Cracker's walk slowed a bit as he came to realize that he had no idea where he was. He was on an island! How hard could it be to keep track of the sea?? He finally came to a stop in the middle of a pleasant little courtyard. The place seemed peaceful and appeared to have all those features that make the land home to many. But, alas, he was not here to find a home . . . or even the lass that had worn those knickers . . . he smiled as he glanced at some of the hanging laundry.

Shaking his head he looked up to the sky. He knew which direction the harbor faced. If he could see where the sun was he should be able to tell which way was South.

(OOC: Even at 2 p.m. the sun wouldn't be directly overhead, I'm guessing. I'm also assuming that an experienced sailor would know in which direction he was sailing as he entered a port. The sun might give him a direction. If it does, he follows that information. The following is assuming that for some reason he is unable to determine the whereabouts of the sun or identify its significance. Likewise if there is an uphill noted in the next paragraph he would follow that information.)

Unable to get enough information from his celestial guide, the sailor moved on to the next most logical method to locate the port: water runs downhill. Coastlines were always downhill from towns. This was for the simple expedient that towns preferred to be above the water in stead of under it. Clearly the two hills would lead him uphill and away from the port. That left two other options. Opposite directions, of course. Did either give a hint as to altitude?

No? Then he sighed and glanced around for someone to ask. He hated asking directions. He wouldn't have minded asking for directions in London or Paris, but getting lost in a town of this size for an experienced sailor seemed embarrassing. But he'd have done it anyway had there been anyone around. (Assumption from description that nobody is.) If the choice was a little wounded pride to a stranger or facing an angry Cole because he was late getting back to the ship, his pride could survive the sting.

He glanced quickly each way, sniffed the air for a hint of the sea, and headed to the Right. It was right, after all, right? He enjoyed the sense of the land under his feet and headed off, doing his best to keep his eye out for the sun, signs of an uphill climb or a likely person with whom to speak.

Goncalvo took a seat. "Well lets see, there were several interesting ports talked about...(OOC he fills he in on all he has heard) and so you have you pick of places to raid. Perhaps by the time we return your sisters actions will have been forgotten." Goncalvo cracked wry smile, "As for gentlemen wanting to see knickers, I have to disagree. Knickers only get in the way of a proper spanking."

As she slowed her pace and walked towards what she could only hope was somewhere safer, she passed her keen sharp eyes over the facade of every building, every bit of brick and stone and glass, looking for something, anything, that might help her out of her current situation. She could only guess that some of these were houses, and of a classier sort than she'd ever had, or ever would. Not that she wanted it, per se, but for a single brief moment she wondered what her life would be like if all she had to sorry about was whether her tea would be served hot enough. And as soon as the thought came, it left with a wrinkle of her nose and a snort of derisive laughter. Let the soft frilly ladies with more stuffing than stuff in their heads have that life. She had better things to do...

Like get to Crowe, and back to the ship, and out of this bloody mess.

The abandoned building would be good enough to hide in, but she was nowhere near ready to hide like a frightened rabbit. And it looked more like it'd fall in on her and hide her bones under a pile of rubble, rather than keep her safe. No, she'd pass on that, thank you.

When her eyes lit on the dressmaker's shop, her stomach knotted and roiled. But, she mused, it might be just the thing she needed...

Maggie made her way with purpose to the door and sucked in a deep breath before trying the door. Already her body stiffened, her face softened, and she carried herself as if ...

She glanced around to see if the shopkeep was available and took a breath, reached into her coin purse. The feel of the coins in her hand. After all, everyone spoke that language when it came down to it.

While waiting for the shop keep, she browsed the clothes, looking for something simple and basic, something a servant girl would wear, maybe with an apron. Her story formed as she touched the fabrics. She just hoped she could be convincing enough. Or that her gold would, at the very least.

"In the meantime, Goncalvo," Anne switches directions like an Atlantic petrel on the winds, "now's the time ya share with me the spoils o' yer journey ashore. I don't know yet whether we need t' make a hasty departure, but I wanna know we can an' where t' go when the time's upon us."

Goncalvo takes a seat across from his captain. "Well lets see, there were several interesting ports talked about," New Orleans, Charleston, Mexico City, and others come up along with the routes throughout the West Indies. "...and so you have your pick of places to raid. Perhaps by the time we return, your sister's actions will have been forgotten." Goncalvo cracks a wry smile, "As for gentlemen wanting to see knickers, I have to disagree. Knickers only get in the way of a proper spanking."

"I wouldn't know," Captain Cole says flatly. Having strangled the life out of the banter, the red head refocuses the conversation. "I aim t' make this port a viable location for us, Mr. Goncalvo. If we need t' lay low fer a while, I'd rather do so somewhere in the West Indies. Find me a place an' ready the Dog t' make sail quick should we need t'."

(OOC: Time is roughly 6:16 PM)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 12:08 P.M.; The Rub of Del Monte

As the girl skitters away, Fin's attention returns, in full, to the man across the table and he leans back in his chair a bit. "More important than where I'm from, Mister Oken," he suggests, "is wha' ye might be needin' a bloke like me fer, an' wha' sort o' coin ye'd be offerin' fer my services."

"You are as direct as your means of dealing with Mr. Kidane indicates," Oken flatly eyes the pirate. "I am making a character judgment, Mr. Crowe, even by sharing this table with you. Do you understand?"

Crowe answers with a nod as even as Oken's gaze. Aye, he doesn't bother to speak out loud, I reckon I un'erstand well enough.

"Rushing this potential relationship will do neither of us any good, least of all, my employer. And it is for the sake of my employer that I'm conducting this meeting. You'll do well should this meeting prove fruitful. Patience shall prove a virtue, indeed."

