gray stockings. These, in turn, run into the black hob-nailed shoes that are also worn and dingy. A baldric runs across his chest to the left ending in a large pouch. At his waist, a broad, black leather belt is home to a flintlock pistol and a sheathed saber. He carries a rifle in his hands with a bayonet attached to the end.

"Pray tell," the willow-man sneers condescendingly at Maggie once he has her attention, "what do you pretend to be about?"

(OOC: Time is approximately 1:40 PM.)

Leaving Shark Tooth behind him, the Bosun moves off down the docks in the opposite direction from where he had gone earlier. He doesn't stop at the first ship he sees, but keeps moving, looking for some sailors standing away from the ships. A little farther down he sees what he is looking for, what appears to be a couple of low-ranking officers sitting on some crates a little ways away from some ships. They appear to be just enjoying some time ashore. As Cracker approaches, another man arrives and the three men turn and make their way off into town. Cracker can hear a bit of what they say and it isn't hard to deduce where they are heading—they don't just want their feet on the terra firma, they also wan the other sweet rewards that time ashore can provide and are going to start their search in a nearby tavern.

Cracker thinks about heading to the ships, but reconsiders as this might work just as well, so he follows them into a tavern only a couple of blocks away called the Three Headed Goat. He sticks to his usual pattern and closes one eye as he enters the darkened interior and then switches eyes once inside. As usual, his vision quickly returns to normal and the establishment unfolds before him revealing a thinning commons room with a few tables either occupied by one or two individuals or altogether empty. Usual sorts fill the remaining seats—sailors and dockhands, even a couple of people Cracker would classify as more City than Street. A few whores work their trade in an attempt to land clients who are willing to pay for more than just company, but they are sticking to the outskirts of the room leaving him free to move in the wake of those he follows inside straight to the scarred oak bar. As the three order their ale, Cracker does the same, motioning to the elder bartender with a thinning ring of white hair about his liver-spotted bald scalp and a dangling waddle beneath his spiky white stubbled chin. The smile that the boatswain wears isn't feigned, he's been wanting a drink all morning. Fishing a couple of farthings from his purse, Wiley passes them over to the grizzled man and accepts his amber-colored ale.

Raising it in salute to the other three he says, "Ah, one of the two main reasons to return to shore!"

The other three raise their mugs in response and one adds, "And to the other reason we will hopefully be enjoying soon!" He passes a look towards the whores at work in the tavern. Cracker allows his eyes to follow the others gaze and alight on a very nice, if a bit young, prostitute.

"I have been at sea for awhile," then he grins a bit, "but not so long you forget some things!" He takes a swig of his drink and asks the nearest of the three, "Where you gentlemen coming from?"

The closest—a fellow with a bulbous nose and a burn scar on his forehead that leads into a stringy mop of unkept hair—grins at the use of the word "gentlemen" revealing three large gaps amongst a mouthful of thin, yellowed teeth. Next to him, a younger man with a tall and athletic build, broad in the shoulders and heavily tattooed, leans forward to reply, "The Dirk of Denmark."

"Aye," Toothless hoists his mug and pauses in taking a swallow to add, "may she ferev'r sail."

"An' you?" This from the third man; a fellow with a close matte of curly black hair, a flat face with Italian coloring and wide-set brown eyes. "Where do you hail from?"

"I'm on a ship what needs a load. I'd love to stay ashore a bit, but," and here Cracker stares a bit at his mug, "...sitting in a tavern is a good way to spend one's pay, but doesn't make more. The quartermaster on ship is lookin' for work, but will they find it? Always great when your—lovelihood—oh my..." he seems to lose focus as a very lovely young lady passes through the tavern and pointedly catches his gaze with an inviting one of her own. His companion's eyes follow his and not one of them doesn't share in the appreciation. "Ah livelihood—depends on some other's labors. We'll see what he finds or I might be lookin' for somethin' new."

"If'n yer quartermaster's worth their salt, you'll be fillin' yer purse soon enough," Toothless takes another long pull on his ale and uses the back of his hairy left arm to wipe the froth from his mouth.

"Heh," the younger man stretches his back and looks about the room. "While you old dogs are yappin' away like women in a knittin' circle, I'mma gonna git me some alone time."

Slapping the shoulder of Toothless in good natured fun, Tattoo quickly guzzles the remainder of his drink and slams the dented tin mug to the countertop with an exuberant belch. "Wench! Prepare yerself, for the ocean's ‘bout to get a little rough." Two of the whores rush to meet his challenge and rather than turn one of them away, the young sailor wraps his arms about both waists and laughingly drags them towards the back hall.

"What ship did ya say yer from?" the dark, curly-haired fellow leans forward and eyes Cracker with a dull gaze waiting on his reply.

(OOC: Time is approximately 1:25 PM.)

Settling in for the long haul, Maggie is engrossed in the activities surrounding the unloading of a wagon by three black men hoping that the boss will show when she's caught off-guard by a the clearing of a throat behind her. Twisting about, the red-head sees a tall, lean man wearing a smallish tri-cornered cap, a brown coat with tails, and a dingy white shirt collared by a loose black tie. His pants are knee-length, dark brown, and plain but fairly well-kept and his cream stockings nearly reach the cuffs of his pants. He wears worn leather shoes with dark-gray iron buckles on the outer sides. Forehead creased beneath the cap, he stares at the first-mate with a deep scowl on his thin lips but contradicting half-hooded eyes.

He is accompanied by a man of average build wearing a black tri-cornered cap with dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and tied off by a black ribbon. He wears a white, high-collared blouse with billowing sleeves the underarms of which are stained yellow from sweat. Dark blue pants cuffed at the knee are tucked into gray stockings. These, in turn, run into the black hob-nailed shoes that are also worn and dingy. A baldric runs across his chest to the left ending in a large pouch. At his waist, a broad, black leather belt is home to a flintlock pistol and a sheathed saber. He carries a rifle in his hands with a bayonet attached to the end.

"Pray tell," the willow-man sneers condescendingly at Maggie once he has her attention, "what do you pretend to be about?"

Maggie turned and took in the look of the two gentlemen eying her where she sat atop the pile of crates. She noted the sneer of contempt from the speaker and chose to pay it no mind; to anger him by replying in kind might draw too much attention. She rose to her feet and made her way down the crates and hoped down to stand in from of the speaker.

"Good day Gentlemen," she said with a smile as she stood before them, "I take it this be your goods in these here crates?"

"Sorry to be standing up there, but I was looking for some of my crew who are late in returning to the ship. No good scallywags get ashore, get drunk or whoring and forget their duties. Those crates just made a good place to get a look about it all. I don't mean to offend."

