Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 1:23 P.M.; The Sun Dog
“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.
“Aye,” the quartermaster 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 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.
(OOC: Time is roughly 1:35 PM. - The Sun Dog - In the Hold)
Taking a few minutes to scour the maze of hammocks in the Dog’s crew quarters Fin, at last, locates the unfamiliar face he’s been searching for. The man is 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 shifts 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 trickles. 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. As 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 on the hammock 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 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, “Shark’s Tooth said you’d lost some crew and be 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 bearded 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 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, the black makeup around his eyes casting his grim visage into a ghastly looking skull, “I’m as good a gunner’s mate as you’ll find in this port, Mr Crowe, an’, 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 you back ta th’ ship,” Fin says after a moment, “I reckon there’s no need ta ask if ye know yer guns…” Surely Shark’s Tooth 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 Shark’s Tooth already done so and—”
Fin curtly waves the response away and nods, “Aye. I figured’s much. Answer me this, though, Mistah Blackheart; how long ye been ashore at Tortuga an’ whaddya know about a couple o’ blokes by th’ names o’ Davenport an’ Grover?”
(OOC: 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? Thoughts like these follow Crowe back through the hatch and onto the mid-deck as he climbs from the hold and back into the late afternoon sun.
He stands just outside the hatch for a moment and runs a hand through his hair as he gazes, narrow-eyed, upon the town across the bay and, as he considers what he’s learned, he blows 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 swirl amidst the information and questions playing in his brain and, as his hand falls from his hair and come to rest on the hilt of his blade, Fin gives a slow shake of his head and smirks at the town.
“Aye,” he grumbles under his breath, tearing his eyes from the sprawl of the town and suspiciously eyeing the fort that tops it all, “we’ll see, won’t we? Sooner rather’n later, I reckon.”
He heaves another sigh into the air and forces 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, dismissing the view of the town as he strides for the forecastle. The day’s events (and the warmth of the rum in his belly) have almost given physical weight to the thoughts churning in his head he finds 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’s in his cabin, shrugging out of his blood-spattered shirt and sitting on the edge of his bed. After tossing the tunic aside, his hands found his tobacco pouch and his fingers fidget with the making of another cigarillo as his mind does the same with all he’s learned today. After striking a spark to the cigarillo, he works his way across the mattress and presses his back to the inner wall of the cabin, letting the tension ease from his shoulders as the first draw of sweetened smoke mulls the myriad thoughts in his mind.
“Somethin’ ta save fer th’ council, later,” he mutters to himself, watching in an almost zen-like manner as the smoke writhes and curls it’s way toward one of the open portholes on the far wall. He debates, of course, taking what he’s learned to the Captain before the council begins but, given that the Dog has only been ported in Tortuga Bay for less than a day and the fact that Anna, likely, has other concerns weighing on her at present, Fin decides that it can wait. She’ll want the others to weigh in with their thoughts anyway, and to his way of thinking, there is no sense in having the same conversation twice. So, it is that Fin Crowe convinces himself to simply sit and smoke, letting the cares of the day seep from mind and body alike as he soaks in a few moments of solitude.
As it happens aboard a ship, though, those moments of blessed silence are 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 that 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 thumbs the latch and steps 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 captain’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.
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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), aboard the Sun Dog, 3:15 P.M.
(OOC: Time is roughly 3:15 PM)
Just as Cracker 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.
Her mood dark, tense, and restless already, the sight of Cracker causes her to lift her head a bit higher, eyeing him with a fiery gaze. Her lips are set in a grim line, the strain of recent events still set upon her brow that's creased with thoughts darker than her mood. She leans to the side, stretches a long arm out, palm to the wood, to block his path should he be trying to get past her. Cocking her head to the side, she regards him for a silent moment, and tries to puzzle out what that look on his face might be.
"As I live'n breathe. So ye made it back, did ye? Fall into any trouble on yer way?"
The boatswain stalls and sucks in a deep breath before bravely offering a simple explanation for his being at the forecastle’s entrance. Maggie draws herself up and crosses her arms over her chest. For a single petulant moment, she half considers refusing the summons, just to see the look on his young face. The idea almost makes her smile—almost. How would he react, she muses, if I just went back into my quarters and locked it? She bites her tongue a bit too hard to keep from a chuckle and instead bows with an exaggerated "after you," gesture. She'll follow him to the Captain. No need to toy with him for just doing as told.
“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,” Anna snaps, “yer dismissed.”
Cracker is quick to comply, not wishing to be caught between the two sisters.
“What in the name of all nine hells,” Anastasia doesn’t raise her voice when the door closes behind the boatswain; 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?”
"I be jus' fine, thanks fer askin," Maggie snaps back, fire rising to meet her ice. "I didn't set foot on that cursed rock wi' th' intent to do them in, and it weren't no picnic, I can promise ye tha'. Or had it not occurred to ye to think I might have been forced to it?"
“Unfortunately, Maggie,” Captain Cole responds with cold accusation, “Every time ya run afoul o’ somethin’ ya got yer reasons. So, I imagine this’ll be no different.”
True to form, the two women begin the world famous Dance of the at Odds Siblings, sparring with words, glares, pacing about, pointing fingers, allegations, defences, and finally sullen silence.