At that, a bit of an ironic smile plays on Crowe's lips. I waited a good lot o' years ta send Kidane ta Hell, he manages not to say aloud as another curt nod accompanies the bit of his reply to which he does give voice, "Ye'll find I got th' patience o' Job when it comes ta business, Mester Oken."

"This Sun Dog vessel of which you speak," the dandy continues his uncomfortable stare, "You say that a Captain Cole commands. Do you have his ear, or is it to him that I should be speaking?"

Rustling skirts and a stirring of the warm air surrounding their table announces the arrival of the serving wench who places two earthen mugs and a dark brown bottle on the table in front of them before making a hasty exit.

The pirate's gaze abandons Oken's only long enough to track the girl's retreat and, in so doing, quickly surveys the Rub's common room, once more. The aristocrat's presumption that Captain Cole is a man mildly intensifies the sardonic set of Crowe's features as he turns his storm-blue eyes back toward Oken, but he stops short of challenging the man's speculation. Instead, he simply reaches for the bottle that the serving wench has left and pours a healthy sample into each of the mugs.

"Th' Capt'n trusts me judgement," Fin rasps, returning the bottle to the table and nudging one of the mugs in Elias' direction in a single motion. "I c'n arrange a parlay if ye'd pr'fer," he continues, lifting his own mug and indulging in a sip as he settles back and offers a shrug, "but, seein' as Coles' ears an' mine hear much th' same, ye'd be savin' us both a piece o' time choosin' ta converse wit' me."

Silence descends over the table for a moment as Mr. Oken considers the tanned and weather worn man sitting before him. Finally raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips as though bored with his speculations, Elias produces a lacy white handkerchief from his pants pocket and dabs at his right temple. "Fresh from London, this Sun Dog of yours. Whose flag does she fly, Mr. Crowe? The Empire's? The Company's?"

(OOC: Assuming something ambiguous,)

"I see. But the late Mr. Kidane knew you and you he, so this is not your first visit to this part of the New World. Are there any others amongst this Captain Cole's crew who might have combustible history in these locales?"

(OOC: Assuming an encouraging comment of some kind,)

Pausing once more, Mr. Oken watches Fin take another sip of the rum before continuing, "Despite your impressive performance with Mr. Kidane and his men, you must understand that I need to test the mettle of your compatriots before I'll feel comfortable suggesting that my employer trusts his business to you.

"This is the offer on the table, Mr. Crowe. There will be no negotiating." The dandy waits for a few breaths to gauge the quartermaster's likelihood of interrupting. (OOC: assuming none,)

"A debt needs to be paid, Mr. Crowe, and I want you to collect it. Barbados is where you'll manage this task as the dishonorable fool who owes my employer has fled to the Isla del Barbado where he now seeks passage to the Old World to escape his debt. Bring him to me alive and you'll earn one hundred guinea as well as the right to another job. Bring him to me dead and you'll receive twenty-five guinea and I'll consider the future at that time."




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

----------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 2:05 P.M.

Lost her temper, that was what she has done. Cracker is not much of a gambler—unusual for a pirate—but he'd put a pretty penny (or whatever poor pennies he can actually put together) on the fact that someone had stepped on that pretty red-headed temper. Some idiot probably tried to treat her like a lady, he thinks with a bit of a grin as he moves quickly down the road. He continues to keep his eyes open for information—either about the ships in port or his fiery superior officer. He whistles a bit as he heads back to water. Sometimes life amuses him.

Cracker's walk slows a bit as he comes to realize that he has no idea where he is. He's on an island! How hard can it be to keep track of the sea? He finally comes to a stop in the middle of a pleasant little courtyard. The place seems peaceful and appears to have all of those features that make the land home to many. But, alas, he is not here to find a home... or even the lass that had worn those knickers, he smiles as he glances at some of the hanging laundry.

Shaking his head, he looks up to the sky. He knows which direction the harbor faces. If he can see where the sun is he should be able to tell which way is South. Shadows play across the courtyard and he is able to assume directions from the deepening creep that's swallowing the patio and causing the clucking chickens to fight for the little remaining sun.

He glances quickly each way, sniffs the air for a hint of the sea, and heads to the Right. It is right, after all, right? He enjoys the sense of the land under his feet and heads off, doing his best to keep his eye out for the sun, signs of an uphill climb, or a likely person with whom to speak should he need to. Fortune smiles on the boatswain, though, and he finds himself soon upon a path of simple deduction that leads him quickly back to a main street and that, then, towards the harbor.

Despite attempting to keep his eye on his surroundings, William is oft distracted by the site of a shapely woman working, walking, or otherwise just existing. Before he realizes how much of an eye he's not kept out for potential threats, the sandy shoreline is already in view and seabirds scream in the nearby light blue skies.

A few paces later and Cracker arrives on the edge of the line of buildings adjacent to the street. From his vantage, the Sun Dog sits sleek and promising with her sails furled and her masts slicing the horizon. There's no sign of the longboat at the shore, but William can see it pulling towards the Dog with two people at the oars, and he's pretty sure one of them is Shark Tooth.

(OOC: Time is about 2:20 pm)

----------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 2:05 P.M.

Buildings rise up on either side of the street blocking her view of the landscape thereabouts and everything is crammed together so tightly, she can't tell one establishment from the other. Situationally stumped, there's no other option but to keep walking as she sure as hell isn't going to ask for directions to the nearest dive. Staying on this small road isn't going to help her situation any but traversing into the open where she can only imagine that her description is more readily flowing amongst the locals and the law isn't appealing. The question becomes, how is she to find Crowe and continue her mission without getting captured?