She smiled pleasantly and hoping to disarm any hostility they might have towards her actions; she crossed her arms simply, this placing her hands closer to her blades, if needed, and looked at the men and raised an eyebrow.

"My name is Maggie Cole," she said still smiling politely, "First Mate on the Sun dog. Who might you Gentlemen be?"

She could be charming when she needed to be, she hated being pleasant, but sometimes it was necessary, as Anna had told her upon many an occasion. She knew she was pretty, and men found her attractive and desirable, and at times like this, it wasn't beneath her to use her feminine charisma when she thought it might help.

Low conversation from the next table drifts tantalizingly close to being comprehensible but is carried away on the wind and drowned in the cacophony of the street. Left to his smoking, Fin cannot help but be lost in his dark thoughts. After what seems like an eternity of basking in the flavor of tobacco and the sticky breeze that lazily kisses his bronzed skin, the Dog's quartermaster is drawn from his reverie to the doors as they spit out the waif of a girl with a tin mug in hand practically spilling over with frothing beer.

Thunk, splosh, the mug is set before him almost too late as the wench spins about and quickly makes her way back inside. Perhaps luck is smiling on the foul-tempered man, or maybe his God-given instincts for self-preservation are at play, either way, as she leaves his table Fin's narrow eyes are drawn to a table near the other end of the balcony.

Five men occupy the seats and ten eyes appear to be fixed upon him right up to the moment when his two meets theirs. Quite suddenly, the five men find their conversation, drinks, and the settlement's skyline more interesting than the quartermaster. One, a wide-faced individual with ruddy features and a shaggy mane of dishwater blonde hair, braves another glance Fin's way and though it is furtive, the quartermaster is fairly certain that there's recognition behind that gaze.

Again, Fin Crowe searches his memory for the identity of the man and once again, he cannot place him. To the best of his recollection, Splotchy-Face is an unknown.

Though the gazes from the table at the other end of the balcony were surreptitiously diverted when his own eyes met theirs, Fin's stare wasn't as quick to veer away. A tight-lipped smirk plays on his features as he reaches for his beer, disappearing only for an instant when he lifts the mug to his mouth and pours a healthy swallow down his throat. Even then, over the rim of the mug, Crowe's defiant glare frames the five men, daring them to look his way once more,

((OOC: Should any of them do so, Fin will not look away; instead, he's more like to snarl out a challenge along the lines of "Th' bloody hell ya lookin' at, ya cannon-corkin' mast mugger(s)?",Otherwise,))

,He unceremoniously plunks the mug back onto the table, its place at his lips taken, again, by the still smoldering stub of his cigarillo. His storm-colored eyes remain locked on Splotchy-Face and his crew for a moment longer, the fingertips of his right hand playing lightly on the butt of the pistol tucked in his sash as he subtly shifts his weight in the seat. Then, not deeming it wise to keep his gaze in one place overlong, Fin exhales a cloud of smoke into the air, dismissing the table of five as his eyes and ears return to their surveillance.

((OOC: Fin hasn't completely dismissed his "fan club," of course, He's keenly aware of them and has mentally put them near the top of possible perceived threats. That aside, he selected this spot in order to keep an eye peeled for Kidane (and, also, to "find a prize"), so that's what he's back to, watching and waiting (for both food and trouble).))

"What ship did ya say yer from?" the dark, curly-haired fellow leans forward and eyes Cracker with a dull gaze waiting on his reply.

Cracker hated the directness of the question as there was little wiggle room left in which to maneuver. But he took a bit of time responding by taking a long pull (but small actual drink) of his brew. Wiping his mouth as he put the mug down, he responded with a bit of a glaze in his eyes. "Didn't name one. Been on lots. The Blue Kite, The Dog, the Dawn, and recently the Dolphin."
(Made up the names, but the Dolphin is supposed to be one of the smaller ships on the other end of the dock from where these sailors were met. One that came in recently. I'm assuming Wiley has some such knowledge since he spent the morning wandering the docks.)

"But whatever ship I'm on tomorrow - sounds like things are good here? Some ports - nothing." Then he grinned. "I like the sound of "fillin' m' purse! If that's true, then perhaps I could do with a bit more purse emptyin!" He turned to the barman and called for another. When it came he raised it with a nod to his companions.

"What makes it so darn good for purses around here?"

Goncalvo holds the young woman in his arms and his heart races as he thinks of the games they could play. She was likely a skilled player. Lifting her back to her feet he took a moment to glance down the alley. Speaking loudly enough to ensure he was overheard but not so loud as to be obviously trying to do so he replied. "Let us be on our way then lass. The Rampart Lion is a bit of a trip but certainly one of the finest establishments in the city. There will shall meet my wife and begin our games."

OOC: I took the liberty of making up a name of an inn feel free to change if needed. Goncalvo plans to take a circuitous route and lose any followers and then head to the dock and the launch boat

Turning in his grip, she practically melts into him, a delicate hand against his chest seeking the skin beneath the cloth while her face finally turns up towards his. Eyes half-hooded in the act of proffered pleasure, the whore breathes heavily through slightly parted lips that offer a world of pleasures.

Goncalvo holds the young woman in his arms and his heart races as he thinks of the games they could play. She is likely a skilled player. Lifting her back to her feet he takes a moment to glance down the alley. Speaking loudly enough to ensure he is overheard, but not so loud as to be obviously trying to do so, he replies. "Let us be on our way then, lass. The Rampart Lion is a bit of a trip but certainly one of the finest establishments in the city. There we shall meet my wife and begin our games."

Inn names in settlements such as these range from fancy to crass and the sailmaster knows he's taking a risk in providing a name having just arrived in port and only being a patron of one such establishment thus far. His hope is that there's a possibility the street girl doesn't know all of the inns in the city and accepts his answer as one of those she's unfamiliar with.

Practically purring, she presses her young body tighter against his and uses the tip of her finger to caress the stubble beginning to form under his chin sending shivers down his spine and igniting primal urges. "Do you mean the Resting Lions, milord?"

Slipping her thigh between his legs, she brings her leg up gently until it rests uncomfortably close to regions that have seen naught but soap in weeks. "That is a bit o' a walk, but if'n you'll protect me from those bad people along the way I'll be happy t' meet the miss."

Deftly slipping from his arms, she manages to glide her left hand down his right arm and settle her dainty fingers into his calloused hand. Pulling him gently along, the lass glances over her shoulder and provides him with a subtle pout. "I wish it were closer,"

Their trajectory is towards a street two blocks from the alley where her original attention lay putting the beach between them and the street a distance of approximately forty yards. Heated by the relentless sun, Goncalvo is initially unsure of his eyes upon catching three ruffians do a poor job of paying them no mind and break free from the alleyway to tromp across the hot sands on a path that will most assuredly put them on the street before the Dog's sailmaster and the young prostitute.