As the silence draws on, Maggie throws herself into a chair, drapes a leg over the arm, and allows her head to fall backward; hat dropping to the floor. She doesn't bother with it, but reaches up to pinch the bridge of her freckled nose.
"Look,” she musters. “I be truly sorry for whatever fresh hell this send our way. But you asked for it, so I'll tell it t’ ya plain..."
And she does. She shares with her sister the details of all that transpired the moment she stepped foot on dry land, leaving nothing out, embellishing nothing. She doesn't see any reason to shave a bit here or there, and knows Anne will see past her rashness to the facts as Maggie presents them. And her dander rises again recounting that bitter old man in the dress shop, who only had to but giver her a damned dress. She tells up to the moment of seeing Cracker before her in the passage, and closes her eyes.
"An' I didn't come to ye straightaways because I jus' needed to get me head straight again or else all we'd 'ave done is fight and squak at each other like two mad ol' hens."
Anna raises her thin eyebrows and peers amusedly across the room at the girl she’s been taking care of practically their whole lives, “As if we didn’t?”
Maggie raises her head and frowns, watching her sister. "Aye, I got some o' that done. Though, bein' fair, not a whole hell of a lot." And she proceeds to lay out for Anne all she was able to glean about the physical layout of the island, what little she got before things went sideways.
"Next time I go ashore, might do to have a change of clothes, after all. And as hateful an idea as I find it, parading about as washer woman might not be too terrible. in terms o' gettin' more better acquainted wi' the lay o' th' land, as it were. But maybe after a bit, when they're not roustin' up the womenfolk lookin fer me?" She laughs joylessly, with a bitter edge to it.
“Might be best if you don’ set foot t’ Tortuga’s soil fer a time,” Anna holds up a hand to forestall any argument. “Crowe may ‘ave some adventure fer ya.”
Closing her eyes for a moment, the older Cole sister breathes out and snatches a bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind her. Padding across the cabin she offers it to Maggie and says, “I’m pleased tha’ you’re well, Mags.”
"I won't lie," the younger sister murmurs, turning to look at her sibling. "Fear comes in many flavors, and today I tasted a new one." Taking a long pull on the bottle she lowers it and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "so what's our next move?"
“We drink,” Anastasia holds out her hand to receive the bottle back. “We drink some more, an’ we take the edge off. Then we eat, get sober, an’ meet with the officers o’ this ship t’ gather t’gether all o’ the intelligence available.” Tipping the mouth of the bottle to her lips, Anna takes a quick pull resulting in a grimace and sucking on her teeth as she offers the beverage back to Maggie.
(OOC: Time is roughly 4:25 PM)
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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), aboard the Sun Dog, 7:30 P.M.
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…”
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’,” Cole continues, “we likely ‘ave an issue brewin’ with the authorities ‘ere that’ll need addressin’.”
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.
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 constabulary will have hot heads but short memories,” the sailsmaster advises. “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." Goncalvo falls quiet and waits for the Captain's reply.
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.
Cracker sits at the table and listens to the captain give her little speech. He doesn’t like the talk about losing crew members. Others might be stupid about Captain Cole, but he knows a good captain when he sees one. He isn’t going anywhere and the thought of deserters irritates him a great deal. Still, her main point is well taken. A ship sitting in port makes no money and can pay no sailors. They needed to find a target and that means information.
“Captain,” the bosun pipes up. “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 feels a bit uncomfortable adding the last bit, but given the captain’s own comments, it seems 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 looks at the first mate as he continued. “A bit later the First Mate brought Shark’s 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 quartermaster 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.”
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 pervades 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.
Here Cracker nods at the Dog’s quartermaster, “I don’t think Crowe here’d be upset about crewmen givin’ out his name to prospective recruits.” Earning a shake of Fin’s head in agreement, the bosun continues, “That makes me think he might be more.” Cracker 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. He’s had his say and hopes it helps. When he’d first heard the name Tremane, he’d thought it might be important, but the more he thinks about it, the less sure he is. But the guy had reacted suspiciously. Why would his identity be a secret?
Still shirtless, as he had spent some time scrubbing Kidane’s blood from his tunic and had left it to dry in his cabin, Fin Crowe occupies his usual position to the Captain’s left. He sits in brooding silence, a mug of ale cupped between his hands. 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 Cracker (OOC: Shark’s Tooth is not there as he isn’t an officer). “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 fer 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.
Anastasia stares at the table’s worn surface for a moment as quiet descends upon them. She considers the options, the information, and the possibilities during this time. Not sure how much of that precious commodity has passed, she finally settles on their course.
“We’re too new t’ these waters t’ make brash decisions,” she counsels. “So, we’re not going t’ tie ourselves off t’ either boat jus’ yet.”
Turning her steely-eyed gaze to her quartermaster, Captain Cole begins to give orders. “Crowe’ll put together a small crew from the Dog—one tha’ includes Maggie. You lot’ll complete the task set t’ you by Davenport. This’ll put us even on the scale while I ‘sess out which tide we’re gonna sail. Goncalvo, you can ‘elp me with the task. Cracker’d make a good addition t’ yer crew, Mr. Crowe. Any questions?”
(OOC: Time is 7:50 P.M.)
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