As she slows her pace and walked towards what she can only hope is somewhere safer, she passes her keen, sharp eyes over the facade of every building, every bit of brick and stone and glass, looking for something, anything, that might help her out of her current situation. She can only guess that some of these are houses, and of a classier sort than she'd ever had, or ever would have. Not that she wants it, per se, but for a single brief moment she wonders what her life would be like if all she had to sorry about was whether her tea would be served hot enough. And as soon as the thought came, it leaves with a wrinkle of her nose and a snort of derisive laughter. Let the soft frilly ladies with more stuffing than stuff in their heads have that life. She has better things to do...

Like get to Crowe, and back to the ship, and out of this bloody mess.

The abandoned building would be good enough to hide in, but she is nowhere near ready to hide like a frightened rabbit. And it looks more like it'd fall in on her and hide her bones under a pile of rubble, rather than keep her safe. No, she'll pass on that, thank you.

When her eyes light upon the dressmaker's shop, her stomach knots and roils. But, she muses, it might be just the thing I need,

Maggie makes her way with purpose to the door and sucks in a deep breath before trying the handle. Already, her body stiffens, her face softens, and she carries herself as if...

She glances around to see if the shopkeep is available and takes a breath, reached into her coin purse and the feel of the coins in her hand. After all, everyone speaks that language when it comes down to it.

While waiting for the shopkeep, she browses the clothes, looking for something simple and basic, something a servant girl would wear, maybe with an apron. Her story forms as she touches the fabrics. She just hopes she can be convincing enough, or that her gold would, at the very least, be. Offerings at the front of the shop are definitely for the more discerning individuals and it is about two thirds of the way back down the narrow showroom floor, stifling with the heat, that the first mate finds the assortment of skirts, blouses, and aprons she's looking for.

"Can I, help, you?" A thickly accented and deep voice draws Maggie's attention away from the fabrics to the back of the store where a thin black man has emerged wearing an apron of tanned leather with many pockets across the front. The Cole girl cannot place his accent and it is difficult to understand what he's saying, but she can surmise.

(OOC: Assuming a comment about purchasing an outfit,)

Blinking large bloodshot eyes in dismay at what's standing before him, the fellow attempts to pull himself together enough to reply, "The masta o' the store be at a fittin' bu' he no be objectin' t' me makin' a sale, I t'inks. Tell me miss, where be ya from tha' ya don' ‘ave proper clothes?"

(OOC: Time is roughly 2:12 PM)

"Aye captain. I'll get to work on a plan and see to the punishment we discussed. I beg your leave." Goncalvo left the cabin and returned to his own. There he took out his notes, charts and compass. After diligent study he determines that Montserrat would be a fine place. It offered good hunting and several other island nearby. Ships of various flags could be found giving the Captain her choice of attacking at will or picking her targets along national lines. Next he plotted the winds, shoals, and distances to determine a course to the island. He took into account the rumors of where warships tended to patrol and avoided those as best he could. The final course was not the most direct but it was the one most likely to ensure safe travel as well as the chance to encounter a merchant ship en route.

With that finished he set out to arrange the punishment for the loose lipped sailor. Such was not his favorite job but he knew the importance of information shared and information guarded.

#%^#@! He'd missed the longboat.

But no matter, it would make a return voyage. He didn't like just walking out into the open, so while he waited for the boat to make it back to the Dog and unload its cargo he scanned the shoreline. Was there any action? He kept his eyes open for anything out of normal. He had no reason to suspect anything was amiss, but when your profession was "pirate" you were always a bit wary when ashore.

Or when on the seas. Or when awake. And especially when asleep. Or when breathing. And if you weren't breathing it was probably because you weren't wary enough.

So he looked around. And he actually did have reason to be wary. If the law was looking for the Dog's First Mate, then it might take an interest in anyone heading toward the ship. Pirates loved meeting the law. He frowned a bit and looked around.

(Assuming nothing of note is seen.)

When the boat had made it back to the Dog and Shark Tooth and the other passenger Cracker watched for a sign of the boat's oarsman moving back to the vessel. Seeing sign that he was ready to return he moved out onto the sand and approached the place where the Dog's sailors had been dropped off and picked up. You knew you were a sailor when you looked forward to getting the boards under your feet again.

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 12:08 P.M.; The Rub of Del Monte
"Th' Capt'n trusts me judgement," Fin rasps, returning the bottle to the table and nudging one of the mugs in Elias' direction in a single motion. "I c'n arrange a parlay if ye'd pr'fer," he continues, lifting his own mug and indulging in a sip as he settles back and offers a shrug, "but, seein' as Coles' ears an' mine hear much th' same, ye'd be savin' us both a piece o' time choosin' ta converse wit' me."

Silence descends over the table for a moment as Mr. Oken considers the tanned and weather worn man sitting before him. Finally raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips as though bored with his speculations, Elias produces a lacy white handkerchief from his pants pocket and dabs at his right temple. "Fresh from London, this Sun Dog of yours. Whose flag does she fly, Mr. Crowe? The Empire's? The Company's?"

Fin lifts a brow of his own, watching as the dandy daubs an errant and ungentlemanly drop of sweat from his temple. Then, before tipping the rum to his lips, again, replies; "She flies ‘er own colors, Mr Oken. She's go' no need fer company er country."

"I see. But the late Mr. Kidane knew you and you he, so this is not your first visit to this part of the New World. Are there any others amongst this Captain Cole's crew who might have combustible history in these locales?"

We're a shipful o' freebooters an' cutthroats, Fin thinks, masking a bemused smirk behind the thick rim of the earthen mug, It's likely all o' us're "combustible" when it comes to it, Oken. The quartermaster's expression, however, doesn't so much as hint at his thoughts. Instead, lazily turning the mug in his hand, Fin seems to ponder the question a moment before answering. "In these locales," he repeats the last words of Oken's query then offers a fractional shake of his head, "No' tha' I'm aware, no."

