The King of Yellow will stride trough our forests, he will poison our air with a pollen not from this world and he will take from us all that we hold dear. And give to us sickness of such likeness we may never be cured. All but his few, his angels. His angels Whom he will devour personally. And the sea will boil with the Hydras young and our shores will become their breeding ground, men and women alike their mates. And all this shall start with a tear in the veil that keeps them out, a clawed hand of long dead membrane and white bone. He who opens the way will be Jagg'Azish, The First who Died.

The Heretic Codex, Prophecies 3:7. Author unknown.

His bones are bare of flesh but he will take ours to dress in. He laughs as we slaughter one another over things like gold and land, for he needs neither, only our dead. His acolytes will raise the bodies of those we love, twist them so that no humanity is left and have them dance in a macabre waltz for his pleasure. He will defile everything we know and rewrite the rules of our very reality to fit that of the old gods. And the New God shall sit in heaven and do nothing, for he is but a lie. And they are many, and they are strong while they are also the truth.

The Heretic Codex, Prophecies 3:11. Author unknown.

New Orleans.
1811
May 12th
The streets seemed oddly desolate, a port like New Orleans is always crawling with people. Sailors, whores and other people o unsavory to mention and there was always ships in the harbor. It was much like the calm before the storm, and what a storm it was going to be. The green waves crashed against the pier, splitting into foam but soon ebbed away again. Even the sea seemed to be calm, waves were unusually calm and easy. Then on the horizon, just barely withing sight land, a massive ship flying a tattered old Spanish flag could be seen. The Man-o-War was battered and broken, the hull seemed to be held together by some unseen force and not a single crew member could be seen on deck. Yet it steered towards the harbor like it had a full crew. The few that was there ran to get hold of a townsguard, to warn them of the apparent invader. The ship came halfway before the first cannonball landed infront of it, a warning shot from the local garrison. But the ship, creaking with what sounded like stalwart defiance, crashed across the still waves and into the harbor, despite cannon fire splitting its hull. And once there it finally began to sank, slowly as if something was rejecting its presence deep below. No crew, nothing about the ship made sense. The ship had the harbor in a uproar, the wreckage was delaying ships from leaving, many sailors were spooked saying it was a omen. The mayor mainly worried about the fact they had sunk a Spanish ship, sending a courier to find out just what was going on.

---

Out in the swamps, somewhere deep among the Mangroove trees a bonechilling scream was heard. A woman, scarcely older then 18 was dragged by the hair by a man who looked more skeletal then alive. But his grip was that of a cold iron vice, in his other hand he clutched a sickle. The girl was thrown ontop of a makeshift altar and before the woman could even let out a single plea for mercy, her head was seperated from her body. The man smiled.

“And in the mist, his eyes will see us all. And in the mist, he shall send the first of his servants; The Flayer. N'ghalu Jagg'Azish! N'ghalu Jagg'Azish!” His voice was hoarse by the end of his chanting, but now it was as if the swamp around him was chanting back and out of the waters swarmed half rotten remains of what was once human and animal alike. Like a flock of rabid dogs they tore the girls body apart. The man stood perfectly still. Just observing.

Without knowing it, New Orleans was about to be invaded. But not by the Spanish or English but by something far more sinister.

----

Neoklis slowly strolled through the bustling streets of New Orleans, the packed dock area was filled with the sounds of countless fishermen, merchants, slaves and other assorted occupants of the city. As he moved over towards one of the many jetties that protruded into the deep green surf he removed a small ornate spyglass from the satchel that hung at his side, catching the eye of a few small slave boys who were sat sewing nets as he did so. Moving past them slightly he extended the spyglass and swiftly brought it up to his eye, gazing out into the harbour as the gulls above him cawed hungrily.

It took him only a few moments to see what he was looking for, a ragged mast barley protruding from the relatively calm sea draped with what was now a very tatty and mostly destroyed Spanish flag.

“Qué demonios estás haciendo aquí mi amigo?” “What the hell are you doing here my friend?” he said quietly to himself. When he had heard he almost didn’t believe that a Spanish ship had simply sailed into the harbour and sunk itself, seemingly no crewmen on board. Neoklis thought for a few moments longer before he lowered the spyglass and returned it to his bag. He doubted strongly that this would have been anything ordered by the Spanish, seeing as they had given up their claims to New Orleans many years ago – plus the ship hadn’t actually done anything aside from create a colossal mess for the harbourmaster to deal with.

