"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.”

One would think, given the severity of the situation, this would not be a prudent time for laughter, but the sight of the old man before her, his dark skin creased and wrinkled with many a year, induces laughter that bgins as a snort, melts into a chuckle, and then evolves into a hearty laugh. 

"Aye, but I aint the one standin here brandishin a toothpick, aint I, ye spiteful ol bastard. You think spillin me blood wi' that -" And again, she can't help it, the absurdity of it all has caught up to her by now, "is gonna please yer own master any? Because I'll be sure to bleed all over as many o these fine rags as I can afore the beatin' o me blackened litttle heart stops."

She doesn't have long. The longer she waits, the longer she delays and plays these games, the longer it will take her to get back to the Dog. Back to safety. Although, she's fairly certain if they've made it bac to the ship already, her sister might have worse things in store for her then any law here. 

((leaving room for any possible response)) 

Seething, she takes a step back and lowers the blade a little - enough that she'll run him through if he advances, or take off his wrist if he's intent on using that sad little blade - and sighs. For a moment, she steals a quick glance towards the back of the room, and narrows her eyes. 

"you and I be headed fer a reconking, ye mean old s***e. Be sure o' that. But not today." And with that...

((Maggie will attempt to run out the back. Hopefully.))

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

Since Goncalvo is the furthest ahead on the timeline, we’ll try to get everyone else caught up pronto.

(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 12:23 P.M.; The Rub of Del Monte

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 hasn’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, savvy?”

“Either that, Mr. Crowe, or you’ll not find this port so friendly as you have,” Elias Oken calls after him as the quartermaster parts.

Stepping back onto the street, Fin is slapped by the heat of the midday sun. Something nearby smells of manure and the flies have really set into their annoying dance. Crows and smaller birds hop about on nearly everything looking for some morsel to steal while chickens, dogs, and cats scurry about underfoot. People about their daily routines add to the commotion on the street and the stench in the air, but those close enough to him to, perhaps, engage (even accidentally), drawback. Others on the street who aren’t privy to what went down within the Rub of Del Monte pay him no mind.

Meandering back towards the beach, Fin keeps a close eye on his surroundings while occasionally taking a pull off of the rum. The harsh liquor stimulates his body with shivers and warm that threatens to overheat the man while at the same time, it soothes his nerves. In his wandering, he spots a couple of the others from the Dog and nods as they call out to him, but he doesn’t join them. He’s got business to attend to, after all.

Arriving at the beach, Fin’s narrowed blue eyes dart along the shoreline for signs of the Dog’s boat, eventually falling on it and a sailor near some of the fishermen who had just come back from their morning haul. Trudging through the shifting sands, the athletic quartermaster makes short work of the distance between them.

“Ahoy, sir!” Cyril Daumier calls out as he catches sight of his quartermaster. Springing to his feet from where he was sitting on the bow of the launch, the large-nosed fellow turns and positions himself to push the craft from the beach.

(OOC: Room for whatever interaction Fin wishes to have.)

The sea is calmer this time of day, but calmer doesn’t mean calm. Fighting the waves, the two sailors eventually roll themselves into the launch, their footwear and most of their clothing soaked through. With seawater and a small amount of seaweed floating in the bottom of the launch, Cyril begins to pull on the oars.

“Please tell me tha’ the ladies are delectable an’ the ale flows freely,” the Frenchman calls over his shoulder to Fin.

(OOC: Fin’s reply&hellip

“Bless me an’ God forgive,” Daumier laughs and shakes his head. “Canna wait too much longer t’ wet my whistles.”

Ten minutes later and the launch is bumping up against the Dog’s hull near the rope ladder. Cyril nods the ship’s officer away and then calls up, “Any others goin’ ashore?”

Chimwemwe’s bald head peers over the rail to the right side of the rope ladder Fin is ascending. “No,” the African says simply and vanishes from sight once more.

An unladen Fin Crowe crests his ascent with athletic ease and rolls over the weathered banister to plant his booted feet firmly on the main deck. Chimwemwe greets him with a nod before returning to the rope repair work he’s focusing on. Salazar and Blaize Campbell are just emerging from below deck with Campell’s tools and a bunch of wood. Aside from these, there are few sailors in view. About to continue forward towards the Captain’s cabin, Fin is drawn up when Anne flushes herself outside.

Resplendent in her white blouse, baggy gray cotton trousers and thigh-high boots, Anne Cole has her hair pulled up beneath a red cloth, her saber at her side, and a brace of two flintlocks across her bosom secure in a black leather baldric. Squinting her lovely eyes, she scans the deck from left to right before spotting her quartermaster.

“I weren’t expectin’ you ‘til after dark, Mr. Crowe,” she states before thinning her lips and standing firmly with her feet a shoulder-width apart, hands on her hips. “Whate’er you’ve experienced ashore is likely t’ be a tale judgin’ from the blood you’re wearin’.”

(OOC: Time is roughly 1:15 PM.)

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

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 3:03 P.M.

William Wiley looks around the deck of the Dog and doesn't see the captain. He really doesn't want to track her down. Somehow, searching for a woman famed for her temper when her sister is in trouble with the law does not sound like fun. But delaying talking to her under the circumstances might have even worse repercussions. Between a rock and a hard place—hopefully would leave Cracker more than just crumbs.  

His first move is to find Sharky, which he does below deck. The bruised and battered gunner is breathing heavily through his swollen lips and stowing his weapons. Pulling him aside, Cracker whispers, "Does the captain know what happened with the first mate? Have you told the captain where you last saw her?"  

“You foolin’, sir?” Shark’s Tooth opens his one eye wide, a feat in and of itself since it, too, is swollen from his earlier brawl. “No’ my place, to be sure. I’m afraid tha’ honor falls on yer shoulders, Boatswain. I’m jus’ a lowly gunner, after all.” Scratching with thick fingers at his scruffy chin, Sharky tilts his head to the side and sniffs. “‘Course, you could always wait ‘til, Hellfire Maggie tells her herself.”

(OOC: Time is about 3:06 PM)

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

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

"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.”

One would think, given the severity of the situation, this would not be a prudent time for laughter, but the sight of the old man before her, his dark skin creased and wrinkled with many a year, induces laughter that begins as a snort, melts into a chuckle, and then evolves into a hearty guffaw.

"Aye, but I ain’t the one standin’ here brandishin’ a toothpick, aint I, ye spiteful ol bastard. You think spillin me blood wi' that—" and again, she can't help it; the absurdity of it all has caught up to her by now, "—is gonna please yer own master any? Because I'll be sure to bleed all over as many o’ these fine rags as I can afore the beatin' o’ me blackened little heart stops."

She doesn't have long. The longer she waits—the longer she delays and plays these games—the longer it will take her to get back to the Dog—Back to safety. Although, she's fairly certain if Sharky and Cracker have made it back to the ship already, her sister might have worse things in store for her then any law here.

A dullard could have responded quicker than the old man, but respond he does… eventually. Slowly replacing his cutting knife in his apron pocket, he steps to the side and a little behind one of the tables bearing the store’s wares. “I’ll no’ stop ya, but I’ll no’ lie fer ya none neither. My skin ain’t fer sale fer yer freedom.”

Seething, she takes a step back and lowers the blade a little—enough that she'll run him through if he advances, or take off his wrist if he's intent on using that sad little blade—and sighs. For a moment, she steals a quick glance towards the back of the room, and narrows her eyes.

"you and I be headed fer a reconking, ye mean old s***e. Be sure o' that. But not today." And with that she leaps forward and sprints past the tailor’s assistant and into the back room.

Hovering near the furthest wall to her left is a pair of black women, one older and one younger, huddling against each other near a table filled with various colored threads. The back door to the shop is to the far right, however, and it is to and through this exit that the fiery first mate bolts.

Sunlight is not her immediate companion as there’s an awning’s shadow she must break free from first. With sunlight stinging her thinned eyes, Maggie visually swallows her new surroundings with a desperate hunger.

The backstreet is much thinner than the main street she had been on shortly before. A thin wagon could fit down it going one direction but no one would be able to pass the other way and would be forced to step right up against the buildings to avoid being dragged under the wheels. Tall and cradling, the buildings on either side rise up into the blue of the Caribbean sky as two to three story wood structures painted mostly white and accented by turquoise, sky blue, red, green, and brown. Other alleys cut into the facade without any care for how it breaks up the patterning of the structural faces but on the street she has now found herself there are precious few people in her immediate vicinity and, for that matter, nearly as far as the eye can see to the right and left.

Almost instinctively, Maggie can tell that the ocean is off to her left, the right should take her deeper into the city, and any of those small alleyways will likely take her to less prosperous parts of town.

(OOC: Time is roughly 2:16 PM)

Wiley listened to the other sailor explain how he had been to afraid to speak to the captain about what he had seen and shook his head.  He looked Sharktooth in the one-swollen eye and cussed.  "Not your place?!  You fool!  You are a part of this crew."  He kept his voice low so nobody else would hear, but Shark Tooth could have no doubt that the Boatswain was angry.  "Your PLACE and your DUTY and your REASON FOR BEING ON THIS SIDE OF THE WAVES is to help make sure that this ship and the rest of its crew stays secure.  That does not just mean running a gun crew and getting in brawls, it also means making sure that the captain has the information she needs to make the decisions that will keep you, me and the whole ship safe!  You don't think knowing the First Mate is running is vital?"  

He started to turn away, saying, "You had better hope your name does not come up . . . " when he stopped.  He turned back to Shark Tooth and smiled.  "No.  I didn't actually see anything besides the First Mate and your sorry arse running through the streets.  But you know more.  And the captain needs to know EVERYTHING.  You will come with me.  Now.  We are not waiting for Ms. Cole to return."  

(Assuming Sharky does go with him since, I believe, Wiley outranks him.)

He pushed Wiley ahead of them and they headed towards the Captain's quarters.  When they got there he knocked on the door and waited for a response.  

(Assuming this is the correct protocol and assuming an answer along the lines of 'enter.')

"Enter!"  