(OOC: Time is roughly 5:40 PM)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 11:36 A.M.; The Rub of Del Monte

Thunk, splosh, the mug is set before him almost too late as the wench spins about and quickly makes her way back inside. Perhaps luck is smiling on the foul-tempered man, or maybe his God-given instincts for self-preservation are at play, either way, as she leaves his table Fin's narrow eyes are drawn to a table near the other end of the balcony.

Five men occupy the seats and ten eyes appear to be fixed upon him right up to the moment when his two meets theirs. Quite suddenly, the five men find their conversation, drinks, and the settlement's skyline more interesting than the quartermaster. One, a wide-faced individual with ruddy features and a shaggy mane of dishwater blonde hair, braves another glance Fin's way and though it is furtive, the quartermaster is fairly certain that there's recognition behind that gaze.

Again, Fin Crowe searches his memory for the identity of the man and once again, he cannot place him. To the best of his recollection, Splotchy-Face is an unknown.

Though the gazes from the table at the other end of the balcony are surreptitiously diverted when his own eyes meet theirs, Fin's stare isn't as quick to veer away. A tight-lipped smirk plays on his features as he reaches for his beer, disappearing only for an instant when he lifts the mug to his mouth and pours a healthy swallow down his throat. And then, over the rim of the mug, Crowe's defiant glare frames the five men, daring them to look his way once more.

"Th' bloody hell ya lookin' at, ya cannon-corkin' mast mugger?" Crowe spits out at Splotch's disregard for his privacy.

Splotch ducks his eyes faster than bait on a taken hook and overtly pretends to take interest in the stains on his table's surface.

Fin unceremoniously plunks the mug back onto the table, its place at his lips taken, again, by the still smoldering stub of his cigarillo. His storm-colored eyes remain locked on Splotchy-Face and his crew for a moment longer, the fingertips of his right hand playing lightly on the butt of the pistol tucked in his sash as he subtly shifts his weight in the seat. Then, not deeming it wise to keep his gaze in one place overlong, Fin exhales a cloud of smoke into the air and dismisses the table of five as his eyes and ears return to their surveillance.

Clanking of iron cups and clay plates mingle with the murmur of the street orchestra and the occasional cry of a raven, but steely eyes find no sign of Kidane by the time the quartermaster's meal of pork, cheese, and bread is brought. The waif of a girl accepts the hard man's money and vanishes back through the doors without a word. Flies immediately set upon the savory meat requiring Fin's attention to shoo them away. Just as he is about to start cutting at the stringy, pinkish brown meat, Crowe notices the whole of Splotchy-Face's table rise and with deliberate intent not to look his way, the group of them make their way from the balcony. Bursting laughter is only partially subdued as the doors close; laughter Fin Crowe is fairly certain did not originate with that crew. Left at their table are plates with unfinished food attracting more flies and a black feathered bird with a fierce black beak. The raven hops from the balcony rail to the table and shifts closer to the plates while keeping a close eye on the nearest humans. Hunger pains remind Fin that he hasn't eaten in a few hours and food is before him enticing his senses.

(OOC: Assuming Fin eats,)

Bread makes for a decent sop drawing in the last of the pork juices on the plate and carrying them to the sailor's mouth. Chewing slowly, Fin catches the doors to the balcony opening in a blink of an eye announcing the arrival of a very large African marked by scarification, brands, and tattoos. His head is shaved bald and acts as a canvas for a blend of each of these marks. His eyes are black pearls set in deep seas, narrow, and filled with cruelty. The muscles in his neck and shoulders are well pronounced and just by gauging quickly, Fin estimates that the man is nearly twice as broad as he is and a head taller. There's no need to scour his memories for this one. This is Kidane in all of his brutal glory.

Bare chested with a bandolier being the only accouterment to break up the sleekness of his sweaty black skin, Kidane wears a pair of dark brown wool pants tucked into knee-high Oriental boots of sand-colored cloth. A large dirk rests on his right hip while a heavy cutlass hangs from his left. There are two flintlock pistols sheathed in the bandolier at his chest and another knife in his right boot. Aside from the huge ivory gauges in his ears, and two oversized gold rings, he wears no other decoration.

Kidane is not alone. Pausing only to expertly assess the situation on the balcony, LeRoux's right hand man immediately strides towards Fin's table while his five fellows hang back a little.

(OOC: Time is roughly 12:01 PM.)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 1:40 P.M.

"Pray tell," the willow-man sneers condescendingly at Maggie once he has her attention, "what do you pretend to be about?"

Maggie turns and takes in the look of the two gentlemen eyeing her where she sits atop the pile of crates. She notes the sneer of contempt from the speaker and chooses to pay it no mind; to anger him by replying in kind might draw too much attention. She rises to her feet and makes her way down the crates, hoping down to stand in front of the speaker while the soldier takes in her short swords and pistol with what appears to be amusement on his dull, sunburnt face.

"Good day, gentlemen," she says with a smile as she stands before them, "I take it this be your goods in these here crates?"

Condescension turns to an outright sneer, but the man makes no further motion to confirm or deny her assessment.

"Sorry to be standing up there, but I was looking for some of my crew who are late in returning to the ship. No good scallywags get ashore, get drunk or go whoring and forget their duties. Those crates just made a good place to get a look about it all. I don't mean to offend."

She smiles pleasantly hoping to disarm any hostility they might have towards her actions; crossing her arms simply (this placing her hands closer to her blades, if needed) and looking at the men with a raised eyebrow.

"My name is Maggie Cole," she states, still smiling politely, "First Mate on the Sun Dog. Who might you gentlemen be?"

She can be charming when she needs to be. She hates being pleasant, but sometimes it is necessary, as Anna had told her upon many an occasion. She knows she is pretty, and men find her attractive and desirable, and at times like this, it isn't beneath her to use her feminine charisma when she thinks it might help.

"First mate?" the gentleman scoffs. "What ship would have a woman on board, let alone as an officer?"

Chuckling, the guard seems to agree. His pug face is goofy-looking especially with the red of his burn. His expression changing from scorn to mock concern, the lean man continues, "You must've been out in the sun for far too long, miss. Don't you know that it is dangerous here along the docks? Surely you are being missed back at the estate, especially having made off with your master's property.

"Tell us which property to which you are indentured and we'll assist you in your return," Narrow face falls into a very dramatic seriousness. "And if you do so without causing us concern, I shall put in a good word for you with your master. The lashings are bound to be far less than otherwise."