Turning away from the gentle waves he dismissed the entire event as likely a failed scuppering by pirates or the like and maybe a desperate attempt by any remaining crewmembers to return to land. He was sure if there was some ‘secret’ bid to take New Orleans than his good friend and Governor of Havana Emanuel de Latour would have told him about anything of the sort before he had departed the isle to come to New Orleans. As he walked back through the busy streets he let his mind wander back slightly through his time in the Caribbean and the many good evenings he had enjoyed as a result of his contacts throughout Europe. All it had taken was a small gift here and a word of advice there to convince each of the various factions that he secretly had their best interests at heart – allowing him to be friends with French, Spanish and British alike. The Governor of Havana had proved to be one of his closest allies, the pair spending much time together speaking, drinking and generally enjoying the privileges that wealth brings. Neoklis had in return provided him with several small trinkets from across the world as well as the name of several men in his employ who were actually working for the British and attempting to undermine him.

He had also eliminated a few local opponents of his, something that Neoklis would not have normally done if the pair hadn’t ‘clicked’ together so well, and if the Governor hadn’t provided him with an almost staggering amount of wealth. Neoklis was actually now a landowner in several countries, a feat that he would never have quite imagined possible. He had vineyards in Sardinia that produced some very fine wines, farms near Morocco that grow lemons, figs and many other things - and now a plantation on Cuba that grows both tobacco and sugar. It amazed him how much little effort he needed to put into things, the general running of the establishments being dealt with by those who technically worked for him, but more realistically worked for those who had gifted him the land. He wasn’t concerned overly either way though, as long as the profits continued to be available to him when he needed them then he was satisfied to leave the details to others.

Neoklis continued to let his mind wander as he explored more of the city’s streets, oblivious to the impending doom which was rapidly approaching.

The small room was black as pitch and just just as warm; the humid weather of New Orleans made sweltering in the windowless confines of the room. The creaking of old wood and salvaged nails were barely audible over the low and panting growls filling the small space. A woman cried out, muffled and frantic, stabbing the persistent groans briefly before falling back among the creaking as mere background noise until the sound of cannon fire split the night.

"Rete! Rete! Stop! You hear? I'll not take my last night under you!" The woman's accent was as heavy and indistinguishable her blows amidst the inky darkness but resonated just as clear when struck against the bare flesh before her. More creaking and groaning as her client fumbled for a half-decent match. With a puff of smoke and a spark of warm glow, Jack's face was illuminated. The light glistened the beads of sweat gathered on his body as he stepped nimbly to the the oil lamp above the door way; tiny altars to his single serve goddess.

"Ah, but what better way to die than in the arms of a beautiful woman?" Jack chuckled as he lit an oil lamp, filling the room with a soft glow. Though stark and naked in the newly birthed light, it would be the smile in his eyes one would notice first. A man of some height and a build fit for his labor, Jack was a fine looking man-especially by piratical standards-and he knew it.

"Unfortunate for you then those were my arms!" Just out of the light's grasp, a man rose upon the opposite side of the bed and began dressing in the light. Jack let loose another deep laugh as he clapped his other lover on the shoulder with a grin. It seemed of the three of them, only the woman had found cause to be alarmed by the sounds of war. Or, rather sound of war as Jack pointed out, dressing himself in turn.

"And who is to say you are not beautiful as well! Certainly more vocal then our mutual acquaintance here, no? At least until the stray shot was fired." Turning his gaze to the woman still cowering in bed, Jack continued. "Were we fighting, would there have not been more than one shot? I can understand your confusion of course, in your profession even one misfire can put even the finest of ships out for nine months." With a knowing grin, Jack pulled on the rest of his clothes: a loose pair of tan breeches, an old leather vest, a purple sash to hold his weapons and a large, black feathered hat gifted from Captain Charbon himself. "Still, I shall put your mind at ease, mon petit, and see what trouble is afoot. In my absence, I believe my friend and I here paid for the whole night and, while I trust I do not need to supervise this transaction being fulfilled, I will be back soon to watch." With a flourish, Jack tipped his hat, blew out the oil lamp and descended the stairs to the tavern proper in one fell swoop.

William Carlson was, for all the strangeness that went along with saying it, bored with being bored. As a noble, his early life was punctuated by long periods of boredom, and he was accustomed to such boredom, to an extent at the very least. But his life since joining the Freemasons had been a whirlwind of excitement, a series of travels around England and its newer cousin that finally gave his life the sense of purpose he felt he lacked from childhood. At last his skills, once only useful in formalities, now came in handy in the field. He ran down cultists on horseback and ran investigations that taxed his body and mind; he gave back, helped people, was able to be charitable without some sort of ulterior motive.

