[IC] Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

[AmongHeroes]

The Dusk Skate cut through the slight chop, her bow hissing melodically as she moved along the southeastern coast of Jamaica, and ever closer to the Wicked City of Port Royal. The sun was no more than five glasses away from setting, and the ship would be safely moored at the North Docks before then if the crew was smart about their work. Laden with pilfered cocoa, tobacco, logwood, sugar, coffee, and Spanish silver, the Dusk Skate would arrive to the victorious sounds of musket-fire, and the traders of the port would bend their backs to unload the precious cargo.

The king would get his tenth, and then the governor after him. Those in the town that had backed the voyage would receive their investment’s return, and other debts and kindnesses would be paid as well. Even after the share for the Crown, the governorship, and the investors, there would still be a sizable portion for the crew of the Dusk Skate; a sum no less than one-hundred thousand pounds, sterling.

Captain Thomas Lightfoot smiled and thought to himself that the Spanish ports of Maracaibo had been exceptionally generous. He stood against the starboard railing of the aft castle, studying the growing outline of Fort Charles still some distance away. It was a sight he never tired of seeing; that of his home coming ever clearer into view after a long and arduous voyage at sea. Well, perhaps home was too strong a word for Port Royal, for truly the Skate was his home, his castle, and his refuge. It was the only piece of livable property he owned, and he loved her more than any mansion or villa he had yet seen upon land. In fact he had yet to meet a woman he would not trade for the well-being of his ship, and he often doubted he ever would.

The fair wind pulled at Thomas’ loose hair, as if the sea herself was eager for him and his ship to make landfall before the sun was to set, and his smiled freshened. He adored the feeling of the free wind in his hair, and contrary to the fashions of the day he never wore hats. In fact, it was a rare time that he dressed as a captain at all, favoring basic linen shirts, sashes of tied fabric about his waist, breeches, and cavalier boots. His only distinguishable adornment was often only his brace of pistols that were holstered in a leather strap across his chest, and a long dagger held in the small of his back. Thomas was a man known by his reputation, and not his flamboyant dress--as was favored by some buccaneer captains--and he very much liked it that way.

In his mind his humble dress gave him more credence with his crew, though he knew not for certain whether this notion held any truth. Thomas shifted his gaze to his ship as he thought of such things, and he looked about to the men and women that worked with practiced efficiency to make the Dusk Skate ready for mooring. They were all hard and salty individuals in their own way, and Thomas felt a sense of pride watching them as they handled his beloved ship. Three in particular gave him a strong sense of satisfaction, the first among them being the helmsman, Jax.

Though the man was new to Thomas, his reputation as a true sea-artist had preceded him. It had taken little time for Jax to prove he could pilot a ship under sail as well as any Thomas had seen, if not better. Personally he knew little else about Jax other than his skillset, but he did know that he loved the Dusk Skate, perhaps even bordering Thomas’ own adoration for the ship, though he would never admit such a thing to any living soul.

The second among the crew was his first mate, Nicolette. He looked across the top deck for the devilishly beautiful woman, but amongst the bustle Thomas could not make her out. He had to laugh at the circumstances for her securing a berth with his crew, for it ranked up with the most brazen demand anyone had ever given him. He had instantly respected her for that, and he had allowed her to join the crew that very moment she had accosted him aboard the Skate some months past. He had told himself then that she would either win the day, or be surely raped and killed by the crew when he was away. The woman had proven her salt in spades, and Thomas worried for the reckless man that would dare cross her, should he find himself floating in the sea with his testicles tied about his neck as shark bait.

Speaking of deadly damsels, Thomas thought as he traced his eyes up the main mast, to the crow’s nest. Though she was only an outline in the diminishing light of the day, he thought he could make out the glow of Antonia’s emerald eyes even high in her perch. Now that is a story. Not many knew the truth about his securing the employ of the exotic woman with the eagle-eyes and burning wit, and he intended to keep it that way. Thomas enjoyed a keen level of joy from the abounding speculations about the nickname Silver Fish that she had bestowed upon him. The guesses ran the gamut from plausible to outlandish, but the truth of the matter was that the crew knew Antonia to be an excellent set of eyes upon the mast, and a cunning pair of hands when on the ground. That was all that truly mattered.