"Be a good lass," the soldier shoulders his rifle and steps forward with his left hand outstretched. "An' give me over those blades and pistol, huh?"


(OOC: Time is approximately 1:44 PM.)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 1:25 P.M.

Slapping the shoulder of Toothless in good natured fun, Tattoo quickly guzzles the remainder of his drink and slams the dented tin mug to the countertop with an exuberant belch. "Wench! Prepare yerself, for the ocean's ‘bout to get a little rough." Two of the whores rush to meet his challenge and rather than turn one of them away, the young sailor wraps his arms about both waists and laughingly drags them towards the back hall.

"What ship did ya say yer from?" the dark, curly-haired fellow leans forward and eyes Cracker with a dull gaze waiting on his reply.

Cracker hates the directness of the question as there is little wiggle room left in which to maneuver. He takes a bit of time responding by taking a long pull (but small actual drink) of his brew. Wiping his mouth as he puts the mug down, he responds with a bit of a glaze in his eyes.

"Didn't name one. Been on lots. The Blue Kite, the Dog, the Dawn, and recently the Dolphin. But whatever ship I'm on tomorrow—sounds like things are good here? Some ports—nothing." He grins, "I like the sound of "fillin' m' purse! If that's true, then perhaps I could do with a bit more purse emptyin'!" He turns to the barman and calls for another.

Middle-aged and thick through the forearms and shoulders, the bartender wears a Franz Josef of thick black hair. He shows no further interest in what's going on between the sailors than to be available when they need a refill and quietly fulfills Cracker's order, slapping another full mug in front of him that spills a bit of froth on the countertop.

William raises it with a nod to his companions, "What makes it so darn good for purses around here?"

"Hard work, lad," Curly grumbles, but by this time, Toothless is back in the here and now.

"You say that yer up fer a new ship?" The long-faced fellow practically barks, obviously starting to feel the effects of the liquor he's imbibing. Without waiting for Cracker's response, he dives right in, dropping unceremoniously to his right elbow so that he can lean against the counter and better face the boatswain. "What're yer qualifications? Could be tha' the Snap Minnow could use ya!"

"Shut it, Fulvio," growls the curly-haired sailor. "‘Tis no' yer place t' recruit new blood."

"Lighten yer load, Romano," Toothless rolls his head back to emphasize the rolling of his eyes. "Brothers o' the sea!" he bellows and hoists his drink into the air, spilling golden liquid down is arm in the process.

"To the Sea!" others about the room holar back. Satisfied with the reply, Fulvio throws back his mug and guzzles.

"‘Tis no' his place," Roman leans forward to eye Cracker from around his shipmate's shoulder. "You want t' pick up work on the Minnow, you'll need t' talk with Gory Tremane. Best hurry, though." Eyes widening in realization, the curly-haired drinker falls immediately quiet and settles his gaze guiltily into his drink.

"Barkeep!" Fulvio hiccups. "Another!"

(OOC: Time is approximately 1:35 PM.)

"‘Tis no' his place," Roman leans forward to eye Cracker from around his shipmate's shoulder. "You want t' pick up work on the Minnow, you'll need t' talk with Gory Tremane. Best hurry, though." Eyes widening in realization, the curly-haired drinker falls immediately quiet and settles his gaze guiltily into his drink.

"Barkeep!" Fulvio hiccups. "Another!"

Cracker allows the other to lean back quietly without pressing since he clearly wanted to do so. After drinking a little while seeming to drink a lot Cracker stumbled out the words, "I needs be goin' for now." He stood from his stool at the bar and in so doing stepped around the man in the middle. He flipped a coin on the bar and said "have one on me boys. I 'preciate the company." Glancing towards the one who had spoken who was well into his cups, he asked quietly, "where?"

How he responded would determine Crackers next move.

(Assuming he gets a reasonable response that doesn't demand a follow up . . .)

Cracker nodded slightly to the man who had spoken, the whole conversation taking place behind the back of the other. He lifted his mug one more time and offered a quiet "to the sea!" cheer to them both. Finishing his drink he headed out of the tavern and back towards the place he was to meet the First Mate, wondering about the usefulness of what he had learned.

Goncalvo is enjoying the attention lavished upon him by the woman. There was no doubt that she was well versed in certain "skills". Despite her ministrations, he was able to catch a glimpse of the ones who had lurked in the alley running to get ahead of them, obviously set on arriving at the inn before the newly acquainted couple. Reaching down he removed a shoe and made a show of removing a stone but in fact he simply wanted to give the others a larger head start. Replacing his shoe he placed his hand on the lady's arm and steered her in the direction of the launch. "Come quickly, I have no desire to meet those men and can provide a safe shelter for you if you wish. Move quickly if you agree or we part ways now."

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 11:36 A.M.; The Rub of Del Monte

Clanking of iron cups and clay plates mingle with the murmur of the street orchestra and the occasional cry of a raven, but steely eyes find no sign of Kidane by the time the quartermaster's meal of pork, cheese, and bread is brought. The waif of a girl accepts the hard man's money and vanishes back through the doors without a word. Flies immediately set upon the savory meat requiring Fin's attention to shoo them away. Just as he is about to start cutting at the stringy, pinkish brown meat, Crowe notices the whole of Splotchy-Face's table rise and with deliberate intent not to look his way, the group of them make their way from the balcony. Bursting laughter is only partially subdued as the doors close; laughter Fin Crowe is fairly certain did not originate with that crew. Left at their table are plates with unfinished food attracting more flies and a black feathered bird with a fierce black beak. The raven hops from the balcony rail to the table and shifts closer to the plates while keeping a close eye on the nearest humans. Hunger pains remind Fin that he hasn't eaten in a few hours and food is before him enticing his senses.

Fin's approach to his own plate is, at first, much like the raven's approach to the dishes abandoned by Splotchy-Face and his cohorts - cagey and concerned more with the people around him than the food itself. After a moment, though, the quartermaster's rumbling gut overrules his caution and he tucks in to the meal with relish. Bread makes for a decent sop drawing in the last of the pork juices on the plate and carrying them to the sailor's mouth. Chewing slowly, Fin catches the doors to the balcony opening in a blink of an eye announcing the arrival of a very large African marked by scarification, brands, and tattoos. His head is shaved bald and acts as a canvas for a blend of each of these marks. His eyes are black pearls set in deep seas, narrow, and filled with cruelty. The muscles in his neck and shoulders are well pronounced and just by gauging quickly, Fin estimates that the man is nearly twice as broad as he is and a head taller. There's no need to scour his memories for this one. This is Kidane in all of his brutal glory.