And here he was, sitting in a Lodge in a town that made Boston look like London and London look like some sort of metropolis that had not yet existed. He had arrived nearly two weeks ago and had been asked to, in many respects, take control of the leadership of the local Lodge.

In short, he was bored because he was stuck behind a desk ordering around a few men who were unfortunate or stupid enough to stick around New Orleans.

The local Lodge--which hadn't even been officially inspected or inducted--was home to maybe fifteen local men, though Carlson had heard that some more belonged to the Masons but didn't hang around the Lodge (which he completely understood). It was an odd assortment of low-ranking government officials, poor men seeking brotherhood, and two freedmen who had bought their way out of slavery. Slavery in the Americas puzzled Carlson greatly; England lacked the huge and numerous plantations of the American South and the institution was more important overall.

It was in this great stupor boredom that the Englishman decided to get out of the Lodge for a bit to do some further investigation of the city. The case he'd been--vague and unhelpful as it was--seemed to be important, and he had heard that some rather... Unsavory groups had been looking into it as well.

"Smith, Müller," his voice ventured, calling forth two of the men that he'd been working with. The two of them appeared hastily. "Gentlemen," Carlson stated in a perhaps-too-grandiose way. "Gentlemen, I believe it is time we take to the streets in order to finally ascertain what, perhaps, is causing our contemporaries in this town such trouble."

The three men threw on cloaks and went out of the well-kept wooden building, closing the door behind them, walking away from the symbol carved into the wall that signified that the prestigious and old organization had taken up residence in a building that looked better-suited to being a boarding house than a Masonic Lodge.

An unguiculate set of fingertips pressed on a thick Catalpa wood door and allowed the room to sigh outward into a cobblestone alley. The door appeared ancient and foreign even amongst the cultural orgy breeding in the streets, and the door in fact was. It had arrived with her family from Haiti four generations ago, but that was only a murmur of the historic relevance. What exuded from the door, both wicked and ethereal, was not one dimensional like the cookie cutter doors of the newly arriving French quartiers. It splayed itself to all of the senses willing to partake. The wood weaved in intricate patterns combined with metal that appeared to have a synergetic juxtaposition. She knew more stories about the door than she did about her own Grandfather, but that was expected in her matriarchal line.

Her lips pursed around some no bullshit rolled tobacco, inhaling smoke almost as thick as the humid New Orleans air. It crawled across skin and strangled the soul with thick putrid smell, sin and debauchery that tickled a sense of dread buried deep down in the average perception. Her perception wasn’t average so she physically cringed in the open space. Her head pounded a rhythm of penance for last night’s bottle and she contemplated stepping back inside, but it was the same feeling that had initially urged her outside and she hated second guessing herself. She leaned against the hard brick, allowing the sharp points to scratch the surface of her skin and prickle some awareness of her shell, a practice of grounding her spirit. As she leaned against the wall she pulled her eyes shut tight allowing the murmurs of the city to lap at her consciousness like waves on the harbor that fueled free form hand me down lore; a bunch of half-truths and outrageous claims lingered until brushed aside by a more exciting addition. All of this for a sunken ship? But she could feel it, and deep down, they could feel it to. Something wasn’t right.

As if to confirm the utterly proven facts on her mind a small boy tugged at her loose lace shirt. She forced heavy lids to raise and find the child’s face; recognition clicked in and she offered the boy as dazzling a smile her listless body would part with, before her gaze wandered towards the skyline. Her eyes traced the edge of the alley for some frame of reference on time, but the sun was neither here nor there for her to gauge. That wasn’t an odd occurrence, not in this alley and not for her. She’d never been good at judging light and time, even before all the nicks and loses on her bound human form. Her attention returned to the boy. He was a radiating caramel color, much lighter than her own, and kissed with a million freckles that appeared like constellations swirling around the deepest blue eyes she’d ever seen. Initially the eyes has stunned her, and even now their overly giddy knowledge confounded her.

“Bi’ early fah summons?” Those sharpened nails flicked the glowing cigarette into an unlit corner that quickly devoured the light. She knelt down and picked up the boy; small? Yes. Young? Yes. But touching the boy gave no qualms to his spiritual resonance.