Pausing once more, Mr. Oken watches Fin take another sip of the rum before continuing, "Despite your impressive performance with Mr. Kidane and his men, you must understand that I need to test the mettle of your compatriots before I'll feel comfortable suggesting that my employer trusts his business to you,"

Yer employer, is it, then, Crowe muses silently, An' jus' who might tha' be, I wonder?

"This is the offer on the table, Mr. Crowe. There will be no negotiating." The dandy waits for a few breaths to gauge the quartermaster's likelihood of interrupting.

Fin raises his brows at this but says nothing, nor does his expression waver. A simple nod confirms his interest and prompts the foppish fellow to continue.

"A debt needs to be paid, Mr. Crowe, and I want you to collect it. Barbados is where you'll manage this task as the dishonorable fool who owes my employer has fled to the Isla del Barbado where he now seeks passage to the Old World to escape his debt. Bring him to me alive and you'll earn one hundred guinea as well as the right to another job. Bring him to me dead and you'll receive twenty-five guinea and I'll consider the future at that time."

Crowe lifts a hand to absently scratch at his whisker-stubbled jaw as he contemplates the offer. Oken isn't the easiest of bloke to read, which speaks to the man's professionalism and, likely, tenure in his master's employ. The one thing Fin can tell for sure about the dandy across the table is that he's very confident of his position in this discussion and, to this point, has been playing a game of cat and mouse in order to determine whether or not he's even selected the right man for the job.

An' I'm th' bloody mouse as he sees it, Crowe thinks, an' he's no' sure I'm even fat enough ta pounce on, is he? The job Oken is offering sounds simple enough that, most likely, the man could have easily hired someone local to accomplish the task; there were plenty of people on the islands - people of Kidane's ilk - to whom he might have offered such a contract, But yer jus' testin' the waters, ain't ye? Offerin' up a job tha's no' too high in yer riggin' ta see how me an' mine might fare? Yes, Fin was sure that, where Oken was concerned, there was more beyond this one offer, he just couldn't quite baton down exactly what that more might be, The quartermaster was determined to find out, though, one way or another.

"At full sail," Fin says after a moment of contemplation, "th' Dog c'n reach Barbados in jus' a bit more'n two days. Add in anoth'r day er so ta collect yer man an' two more fer the return trip, Aye, I reckon a hundr'd guinea's cover us, considerin' ye'd have us anoth'r job on the back end." He tips the mug to his lips, again, draining the remainder of the rum in a single swallow, and plunks the empty cup back down on the table; "I'd say we have us an accord, Mester Oken."

((OOC: 12:15 p.m. Stopping there as I expect this conversation isn't quite wrapped up in a neat little bow, just yet. Fin, of course, is going to need a few more particulars on the man he's supposed to retrieve and whatnot, and he may have a small bit of interest in tailing Oken back to wherever he might go, as well, that's assuming that Oken leaves first.))

While waiting for the shopkeep, she browses the clothes, looking for something simple and basic, something a servant girl would wear, maybe with an apron. Her story forms as she touches the fabrics. She just hopes she can be convincing enough, or that her gold would, at the very least, be. Offerings at the front of the shop are definitely for the more discerning individuals and it is about two thirds of the way back down the narrow showroom floor, stifling with the heat, that the first mate finds the assortment of skirts, blouses, and aprons she's looking for.

"Can I, help, you?" A thickly accented and deep voice draws Maggie's attention away from the fabrics to the back of the store where a thin black man has emerged wearing an apron of tanned leather with many pockets across the front. The Cole girl cannot place his accent and it is difficult to understand what he's saying, but she can surmise.

Maggie finds his eyes and manages to look as awkward and nervous as she can, which isn't that hard with the threat of the law weighing on her as it is, and smiles. "Oh, 'ullo there, I be hopin ye can help me? See, I be in a bit o' ... i need a dress, ye see. Nothin' fancy, i don't have 'nuff coin for the pretties..." She lets her words trail off, and shifts her weight from one foot to another in feigned anxiousness.

Blinking large bloodshot eyes in dismay at what's standing before him, the fellow attempts to pull himself together enough to reply, "The masta o' the store be at a fittin' bu' he no be objectin' t' me makin' a sale, I t'inks. Tell me miss, where be ya from tha' ya don' ‘ave proper clothes?"

She lets a sadness pass over her face for a moment. "From far away, an not here o' my own choice, tell ye true," she sighs. "And Master only gimme these and it ain't right nor proper I be forced to walk aroun' like a man, and" she stops, as if she's about to cry, and pies at her eyes with a slight turn of her head.

"I be happy t' give every last coin o' mine if you can find me a simple thing, and a bonnet. Master says me hair is a touch o' th devil hisself, and hates t' look at it, but his missus likes to brush it so he won't cut it. a bonnet'll lemme hide it, an maybe I can keep'm both happy so I won't get no more lashin's, right?"

The will to live, she finds, is stronger than her need to be free in action and clothing, and she'll suck it up enough to put on a damned dress if it keeps her out of the hands of the law. Because she knows, if they find her, it wouldn't be long before they found the rest of the crew of the Dog, and then her sister would just nag her to their deaths behind cold iron bars.

To turn him more to her favor, she pulls out her coins and holds them in her cupped hands, all of them, and hold them out to him. "Please, sir? Will ye help me? I can't stands no more lashin's."

"I wouldn't know," Captain Cole says flatly. Having strangled the life out of the banter, the red head refocuses the conversation. "I aim t' make this port a viable location for us, Mr. Goncalvo. If we need t' lay low fer a while, I'd rather do so somewhere in the West Indies. Find me a place an' ready the Dog t' make sail quick should we need t'."