"Hm," Crowe murmurs (or, perhaps, growls) around a mouthful of sop-bread as he assesses the shark-eyed African, Th' more things change, he muses, not for the first time today, as he swallows that last morsel and pushes the plate away, As he wipes his mouth on his sleeve, memories of beatings he had suffered at Kidane's hands when he was a boy flood through Fin; every scar and fracture left by the man veritable burned with recollection, stoking the coals of his festering, deep-seeded hatred for Temesgen Kidane into a roaring furnace,

Kidane is not alone. Pausing only to expertly assess the situation on the balcony, LeRoux's right hand man immediately strides towards Fin's table while his five fellows hang back a little.

,As he gets to his feet, Crowe's arm falls away from his mouth to reveal what might be described as an almost predatory smile. His other hand had pulled a pistol from his sash and, as he reaches his full height, he thumbs back the lock, extends his arm, and aims the weapon purposefully between the black man's eyes. "Tha'll be far enough, ye poxy f**k," he rumbles past a savagely calm sneer.

((OOC: Assuming (hoping?) Kidane stops his advance))

"Scuttlebutt has it yer lookin' ta kill me, Kidane," Fin continues, his storm-hued gaze ticks meaningfully to the African's cronies, "Don' think ye c'n do it yerself, then?"

Goncalvo is enjoying the attention lavished upon him by the woman. There was no doubt that she is well versed in certain "skills". Despite her ministrations, he is able to catch a glimpse of the ones who lurk in the alley running to get ahead of them obviously set on arriving at the inn before the newly acquainted couple. Reaching down he removes a shoe and makes a show of removing a stone, but in fact, he simply wants to give the others a larger head start. Replacing his shoe, he places his hand on the lady's arm and steers her in the direction of the launch.

"Come quickly," he instructs. "I have no desire to meet those men and can provide a safe shelter for you if you wish. Move quickly if you agree or we part ways now."

Pulling away, the petite woman furrows her brow, "What are you saying? You'll protect me? Forever? On board a ship filled with sailors? Or what? Put me up as your mistress in your wife's home?" Spitting at Goncalvo's feet, she sneers. "My fairy tale knight on a white horse?"

Stepping back, she points at him, "We will watch for you, White Knight. We will watch for you."

Spinning, she runs back towards the city, her ragged skirts flying out behind her as she holds them up above her knees.

(OOC: Next move,)

(OOC: Time is roughly 5:42 PM)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 12:01 P.M..; The Rub of Del Monte

This is Kidane in all of his brutal glory.

"Hm," Crowe murmurs (or, perhaps, growls) around a mouthful of sop-bread as he assesses the shark-eyed African, Th' more things change, he muses, not for the first time today, as he swallows that last morsel and pushes the plate away, As he wipes his mouth on his sleeve, memories of beatings he had suffered at Kidane's hands when he was a boy flood through Fin; every scar and fracture left by the man veritable burned with recollection, stoking the coals of his festering, deep-seeded hatred for Temesgen Kidane into a roaring furnace,

Bare chested with a bandolier being the only accouterment to break up the sleekness of his sweaty black skin, Kidane wears a pair of dark brown wool pants tucked into knee-high Oriental boots of sand-colored cloth. A large dirk rests on his right hip while a heavy cutlass hangs from his left. There are two flintlock pistols sheathed in the bandolier at his chest and another knife in his right boot. Aside from the huge ivory gauges in his ears, and two oversized gold rings, he wears no other decoration.

Kidane is not alone. Pausing only to expertly assess the situation on the balcony, LeRoux's right hand man immediately strides towards Fin's table while his five fellows hang back a little.

,As he gets to his feet, Crowe's arm falls away from his mouth to reveal what might be described as an almost predatory smile. His other hand pulls a pistol from his sash and, as he reaches his full height, he thumbs back the lock, extends his arm, and aims the weapon purposefully between the black man's eyes. "Tha'll be far enough, ye poxy f**k," he rumbles past a savagely calm sneer.

Kidane's upper lip curls away in a feral snarl and with a jarring step he halts.

"Scuttlebutt has it yer lookin' ta kill me, Kidane," Fin continues, his storm-hued gaze ticks meaningfully to the African's cronies, "Don' think ye c'n do it yerself, then?"

"Yer death be somet'ing we've all been lookin' forward to, Crowe," Kidane growls, "but it is I who will kill you this day, or are you such a coward that you dare not face me as a man?" Slowly, methodically, as if to drive a point home, Temesgen Kidane places his right hand on the hilt of his saber.

(OOC: Fin's choice,)


(OOC: Time is roughly 12:03 PM.)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 1:44 P.M.

"Be a good lass," the soldier shoulders his rifle and steps forward with his left hand outstretched. "An' give me over those blades and pistol, huh?"

"Aye," Maggie smiles thinly, "Here be my weapons."

Smooth like silk sheets, Hellfire Maggie Cole draws her pistol, levels it at the soldier, and fires. Shock washes the man's sweaty and dirty features upon realizing that he's been shot. But Maggie isn't waiting to see the results. Lips thinning and using the element of surprise she's managed, Maggie grips her right-sided shortsword with her left hand, takes a step forward and in another fluid motion, unsheathes her sword and slashes across the gentleman's chest.

Ashen faced, the soldier blinks and looks down at his left arm where it dangles uselessly on a few strands of meat while draining blood onto the sand around his boot. He has just a moment, perhaps even half another blink of his eyes, before the realization of his injury registers and the strength in his legs gives out. Collapsing into the bloody mud, the soldier's face splashes in his own fluids.

A high pitched scream emits from the fop's mouth. Wide-eyed, he stumbles away from the dangerous woman and, unable to keep his footing in the sand, falls to his buttocks and momentum carries him right onto his tails and back.

Advancing menacingly, Hellfire Maggie sniffs, "Should'a left me the $@^^ alone." As he scrambles backward, his blood flowing from his chest wound, the pirate lady drops to her left knee.

"P-p-p-p-please, no," the dandy stammers, tears seeping from his eyes.

Placing the tip of her sword against stomach, Maggie looks him in the eyes and presses into his abdomen. "I #$%$@# hate when ^%&#%$@ @#*&^%$## like you think tha' jus' because I'm a woman, I can't %$^&@$* kill ya."

Gasping in pain, all the city official can do is watch as her blade slides deeper and deeper into his belly until it protrudes from his back. Coughing up blood, he is barely able to keep his head upright and his eyes drift from his mortal wound to the woman feeding his belly two feet of steel. Maggie is unclear whether he actually realizes his mistake as the light fades from his eyes and his head lolls to the side.