“Nah dat early Missus Marie. De calls, we go.” The boy didn’t seemed disturbed about being hoisted from his feet, but he was abuzz with energy and his squirming hinted at restless errands so she simply hugged him instead of getting him comfortable on her hip. He smelled strongly of lemongrass, red cedar, thyme and a few other herbs that had her raising an eyebrow.

“Newcomers?” A chirping oui, oui sound accompanied the boys nodding head as his bare feet were placed back on the ground, less vandalized with filth in the alley, but only the spirits knew what the boy carried with him on those soles.

“She tells it like de ‘ere to ‘elp, some of dem.” The boy smiled while he shrugged his shoulders, but his eyes were tracing the peripherals and she could tell he had other places to be.

“tcht, tcht,” Her hand pressed at his back as if she would push him into a quick pace jetting into the bowels of the city, “G’on witcha den. You watch dem crossroads, de breathin’ somethin’ toxic tonight.”

“Yes’m Missus Marie. We be seein’ you tonight.” Her eyes kept a close watch on the boy as he made his way down the alley, presumably to find the newcomers they were prepping for. Here to help hmmm? The three snakes barely worked with others, but most of the cult hunters kept to their own sections of the world, spiritually and geographically, so this must be something big. That was troubling. She needed her mind to be clearer than the fuzzy feeling prickling off the stale alcohol. She needed a drink, a fresh one. She lit up another cigarette and started to make her way to Café Bonswa. It would be a couple of hours more before she would need to start making her way into the bayou where the Mambo reigned and the lines of fate where sticky tricky webs that latched and released with a will of their own. Yes, she would definitely be needing a drink.

There were a few things that he hated in this world. Horace hated not getting paid, he hated snot nosed, better then you attitudes and he absolutely loathed going into a mission blind. The latter was his current predicament. Something had stirred in the Havannan port, and it had spooked the local sources. But when the Torn Sails came and looked, there had been nothing. Or at least that's what they had thought at first. But a very astute observation from on of the locals had put them on the trail of something, something dangerous and big. A living idol of sorts from the sound of it. A avatar of a old one? By hecates six tits, that was bad news.

So the swedish born, trough battle and gutters raised privateer had travelled across the spanish main to new orleans in pursuit of leads on this strange rumor. And tihs something had apparently stolen away on a boat across the ocean. Of course, the Torn Sails could just not sail into port without a flag to their name and with a black ship armed with more cannons then any vessel its size. They were considered pirates by the missinformed after all. So they stove away in a cove and it was Horace who had to trek trough the bayou into town, luckily he had a guide. The entire swamps gave him shivers something terrible, there was something strange about it. The foul gasses of rotten plants and trees that seemed to twist in unatural shapes had seemingly stretched after him. He wasn't sure what was going on just yet, but if there was a cult present he would find out. And then he would do what he did best.

As he trekked into the town two men coats decided to stop his passage into town. A tall, mangy one stepped forward. By the hat and the robust robe he was the city guard. A peasant given rang and prestige for shooting natives and rebellious slaves no doubt.

“You.” The man spoke, his accent was far to crisp to be from around here. He must have arrived from the northern parts, possibly to reinforce the Garrison with all the rumors about british ships sailing about in the Spanish main.

“Ye'?” Horace stopped, he didn't look like a pirate per say. He was well groomed, he had scars sure but he was a sailor in dangerous waters after all. But his clothes were clean and his equipment in top shape. His handsome mug was contorted in a knowing smile as the two sized him up. He had spotted a third far off with a muscet. Bog bandits posing as city guards, or perhaps city guards with light pockets?

“What are you doing out in the swamps lad?” 'Lad', so the tall guard was a limey who had switched sides it seemed. Time to crack this little two man Barricade before they started to ask the wrong questions. But the Brit was faster, and spoke impatiently and with a tone Horace didn't care much for. But it clued him in, they were city guard allright, they had taken gone to scout most likely, and seen Horace. Figured him a easy way to get some padding for the poor pockets. “Well, don't just stand there! Answer!” He demanded.

“Big ol' black ship out in the Fransica Cove.” Horace reached within his shirt as he spoke, the two guards exchanged nervous glances. Clearly the ship had been spotted on it's detour. “Easy Boyos, I got a crown Sigil and a bit of silver for, should you to let me past. And If you don't then I'll just shank you both where you stand. You let me get to close, your rifles won't be up in time. You have to rely on those pigstickers you call swords. And my falchion is better.” He shrugged, he had been on the sea for far to long to care. Killing was nothing new, men were just men and men bled to death.