"Aye captain. I'll get to work on a plan and see to the punishment we discussed. I beg your leave." Captain Cole waves him off and Goncalvo leaves the cabin and makes his way to the poop deck. A table resides there, just before the wheel leaving enough room for people to stand at the bannister and overlook the main deck if they so desire. A chest resides below the table and it is within this chest that he keeps his charts and tools as he shares the crew quarters with the rest of the crew and has no other place to work.

There, with the soft evening breeze requiring him to anchor the corners of his maps, he takes out his notes, charts, and compass. Diligently studying and using the experience and skills that he's developed over the years, he determines that Montserrat Island in the leeward isles will be a fine place.

Montserrat Island is rumored to be Irish settled and British-owned. That there might be some place to drop anchor is based on the map. Such a determination is not easy working solely off of the charts he has on hand and the stories he was able to convince the sailors at the tavern to share, but there is little else to be done, so a selection is made. It offers good hunting waters and several other islands nearby. Ships of various flags will likely be found along this route giving the Captain her choice of attacking at will, or picking her targets along national lines.

Next, he uses his compass, charts, and experience to deduce the winds, shoals, and distances so that he may plot a course to the island. Again, he takes into account the rumors he heard from his drinking companions of where warships tend to patrol and plans to avoid those as best he can. The final course is not the most direct, but it is the one most likely to ensure safe travel as well as the chance to encounter a merchant ship en route.

With that finished he sets out to arrange the punishment for the loose lipped sailor. Such is not his favorite job but he knows the importance of information shared and information guarded. Rolling up his maps and storing the tools back in the chest, Goncalvo makes his way to the bannister and scans the main deck. Lounging about near the rope ladder is Chimwemwe showing Salazar how to tie a double figure-eight knot. No sign of Seamus Higgins, the sailor with the loose lips who had shipped him across the bay. Peering back across the darkening blue waters he can see the launch moored on the beach and the vague silhouette of the man he assumes is Higgins throwing rocks back into the ocean.

(OOC: Time is roughly 7:23 PM)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 12:15 P.M.; The Rub of Del Monte

"A debt needs to be paid, Mr. Crowe, and I want you to collect it. Barbados is where you'll manage this task as the dishonorable fool who owes my employer has fled to the Isla del Barbado where he now seeks passage to the Old World to escape his debt. Bring him to me alive and you'll earn one hundred guinea as well as the right to another job. Bring him to me dead and you'll receive twenty-five guinea and I'll consider the future at that time."

Crowe lifts a hand to absently scratch at his whisker-stubbled jaw as he contemplates the offer. Oken isn't the easiest of blokes to read, which speaks to the man's professionalism and, likely, tenure in his master's employ. The one thing Fin can tell for sure about the dandy across the table is that he's very confident of his position in this discussion and, to this point, has been playing a game of cat and mouse in order to determine whether or not he's even selected the right man for the job.

An' I'm th' bloody mouse as he sees it, Crowe thinks, an' he's no' sure I'm even fat enough ta pounce on, is he? The job Oken is offering sounds simple enough that, most likely, the man could have easily hired someone local to accomplish the task; there are plenty of people on the islands - people of Kidane's ilk - to whom he might offer such a contract, But yer jus' testin' the waters, ain't ye? Offerin' up a job tha's no' too high in yer riggin' ta see how me an' mine might fare? Yes, Fin was sure that, where Oken is concerned, there is more beyond this one offer, he just can't quite baton down exactly what that more might be, The quartermaster is determined to find out, though, one way or another.

"At full sail," Fin says after a moment of contemplation, "th' Dog c'n reach Barbados in jus' a bit more'n two days. Add in anoth'r day er so ta collect yer man an' two more fer the return trip, Aye, I reckon a hundr'd guinea's cover us, considerin' ye'd have us anoth'r job on the back end." He tips the mug to his lips, again, draining the remainder of the rum in a single swallow, and plunks the empty cup back down on the table; "I'd say we have us an accord, Mester Oken."

"An accord?" Oken blinks slowly and a barely perceptible twitch occurs in the forward portion of his left eyebrow. "Call it what you will, Mister Crowe, but we prefer to refer to it as a contract between business people.

"The man you are looking for is from South America; Brazil to be precise. His name is Rufino Abreu. He's not a big man, Mister Crowe, but he is deadly with a knife and is known for his ability to blend in, to attack from the shadows, and to fight with his hands. I do not imagine that he'll want to come with you, let alone quietly."

Dabbing at his temple again, Elias Oken continues, "Once you retrieve the thief, you will return to this port and send word through one of the serving girls at this tavern. You'll receive further instructions at that point. Any questions, Mr. Crowe?"

(OOC: Time is roughly 12:20 PM.)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 2:20 P.M.

A few paces later and Cracker arrives on the edge of the line of buildings adjacent to the street. From his vantage, the Sun Dog sits sleek and promising with her sails furled and her masts slicing the horizon. There's no sign of the longboat at the shore, but William can see it pulling towards the Dog with two people at the oars, and he's pretty sure one of them is Shark Tooth.

#%^#@! He'd missed the longboat.

But no matter, it would make a return voyage. He doesn't like just walking out into the open, so while he waits for the boat to make it back to the Dog and unload its cargo, he scans the shoreline. Is there any action? He keeps his eyes open for anything out of normal. He has no reason to suspect anything is amiss, but when your profession is "pirate," you are always a bit wary when ashore. Or when on the seas. Or when awake. And especially when asleep. Or when breathing. And if you aren't breathing it is probably because you aren't wary enough.

Cracker looks around and he actually does have reason to be wary. If the law is looking for the Dog's First Mate, then it might take an interest in anyone heading toward the ship. Pirates love meeting the law. He frowns a bit and continues his survey but the activity on the beach is normal and unassuming.