William Wiley removed his hat and held it in his hands as he entered the captain's chambers.  He was followed closely by a very nervous Shark Tooth who seemed to want to stay behind the boatswain as much as possible - and even in a captain's chambers there wasn't much room on a ship to move around.  "Captain," he said with a dip of his head.  "I'm thinkin' you probably already know, but it seems information you would want . . ."  He hesitated for just a moment to make sure he got the words right before plunging ahead.  "It seems our First Mate might be in some trouble with the local authorities."  

He paused a moment to see what reaction his words received from the tempramental captain.  

(Assuming that she doesn't stop him and/or gives some indication to continue . . . otherwise he would stop.)

"Just a bit ago I saw The First Mate and SharkTooth here running through the streets. They  ran like someone was after them.  I don't know what happened, Captain, but they ran.  After just a bit, Sharky and I were ordered back to the ship and she ran on.  SharkTooth here might know more since he was already with her when I caught up.  I came straight here."  With that he turned to the very nervous Sharktooth.

**(All of the above assumes the captain is alone in her chambers.  If she is not he would begin with "Captain, I might have some information on the First Mate that you should hear."  If she seems to indicate that he should go on despite the presence of someone else he will follow the tact above.  If it is someone not from the ship, he will say, "Now might not be the best time," with an indication of his head to say why.) 

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 12:23 P.M.; The Rub of Del Monte

“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 hasn’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, savvy?”

“Either that, Mr. Crowe, or you’ll not find this port so friendly as you have,” Elias Oken calls after him as the quartermaster parts.

Friendly, Crowe smirks as he steps back out on the street and gets slapped by the heat of the midday sun, Been in port fer jus’ a bit more’n two hours an’ already been yelled at by a whore an’ had a slavin’ piece o’ s#!^ try ta take me head off. Friendly, he says!

Something nearby smells of manure and the flies have really set into their annoying dance. Crows and smaller birds hop about on nearly everything looking for some morsel to steal while chickens, dogs, and cats scurry about underfoot. People about their daily routines add to the commotion on the street and the stench in the air, but those close enough to him to, perhaps, engage (even accidentally), drawback. Others on the street who aren’t privy to what went down within the Rub of Del Monte pay him no mind.

Meandering back towards the beach, Fin keeps a close eye on his surroundings while occasionally taking a pull off of the rum. The harsh liquor stimulates his body with shivers and warm that threatens to overheat the man while at the same time, it soothes his nerves. In his wandering, he spots a couple of the others from the Dog and nods as they call out to him, but he doesn’t join them. He’s got business to attend to, after all.

Arriving at the beach, Fin’s narrowed blue eyes dart along the shoreline for signs of the Dog’s boat, eventually falling on it and a sailor near some of the fishermen who had just come back from their morning haul. Trudging through the shifting sands, the athletic quartermaster makes short work of the distance between them.

“Ahoy, sir!” Cyril Daumier calls out as he catches sight of his quartermaster. Springing to his feet from where he was sitting on the bow of the launch, the large-nosed fellow turns and positions himself to push the craft from the beach.

“Ahoy, Mester Daumier,” Fin rumbles, lifting the bottle, too, by way of reply. Reaching the launch, the quartermaster deposits the bottle inside and helps Cyril shove the longboat out into the surf

The sea is calmer this time of day, but calmer doesn’t mean calm. Fighting the waves, the two sailors eventually roll themselves into the launch, their footwear and most of their clothing soaked through. With seawater and a small amount of seaweed floating in the bottom of the launch, Cyril begins to pull on the oars.

“Please tell me tha’ the ladies are delectable an’ the ale flows freely,” the Frenchman calls over his shoulder to Fin.

“Aye,” the quartermaster replies, wringing some of the brine from his tunic before reaching for the bottle of rum, again, “Ye’ll find plenty o’ both, lad. Jus’ mind yerself in th’ lookin’, savvy?”

“Bless me an’ God forgive,” Daumier laughs and shakes his head. “Canna wait too much longer t’ wet my whistles.”

Fin snorts out something of a chuckle at that and, leaning forward a bit, reaches out and nudges the Frenchman’s shoulder with the bottle of rum he absconded with from The Rub of DelMonte. “Patience bein’ a virtue an’ all tha’ bilge aside,” he says as Daumier glances back and smiles at the offering of the bottle, “have yerself a wee pull, mate. Call it a preview.”

“Ah, merci,” Cyril grins, letting loose of the oars just long enough to accept the bottle and spill a sampling across his lips, “et que Dieu vous bénisse, Mr Crowe.”

“Don’ mention it,” Fin nods as the sailor hands the bottle back and takes up the oars, again.

Ten minutes later and the launch is bumping up against the Dog’s hull near the rope ladder. Cyril nods the ship’s officer away and then calls up, “Any others goin’ ashore?”

Chimwemwe’s bald head peers over the rail to the right side of the rope ladder Fin is ascending. “No,” the African says simply and vanishes from sight once more.

An unladen Fin Crowe crests his ascent with athletic ease and rolls over the weathered banister to plant his booted feet firmly on the main deck. Chimwemwe greets him with a nod before returning to the rope repair work he’s focusing on. Salazar and Blaize Campbell are just emerging from below deck with Campell’s tools and a bunch of wood. Aside from these, there are few sailors in view. About to continue forward towards the Captain’s cabin, Fin is drawn up when Anne flushes herself outside.

Resplendent in her white blouse, baggy gray cotton trousers and thigh-high boots, Anne Cole has her hair pulled up beneath a red cloth, her saber at her side, and a brace of two flintlocks across her bosom secure in a black leather baldric. Squinting her lovely eyes, she scans the deck from left to right before spotting her quartermaster.

“I weren’t expectin’ you ‘til after dark, Mr. Crowe,” she states before thinning her lips and standing firmly with her feet a shoulder-width apart, hands on her hips. “Whate’er you’ve experienced ashore is likely t’ be a tale judgin’ from the blood you’re wearin’.”

The genuineness of the smile that plays on Fin’s lips, when Anne’s eyes meet his, is a thing rarely seen by anyone aside from the Captain and her sister. If there was anyone on sea or shore of this God-forsaken world that the swarthy quartermaster truly loved, surely, it was the Sisters Cole… and, at times like this, when he’d had more than just a little to drink, he occasionally found himself wondering if that love might not exceed the platonic, familial sort that he freely admitted. He shook the thought away, tamping down the rum-stoked warmth in his chest and belly, as he forces his gaze to let go of the stunning Anastasia Cole and regard the blood that spatters his still damp clothes. “Aye, luv,” he chuckles, brushing ineffectually at a bloody streak on his tunic, “Disappear from th’ place fer a few years an’ ever’body wants ta throw ye a welcome ‘ome party when ye return… Din’t turn out th’ way they were hopin’, I reckon.”

With a faint shrug and that characteristic half-a-smirk playing on his lips, Crowe strides in his Captain’s direction, lifting the bottle by way of offer as he approaches. “Took me less time than I’d figured ta find a bit o’ work, too,” he says, drawing up within arm’s reach of the woman and pulling the stopper from the bottle. “No’ th’ biggest haul, right up front,” he admits, “A hundr’d guinea ta go fetch a bloke who’s playin’ a game o’ hide-an’-go-bugger-yerself wit’ one o’ th’ local fops. We pull it off, though, an’ it’s like ta open our h’rizons ta bigger an’ better opp’rtunities…”

“We can’t be sittin’ in th’ doldrums if we wanna capitalize on this’n, though, Capt’n. Th’ lubber offerin’ th’ purse fancies hedgin’ ‘is bets an’ has already go’ more’n one other crew on this lad’s scent.” His eyes slide away from her for a moment, panning across the Dog’s deck and across the waves, too, where they briefly linger on Tortuga’s shore before coming back to meet Anne’s, again. “Anythin’, yet, from Cracker er th’ rest?”

((OOC: Good place to stop, I suppose… Don’t want to assume too much where a conversation with the Captain goes. Plenty of room for Anne to take the conversation in whatever direction she chooses, as well. If she asks for details, Fin, of course, will relate his adventures ashore back to her, fill her in on Oken, etc. If you’d prefer to collaborate on any further conversation, Brom, you know where to find me.))

    Goncalvo walked the deck of the Sun Dog.  It felt strange to be aboard a ship at anchor.  The usual pitch and yaw of the deck were held in check by the anchor that tied them to the seabed.  In a way it was like being on land.  The ship was calm, almost as if it was sleeping.  Here and there a stray deckhand set about a minot task with no more urgency than that of a starfish opening a clam.  So different from when under sail and all hands moved with purpose to ensure the shipmoved according to the Captains whim.  The Captain said where the ship said but it was Goncalvo who was in charge of how.  The crew furled or unfurled yards of canvas to allow the wind to propel them according to his sets.  Only he knew how to read the stars and use the astrolabe to determine their location.  True, he relayed that information to the Captain and made sure she impressed the crew with her ability to get them to their destinations safely but in truth he was the key to their safe journey.  Oh there were other aspects of sailing that he knew little or nothign about.  Gunnery was a loud and dirty job that he avoided.  Battle plans were not his specialty although he took cafeful note of the decisions the Captain made during a fight.  One dy he might wish to become a Captain himself.  For now he was content to be a Sailing Master.  

    A rumble in his stomach reminded him that he had not eaten in a bit so he made his way to the galley.  Hopefully the cook would have something other than hardtack available.  

With her dreams of finding a suitable disguise dashed, Maggie races past the ladies in the back and bursts out the door like a force of nature. Beneath the awning, she pasuses in the shade to get her bearings. The sea calls to her, sending her its beloved scent on the breeze. Taking another precious moment, she secures her weapons before taking off to her left, towads the safety of the sea. With her feet pouding the ground rapidly, she pushes herself farther, faster, almost flying. 

She knows people will turn and stare, thart some will whisper and point. She doesn't care. She just wants the ship back beneath her feet, wants to just put some distance, and with it perspective, and move on. And deal with whatever her sister has in store for her. While she runs, she works out what exactly went down, and the many ways this may have affected the upcoming work they hoped to find here, and the ways in which it might actually help them. And wouldn't that just be an unintended bonus if that turned out to be the case. 