“Nice and clean kills, except for piggy.” He eyed the two men, the 'piggy' was a young stout and well fed man who had been growing increasingly nervous in the presence of this undoubtedly unpleasant man infront of them. But they also realized they had been had, they were not any sort of upstanding citizens, and undoubtedly thought they could press a lone pirate on information and money before doing away with him in the swamps. Sigil or not, these were thugs and as likely to blackmail the poorer people of the outer city border if they could.

“Ye' gonna go for yer toothpicks already? Or am I gonna get to walk?” He said slowly. The brit frooze up first, he was ready to fight to death now that the target was being aggressive. Admirable but foolhardy. The tall islander swung in a wide arch, a angry and clumsy move. There was a split second reaction from the Torn Sails privater as he ducked low and unceremoniously punched the man square between the legs. The 'piggy' fell backwards in mute terror while his 'brave' companion crumbled the ground with a whimper. It had been a good hit, the guard seemed to have blacked out from the sheer amounf of pain. No wonder, the more experienced Horace had punched with the metal hilt in what was a terribly unapologetic and clean hit.

“No use killing you fools. Here is my sigil.” He showed the waxsealed piece of paper for the still whimpering and crumbled excuse of a man. Not that it mattered now.

It read:
On the mission of the ruling body of the Free American States, this individual has proven himself a loyal servant of the country and is a pardoned and sanctioned privateer flying under American flag.

Of course, it was a superiorly made fake. But nobody could really tell, he had fooled spies and officials more then once. The Torn sails was of course, known by most of the people who's water they patroled, but there were people with dubius intentions that would rather all the different cult hunters went away, no matter how secretive they were.

And so the tall, blonde pirate strode into town. Now to steer his steps to somewhere he could have a drink or two.

Neoklis found what he was searching for amongst the many tangled streets and alleys of the city, his search being relatively quick and only taking him a short distance from the harbour itself. Following one of the very few paved roads he had come across it had quickly lead him up a slight incline towards what he assumed was the governors square where whatever passed as their capital buildings would be situated. The guards in this part of the city were far more numerous and were each dressed in mostly fine armour and other adornments that made them stand out compared to the relative filth of the rest of the city. Reaching into his bag once more he rummaged passed the various items before withdrawing a slim and aged roll of parchment. Unfurling it he quickly read the faded finely scrawled handwriting, his eyes fondly lingering on the elaborate and well-penned marks. He had read the letter many times over the past few years whenever he had cared to remember things he often decided to forget, his eyes only briefly glancing across the majority of the content before they settled towards the very last few lines.

“Should you ever choose to return to my side then I will be waiting for you my dearest. I implore you with all of my heart to conclude whatever business tears you away from me with the upmost urgency before seeking passage across the vast Atlantic gulf that shall separate us. My father has recently purchased an estate in the city of New Orleans and I am to leave with him to start a new life, but shall always been watching the seas for you. Yours forever, Cécile Morisette.

He thought fondly back to his youth, to the months he had spent in France stealing the hearts of beautiful young maidens. Cécile had been his absolute favourite, a girl with as much passion and fire as he had possessed, being with her had always been an adventure. But like all of his past adventures it had come to an end sooner or later, his restlessness growing beyond control – he had left to make his way half way across the world and she had not come with him.

Tearing his eyes away from the letters he gazed up and around at the large square he now stood in. The governor’s residence was a short way away, a big square and lavish building, constructed from huge cut stone blocks. He was more interested in the building that lay just to the right of it, a large French flag hoisted and flying outside of the building. It was the French embassy and they would be able to tell him what he wanted to know about the Morisette family, where their estate was located and where he could find Cécile or her father. Rolling the letter up once more and carefully returning it to his bag he straightened his jacket out before walking brusquely and directly into the embassy.

---

Neoklis gazed out beyond the harbour and far out to sea, the breeze was refreshing but did little to assail the feelings of anger or depression that gripped him. The letter was crumpled in his left hand, his anger and what he had learnt driving him to screw it up and discard it into the surf, but at the last moment he had resisted the urge and now simply stood holding the letter and staring blankly at the horizon. He had learnt that the family had made it to New Orleans, however within mere weeks of arriving the household had been hit by a deadly illness that had killed not only Cécile and her father, but also all of her siblings and all of their servants. The estate apparently now lay abandoned deep in the bayou which had reclaimed the lands so quickly that there had been whispers of witchcraft and other foul dark magics. He stuffed the now crumpled letter into his bag after a few moments of straightening it out and rolling it up once more before he turned to make his way back into the town.