When the boat makes it back to the Dog with Shark Tooth, Cracker watches for a sign of the boat's oarsman moving back to the vessel, which it does almost immediately. As the launch drawns near the shore, Cracker moves out onto the sand and approaches the place where the Dog's sailors had been dropped off and picked up. You know you are a sailor when you look forward to getting the boards under your feet again.

"Cracker," Seamus Higgins grins and drops the oars into the boat. "Through wit' yer shore leave already? Jus' took Shark's Tooth back t' the Dog, mate. He said he wanted t' check on that dark-lookin' swab ‘e brought aboard earlier an' di'n't wanna wait fer no other crew t' gather on the beach ‘fore makin' fer the Dog.

"Hate t' make any others wait,)

(OOC: Time is about 2:43 pm)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 2:12 P.M.

"Can I, help, you?" A thickly accented and deep voice draws Maggie's attention away from the fabrics to the back of the store where a thin black man has emerged wearing an apron of tanned leather with many pockets across the front. The Cole girl cannot place his accent and it is difficult to understand what he's saying, but she can surmise.

Maggie finds his eyes and attempts to look as awkward and nervous as she can, which she hopes isn't that hard with the threat of the law weighing on her as it is, and smiles. "Oh, 'ullo there, I be hopin ye can help me? See, I be in a bit o' ... I need a dress, ye see. Nothin' fancy, I don't have 'nuff coin for the pretties..." She lets her words trail off, and shifts her weight from one foot to another in feigned anxiousness.

Blinking large bloodshot eyes in dismay at what's standing before him, the fellow attempts to pull himself together enough to reply, "The masta o' the store be at a fittin' bu' he no be objectin' t' me makin' a sale, I t'inks. Tell me miss, where be ya from tha' ya don' ‘ave proper clothes?"

She allows a sadness pass over her face for a moment. "From far away, an' not here o' my own choice, tell ye true," she sighs. "And Master only gimme these and it ain't right nor proper I be forced to walk aroun' like a man, and—" she stops, as if she's about to cry, and pies at her eyes with a slight turn of her head.

"I be happy t' give every last coin o' mine if you can find me a simple thing, and a bonnet. Master says me hair is a touch o' th devil hisself, and hates t' look at it, but his missus likes to brush it so he won't cut it. a bonnet'll lemme hide it, an maybe I can keep'm both happy so I won't get no more lashin's, right?"

The will to live, she finds, is stronger than her need to be free in action and clothing, and she'll suck it up enough to put on a damned dress if it keeps her out of the hands of the law. Because she knows, if they find her, it won't be long before they find the rest of the crew of the Dog, and then her sister will just nag her to their deaths behind cold iron bars.

To turn him more to her favor, she pulls out her coins and holds them in her cupped hands—all of them—and hold them out to him, "Please, sir? Will ye help me? I can't stands no more lashin's."

Hesitating, the dark-skinned tailor rapidly blinks as he looks down at the mishappen mass of coins in her hands. As though his head is on a spring, his long face bounces back up to look her in the eye. "Ya be a runaway slave! Where'd ya git the money, girl? Did ya steal it from yer massa?"

His hand drops to the cutting knife tucked into a pouch on his apron. "I'll no' be accused o' ‘elpin' ya escape. Jus' do wha's bes' fer ya, girl, an' stay put ‘til yer massa comes lookin'."

(OOC: Time is roughly 2:14 PM)

It was time to get back to the Dog. Cracker wasn't actually sure if he was safer on the ship or not. With the authorities looking for the First Mate they would be drawn to the Dog if they knew where she was from. Being on a pirate ship when the authorities showed up was a good way to get labeled a pirate. And that was a good way to get dead. But he'd thrown his lot in with this lot already, and if he wanted to stick with the Dog it would be best to get back on board quickly. Besides, if he was going to have second thoughts about a career of piracy, well, that ship had already sailed. He grinned inwardly at his own silent pun. Nobody else would likely appreciate it, but he did.

When Higgins got to the shore and asked if he was done with his leave already, he nodded. "Yeah. Had a bit of a drink and a bit of a walk. Lets get back to the ship, I hate sitting in the sand." With that he (hopefully with Higgins) climbed in to the boat. He would make small talk as they headed back to the boat, but didn't know what to say about his day. He had some information about the town and a lack of information about the First Mate. This was news for an officer. He didn't even know what to say about Cole. Or to who. But Sharky had beaten him to the Dog and he almost certainly knew more then Cracker did.

He'd just have to wait and see. But his other information did need to get delivered.

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 12:15 P.M.; The Rub of Del Monte

 

“At full sail,” Fin says after a moment of contemplation, “th’ Dog c’n reach Barbados in jus’ a bit more’n two days. Add in anoth’r day er so ta collect yer man an’ two more fer the return trip… Aye, I reckon a hundr’d guinea’s cover us, considerin’ ye’d have us anoth’r job on the back end.” He tips the mug to his lips, again, draining the remainder of the rum in a single swallow, and plunks the empty cup back down on the table; “I’d say we have us an accord, Mester Oken.”

 

“An accord?” Oken blinks slowly and a barely perceptible twitch occurs in the forward portion of his left eyebrow. “Call it what you will, Mister Crowe, but we prefer to refer to it as a contract between business people…”

 

You say tomato, Fin thinks from behind a wry smirk, I say bugger all.

 

“…The man you are looking for is from South America; Brazil to be precise. His name is Rufino Abreu. He’s not a big man, Mister Crowe, but he is deadly with a knife and is known for his ability to blend in, to attack from the shadows, and to fight with his hands. I do not imagine that he’ll want to come with you, let alone quietly.”

 

The Sun Dog’s quartermaster nods fractionally, committing those few details to memory, and reaches for the bottle that sits between him and Oken, again. “Aye, I don’ imagine so,” Crowe rumbles softly as he pours a fresh sampling of rum into his empty mug, “Then, I din’t hear tell o’ want er quiet bein’ conditions, neither.”