Yanking her sword free, Hellfire Maggie Cole looks up from behind the strands of red hair caught on the sweat of her brow and cheek. The shot is likely what drew the attention of the crowd, the girlish scream of the soon to be dead aristocrat could have filled it out, and now the Dog's first mate finds herself the subject of many different eyes and a realization strikes her. Oh %^#^, she finds herself thinking. Anna isn't gonna like this.
(OOC: Time is approximately 1:45 PM.)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 1:35 P.M.

"Barkeep!" Fulvio hiccups. "Another!"

Cracker allows the other to lean back quietly without pressing since he clearly wants to do so. After drinking a little (while seeming to drink a lot) Cracker stumbles out the words, "I needs be goin' for now." He stands from his stool at the bar and in so doing, steps around the man in the middle. He flips a coin on the bar and says, "Have one on me boys. I 'preciate the company." Glancing towards the one who had spoken, who is well into his cups, he asks quietly, "Where?"

"Huh?" The long-faced individual looks around with bleary eyes and states in a too loud voice, "What? Oh. Yes. Ol' Gory Tremane—He don' like t' go too far from the Minnow. He'll mos' like be in a tavern near the ship."

Cracker nods slightly to the man who had spoken. While the boatswain's intent had been for the whole conversation to take place behind the back of the other sailor, the volume of the other's response countered his efforts. Curly glares at his companion and then tosses Cracker an unreadable stare before turning back to his relaxation.

William lifts his mug one more time and offers a quiet, "To the sea!" cheer to them both. Finishing his drink, he heads out of the tavern and back towards the place he is to meet the First Mate, wondering about the usefulness of what he has learned.

(OOC: Time is approximately 1:40 PM.)

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 12:01 P.M..; The Rub of Del Monte

"Tha'll be far enough, ye poxy f**k," Fin growls, his pistol aimed unwaveringly between the ominous African's eyes.

Kidane's upper lip curls away in a feral snarl and with a jarring step he halts.

"Scuttlebutt has it yer lookin' ta kill me, Kidane," Fin continues, his storm-hued gaze ticks meaningfully to the man's cronies, "Don' think ye c'n do it yerself, then?"

"Yer death be somet'ing we've all been lookin' forward to, Crowe," Kidane growls, "but it is I who will kill you this day, or are you such a coward that you dare not face me as a man?" Slowly, methodically, as if to drive a point home, Temesgen Kidane places his right hand on the hilt of his saber.

Questionin' me honor, is it?, A chuckle of disbelief accompanies the widening of Crowe's sneer. "Been called a lot o' things since I killed yer boyfriend, LeRoux," the Sun Dog's quartermaster returns along the barrel of his pistol, "Murderer. Thief. Pirate," With each word, the pistol dips lower, "But I've never been named coward." At that last, the pistol's lock was released and the weapon slid back into the sash at Fin's waist.

"Th' same can't be said fer you, eh, Kidane," Fin mocks as his hand releases the pistol and finds the hilt of his cutlass, "What wit' yer bringin' yer doxies there ta a man-ta-man fight?"

If Kidane made a reply, it was lost to Fin's ears; drowned out by the metallic hiss of his blade clearing it's scabbard and slicing through the air towards the African's right wrist.


((OOC: Okay, let's do this! The "intent" here is to lop off Kidane's hand (and/or worse), if not, though, so be it, the fight is on regardless. If possible, Fin will also pull his dirk with his free hand, either during or immediately after his initial swing.))

William Wiley walked out of the tavern unsure of the value of what he had learned. He had a name of a person and a ship. Who was it? what did this person control in this town? If he was in control of the town why was he linked to a ship? And the Minnow . . . he'd seen that ship earlier on his travels along the docks, he was sure of it.

Well, there wasn't much for it now but to head back to where he was supposed to meet the first mate. Hopefully she'd find some value in what he had to offer. Probably not, of course, such was the way of Hellfire, but at least it was something. Clearly at least one of the sailors thought the information was something that shouldn't have been shared.

So once he'd left the darkness of the tavern behind he headed out through the sun back to the appointed meeting place. This town was making him nervous and he wasn't sure why.

Goncalvo laughed to himself as the woman vented her fury. It seemed she was happy to remain in her current situation. 'Can't say I didn't try to improve her lot.' Resigning himself to another night alone he returned to the longboat for a return ride to the ship. There he would report what he had learned to the captain.

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 5:42 P.M.; Beach

Goncalvo laughs to himself as the woman vents her fury. It seems she is happy to remain in her current situation. 'Can't say I didn't try to improve her lot.' Resigning himself to another night alone, he returns to the longboat to return to the Dog. There he will report what he has learned to the captain.

Caribbean sun dipping towards the western horizon, a welcoming breeze blowing in off the salty waters, having just avoided conflict by being aware enough to recognize danger where others might not have, Goncalvo is again blessed as he saunters up to the longboat without any further disruptions.

"Sailmaster," Seamus Higgins is the sailor on the oars. A broad-shouldered, slim waisted man with a crooked smile and good looks, Seamus wears his red hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. His freckled skin makes him look older than he is and his Irish accent often causes people to have trouble understanding him. "Ready t' return t' da Dog, are ya?"

(OOC: Assuming an affirmative,)

Higgins looks behind Goncalvo and sweeps the town's outskirts with his pale blue eyes. Satisfied that no one else is coming, the Irishman turns and, together with the Sailsmaster, pushes the craft into the increasing waves.

"Did ya ‘ear wha's ‘appened?" Seamus grunts while clamoring over the side of the boat and dropping into position.

(OOC: Assuming something like, "No, do tell!")

"Hellfire kilt a guard an' a city official," Higgins grins handsomely.

(OOC: Reaction, if any,)

(OOC: Time is roughly 5:48 PM)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 12:03 P.M..; The Rub of Del Monte

"Yer death be somet'ing we've all been lookin' forward to, Crowe," Kidane growls, "but it is I who will kill you this day, or are you such a coward that you dare not face me as a man?" Slowly, methodically, as if to drive a point home, Temesgen Kidane places his right hand on the hilt of his cutlass.

"Th' same can't be said fer you, eh, Kidane," Fin mocks as his hand releases the pistol and finds the hilt of his blade, "What wit' yer bringin' yer doxies there ta a man-ta-man fight?" If Kidane makes a reply, it is lost to Fin's ears; drowned out by the metallic hiss of his blade clearing it's scabbard and slicing through the air towards the African's right wrist.

Temesgen Kidane is fast. Always has been. But Fin's speed surprises him enough that the big man is unable to even clear his weapon from his belt before Kidane finds it necessary to wildly reel away from the precise attack. Fin's strike very nearly catches nothing but air where against a lesser man it would have certainly removed the hand from wrist. In this case, the quartermaster's blade slices through the pants at Kidane's hip and leaves a small, stinging gash just above the bone.