Blocking his path was a young boy who simply stood several paces away from him with piercing clear blue eyes that seemed to be staring practically right through him. The boy smiled sweetly as Neoklis met his gaze, perhaps a little too sweetly for his liking. As he was about to ask what the boy wanted the boy spoke almost as if he already knew what he was going to ask.

“Missus Marie may have de answers dat you seek” he said simply “but dey have probably been swallowed up by da bayou.”

Neoklis frowned and was about to ask how the boy knew what it was that he was going to ask about, but the boy simply smiled once more before turning and running away, pausing only for a moment to shout back that she would be at some café called Bonswa. A few moments later and he had disappeared into the crowd, not a single trace of him to be seen – just an enigma to him now, a fleeting memory that lingered at the edge of his mind.

Neoklis continued to frown as he gazed after the boy. How he had known about the questions that were rushing through his mind escaped him, but it was true that he had many questions now about this place and the cults that would no doubtedly be hidden just behind the surface pulling strings here and there. More importantly he wanted to know about the Morisette estate and what had really happened to cause the deaths of each and every man and women who had lived and worked there. His hand gripping protectively around the hilt of his blade Neoklis began to make his way back into the city to find this café, and more importantly this woman who could supposedly answer his questions.

---

It took him a single coin to learn the location of Café Bonswa, one of the many beggars in the city more than happy enough to trade the location for a pittance. As he entered the smoky café the eyes of several of its occupants lingered unhappily on him for more than a few moments, mostly freemen he guessed from their dark skin and relatively ragged appearance. His own eyes were drawn to a lone woman who was sat smoking at one of the many tables, her figure slim and her skin dark and smooth – several thick wisps of smoke travelled upwards and hung in the air above her dancing silently in an almost perpetual way. Wondering how to even begin the conversation he had in mind Neoklis simply threw all caution into the wind as he walked over to the table before he made sure he had her attention and began.

“Marie?” he asked with some level of certainty before introducing himself “I am Neoklis Cleggitt and I was told that you may be able to answer some questions I had about the bayou?”

Still drunk on lust and cheer, Jack rose from his flourished bow to his amorous equals and broke his full gait into a nimble dash down the upper halls and over the old staircase banister, creaking as he lay hands but only a moment to vault himself up and over to the floor below. Landing with a thump, the small main room of the Café Majestueux through the patrons seemed mostly unfazed. Pockets of tables cheered, some at the bar gave a knowing nod and a raise of their glass, but most in the Majestueux needed not even to look from their drinks to know who had come crashing from the bedrooms. The Majestueux had long been the haunt of the Dog Headed Whore as it was placed far enough from the main gates to arouse suspicions but far enough from the swamps proper to avoid less than savory critters ending up on the menu. The crew were French after all, a fact they never failed to remind their Striker Jack when sending him hunting ashore.

Indeed, they never failed to teach Jack many a thing growing up. Now a point of morale and the son they never wanted, Charbon's crew had, for better or worse, raised the young Haitian to the man he was today; a man now standing in an especially exaggerated pose, his arms open wide and a grin plastered across his dark face.

"Voici! If that's not fit for a drink, I'll kiss your pecker!" Jack called loudly as he made his way to the barkeep, an older man with one eye and a penchant for watering the booze if you don't watch him. "What says Gaspar? Drink for a dear friend?" Resting himself on a shabby wooden stool, Jack flashed a smile at the old man. Gaspard was once the quartermaster of the Dog Headed Whore, the very same that caught Jack as a boy stowed away and stealing food. For years he refused to speak to the boy despite his obvious favour with Charbon, often giving him the worst foodstuffs available. Being a slave all his life, such malnutrition was barely noticed much to the old quarter master's chagrin.

It wasn't until many years later an ill fated raid on am English vessel that cost Gaspar his eye and nearly his life that he grew a begrudging respect for the young man who turned a blade seconds before it ended the old man forever. Staring death in the face changes a man and as such Quarter Master Gaspar became Bartender Gaspar, a position which allowed his years of divvying supplies and breaking up brawls to shine while giving him some semblance of security.