 

Dabbing at his temple again, Elias Oken continues, “Once you retrieve the thief, you will return to this port and send word through one of the serving girls at this tavern. You’ll receive further instructions at that point. Any questions, Mr. Crowe?”

 

“One er two,” the swarthy pirate answers, reclining slightly in his seat, again, and enjoying a swallow of the rum before proceeding. “First, c’n ye gimme a bit more of a description aside from a no’ so big Brazilian? True enough, Brazilians tend ta have a certain look about ‘em, an’ I c’n discern Portuguese from Spanish, but a wee bit more o’ precisely wha’ th’ lad looks like’d be helpful.

 

Second,” he barrels on without waiting for an immediate response from Oken, “‘ow many others’ve ye got lookin’ ta fulfil this contract o’ yers?” One dark brow spikes slightly as Fin, in all seriousness, eyes the man across the table; “It’d be good ta know if I’ve go’ competition ta keep an eye on, saavy? An’ if there’ll be need ta kill any of ‘em ta keep th’ payment fer m’self.”

 

((OOC: Assuming Fin gets answers he more or less believes out of Oken, he’ll consider the meeting concluded and take his leave of both the table and the tavern (likely taking the bottle of rum with him) and meander back toward the beach. He’ll want to tell Anna about the “contract” with Oken, for sure, but, as he’s only been ashore for a couple of hours, he’s not in a huge rush to get back.))

Hesitating, the dark-skinned tailor rapidly blinks as he looks down at the mishappen mass of coins in her hands. As though his head is on a spring, his long face bounces back up to look her in the eye. “Ya be a runaway slave! Where’d ya git the money, girl? Did ya steal it from yer massa?”

His hand drops to the cutting knife tucked into a pouch on his apron. “I’ll no’ be accused o’ ‘elpin’ ya escape. Jus’ do wha’s bes’ fer ya, girl, an’ stay put ‘til yer massa comes lookin’.”

 

Maggie blinks twice, quickly, and the deception passes from her face, replaced by fire and fury. She stares at him, her body visibly adjusting to the loss of the runaway slave girl routine, taking back her full height. She drops the collection of coins into the coinpurse and sighs. Her right hand slips behind her, beneath her coat, and she draws one of her blades. 

"Now, ye best be rethinkin that particular course of action, me dearie, or bolts o' fine silk ain't the only thing getting cut in here. Ye damned bloody fool!" She hisses. "I sure as fire ain't no man's property. By the seas, ye could have had yerself a tindy little sum if ye'd just bloody helped me! But ye've found me in a generous mood today. Ten gold, for a scrap of a dress and an ugly bonnett, and you can walk wi' yer head held high knownin ye've saved a life today. And not just yer own."

She pauses, and her mouth twists into a grin find me of malicious fury and a little bit of joy. Not her fault she takes so to the life of violence that comes with her chosen profession. Raising the blade between them she gestures to the dresses. 

"Now give me a damned dress, you rotten old man, so we can both be about our important business."

 

 

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 7:23 P.M.; The Sun Dog

No update from Keeper so since Goncalvo is the furtherst ahead on the timeline, we’ll just by-pass this character’s update for the time being.

(OOC: Time is roughly 7:23 PM)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 12:20 P.M.; The Rub of Del Monte

Dabbing at his temple again, Elias Oken continues, “Once you retrieve the thief, you will return to this port and send word through one of the serving girls at this tavern. You’ll receive further instructions at that point. Any questions, Mr. Crowe?”

“One er two,” the swarthy pirate answers, reclining slightly in his seat, again, and enjoying a swallow of the rum before proceeding. “First, c’n ye gimme a bit more of a description aside from a no’ so big Brazilian? True enough, Brazilians tend ta have a certain look about ‘em, an’ I c’n discern Portuguese from Spanish, but a wee bit more o’ precisely wha’ th’ lad looks like’d be helpful.

“Second,” he barrels on without waiting for an immediate response from Oken, “‘ow many others’ve ye got lookin’ ta fulfil this contract o’ yers?” One dark brow spikes slightly as Fin, in all seriousness, eyes the man across the table; “It’d be good ta know if I’ve go’ competition ta keep an eye on, saavy? An’ if there’ll be need ta kill any of ‘em ta keep th’ payment fer m’self.”

“Astute as well,” Elias muses. “You’ll know Rufino Abreu by the tattoo of a mermaid on his left forearm, and I’ve stack the deck in my favor. There are other crews searching for Rufino Abreu and they have at least a day on you. Two crews, possibly more.”

(OOC: Time is roughly 12:22 PM.)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 2:43 P.M.

“Cracker,” Seamus Higgins grins and drops the oars into the boat. “Through wit’ yer shore leave already? Jus’ took Shark’s Tooth back t’ the Dog, mate. He said he wanted t’ check on that dark-lookin’ swab ‘e brought aboard earlier an’ di’n’t wanna wait fer no other crew t’ gather on the beach ‘fore makin’ fer the Dog.

“Hate t’ make any others wait…”

Cracker nods. "Yeah. Had a bit of a drink and a bit of a walk. Lets get back to the ship, I hate sitting in the sand." With that he and Higgins climb into the boat. They make small talk as they head back to the boat. Cracker has some information about the town and a lack of information about the First Mate. This is news for an officer. He doesn’t even know what to say about Cole, or to whom. But Sharky had beaten him to the Dog and he almost certainly knew more than Cracker does. He'll just have to wait and see. But his other information does need to get delivered.

Afternoon waves pitch the boat making it cumbersome to board, but for a seasoned sailor like William, the rocking is a minor challenge at best. Swinging his leg over the rail, Cracker scans the main deck and not seeing Captain Cole on deck, he can safely assume she’s in her quarters or on the poop deck.