A single cannon shot from Fort Charles rang out, heralding the arrival of the Dusk Skate to Port Royal, and bringing Thomas back to the moment. He moved from the railing to stand beside Jax at the tiller. He gave the man a hearty slap on the back.

“You’ll be neck deep in rum and skirts within a glass my friend,” Thomas said so only the sea-artist could hear. The grin of unbridled joy upon Thomas’ face could be seen across the main deck, and he called out to his first mate, “Ms. Beauchamp, a cannon salute to answer the good chaps of Fort Charles!”

Thomas, still smiling, cupped his hands about his mouth, and looked up to the crow’s nest, “Ahoy above, stand by for shot!”

[tirgesfu]

Jax grinned, rum and skirts sounded damn fine to him as he listen to his Captain tease with port promises. He didn’t take his eyes off the fine sway of his new lover’s bow. This piece of canvas and wood was fine, exquisite, better in his hands than even he had dreamed. His new lady was Dusk Skate. And he didn’t mind sharing her love with the real master Captain Thomas Lightfoot. Not at all. Any Captain worth his salt loved his ship. He expected that. But this man knew how to love a vessel better than most. You could tell it in his eyes, his face and his crew. He kept things tight and clean.

To Jax’s surprise, the crew was much better trained skilled and efficient than lots of other times he shared the deck. So it made the strange off center unlucky crew members even more of a puzzlement to Jax. Women? There were women on this crew. How the freezing fuckin' frothy seas did that happen? Any sailor knew tits and ass did not go well anywhere but tied up in the hole. Jax was onboard and head over heals in love with the fine ship before he even realized the unlucky part. Women? That can’t be good.

Now, unknown to anyone Jax had managed a great feat; he hadn’t blurted out his shock when he first noticed the first mate had curves places they weren’t supposed to be. Woman? So maybe she was the Captain's’ squeeze. Still even that did not sit so well. Pussy clouds a man’s brain and Jax always thought the best Captains had big balls and no dick. Yet he couldn’t really figure if the dame was spending time in the Captains quarters or not. Not that he hadn’t looked, damn even in pants she was, something he could admit wanting to feel. He tried hard not to watch her.

Just when he was trying to figure out that first mate some sweet peice of no hiding it at all swayed past and as if to flaunt everything. She crawled right up the mast. More woman? Damn. And they weren’t at each other really as if they were each fighting for the finest cabin and Lightfoot. Or not that Jax noticed. But then would he? Unless there was some on the deck cat fight, which Jax could admit he might enjoy, he might not know how sea woman fought for their berths.

But even a bigger surprise was the crew seemed to let them be. What? Had they bed everyone already and all the crew was fine with that. Maybe they shared like some days brown sugar and some days white. Jax could not figure it out. He held his tongue only because he liked this ship so much, and truth be told he thought Lightfoot a good Captain even if he had enough dick for both the wenches. But the only way he managed not to show his uneasiness with woman on board was to steer wide and clear of both of them.

Because any sailor knew woman on a ship sooner or later would bring bad luck.

Still, they were almost to port and Jax had managed not to stuff his foot and thought in his mouth just yet. Maybe those women would find some safe spot with knitting, babies, and sweets on land like they should.

[Igraine]

Antonia grinned widely at the captain's call, waving to her lovely man before stepping back in the crow's nest to crouch down from sight. She clapped her hands quickly over her ears, her entire face squinched in anticipation for the cannon's report. Away up in the sky, in the near inviolate privacy of her sanctuary, she could afford an honest expression, an anticipatory grimace; though she'd always understood the need, nothing could ever make Antonia love the belly-rumbling rolls, the explosions of the cannons.

Thomas might know this, though more likely not - no matter. Antonia had learned long ago, that no honest expression of her thoughts ever went unpunished anyway.

When the Skate's cannon was fired in response, Antonia popped up once more just as swiftly as you please. The small walnut lapdesk was already tucked neatly beneath blanket and tarp - not that anyone would dare the trip up here to take it, much less to take it from her. But she slipped the small desk key, laced on a thin silver chin, back beneath her shirt nonetheless - a token of sorts, a talisman that what soul she had managed to keep, would remain intact and whole and untouched.