"You will pay me like all others, imbécile. And to that, I tell again, you are no friend of Gaspar's." With a warm glare, Gaspar spit once more on the bar and ran his rag across the knotted wood. "Et Autre chose! Another thing, Gaspar hears the wooden singing of creaking boards, do not think he does not! You and your pouffiasse lovers, you will not break another of Gaspar's beds or he shall grab a paddle and-" Gaspar stopped as a shadow fell across the room as a stranger stepped to the doorway, blocking the oil lamp and casting the black beast. All eyes turned to the newcomer.

It wasn't exactly surprising that he made people stop talking. The man, tall and blonder then the suns own yellow, carried himself like a true sea dog as he strolled inside. Stares from the regulars let him know that they didn't like new arrivals very much. He shot the nastiest looking a smug smile and patted his sabre, the other man shifted and ran his hands against a blade in his boot. Horacio took note of the others knife, and counted the people in the bar as he took in the ale soaked tavern in all it's glory. This was a fine place to start stirring shit up.

Horace then he steered towards the bar with the confidence of a man that survived a bit to much for his own ego to take it lying down. He produced a small pouch from his belt and let two pieces of shiny golden metal slide across the bar. “Rum. Bottle of it.” He glanced over to Jack and eyed him slowly.

“Get this ugly mug something to drink as well.”

With a smug grin, Jack turned back to Gaspar. "Aha! Voici la chose, mon frère! I told to you I would not be paying for my drink this night! Look how Ghede Nibo provides! A drink from a handsome stranger and yolk for dear Gaspar's face!" Jack pulled a silver flask from the purple scarf about his waist, something within rattling against the precious metal, and kissed the emblem carved into the side, a symbol of health and virility.

Gaspar mumbled beneath his breath as he reached below the counter and produced to bottles of rum, one dark and one white. He knew what Jack wanted, it was the same he ordered every night, or rather, tried to get for free then, failing that, ordered like a civilized person. Likewise, he knew the exact ritual Jack followed and laid a small crude funnel atop the bar alongside the bottles. With a courteous smile, Jack uncorked his flask and inserted the funnel. From within the silver, fragrances poured out into the room, the bite of cayenne peppers, the sweet aroma of shredded coconut, the tropical pungency of mashed plantains, all piled atop the lingering smell of death as six pieces of human bone rattled inside as Jack poured in a small bit of rum and shook the slurry in front of him. With a toast to his benefactor, Jack sipped the concoction and returned the flask to his belt. "Massissi!"

With his thanks to Nibo complete, Jack turned to the dashing man beside him. "Tell me, racé, what brings such a man as you to our corner of the map?"

“Rumors” Horace answered and waved a mosquito away from his face. This place was swarming with them it seemed. He took a swig of the rum, smacking his lips as if unsure what to make of it. Not the worst he ever had, but far from Havanna in quality, that was for sure. He eyed jack again before grinning.

“Actually kamrat', I heard you know this place fairly well." He paused. "You are Hyena Jack are you not?” He smiled widely as he referred to the other man by his nickname. When he wasn't chasing culists, he was a sort of a pirate after all and he could be very pursuasive. After his stunt at the gate, he had easily scared some locals into giving him a name of pirate of the right color and expertice to help him. He had no interest in a well off, white christian at this moment. Horace was after all, not a christian himself. His goddess was quite fond of witch doctors. Add to that the fact that they were in Three Snakes territory, he rather keep himself on right side of the local freemen and others that may be as inclined to practice the art of Vodou. This was a start towards establishing his base of operation.

“I have a proposition.” He said, taking the bottle in one hand and one arm over the others shoulder. Leaning so only jack could here. “I am tracking someone, I might need the help of someone like yourself who knows the local crews and can move in circles I cannot. The pay is good and the cause is not entirely gob'shite.”

Jack leaned close to the man as he spoke, amorous affections fell aside as he listened closer. While his flask was seen as a simple quirk, Charbon and his crew held an unspoken stance against openly speaking of the Loa. Much like his childhood on the plantation, Jack held his offerings in private though now more out of respect than fear. Speaking in equally soft tones, Jack spoke to the stranger careful not to let Gaspar hear. "You come on wings of Nibo so I will listen. But not here." Clapping the man on the back, Jack staged a loud laugh and called for his crew mates to hear. "But of course, Handsome! You who buys me drinks, what sort of date I would be to not walk with you a while! Come, step through moonlight with me." With that, Jack rose from his seat and took the stranger by his hand.