(OOC: Time is about 3:03 pm)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 2:14 P.M.

Hesitating, the dark-skinned tailor rapidly blinks as he looks down at the misshapen mass of coins in her hands. As though his head is on a spring, his long face bounces back up to look her in the eye. “Ya be aright-handlave! Where’d ya git the money, girl? Did ya steal it from yer massa?”

His hand drops to the cutting knife tucked into a pouch on his apron. “I’ll no’ be accused o’ ‘elpin’ ya escape. Jus’ do wha’s bes’ fer ya, girl, an’ stay put ‘til yer massa comes lookin’.”

Maggie blinks twice, quickly, and the deception passes from her face, replaced by fire and fury. She stares at him, her body visibly adjusting to the loss of the runaway slave girl routine, taking back her full height. She drops the collection of coins into the coin purse and sighs. Her right-hand slips behind her, beneath her coat, and she draws one of her blades.

"Now, ye best be rethinkin’ that particular course of action, me dearie, or bolts o' fine silk ain't the only thing getting cut in here. Ye damned bloody fool!" She hisses. "I sure as fire ain't no man's property. By the seas, ye could have had yerself a tindy little sum if ye'd just bloody helped me! But ye've found me in a generous mood today. Ten gold, for a scrap of a dress and an ugly bonnett, and you can walk wi' yer head held high knownin’ ye've saved a life today. And not just yer own."

She pauses, and her mouth twists into a grin find me of malicious fury and a little bit of joy. Not her fault she takes so to the life of violence that comes with her chosen profession. Raising the blade between them she gestures to the dresses.

"Now give me a damned dress, you rotten old man, so we can both be about our important business."

Raising his eyebrows, the old man produces his cutting knife. “Now, girly, you can’t be serious.”

(OOC: Time is roughly 2:14 PM)

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 12:20 P.M.; The Rub of Del Monte

Dabbing at his temple again, Elias Oken continues, “Once you retrieve the thief, you will return to this port and send word through one of the serving girls at this tavern. You’ll receive further instructions at that point. Any questions, Mr. Crowe?”

“One er two,” the swarthy pirate answers, reclining slightly in his seat, again, and enjoying a swallow of the rum before proceeding. “First, c’n ye gimme a bit more of a description aside from a no’ so big Brazilian? True enough, Brazilians tend ta have a certain look about ‘em, an’ I c’n discern Portuguese from Spanish, but a wee bit more o’ precisely wha’ th’ lad looks like’d be helpful.

“Second,” he barrels on without waiting for an immediate response from Oken, “‘ow many others’ve ye got lookin’ ta fulfil this contract o’ yers?” One dark brow spikes slightly as Fin, in all seriousness, eyes the man across the table; “It’d be good ta know if I’ve go’ competition ta keep an eye on, saavy? An’ if there’ll be need ta kill any of ‘em ta keep th’ payment fer m’self.”

“Astute as well,” Elias muses, evoking little more than a shrug and a smirk from Fin, “You’ll know Rufino Abreu by the tattoo of a mermaid on his left forearm, and I’ve stack the deck in my favor. There are other crews searching for Rufino Abreu and they have at least a day on you. Two crews, possibly more.”

Possibly more, is it, Crowe thinks, his smirk evolving into a grin as ambiguous as Oken’s answer, So ye don’ know ‘ow many men ye’ve sent er I’m s’posed ta suss it out ‘long th’ way… Fair enough.

He washes the grin away with another tip of mug to lips and, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before setting the cup back down on the table, he offers the dandy a curt nod. “Well then,” he rasps, rising from his seat now, “bein’ as tha’s th’ case, I reckon I’d best set ta work, aye?

Ye’ll be hearin’ from me soon enough, Mester Oken,” the Sun Dog’s quartermaster promises, “an’ I’ll have yer thief in tow…”  As Fin hadn’t seen Oken so much as smell the first mug of rum he’d poured, the pirate casually lifts the bottle of rum from the table and takes a quick pull directly from the thing’s neck… “Apologies in advance if’n I should have ta kill any o’ yer other crews,” he chuffs, turning for the door now, bottle still in hand, “Tha’s th’ price o’ business like this, saavy?”

 

((OOC: Okay, unless Oken has anything else to add, Fin is finished with this conversation. If the dandy protests too much about Fin absconding with the bottle, he’ll deposit the thing on a table without so much as a word. Otherwise, out into the streets he’ll go, with the intent of meandering back to the Sun Dog and filling Anna in on the “work” he’s found... Time is approx 12:23 p.m. ))

William Wiley looked around the deck of the Dog and didn't see the captain.  He really didn't want to track her down.  Somehow searching for a woman famed for her temper when her sister was in trobule with the law did not sound like fun.  But delaying talking to her under the circumstances might have even worse reprecusions.  Between a rock and a hard place - hopefully it would leave Cracker more than just crumbs.  

His first move was to approach Sharky.  pulling him aside he whispered, "Does the captain know what happend with the first mate?  have you told the captain where you last saw her?"  (Assuming an affirmative - he moves on.)

Receiving a nod when he asked if the cap'n was in her quarters, he headed below.  He approached the door to the captain's quarter and knocked.  

(OOC:  I'm assuming knocking is the protocol.  Also, that the captain is the correct spot in the chain of command to go to.  If I'm wrong, please correct both assumptions.  Another assumption - that the captain already knows Shark Tooth's story. This would tell Cracker that she already knows all about that situation that he knows. He then doesn't need to add anything to it.  If Sharky doesn't know if she knows, he will cautiously lead with that information.  Sort of, "Captain, I'm guessin' you already know that the First Mate might be in some trouble locally?" type of thing.  After that he would share his information on local shipping.)