Barely escaping the loss of a hand, the fierce African tears his weapon free of its sheath and roars as he lashes out in an attempt to take off Crowe's head.

Even as he curses his luck for missing his intended target, sparing Kidane his sword hand, Fin's wolfish smile only grows wider as the giant of an man roars in surprise, pain, and anger. He doesn't relish in the moment for long, though, as Temesgen's saber is swiftly following. Still smiling, perhaps even snarling a challenge, Crowe bounds backwards in hopes of dodging the wild swing, eyes flashing as the cutlass whooshes past. Fin's gaze is still intent on the black man, but not so much so that he fails to notice those who have accompanied his antagonist moving about in reaction to the fight. While Kidane is still the most prevalent threat, Crowe decides to press his advantage.

Still smiling, Fin lashes out with another sweep of his cutlass. Kidane attempts to twist the sword he's wielding back in time to deflect Fin's speedy attack. Metal clangs against metal and sparks fly as the blades slide along one another. The defense guides Crowe's attack away from the main body but it isn't enough to entirely deflect it. Wincing in pain, Kidane hitches his step slightly against the slashing wound. Now wounded on both hips he rolls his shoulders and reverses the direction of his deflection. Attempting to slice the razor sharp edge of his blade across his opponent's chest, the African is immediately disappointed.

Crowe's smile still doesn't disappear. It does tighten into something more akin to a determined or defiant snarl though as he brings up both of his blades to intercept the man's slashing attack. Again, blades ring out as Fin crosses his dagger and cutlass to catch the bigger man's incoming attack down at the right of Crowe's abdomen. Turning his own blades and sliding Kidane's out of the way, Fin barely manages to deflect the attack away from his body. Meanwhile, one of Kidane's entourage starts to slide his mass behind the table Fin just vacated in order to spread out the blockade the quartermaster is facing, and another makes his move to circumvent the other closest table.

Crowe scarcely has a moment to suppress the grunt forced from him by the impact of Kidane's blow, even less to check the positions of the African's henchmen who all seek to ensnare him like a fish in a net. Hoping to gain a second to catch his breath while still mustering something of a defense, the quartermaster dances to the side, a booted foot lashing out to kick his recently abandoned table into the gut of the man trying to squeeze past it.

Despite the hope Fin harbors at disabling the fellow, Caldwell is a large man and the cushioning about his belly combined with his own responsiveness keeps the table from doing much but knocking him temporarily into the wall. Desperate act though it may be, Fin's action elicits a bellow from Kidane.

"Stay back! He's all mine." and true to his word, the muscular black man presses Fin with another downward swing of his cutlass, aiming straight for the quartermaster's skull.

Bloody hell, Fin rumbles inwardly, Ye fat b@$^@$d!

There's little time for anything else but the thought and a quick breath, though, as a yowling Kidane chops his saber down in hopes of permanently parting Crowe's hair and the skull beneath. Driven by that breath, Fin attempts to spin away from the attack and, perhaps put a bit of space between them, if only for an instant. The air whistles with Kidane's blade cutting through it, a few strands of Fin's hair left floating where they had been sheared from his head as he spun away.

Bellowing in rage, the African draws up and holds his sword before him. "There's nowhere to go, Fin. Why put yer death off any longer?"

"Heh," Fin spits at the big man's feet and grins defiantly in his face, "Never could beat me down an' keep me there as a boy, Kidane. An' I'll be bloody-well f!@#$d if I stay down fer ye now!"

The quartermaster's lips tighten across his teeth even as his fingers tighten around the hilts of his blades, but rather than a widening of his smile, a shrill whistle is coaxed out on Fin's next breath... at its height, Fin springs forward and brings his cutlass to bear in a furious upward slash. The whistle, he hopes, will be recognized by the Dog's crew in the commons room below. The situation is dire enough having to face off against one as dangerous as Temesgen Kidane and Fin doesn't desire having to tackle the other five alone.

"I'll no' be havin' trouble keepin' ya down when I cast yer bones t' rest in Davy Jones' Locker!" Kidane hisses, ignoring the whistle and bracing to meet the attack.

Screeching, the blades meet once again. This time, Fin's runs down the length of his opponent's quickly as though greased, bounces off the basket and jumps up to leave a shallow gash across the exposed flesh of Temesgen's deltoid causing the black man's eyes to widen in surprise and pain.

Whether from that surprise or the fact that sweat and blood is now playing a part in the logistics of things, Kidane's attempt to lop off Crowe's head as a response is high, making it so that the other man barely needs to move in order to avoid the blow.

Kidane's attack blows by with scarce the breeze to flutter a sail and Fin can't help but let his grin shift from defiant to taunting. "Ye've gotten old, ye shark-eyed tub," he taunts, the arm holding his cutlass flexing a bit, "an' I've learnt more'n a bit since las' we met. Why put yer death off any longer?"

Temesgen's followers hiss and call out in dismay but make no move to further invade the combatants' space. Over the heads of his enemies, Fin can see that the entrance to the balcony is packed with curious bystanders, but the Dog's crewmen have yet to appear.

Even as he spits the African's words back at him, Fin feints with his cutlass but the true attack comes in the form of the point of his dirk stabbing through the space between them in search of Kidane's throat.

Fired up, Temesgen reads the incoming attack better than he has any other up to this point and ducks past the fient to knock the dagger aside. Jerking back from the impact of blades, the big man rolls his wrists and directs the cutting edge of his weapon inside Fin's arms towards his body.

Somewhat surprised (but not horribly) by Kidane's ability to avoid his attack, Fin smirks, let's his gaze briefly ascertain the position of his opponent's net of followers, and, as Kidane's blade swings in, takes a quick step to the right to dodge the blow entirely.

Placing the banister at his back, Fin can see that the rest of the man's crew are still holding their position while nervously gripping their weapons. A quick glance shows that the smaller fellow to Temesgen's right has his hand on the grip of a pistol and there's still no sign of the Dog's crew, though Fin can't be sure they could break through the press of the crowd peering through the balcony door even if they are trying.

A low chuckle rumbles in Fin's chest as his storm-hued gaze quickly sweeps the men surrounding him. "Are ye done, Temesgen?" he asks, his eyes coming back to Kidane, once more. He inclines his head faintly to indicate the man fingering his flintlock; "Yer friends seem ta think so..."

Crowe lunges forward, following his words with fresh action, his full strength behind the latest swing of his cutlass.

Distracting Kidane just enough with his comment about the potential for interference, Fin's move bypasses the African's defenses altogether and leaves a bloody slice from his upper right pectoral to his lower left ribs. Kidane staggers back into the chair and table, but manages to retain his footing, lashing out instinctively with his own sword!