Ahead, she could see the masts and sails of the ships in port, and a heavy weight lifts from her chest. Something inside her relaxes, just a little, and she scans the horizon as she races towards them, looking for her ship, her home, her world. She can't wait to throw herself down onto her bunk and decompress after this mess, and heaven help anyone who might stand in the way of that. But she knowsit wont be that easy, and she knows she won't get that chance for a while. 

It's not till she's in sight of the longboats that she feels truly back in control of herself. And once aboard, the uncertainy and fear she'd felt is gone, leaving those around her to bear witness to the walkngmaelstrom that is Maggie Cole. 

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

(OOC: I am honestly trying to get everyone caught up with Goncalvo&hellip

Goncalvo walks the deck of the Sun Dog. It feels strange to be aboard a ship at anchor. The usual pitch and yaw of the deck are held in check by the anchor that ties them to the seabed. In a way, it is like being on land. The ship is calm, almost as if it is sleeping. Here and there a stray deckhand sets about a minor task with no more urgency than that of a starfish opening a clam. So different from when under sail and all hands moving with a purpose to ensure the ship moves according to the Captain’s whim.

The Captain says where the ship sails but it is Goncalvo who is in charge of how. The crew furls or unfurls yards of canvas to allow the wind to propel them according to his sets. Only he knows how to read the stars and use the astrolabe to determine their location. True, he relays that information to the Captain and makes sure she impresses the crew with her ability to get them to their destinations safely but in truth, he is the key to their safe journey. Oh, there are other aspects of sailing that he knows little or nothing about. Gunnery is a loud and dirty job that he avoids. Battle plans are not his specialty, though he takes careful note of the decisions the Captain makes during a fight; one day he might wish to become a captain himself, but for now, he is content to be a Sailing Master.  

A rumble in his stomach reminds him that he has not eaten in a bit so he makes his way to the galley (which is, in fact, just a sectioned off portion of the hold large enough to allow whichever sailor is assigned to prepare meals enough room to perform the duty while having direct access to the food stores). Hopefully, the cook will have something other than hardtack available.

Making his way down the hatch and into the darkening confines of the hold, the Sailing Master finds the dank space void of people. The cooking space is cold having not been used all day and the food stores are alarmingly bare. Crowe would have assigned a number of the crew to set about procuring more foodstuffs, but such a chore usually takes a day or two to arrange, so it is likely old, dry salt pork and some scraps of biscuits for his dinner.

Scavenging amongst the crates and barrels, Goncalvo puts together a decent spread of a handful of salted pork, two smallish rusk biscuits, Suffolk Cheese, and a tankard of Arrack drudges. There are other sailors spending their coin on far better meals in Tortuga for certain. Unfortunately, waiting for the remainder of the ship’s officers to meet means not returning to shore.

(OOC: Time is roughly 7:30 PM)

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

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 1:15 P.M.; The Sun Dog

Resplendent in her white blouse, baggy gray cotton trousers, and thigh-high boots, Anne Cole has her hair pulled up beneath a red cloth, her saber at her side, and a brace of two flintlocks across her bosom secure in a black leather baldric. Squinting her lovely eyes, she scans the deck from left to right before spotting her quartermaster.

“I weren’t expectin’ you ‘til after dark, Mr. Crowe,” she states before thinning her lips and standing firmly with her feet a shoulder-width apart, hands on her hips. “Whate’er you’ve experienced ashore is likely t’ be a tale judgin’ from the blood you’re wearin’.”

The genuineness of the smile that plays on Fin’s lips when Anne’s eyes meet his is a thing rarely seen by anyone aside from the Captain and her sister. If there is anyone on sea or shore of this God-forsaken world that the swarthy quartermaster truly loves, surely, it is the Sisters Cole… and, at times like this, when he’s had more than just a little to drink, he occasionally finds himself wondering if that love might not exceed the platonic, familial sort that he freely admits. He shakes the thought away, tamping down the rum-stoked warmth in his chest and belly as he forces his gaze to let go of the stunning Anastasia Cole and regard the blood that spatters his still damp clothes.

“Aye, luv,” he chuckles, brushing ineffectually at a bloody streak on his tunic, “Disappear from th’ place fer a few years an’ ever’body wants ta throw ye a welcome ‘ome party when ye return… Din’t turn out th’ way they were hopin’, I reckon.”

With a faint shrug and that characteristic half-a-smirk playing on his lips, Crowe strides in his Captain’s direction, lifting the bottle by way of an offer as he approaches, “Took me less time than I’d figured ta find a bit o’ work, too,” he says, drawing up within arm’s reach of the woman and pulling the stopper from the bottle. “No’ th’ biggest haul, right up front,” he admits, “A hundr’d guinea ta go fetch a bloke who’s playin’ a game o’ hide-an’-go-bugger-yerself wit’ one o’ th’ local fops. We pull it off, though, an’ it’s like ta open our h’rizons ta bigger an’ better opp’rtunities…”

“We can’t be sittin’ in th’ doldrums if we wanna capitalize on this’n, though, Capt’n. Th’ lubber offerin’ th’ purse fancies hedgin’ ‘is bets an’ has already go’ more’n one other crew on this lad’s scent.” His eyes slide away from her for a moment, panning across the Dog’s deck and across the waves, too, where they briefly linger on Tortuga’s shore before coming back to meet Anne’s, again. “Anythin’, yet, from Cracker er th’ rest?”

“Aye,” Anne remarks in answer to his question. “The lot o’ them just went ashore t’ look into a fella by the name o’ Davenport tha’ has his hooks int’ a bit o’ everythin’ hereabouts.” Taking the bottle from her quartermaster, Captain Cole lifts it to her lips and pauses as her green eyed gaze drifts out towards the settlement. “Found a buyer fer the junk in the hold—one Mr. Virgil Grover. From wha’ I gather, he’s been a king on this chessboard for some time, but has recently been demoted by Davenport.”

Taking a long draw on the liquor, Anastasia Cole uses the back of her free hand to wipe away any lingering rum from her lips and hands the bottle back to Crowe. “This work you’ve chartered… whose wheelhouse does it reside in?”

(OOC: Assuming a, “A feller by the name of Oken who works for someone I don’t know…&rdquo

“If we’re t’ make Tortuga our port, it stands t’ reason we best be gettin’ a feel fer the waves beneath our hull an’ the sharks tha’ lie beneath them waters ‘fore we cast off, wouldn’t ya say, Mr. Crowe?” Walking towards the rail, Anne expects him to follow. Leaning her trim belly against the rail, she grips the weathered wood with both hands and narrows her eyes as though she can see the various actors along the beach in full detail. “Truth be told, I wish you’d have been here t’ join Maggie in her search for details on this Davenport. Bless her, but she wouldn’ know guile if it spent the night with her in ‘er bunk an’ slapped her awake in the morn.

“The work you’ve netted is a distraction tha’ doesn’t sound like it’d take the whole crew t’ complete, or am I missin’ something Mr. Crowe?”

(OOC: Assuming something akin to agreement&hellip

“Tell me then,” Anne draws his attention to her eyes by turning her face slightly towards him, her red hair catching in the warm breeze and drifting lazily about her freckled cheeks. “Is this somethin’ you wish to pursue?”

(OOC: Time is roughly 1:23 PM.)

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

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 3:06 P.M.

Cracker whispers, "Does the captain know what happened with the first mate? Have you told the captain where you last saw her?"  

“You foolin’, sir?” Shark’s Tooth opens his one eye wide, a feat in and of itself since it, too, is swollen from his earlier brawl. “No’ my place, to be sure. I’m afraid tha’ honor falls on yer shoulders, Boatswain. I’m jus’ a lowly gunner, after all.” Scratching with thick fingers at his scruffy chin, Sharky tilts his head to the side and sniffs. “‘Course, you could always wait ‘til, Hellfire Maggie tells her herself.”

Wiley listens to the other sailor explain how he has been too afraid to speak to the captain about what he had seen and shakes his head. He looks Sharktooth in the one swollen eye and cusses, "Not your place?! You fool! You are a part of this crew."

He keeps his voice low so nobody else will hear, but Shark Tooth can have no doubt that the Boatswain is angry. "Your PLACE and your DUTY and your REASON FOR BEING ON THIS SIDE OF THE WAVES is to help make sure that this ship and the rest of its crew stays secure.  That does not just mean running a gun crew and getting in brawls; it also means making sure that the captain has the information she needs to make the decisions that will keep you, me, and the whole ship safe! You don't think knowing the First Mate is running is vital?"  

He starts to turn away, saying, "You had better hope your name does not come up—" when he stops. Turning back to Shark Tooth, he smiles, "No. I didn't actually see anything besides the First Mate and your sorry arse running through the streets. But you know more, and the captain needs to know EVERYTHING. You will come with me. Now. We are not waiting for Ms. Cole to return."  

Shark Tooth’s upper lip twitches but he straightens up during the dressing down and juts out his jaw when Cracker delivers his orders. “Aye, sir,” he practically growls.

The boatswain pushes Wylie ahead of them and they head back up to the main deck, around the main mast towards the Captain's quarters. Arriving at the closed door, he knocks and waits for a response.  

“Come,” Anne’s calm alto calls out.  

William Wiley removes his hat and holds it in his hands as he enters the captain's chambers.  He is followed closely by a very nervous Shark Tooth who seems to want to stay behind the boatswain as much as possible—and even in a captain's chambers there isn't much room to move around.

"Captain," he says with a dip of his head. "I'm thinkin' you probably already know, but it seems information you would want..."  He hesitates for just a moment to make sure he gets the words right before plunging ahead. "It seems our First Mate might be in some trouble with the local authorities."  He pauses a moment to see what reaction his words drudge up from the temperamental captain.

Anastasia Cole pauses in the review of maps spread out in unfathomable disorder upon her desk and looks up at her boatswain and gunner with raised, thin, dark red eyebrows.

"Just a bit ago,” Cracker hurries on, “I saw The First Mate and Shark Tooth here running through the streets. They ran like someone was after them. I don't know what happened, Captain, but they ran. After just a bit, Sharky and I were ordered back to the ship and she ran on.  Shark Tooth here might know more since he was already with her when I caught up. I came straight here." With that, he turns to the very nervous Shark Tooth.

“Aye, Cap’n,” Wylie coughs, keenly aware of the scrutiny he’s under and the vision he presents in his beat-up state. “I don’ know why, Cap’n, but Miss Cole done ran a soldier an’ someone looks like an official type bloke through on the wharf. Caused quite the stir, Cap’n. Plenty o’ folk runnin’ away an’ callin’ fer the guards. When I got t’ Miss Cole—Uh, see, we was—that’s t’ say Cracker ‘ere an’ me was ordered t’ split off from ‘er an’ see what we could drum us up as far as information on that Davenport bloke, so we wasn’t right nearby, but I caught sight o’ the tail end jus’ as she drove her sword through the fancy bloke’s belly an’ int’ the beach ‘neath ‘im.

“When I gots to ‘er side, she was all fired up an’ told me t’ run without offerin’ so much as a ‘ello. So, I ran, followin’ Miss Cole, an’ eventually Cracker ‘ere caught up wit’ us. Tha’s when Miss Cole ordered us back t’ the Dog.”

Anne sinks back into her large armchair and eyes the damaged man with a calculating eye for a full two minutes of silence during which time a small twitch develops under her right eye. Clenching her jaw, she pushes away from her desk and rises, pulling her hair back from her shoulders as she rounds the desk.

“Where is she?” she asks simply though there’s a tremor to her voice. Tying her hair back with a bit of black cloth, she looks back on the two men. “Where’s my sister now?”

(OOC: Assuming a blank look or a denial of knowledge&hellip

“Find her,” Anne growls. “Bring her t’ me.”

(OOC: Time is about 3:12 PM)

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

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 2:15 P.M.

With her dreams of finding a suitable disguise dashed, Maggie races past the ladies in the back and bursts out the door like a force of nature. Beneath the awning, she pauses in the shade to get her bearings. The sea calls to her, sending her its beloved scent on the breeze. Taking another precious moment, she secures her weapons before taking off to her left, towards the safety of the sea. With her booted feet rapidly pounding the ground, she pushes herself farther, faster, almost flying.

She knows people will turn and stare, that some will whisper and point. She doesn't care. She just wants the ship back beneath her feet, wants to just put some distance between her and any who might be pursuing her, and with it perspective, and move on. And deal with whatever her sister has in store for her.

While she runs, she works out what exactly went down and the many ways this may have an effect on the upcoming work they hope to find here, and the ways in which it might actually help them. And wouldn't that just be an unintended bonus if it turns out to be the case?

Ahead, she can see the masts and tied off sails of the ships in port, and a heavy weight lifts from her chest. Something inside her relaxes, just a little, and she scans the horizon as she races towards them, looking for her ship, her home, her world. She can't wait to throw herself down onto her bunk and decompress after this mess, and heaven help anyone who might stand in the way of that. But she knows it won’t be that easy, and she knows she won't get that chance for a while.

It's not till she's in sight of the longboat that she feels truly back in control of herself. She’s confident that once aboard, the uncertainty and fear she feels will vanish. With barely a glance around the beach, she breaks from the backstreet path she’s been traversing and immediately slows her gait from the sprint to a fast stride, leaving those around her to bear witness to the walking maelstrom that is Maggie Cole.

Tom Harris is the sailor manning the oars at this time of day and he looks up from the shell he’s inspecting with a bit of surprise when she calls to him to get the boat in the water. Scrambling to obey the fiery redhead, Harris drops the iridescent conch into the lapping waves and turns to heave the launch from its rest in the sands. Maggie is quick to set her right hip to the starboard edge of the boat and roll her toned body up and into the lurching longboat where she plants herself on the foremost bench and pulls her coat up about her shoulders. Only when Tom turns the boat with the oars so that her back is towards the Dog and her eyes are able to easily scour the beach does she see the patrols she’s just missed stopping women and pulling them up to inspect.

“Enjoy yer time ashore, Miss Cole?” Seamus smiles.

(OOC: Maggie’s reply, as it is&hellip

Reaching the Dog, Maggie ascends the rope ladder and moves past Chimwemwe without a word, heading for her cabin and the relief that it holds.

(OOC: The timestamp here places Maggie right between when Shark Tooth returns to the boat and Cracker’s return. So, I just had Maggie head for her cabin as you’ve already indicated her desire to go there.)

(OOC: Time is roughly 2:45 PM)

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 1:15 P.M.; The Sun Dog

“We can’t be sittin’ in th’ doldrums if we wanna capitalize on this’n, though, Capt’n. Th’ lubber offerin’ th’ purse fancies hedgin’ ‘is bets an’ has already go’ more’n one other crew on this lad’s scent.” His eyes slide away from her for a moment, panning across the Dog’s deck and across the waves, too, where they briefly linger on Tortuga’s shore before coming back to meet Anne’s, again. “Anythin’, yet, from Cracker er th’ rest?”

“Aye,” Anne remarks in answer to his question. “The lot o’ them just went ashore t’ look into a fella by the name o’ Davenport tha’ has his hooks int’ a bit o’ everythin’ hereabouts.” Taking the bottle from her quartermaster, Captain Cole lifts it to her lips and pauses as her green eyed gaze drifts out towards the settlement. “Found a buyer fer the junk in the hold—one Mr. Virgil Grover. From wha’ I gather, he’s been a king on this chessboard for some time, but has recently been demoted by Davenport.”

 Crowe nods faintly at this, pleased that the bric-a-brac they’d ported in wouldn’t be long for cluttering the Sun Dog’s hold and, also, making a mental note of the names Virgil Grover and Davenport. Where the workings of power are concerned, Fin knows, it’s always good to have names to hang on happenings.

Taking a long draw on the liquor, Anastasia Cole uses the back of her free hand to wipe away any lingering rum from her lips and hands the bottle back to Crowe. “This work you’ve chartered… whose wheelhouse does it reside in?”

 “Fella goin’ by th’ name o’ Oken,” Crowe answers, snaking the bottle from Anne’s fingers and tipping it to his own lips. “Th’ bloke’s in th’ employ o’ another who’s name I din’t get,” he confesses after a swallow, “though, judgin’ by what I’ve learned, so far, I don’ figure it’l be too bloody difficult ta ferret it out.” 

“If we’re t’ make Tortuga our port,” Anne says, walking toward the gunwales and, obviously expecting Fin to follow, “it stands t’ reason we best be gettin’ a feel fer the waves beneath our hull an’ the sharks tha’ lie beneath them waters ‘fore we cast off, wouldn’t ya say, Mr. Crowe?”

“Aye,” the Quartermaster nods, tacking in her wake, “Ain’t never th’ wisest o’ ideas ta dive blind inta strange waters, luv.”

 Leaning her trim belly against the rail, Anne grips the weathered wood with both hands and narrows her eyes as though she can see the various actors along the beach in full detail. “Truth be told, I wish you’d have been here t’ join Maggie in her search for details on this Davenport. Bless her, but she wouldn’ know guile if it spent the night with her in ‘er bunk an’ slapped her awake in the morn.”

 A gravelly chuckle splits Crowe’s grin as he sidles up beside his captain and props himself against the gunwales, elbows resting on the weathered railing and his gaze tracking hers as she scans Tortuga’s shore. “Per’aps not,” Fin agrees with a slow rolling of his shoulders, “but what Mags lacks in slyness she more’n makes up fer with other charms, eh?”

“The work you’ve netted is a distraction tha’ doesn’t sound like it’d take the whole crew t’ complete, or am I missin’ something Mr. Crowe?”

“I don’ figure so, Capt’n,” he answers, offering a slight shake of his head, “M’self an’ one er two others’d likely be enough ta do th’ thing.”

“Tell me then,” Anne draws his attention to her eyes by turning her face slightly towards him, her red hair catching in the warm breeze and drifting lazily about her freckled cheeks. “Is this somethin’ you wish to pursue?”

Fin tilts his head slightly to one side in lieu of a shrug, his gaze dancing between the clear, green pools of Anne’s eyes and the wind-driven capering of her fiery locks as he contemplates the query. “Up t’ you in th’ end, Capt’n,” he answers after a moment, “As I said, th’ up-front haul’s not much – a hundr’d guineas be a hundr’d guineas – but th’ promise o’ bigger an’ better on th’ return’s somethin’ worth a considerin’, anyway.”

His eyes let go of hers, then, and he lifts the rum bottle, again. He doesn’t drink from it this time, though; instead, Fin just looks at it for a long moment, his brow furrowing slightly as he seemingly gets lost in quiet contemplation. “Th’ way this blue-bird, Oken, acted,” Fin rumbles softly, then, his gaze still fixed to the bottle in his hand, “an’ th’ way others made way fer ‘im, gives me cause ta believe that he’s in a fair position o’ power, Annie.” A mirthless smirk plays across his lips as his gaze comes back to briefly meet hers before redirecting toward the town beyond the beach. “If what ye say bout this Grover an’ Davenport’s true, I’m figurin’ Oken’s a hand o’ one er t’other… likely Davenport if Grover’s playin’ th’ deposed king, aye? F#%kin’ peacock had too much swagger bout ‘im ta be lined up wit’ a failin’ monarchy…”

Fin takes a long pull from the bottle then and turns to face Anne in the process. “If we’re t’ make Tortuga our port,” smiling a bit, he parrots her earlier words, “it mightn’t hurt ta take a wee swim wit’ one o’ th’ bigger sharks in ‘er waters, savvy?”

((OOC: Assuming there’ll be a bit more to this conversation but I don’t want to presume too much so I’ll leave it there for the time being... I’m almost picturing the bottle passing back and forth between them once or twice before a decision is reached… Theeeeennnnnn, something like this….))

“Ye’ll get no argument from me, luv,” Crowe nods in response to Anne’s last words on the matter, “I’ll see it happens as ye like it.”