Again, his response is weak and doesn't even threaten to invade Fin's space.

"Ye c'n walk away, Kidane," Crowe growls, taking a slow step forward in the wake of another whiffed attack, "Leave me an' mine be an' live th' rest o' yer miserable life..." His fingers flex around the hilt of his cutlass, again, and the savage smile returns to his face; "Or we c'n finish this an' you an' yer men c'n all die right here 'midst the food scraps an' bird shyte."

Lifting his cutlass and leveling it at the African for emphasis, the smile on Fin's rugged face breaks into a ruthless full grin, "F$!k... who'm I kiddin'!" And he hacks purposefully at the large man's neck.

Through his pain, the fiercely proud black man narrows his eyes to respond defiantly to his would be prey's offer. In the next moment those same orbs fly wide open. He's too slow to raise his weapon but does manage to arch backward enough to move his neck out of harm's way. Mercy does not smile on the slaver this time and Fin's sharp steel slices through Kidane's collar bone, cutting away the flesh of his chest and opens his stomach to the humid Caribbean air. Left hand gripping his guts to hold in the spilling strands of intestine, the dying man coughs up a bit of white spittle.

Findlay Crowe, once a slave boy and now a much different man, spits again at Kidane's feet as the giant of an African tries desperately to hold in his guts... "Took ye longer ta die than LeRoux," he sneers, watching the man slide down the table's edge, "I'll give ye that...."

Temesgen Kidane loses the strength in his legs and collapses backwards onto the table. His momentum and weight push the furniture aside and deposit him on the floor. Mouth agape, he blinks in astonishment at the one time boy slave. A slow smile plays across his lips followed by a low chuckle that fades as his eyes roll back up into his head and he succumbs to his wounds.

Fin's cold gaze lingers on his long-hated foe for a moment, then flits up to the nearest of Kidane's cohorts... and purposefully, thereafter, to each of the others in turn... "Anyone else wanna kill me, today?" he demands.

The men, however, are staring at the monstrous Temesgen Kidane lying in his sticky pool of blood, chest slowly expanding, entrails spilling out over his hand and forearm, with horror and shock. The crowd, too, is silent and then the quartermaster hears the calls.

"Fin! Ya there?"

"Quartermaster!"

"Move aside, I say!"

Glancing past the frozen men, Crowe spots a jostling of the people and Emanuel breaks through looking somehow both frustrated and concerned. Behind him, Aleksi and Zec stumble onto the balcony.

"Sir?" Emanuel queries with raised eyebrows while immediately assessing that his quartermaster is in a predicament. All three of the Dog's crew have hands on sword hilts and both Emanuel and Aleksi Rautio have their other hand on pistols at their waists.

(OOC: Time is roughly 12:03 PM.)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 1:45 P.M.

"P-p-p-p-please, no," the dandy stammers, tears seeping from his eyes.

Placing the tip of her sword against stomach, Maggie looks him in the eyes and presses into his abdomen. "I #$%$@# hate when ^%&#%$@ @#*&^%$## like you think tha' jus' because I'm a woman, I can't %$^&@$* kill ya."

Gasping in pain, all the city official can do is watch as her blade slides deeper and deeper into his belly until it protrudes from his back. Coughing up blood, he is barely able to keep his head upright and his eyes drift from his mortal wound to the woman feeding his belly two feet of steel. Maggie is unclear whether he actually realizes his mistake as the light fades from his eyes and his head lolls to the side.

Yanking her sword free, Hellfire Maggie Cole looks up from behind the strands of red hair caught on the sweat of her brow and cheek. The shot is likely what drew the attention of the crowd, the girlish scream of the soon to be dead aristocrat could have filled it out, and now the Dog's first mate finds herself the subject of many different eyes and a realization strikes her. Oh %^#^, she finds herself thinking. Anna isn't gonna like this.
--------------

People are rushing. Some towards the docks--these appear to quite solely consist of military types--others--most--are running quite quickly away from the docks or selling shelter in nearby buildings. This is the scene that greets Cracker when he exists the tavern. The docks being his primary destination, and the concern about his new feeling concerning this port settlement, it behooves William to proceed with an additional measure of caution.

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Shark Tooth can not believe his eye and for the life of him cannot fathom how types address the situation before him. Maggie "Hellfire" Cole is kneeling beside two bodies that she has apparently just made dead. The shot that had moments before drawn his attention away from the impossible task he'd been set to seemed to him to have originated with her especially considering the fact that she is still holding her flintlock and blood is not only painting the sands she is kneeling in but it is also caressing her short blade.

Chaos erupts around the surly sailor breaking him from his considerations. Dockhands rush for cover, ladies of the night run with skirts swirling about their legs, and sailors still aboard their ships draw up to the rails with caution and a willingness to protect their vessels if need be. Realization dawns on his foggy mind and even before he comprehends what he's doing, Wiley finds himself running at full tilt towards the murdered people and his first mate.

Thundering down the planks and making quite the drumming, Shark Tooth barely manages to avoid colliding with some hands mobbing in the opposite direction.

"Out o' me way, swabs!" Bellowing, he swats them aside the best he can at the same time as he yanks his pistol free and continues his rushing on.

Slimmed eyes, still filled with fire, fly about the scene unfolding about her with calculating and combat experienced wisdom. Maggie places the positions of the nearest armed sailors aboard the ship some thirty meters off. She recognizes those on the docks even closer who have also recognized where the potential threat originated. Twenty meters away at most. Then there's the man running towards her, Is there time to reload before he reaches--$&^*#%^ he'll! That's Shark Tooth.

Gliding gracefully to her booted feet, Maggie shoves the flintlock back into her brace.

"What ‘ave ya bloody done?" Shark Tooth barks irreverently whilst sliding to a halt in front of her.

"Don't you %$*&!^& forget herself, ya daft bastard," she fumes, leveling her murder weapon before his face. "The pompous ass pout it on his %$^*&^% self."

"Capt'n Cole--" Wiley coughs around his swollen lips.

"Is not bloody here," Maggie growls. "An' we shouldn' waste no more %$# $*^$ $%&^##% time here neither. So, stop standing there like a ^%&^%#÷ fool an' move!"

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

Acting with due caution, Cracker proceeds towards the commotion. Ahead of him run two patrols of blue jacket soldiers making a total of eight. The distance between them and their hurried pace and him and his purposefully cautious gait grows rapidly. As near as the boatson can guess, he's still a good distance from the docks. Unsure of the reason for the commotion, Wiley is left to his imagination concerning the ruckus.

(OOC: Time is roughly 1:47 PM)