Pushing away from the railing, now, and peering back in the direction of the town, the Sun Dog’s quartermaster asks; “Now, what about yer sister, then? Would ye be wantin’ me ta go find her er would ye rather jus’ wait her out?”

((OOC: And I’ll stop there. Still early in the day, I suppose, and Fin’s open to whatever the Captain might need him to do next… Go dig up more info on Davenport and Grover and/or find Maggie in the process? Start making preparations for Oken’s job (assuming we will, indeed, be taking that one)? Point and grunt, Capt’n Cole; Fin’ll make it happen. ))

Tom Harris is the sailor manning the oars at this time of day and he looks up from the shell he’s inspecting with a bit of surprise when she calls to him to get the boat in the water. Scrambling to obey the fiery redhead, Harris drops the iridescent conch into the lapping waves and turns to heave the launch from its rest in the sands. Maggie is quick to set her right hip to the starboard edge of the boat and roll her toned body up and into the lurching longboat where she plants herself on the foremost bench and pulls her coat up about her shoulders. Only when Tom turns the boat with the oars so that her back is towards the Dog and her eyes are able to easily scour the beach does she see the patrols she’s just missed stopping women and pulling them up to inspect.

“Enjoy yer time ashore, Miss Cole?” Seamus smiles.

Watching the distance between them, wind off the waterstirring her hair about her face as the patrols scurrying around rousting up women, a self-satisfied smirk twists her lips. "There be no place like home," she sighs, feeling herself relax a bit. 

Reaching the Dog, Maggie ascends the rope ladder and moves past Chimwemwe without a word, heading for her cabin and the relief that it holds.

But once inside, the confines of her cabin feel too close, and she pasces, her energy building. nothing satisfies her. not the bottle of rum stashed in her bunk, or the peace of being finally off that wretched rock. She takes only a few moments to assemble herself, to make sure she's presentable and fearsome once more, before storming out and off in search of her sister. What happened back there may well have inuntended consequences, and the Captain will need to know. Better from her own lips, than from a too quick lawman if they start searching ships. 

“Find her,” Anne growls. “Bring her t’ me.”

Cracker quickly nodded his head and said, "Yes, Captain."  He wasn't sure where to begin, but assumed the other Cole sister was still ashore.  "Uhm, captain, assuming the First Mate is stil ashore, may I comandeer a few men to begin a search of the city?  Shark Tooth and I alone can't cover much ground."  

(Assuming he gets some form of assent.)

Getting permission to take some men ashore, Cracker dipped his head with a quick "sir," and left the captains quarters.  Once outside he turned to the gunner and let out a breath of air in relief.  "You got lucky.   That could have gone much worse.  We now need to find our missing officer.  Go to your chest and grab some clothes - smalled and clean if possible and put 'em in a bag.  Get 'em from someone if you have to.  Don't tell anyone why you need 'em, just get 'em.  Keep your mouth shut.  We'll be  leaving this boat together in only a few minutes.  I'll be on deck gettng a few extra hands.  Hustle."

William Wiley then moved the other direction, back up to the main deck. When he got on deck, he immediately moved to the largest group of sailors.  "Ok, lads, break time is over.  By any chance has the First Mate returned to the ship?"

(The following assumes someone did see her, which seems likely.  Likewise, I am assuming that the quartermaster is not on the deck at the moment, which I believe is true.)

"Wait.  She DID return?  How long ago?  Where did she go?"  Hearing that she had headed below he could only assume that she had gone to her own quarters.   Clearly she had not gone straight to the captain or they would have run into each other.  Ships weren't that big and there were only so many paths that led to that particular door.  His first thought was to go to the captain and tell her, but no, she had clearly said 'bring her to me.'  That meant bring 'her,' not 'news of her.'  Oh this was not going to be fun.  

He looked back at the group of pirates and tried to cover the surprise he fealt at the news.  "Ok, when Shark Tooth gets here tell him 'change of plans.'  Just tell 'em to stay here till I return."  As he started to head back below decks he threw one last question at the waiting group, "Anyone here see the quartermaster?  If you do, tell him I need to speak with him."  And then he spun on his heal and headed back down into the bowels of the ship towards the First Mate's quarters.  Did he want to find her there or was he hoping her chambers would be empty?  He really didn't know . . .

When he got to her chambers he knocked and waited.  

(I'm not sure if they will meet in the ships passages or not.  I'm guessing she will already be gone by the time he gets there and that there will thus be no response.  Assuming no response leads to the following...)

He knocked and got no reply.  This, he immediateluy realized, was actually the worst possible response.  None.  She was aboard.  But not here?  Or here and not answering?  He knocked again, louder.  And then again, louder still.  "Sir.!  This is Bosun Wiley, Sir!  The Captain needs to speak with you right away."  He looked around the passage, hating the thought of eavesdroppers.  Sometimes the less the crew knew the better.   But he had no choice but to make noise.  Crap!  No response.  Did he dare open the door?  Open the door to an officer's chambers without permission?  But did he dare NOT do it?  He tried one last time, knocking loudly.  "Sir!  The captain calls for you!"  

He groaned inwardly.  But he dared not open that door without permission until he was sure.  He spun and sprinted back towards the captain's chambers. If she wasn't here, he was sure she would head to the Captain.  If Wiley knew that the Captain needed to know about what happened, certainly the younger Cole could figure that out as well.  She might be hot tempered, but she wasn't dumb.   Any person he passed he asked, "Have you seen the first mate?"  A positive response would be quickly follwoed by, "When?  Where was she headed?"  And negative by a quick resuming of his run.  If he got all the way back to the captain's he could only hope that he would be able to tell if both sisters were there.  

Please let this fishing expedition be over . . . 

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 1:23 P.M.; The Sun Dog

“Tell me then,” Anne draws his attention to her eyes by turning her face slightly towards him, her red hair catching in the warm breeze and drifting lazily about her freckled cheeks. “Is this somethin’ you wish to pursue?”

Fin tilts his head slightly to one side in lieu of a shrug, his gaze dancing between the clear, green pools of Anne’s eyes and the wind-driven capering of her fiery locks as he contemplates the query. “Up t’ you in th’ end, Capt’n,” he answers after a moment, “As I said, th’ up-front haul’s not much – a hundr’d guineas be a hundr’d guineas – but th’ promise o’ bigger an’ better on th’ return’s somethin’ worth a considerin’, anyway.”

His eyes let go of hers, then, and he lifts the rum bottle, again. He doesn’t drink from it this time, though; instead, Fin just looks at it for a long moment, his brow furrowing slightly as he seemingly gets lost in quiet contemplation. “Th’ way this blue-bird, Oken, acted,” Fin rumbles softly, then, his gaze still fixed to the bottle in his hand, “an’ th’ way others made way fer ‘im, gives me cause ta believe that he’s in a fair position o’ power, Annie.” A mirthless smirk plays across his lips as his gaze comes back to briefly meet hers before redirecting toward the town beyond the beach. “If what ye say bout this Grover an’ Davenport’s true, I’m figurin’ Oken’s a hand o’ one er t’other… likely Davenport if Grover’s playin’ th’ deposed king, aye? F#%kin’ peacock had too much swagger bout ‘im ta be lined up wit’ a failin’ monarchy…”

Fin takes a long pull from the bottle then and turns to face Anne in the process. “If we’re t’ make Tortuga our port,” smiling a bit, he parrots her earlier words, “it mightn’t hurt ta take a wee swim wit’ one o’ th’ bigger sharks in ‘er waters, savvy?”

“Aye, but I don’ like gettin’ in bed with strangers,” Anne chews on her tongue and narrows her flashing eyes. After a moment, she allows a minute shake of her head and continues. “An’ there’s no profit in honest work. We need t’ find a mark worthy o’ this crew’s time, Fin. ‘Fore we no longer ‘ave a crew. An’ as you say, a hun’red guinea be a hun’red guinea. Tha’s a li’l o’er five an’ a half gold per man,” she turns a sly eye towards her quartermaster and unceremoniously takes the bottle from his hand, “which won’ las’ a man but one, maybe two days, ashore.”

Drawing hard on the rum, Anne uses the back of her sleeve to once again wipe her mouth as she delivers the bottle back into Fin’s hand. “Still a lot o’ daylight left. Others’ll return t’ the Dog later this eve an’ we’ll know more then.

“Meanwhile,” leaning her left elbow against the gunwale, the beautiful woman faces the rugged sailor at her side. “I hear tell tha’ Shark Tooth brought a new recruit aboard my ship. You’ll go find ‘im an’ make sure he’ll do?”

“Ye’ll get no argument from me, luv,” Crowe nods in response to Anne’s last words on the matter, “I’ll see it happens as ye like it.”

Pushing away from the railing, now, and peering back in the direction of the town, the Sun Dog’s quartermaster asks; “Now, what about yer sister, then? Would ye be wantin’ me ta go find her er would ye rather jus’ wait her out?”

“Maggie?” Anastasia’s face softens. “Tha’ li’l bird needs t’ learn t’ fly on ‘er own sooner er later. We’ll see what she brings us this time. Yer free t’ go ‘bout yer duties, Mr. Crowe.”

Still contemplating the conversation she’s just engaged in, Anne Cole twists her body to fully face the Bay of Tortuga and wonders when the port authorities will be visiting the Dog.

(OOC: Time is roughly 1:28 PM.)

(OOC: Skip forward a couple of hours… 3:18 PM.)

After taking care of what duties he feels necessary for this time of day, Fin retires to his cabin in the forecastle across the narrow hall from Maggie’s. Three porthole-style windows are open to the bay allowing some of the heat to dissipate and a little wayward breeze to wander into the chamber on occasion. Though dimmer for the fact that the waning sun is towards the port and aft portions of the Dog, there’s still enough ambient light to eliminate the need for a candle or lantern. Propped up on his bed with his back to the inner wall, the quartermaster is enjoying another cigarillo and contemplating the events of the day when the distinct sound of a door closing across the hall pierces through his considerations. This is followed by boots falling purposefully on the wood floor and the faint echo of the door leading to the main deck being unlatched. It is here that Fin follows some muffled conversation between Maggie and what sounds like Cracker.

Fin hadn’t known that Maggie was back; she must have returned when he was off tending to other duties.

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

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), aboard the Sun Dog, 2:45 P.M.

Watching the distance between them, wind off the water stirring her hair about her face as the patrols scurrying around rousting up women, a self-satisfied smirk twists her lips. "There be no place like home," she sighs, feeling herself relax a bit.

Reaching the Dog, Maggie ascends the rope ladder and moves past Chimwemwe without a word, heading for her cabin and the relief that it holds. But once inside, the confines of her cabin feel too close, and she paces, her energy building. Nothing satisfies her. Not the bottle of rum stashed in her bunk, or the peace of being finally off that wretched rock. She takes only a few moments to assemble herself, to make sure she's presentable and fearsome once more, before storming out and off in search of her sister. What happened back there may well have unintended consequences, and the Captain will need to know. Better from her own lips, than from a too quick lawman if they start searching ships.

(OOC: Time is roughly 3:15 PM)

Cracker quickly nods his head at his captain’s command and says, "Yes, Captain." He isn’t sure where to begin, but assumes the other Cole sister is still ashore.  "Uhm, Captain? Assuming the First Mate is still ashore, may I commandeer a few men to begin a search of the city? Shark Tooth and I alone can't cover much ground."  

“Do so, Mr. Wiley,” Anne snarls, “but do try t’ be a li’l discreet. Can’t ‘ave Tortuga thinkin’ we’re an invasion force.”

Cracker dips his head with a quick, "Sir," and left the captains quarters. Once outside, he turns to the gunner and lets out a breath of air in relief. "You got lucky. That could have gone much worse. We now need to find our missing officer. Go to your chest and grab some clothes—smaller and clean if possible—and put 'em in a bag. Get 'em from someone if you have to. Don't tell anyone why you need 'em, just get 'em. Keep your mouth shut. We'll be leaving this boat together in only a few minutes. I'll be on deck getting a few extra hands. Hustle."

Shark’s Tooth is no fool and immediately picks up on the Boatswain’s plan. He feels some relief at not having to speak when meeting with the fiery captain, but he’s also feeling put out by the bosun’s blame. Without more than a grunt, he moves off to obey the younger man.

William Wiley then moves the other direction across the main deck. Approaching the largest group of sailors (three, consisting of Chimwemwe, Zeno Contos, and Jackson Richards). "Ok, lads, break time is over. By any chance has the First Mate returned to the ship?"

“Aye,” Chimwemwe lifts his head from the dice game and slowly rises to his feet. “She be back.”

"Wait. She DID return? How long ago? Where did she go?" Hearing that she has disappeared into the bow of the ship, he can only assume that she has gone to her own quarters. Clearly, she has not gone straight to the captain or they would have run into each other. Ships aren’t that big and there are only so many paths that lead to that particular door.

His first thought is to go to the captain and tell her, but no; she had clearly said, 'bring her to me.' That means bring 'her,' not 'news of her.' Oh, this is not going to be fun.  

He looks back at the group of pirates and tries to cover the surprise he feels at the news. "Ok, when Shark’s Tooth gets here tell him 'change of plans.' Just tell 'im to stay here till I return." As he starts to turn towards the door leading to the First Mate’s and separately, the Quartermaster’s bunks, he throws one last question at the waiting group, "Anyone here see the quartermaster?  If you do, tell him I need to speak with him." And then, he spins on his heel and heads towards the First Mate's quarters. Did he want to find her there or is he hoping her chambers will be empty? He really doesn’t know.

Just as he reaches the door to the forecastle, Maggie “Hellfire” Cole pulls the barrier open and ducks through, stepping out onto the main deck, her freckled face shaded by the broad brim of her hat.

(OOC: Assuming some sort of interaction that eventually leads to Bosun Wiley escorting Maggie to Anne’s quarters&hellip

“Come!” Captain Cole’s sharp command pierces the red-painted door almost immediately after the knock sounds.

Stepping through to the relatively large room, the first mate and boatswain stare across the seemingly extended and long space between the door and the captain’s desk to where the older of the Coles is sitting imperiously with her fingers steepled before her shadowy face.

“Bosun,” Anne snaps. “Yer dismissed.”

(OOC: Assuming no objection to the orders&hellip

“What in the name of all nine hells,” Anastasia doesn’t raise her voice; there’s no tremor of rage either. She’s cold where Maggie runs hot, but there’s no mistaking her mood, “are ya doin’ killin’ officers o’ the city?”

(OOC: Time is roughly 3:45 PM)

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

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), aboard the Sun Dog, 7:30 P.M.

(OOC: I’m going to assume that everyone remains on the ship and that the rest of the afternoon/early evening is spent taking care of other duties. For the sake of regrouping everyone, the Captain will have called her “council” together to discuss the day’s findings, events, and options.)

Evening finds Captain Cole sitting at the head of the small table that has been brought up from the cargo bay area for the purpose of councils such as these. A cooler evening breeze draws the Caribbean heat from the deck and off the attendee’s flesh while a jug of ale is present to be shared amongst the lot of them should they wish to imbibe. At this table sits Fin Crowe to Anne’s left and Maggie Cole to her right. Goncalvo and Cracker share the other end.

“In summary,” Anne slowly turns the tin cup with the amber liquid on the table, “we’ve still no’ been visited by the port authority, so this is likely one o’ them ports tha’ require me t’ go ashore which I’ll do t’morrow. We’ve precious li’l on the powers here’bouts but ‘ave already sold t’ one—Mr. Virgil Grover—whilst Mr. Crowe’s received an offer o’ bounty from an agent o’ the other—Mr. Davenport—or so we assume… an’ we likely ‘ave an issue brewin’ with the authorities ‘ere that’ll need addressin’.” Anastasia’s green eyes flit briefly to where Maggie sits and her mug stalls its rotations. “This be where ideas be brought t’ the table. How’re we t’ no’ get dashed on the political rocks o’ Tortuga whilst buildin’ a network o’ folks willin’ t’ give us line when probable hauls be runnin’ these waters? The crew be happy fer the time bein’ so long as their purses are full. This… well, we all know this is no’ long asail an’ other captains’ll be poachin’ our crew once they learn there be a female captain o’ this boat. So, spill yer guts.”

    "If this is like most ports the local constablary will have hot heads but short memories.  There is always something going on and todays news is forgotten as quickly as it spreads.  This is likely not the first or last time an officer of the port will have met an untimely end.  Time and distance often aids one in forgetting old, distant problems when new ones close at hand pop into play.  Perhaps now would be a good time to set sail for the Indies and search for a fat merchant ship to plunder.  The only thing guaranteed to make near any harbormaster forget past trangressions is a fat purse of gold."  Goncalvo waited for the Captain's reply.

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 1:25 P.M.; The Sun Dog

“If we’re t’ make Tortuga our port,” Crowe grins, parroting the words Anne had spoken just moments ago, “it mightn’t hurt ta take a wee swim wit’ one o’ th’ bigger sharks in ‘er waters, savvy?”

 “Aye, but I don’ like gettin’ in bed with strangers,” Anne chews on her tongue and narrows her flashing eyes. After a moment, she allows a minute shake of her head and continues. “An’ there’s no profit in honest work. We need t’ find a mark worthy o’ this crew’s time, Fin. ‘Fore we no longer ‘ave a crew. An’ as you say, a hun’red guinea be a hun’red guinea. Tha’s a li’l o’er five an’ a half gold per man,” she turns a sly eye towards her quartermaster and unceremoniously takes the bottle from his hand, “which won’ las’ a man but one, maybe two days, ashore.”

 “True enough,” the quartermaster rumbles, not bothering to mention, again, that Oken’s bounty hunt might lead to better jobs

Drawing hard on the rum, Anne uses the back of her sleeve to once again wipe her mouth as she delivers the bottle back into Fin’s hand. “Still a lot o’ daylight left. Others’ll return t’ the Dog later this eve an’ we’ll know more then.”

Reclaiming the bottle, Fin replies with another curt nod

“Meanwhile,” leaning her left elbow against the gunwale, the beautiful woman faces the rugged sailor at her side. “I hear tell tha’ Shark Tooth brought a new recruit aboard my ship. You’ll go find ‘im an’ make sure he’ll do?”

 “Ye’ll get no argument from me, luv,” Crowe nods in response to Anne’s last words on the matter, “I’ll see it happens as ye like it.” 

Pushing away from the railing, now, and peering back in the direction of the town, the Sun Dog’s quartermaster asks; “Now, what about yer sister, then? Would ye be wantin’ me ta go find her er would ye rather jus’ wait her out?”

 “Maggie?” Anastasia’s face softens. “Tha’ li’l bird needs t’ learn t’ fly on ‘er own sooner er later. We’ll see what she brings us this time. Yer free t’ go ‘bout yer duties, Mr. Crowe.”

“Aye,” he answers, pushing away from the railing, now, “as ye say, Capt’n.”

 As Anne’s eyes turn shoreward, again, Fin ambles away in search of the new body that Sharktooth has brought aboard to fill out his gunners. The sailors on deck, now, all wear faces that he knows well enough and, when he’s not immediately able to lay eyes on one that’s unfamiliar, he scowls a bit and lets his gaze sweep slowly from prow to stern in search of the phantom gunner…

“Lose somethin’, Mistah Crowe?”

…Fin smirks at the sound of Chimwewe’s voice and turns his eyes in the direction of the scarified African. “No’ me, Chim,” he answers as he takes a few steps to close the distance between himself and the black man, “but I reckon someone has. Hear tell Sharky’s brought us a body ta put t’ th’ guns. Know where he’s ta be found?”

Chimwewe’s features twist to mirror Fin’s and his eyes, too, sweep the decks in search of the man of whom the Quartermaster spoke. “We left ‘im propped agin the mast, there,” Chim answers, “de man had a sizeable hole in his leg when Mistah Stryker brung him on. He was ta be waitin’ fer th’ doctor…”

“Hughes go ashore, did he?”

“Aye, sir,” Chim nods, “Can’t say if he’s returned, yet, though. If he has, I figure, you’ll find your man in his company, gettin’ that wound tended proper.”

Crowe nods faintly at Chim’s guess and flicks a glance at the hatch that leads below; “Makes sense. Ye been ashore as yet?”

“No, sir,” the intense African returns, “still waitin’ m’ turn, mendin’ ropes while I does.”

Fin’s lips stretch into something that’s not quite a smile. “Vera well,” he says, tipping the rum bottle to his lips once more before offering the thing over to Chimwewe, “why’n’t ye split tha’ wit yer mates whilst ye wait fer th’ next launch, then? Get ashore an’ have yerself a bit o’ fun ‘fore th’ night runs off, aye?”

“Ayyyyeee,” Chim grins, accepting the bottle without question, “Thank’ee, Mistah Crowe.”

“Mhm,” is the quartermaster’s low reply before turning on his heel and striding for the hatch.

Approximately 1:35 P.M.; The Sun Dog – below decks

It had taken a few minutes of scouring the maze of hammocks in the Dog’s crew quarters before Fin, at last, locates the unfamiliar face he’d been searching for. The man was stretched out, asleep, in one of the lower berths in the aft quarters, his soft snoring interrupted now and again by a pained moan as he shifted in his slumber. For a long moment, Fin simply eyes the napping figure, taking note of the battered and bruised appearance and the crudely tended wound in his leg from which blood still slowly trickled. Then, his initial inspection complete, the quartermaster lifts a booted foot and crudely nudges the dozing man into wakefulness.

The would be gunner’s eyes shoot open in a panic of confusion and, out of instinct, it seems, one hand reaches for a dagger tucked into the belt at his waist as a curse falls, unformed, from his lips. “What in bla… who?.. I’ll…”

“Ye’ll end up wit’ a hole in more’n yer leg, ye don’ get yer hand off that pig-sticker, boy-o,” Crowe warns, “Roust up!”

The man’s face contorts in an almost comical jig of battling emotions – anger, discomfort, confusion, fear – before wakefulness fully dawns on him. When it does, his visage settles into a mask of realization and, perhaps, a bit of annoyance. “Who in the bloody hell’re you,” he grouses out the question, wincing at the pain in his leg as he rolls his body into a seated position and eyes the admittedly imposing man looming over him.

“Ye c’n call me Crowe,” comes the gruff reply, “If I decide yer fit enough ta stay aboard th’ Sun Dog, I’ll be yer quartermaster.”

“Oh…” The irritation quickly drains from the would-be-gunner’s features, then, and, while he doesn’t vocalize an apology, Fin sees it well enough in the man’s eyes.

“Aye,” the quartermaster responds, “an’ if yer done askin’ me questions, I’ve a couple o’ my own; th’ first bein’ who in th’ bloody hell’re you?”

“Name’s Daxon, sir,” the man blinks, lifting a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes, “Daxon Blackheart.”

Fin smirks faintly at the moniker, reasonably certain Blackheart isn’t a family name. From where his arms are folded across his chest, then, he lifts a hand to his face and rubs thoughtfully at his chin. “An’ yer lookin’ ta man our guns,” the next query rumbles past Fin’s lips, “are ye, Mester Blackheart?”

“Aye, sir,” Daxon nods, “Sharktooth said you’d lost some crew and were lookin’ to take on a few mo..”

“An’ yer figurin’ ye’d make a good choice wit’ that hole in yer leg, then,” Crowe interrupts.

“No,” Blackheart blinks rapidly and shakes his head as if to clear away lingering cobwebs of drowsiness, “I mean yes. Yessir… Never been stabbed in th’ leg, before, to be honest and it hurts like the devil, but…” The man’s brow knits in such a way, then, that it seems the realization he’s being tested has just struck him like a rogue wave and, at that point, any hint of uncertainty that may have lingered disappears from his face and he meets the quartermaster’s gaze as even as he can; “I’m as good a gunner’s mate as you’ll find in this port, Mr Crowe, and, once your surgeon returns from wherever he’s run off to, I’m sure this knick in my leg’ll be dealt with so’s not to be a concern. If you need me on the cannons before that, then I’ll bloody well hop, sir.”

A grin ghosts across Crowe’s lips at that and, as he seats himself on the hammock across from Daxon, he even allows a chuckle to escape; “Tha’s th’ answer I was lookin’ fer, mate.” Resting his elbows on his knees, Fin eyes the man, assessing him once more now that he seems to have his wits about him. “If Sharky saw fit ta bring back ta th’ ship,” Fin says after a moment, “I reckon there’s no need ta ask if ye know yer guns…” Surely Sharktooth wouldn’t have hired on a gunner without being assured of some sort of proficiency.

“No, sir,” Daxon replies, “I mean you can, if you please, but Sharktooth’s already done so and…”

Fin curtly waves the response away and nods; “Aye. I figured’s much. Answer me this, though, Mr Blackheart; how long ye been ashore at Tortuga an’ whaddya know about a couple o’ blokes by th’ names o’ Davenport an’ Grover?”

((OOC: I’ll stop there with this conversation, for now… Don’t want to assume/presume anything that the GM might have where this is concerned. Fin will also ask about Oken (if there’s anything from Daxon that warrants continuing that particular line of questioning) and/or fish out whatever else the new gunner knows about the workings of power on Tortuga. Once the questioning is finished, Fin will welcome Dax to the crew and promise to send Hughes to tend his leg as soon as the surgeon returns.))

Cracker sat at the table and listened to the captain give her little speech.  He didn’t like the talk about losing crew members.  Others might be stupid about Captain Cole, but he knew a good captain when he saw one.  He wasn’t going anywhere and the thought of deserters irritated him a great deal.  Still, her main point was well taken.  A ship sitting in port made no money and could pay no sailors.  They needed to find a target and that meant information. 

“Captain.  I spent my time today posing as a sailor looking for work.  I spied out some of the docks and found out where some of these ships are headed.  Towards the North American coast is a common one.  At least a couple of nice ships are headed that way.  I couldn’t tell you what their cargo was as it was pretty well crated, but they were headed out ‘fore long.  Details available if desired, but this is really just general info on one or two ships.”  He felt a bit uncomfortable adding the last bit, but given the captain’s own comments, it seemed needed.  “And Captain, since you mentioned the risk of losing crew members, I think I could o’ gained a berth on at least a few ships.  Admittedly they thought I was desperate to reach Georgia to see my sick mum, but it doesn’t seem like there is a surplus of sailors here.”

He looked at the first mate as he continued.  “A bit later the First Mate brought Shark Tooth and I ashore to try and gather more information.  I’d already done the dock thing, so I followed some sailors to a bar and drank ‘em up a bit.  They talked about a ‘Gory Tremane’ as a man I needed to talk to if I was lookin’ for a spot on a ship.  It wasn’t quite clear if this guy was just the quartermaster on the Minnow or if he was a bigger name in the port at large.  At first, I got the sense that this Tremane was a big name for anyone looking for work.  That he was a player here.  But they also said he could be found on the Minnow – which lends itself to thinkin’ he might just be the hire for that one.  I’m not sure, but one of ‘em seemed irritated that I’d been given the name, as if it was somehow a secret or something.”  Here he nodded at the Dog’s quartermaster, “I don’t think Crowe here’d be upset about crewmen givin’ out his name to prospective recruits.  That makes me think he might be more.”  He shrugged.  “But honestly, I don’t have much to go on beyond the name of a person and a ship.” 

He leaned back in his chair a bit.  He’d had his say and hoped it helped.  When he’d first heard the name Tremane he’d thought it might be important, but the more he thought about it, the less sure he was.  But the guy had reacted suspiciously.  Why would his identity be a secret?

Aboard the Sun Dog, roughly 3:15 P.M.

In the past couple of hours Fin Crowe had made his rounds of the Sun Dog, from bilge to belaying pins, tending to the various duties of his station. First, he had found Daxon Blackheart, the man whom Sharky had brought aboard as a potential addition to the gunnery crew. While the man couldn’t be classified precisely as able-bodied given the stab wound in his leg, he’d seemed ready and willing enough to suit the purpose and, just as importantly, Fin had learned, that Daxon had been on Tortuga for enough time as to have provided some bit of insight into the powers and players on the little island. The information Daxon had provided chased through the quartermaster’s mind even after he’d left the new gunner to rest up and await Hughes’ return and, as he’d prowled the Dog’s decks, Fin couldn’t help but to allow the implications of what he’d learned to pepper into every inventory and investment… Whose purses would they fill in stocking the Sun Dog’s larder? Whose for powder, sail, and timber? Was the balance of power on Tortuga so far tipped to one side that they may have already run afoul of the larger and, perhaps more importantly, if they had, would the Dog and her crew jumping on the other side of the scale manage to bring any sort of equilibrium?... It was thoughts like these that followed Crowe back through the hatch and onto the mid-deck as he climbed from the hold and back into the late afternoon sun.

He stood just outside the hatch for a moment and ran a hand through his hair as he gazed, narrow-eyed, upon the town across the bay and, as he considered what he’d learned, he blew the weight of them into the air in the form of an ambiguous sigh…

“Either that, Mr. Crowe, or you’ll not find this port so friendly as you have.”

…Oken’s parting words swirled amidst the information and questions playing in his brain and, as his hand fell from his hair and came to rest on the hilt of his blade, Fin gave a slow shake of his head and smirked at the town. “Aye,” he grumbled under his breath, tearing his eyes from the sprawl of the town and suspiciously eyeing the fort that topped it all, “we’ll see, won’t we? Sooner rather’n later, I reckon.”

He heaved another sigh into the air and forced his eyes from the Tortuga Bay Settlement, rasping something about a “f#@kin’ pansy peacock” under his breath and, with more of a glare than a glance, dismissed the view of the town as he strode, now, for the forecastle. The day’s events (and the warmth of the rum in his belly) had almost given physical weight to the thoughts churning in his head, now, and he found the idea of a piece of quiet and a sprawl on his bunk to be an acceptable remedy for such a thing.

Moments later, he was in his cabin, shrugging out of his blood-spattered shirt and seated on the edge of his bed. After tossing the tunic aside, his hands found his tobacco pouch and his fingers fidgeted with the making of another cigarillo as his mind did the same with all he’d learned today. After striking a spark to the cigarillo, he worked his way across the mattress and pressed his back to the inner wall of the cabin, letting the tension ease from his shoulders as the first draw of sweetened smoke mulled the myriad thoughts in his mind. “Somethin’ ta save fer th’ council, later,” he muttered to himself, watching in an almost zen-like manner as the smoke writhed and curled it’s way toward one of the open portholes on the far wall. He had debated, of course, taking what he’d learned to the Captain before council was called but, given that the Dog had only been ported in Tortuga Bay for less than a day and the fact that Anna, likely, had other concerns weighing on her at present, Fin decided that it could wait. She’d want the others to weigh in with their thought, anyway, and, to his way of thinking, there was no sense in having the same conversation twice. So it was that Fin Crowe convinced himself to simply sit and smoke, letting the cares of the day seep from mind and body alike as he soaked in a few moments of solitude.

As it happens aboard a ship, though, those moments of blessed silence were cracked by the sound of a door, just beyond that of his cabin, banging shut and, thereafter, the echo of boot heels falling purposefully on the deck-boards of the corridor. His eyes turn towards his own door then and, as he slides toward the edge of his bunk, his ears pick up on a muffled bit of chatter between voices he recognizes as Maggie’s and Cracker’s…

When’d Mags get back, he wonders, lifting himself off of the thin mattress and making for the door to his cabin, Must’ve been when I was below, else I’d’ve seen ‘er. An’ what’s Cracker soundin’ so bunched up about?

Drawing lazily on his smoke, Fin follows the voices out onto the main deck but, by the time he’s thumbed the latch and stepped out into the Caribbean air, again, all he is able to catch is the sight of Cracker and Maggie trudging across the deck towards the hatch leading to Anna’s quarters. They’re through that farther door before the Quartermaster can so much as guess at what they’d been talking about. Doesn’ look at all good, Fin muses, noting the way Maggie’s steps fall as he presses his back against the bulkhead and takes another drag of his cigarillo. Her or Anna want me t’ know, one of ‘em’ll tell me soon enough.

((OOC: Fin will watch until Cracker and Maggie disappear into Anne’s domain, at which point he’ll likely return to his own cabin and continue his pondering and relaxing… Plenty of room between this and the start of the “Captain’s Council” for any interruptions. If he’s not in his cabin, he’ll be somewhere aboard ship tending to his duties (i.e. seeing to the stores if Simple Jack returns with supplies, etc)))

Aboard the Sun Dog – Captain’s Council, 7:30 P.M.

Dusk had begun to gather over Tortuga Bay and, as it did, so, too, did the officers of the Sun Dog gather about a small table on the ship’s deck to share information and advise Captain Cole on what they’d each learned of the port in which they were anchored. Still shirtless, as he had spent some time scrubbing the Kidane’s blood from his tunic and had left it to dry in his cabin, Fin Crowe occupied his usual position to the Captain’s left. He sits in brooding silence, a mug of ale cupped between his hands, as Anne speaks her piece…

“In summary,” Anne says, turning her own cup between her hands, “we’ve still no’ been visited by the port authority, so this is likely one o’ them ports tha’ require me t’ go ashore which I’ll do t’morrow. We’ve precious li’l on the powers here’bouts but ‘ave already sold t’ one—Mr. Virgil Grover—whilst Mr. Crowe’s received an offer o’ bounty from an agent o’ the other—Mr. Davenport—or so we assume…”

This prompts a short nod from the quartermaster and his dark eyes lift from their contemplation of the ale in his mug. “More’n assumption at this point, luv,” he rumbles. He doesn’t elaborate immediately, though; instead, he lifts his mug and takes a drink, allowing the Captain to continue.

“…an’ we likely ‘ave an issue brewin’ with the authorities ‘ere that’ll need addressin’.” Anastasia’s green eyes flit briefly to where Maggie sits and her mug stalls its rotations…

Crowe returns his mug to the table, here, and his eyes, too, flick across the table to where Maggie sits. He says nothing but offers the tempestuous woman a wry smile and a quick wink.

“This be where ideas be brought t’ the table,” Anna rolls on, “How’re we t’ no’ get dashed on the political rocks o’ Tortuga whilst buildin’ a network o’ folks willin’ t’ give us line when probable hauls be runnin’ these waters? The crew be happy fer the time bein’ so long as their purses are full. This… well, we all know this is no’ long asail an’ other captains’ll be poachin’ our crew once they learn there be a female captain o’ this boat. So, spill yer guts.”

“If this is like most ports,”Goncalvo offers, “the local constabulary will have hot heads but short memories.  There is always something going on and today’s news is forgotten as quickly as it spreads.  This is likely not the first or last time an officer of the port will have met an untimely end.  Time and distance often aids one in forgetting old, distant problems when new ones close at hand pop into play.  Perhaps now would be a good time to set sail for the Indies and search for a fat merchant ship to plunder.  The only thing guaranteed to make near any harbormaster forget past transgressions is a fat purse of gold.”

The Sailmaster’s words evoke another clipped nod and a grunt of what might be interpreted as concurrence from Fin. Still, the quartermaster holds his tongue, preferring to hear what Cracker has to say before he speaks, himself.

As expected, the Bosun relates the details of his various excursions into town. Much of what Cracker says props up Fin’s own, as yet, unspoken assessment of the place – lots of tight lips and a semblance of fearful secret keeping pervade Tortuga Bay. The mention of Gory Tremane piques Crowe’s interest and, from behind a fresh tipping of his mug, he first arches a brow, then, seems to slip into a deeper contemplation, trying to piece this name in with the others he’s learned today.

“I don’t think Crowe here’d be upset about crewmen givin’ out his name to prospective recruits,” Cracker suggests, earning a shake of Fin’s head in agreement, “That makes me think he might be more.”  The bosun shrugs; “But honestly, I don’t have much to go on beyond the name of a person and a ship.” He leans back in his chair a bit, then, indicating that he’s had his say and, for the time, can offer nothing more.

Fin floats in his quiet consideration for a moment longer, his eyes skimming the faces at the table as his thoughts shuffle and sort themselves in his mind. He indulges in another sip of ale before his gaze meets Anne’s and it is then that he sets the mug aside and laces his fingers together on the table before him. “From th’ minute me an’ Cracker set foot t’ th’ docks,” he says in the wake of a heavy puff of air that escapes his lips, “I figgered there were somethin’ off-kilter ‘bout this place. Took me a bit of lookin’, listenin’, an’ thinkin’ to piece t’gether exactly wha’ tha’ might be but, giv’n wha’ I’ve heard from th’ lot o’ ye an’ some others, here an’ ashore, I c’n say wit’ more’n some certainty, it’s fear. Th’ balance o’ power’s been tipped, hereabouts, an’ th’ folk o’ this town be terrified o’ th’ way she’s leanin’.”

Fin’s gaze ticks to Sharktooth; “Yer new mate, Daxon, filled me in on some scuttlebutt tha’ helped put th’ pieces t’gether fer me.” His attentions shift back to Anne, then, and he continues. “Yer man Grover,” he offers, “he’s a local lad made good, as I hear told, an’ fer a time, held a good deal o’ sway in Tortuga but th’ folk here’re figgerin’ he’s on his last leg. This Davenport fella; he’s an aristocrat come over from England an’s ruthless enough as to have all but taken th’ place over, stealin’ power from th’ likes o’ Grover an’ pilin’ it all on his side o’ the scale, savvy? Th’ peacock wha’ offered me th’ bounty job, t’day, he’s rumored t’ be th’ bloke wha’ handles Davenport’s less savory op’rations. Havin’ seen myself th’ way folk react t’ th’ man an’ knowin’ th’ sort o’ blokes he’s prone ta hirin’ on, I’m figgerin’ tha’ Davenport’s th’ iron-fisted type tha’ people’re wont t’ avoid crossin’ fer fear o’ their lives.”

“As t’ th’ politics o’ it,” Crowe leans back in his chair and lifts his hands to push back his hair as he heaves a sigh, “We climb aboard wit Grover an’ we’re on the wrong side o’ power in this town but there’s th’ chance we c’n help shift some of it back… mebbe even take some of it fer ourselves… O’ course, tha’ll be much akin ta cuttin’ yer wrist an’ swimmin’ wit’ sharks.

On t’other hand,” Fin continues, “we get in bed wit’ Davenport an’ we are th’ sharks, aye? No’ th’ sort o’ shark I’d care ta be, mind ye. I’m more’n a wee bit familiar wit’ th’ sort wha’ run fer th’ man an’, truth o’ it is, I’d jus’ as soon kill th’ lot o’ ‘em as give ‘em a sideways eye. We’d be well off, fer sure, so long’s we kowtowed ta ever’thin’ th’ man said but, th’ second we aired so much’s a question, he’d likely have us killed.

As ta Maggie’s predicament,” he says, storm colored eyes fixing on the First Mate, “I ain’t certain she’s got much ta worry on. If this town’s deep in Davenport’s purse as I been led ta believe, he won’ find it hard ta replace some dandy politician an’ a f*#kin’ guardsman; it’ll be li’l more’n a tick in his ledgers, I reckon. Bloody hell, I killed one o’ Oken’s lads t’day, meself, an’ th’ bugger din’t so much’s blink… jus’ offered me a job an’ tossed wha’ he figgered might be some threatin’ words inta th’ wind.

Anyway,” Crowe says, reaching for his mug, again, “we stay here long, Capt’n, an’ we’re like to kick th’ hornets’ nest. Tha’ much be certain. How we handle th’ hornets once they be angry an’ swarmin’, tha’s another matter all t’gether.” He tips the mug to his lips and offers up an ambiguous raising of his brows to indicate he’s finished for the moment, then, reclines in his chair allowing the others to mull over what he’s brought to the table.