Her blades... Oh, Antonia carried nothing like the grand, deadly steel the new First Mate wielded to such astounding effect. As swiftly as a lady to her toilette, she strapped the daggers to her waist, slipping stockings over her feet and then her old work boots before the small boot daggers found their home - and then carefully lifting her tongue, pulling her cheek aside with her fingers as she slipped the smallest of them all to its proper place. She smiled once, twice, ensuring its placement as much as savoring the familiar metallic taste as the cool steel warmed in her mouth.

Her pack over one shoulder, she lifted herself lightly as a leaf in the wind over the edge of the crow's nest. All the grace of a grand spider in her web, the young woman whirled, skittered to the deck along the rigging, landing without so much as a whisper to mark her passage, despite the heavy, hobnail boots. She ascended the steps toward the tiller swiftly.

"Silver Fish," she said with a most cordially mocking bow - not a curtsy - her thick Creole accent warming the air about them further still with a spice and promise all its own. Antonia's grey eyes peered up at the captain, beside the new helmsman.

Jozua was his name, though he preferred to be called Jax. Before too long, Antonia would know more of this man than his own sweet Maman ever did. That was, after all, why her lovely man kept her about. To find things. To read men. To sniff out the dangers both near and far, to keep his back blessedly free of daggers, and the Dusk Skate and its crew whole and mightily prosperous.

Antonia found his refusal to so much as look at her brought its own sort of amusement, spicing the already intoxicating mix of anticipation and grim purpose she felt this day, and Antonia simply couldn't help the wicked little smirk on her face. Ah well, it was all for the better really, bless his precious, superstitious heart. The last crew member to dare touch her without her leave had lost his hand, after all.

Slowly.

Agonizingly.

One blackened finger after the other, not a thing the ship's former surgeon could have done to save the limb. There was never a word that could be said against her, of course, but whispers spread as whispers will - and in the end he'd only ever had it coming anyway, hadn't he? Damned fool to touch that voudon woman anyway - as dumb as killing an albatross. She might be a woman, but she brought her own breath of good fortune from the moment the captain brought her on board, and had never shirked a moment's work.

Good enough for Captain Lightfoot? Good enough for the rest of the crew - and that fool was damn lucky his hand had been the only thing he'd lost.

The young woman's eyes flicked briefly toward the helmsman, Perhaps Jax had heard the story? Antonia did hope so.

"I'll be below deck a while longer," she continued as she stood straight once more. "Preparing. Same as ever this evening, lovely man?"

[Lillian Thorne]

Nicki stood at the bow of the boat, the bustle around her fading away as her green eyes sought out the equally green coast line just up a bit from the port city. After a moment they swept down to where water met land until her gaze then picked out the color and movement of the port city. She watched, a world away as the ship that had become her home moved closer and closer to what passed as civilization. She thought ahead to the errands she must run, the visits she must make, none of them for pleasure, all of them for business. She needed medicines for the ship, she needed to speak to her banker, to make certain the ventures she’d invested in paid off and a whole host of other things of a similar nature.

One investment had certainly paid off, she thought as her cheeks plumped up in a distant smile making the “W” branded there pull and distort as her fingers affectionately patted the railing of the Skate. She backed a great many ships under a great many different names and always, always she backed the Dusk Skate, well her man did on her behalf at least. It was just such an investment that made her aware of the ship’s success in the first place and what had finally driven her make her place among the crew. Her old berth had not been a peaceful one and she’d grown weary of the fruitless struggle to keep her place, to fend off hands that would simply not learn. So she’d sought out the Skate and spoken with the Captain, brazenly laying out a deal, explaining her credentials. He’d been reputed to be a man who took risks, he’d taken one in her. She made sure through service, skill and silent investment that he never regretted that risk. It had all worked out, for now.

Little did anyone one know that she was one of their more frequent backers. That didn’t matter, not for her purposes. She took a portion of any prize she earned as First Mate and re-invested it, squirreling away a portion of her profits from investment and re-investing the rest. She had been without and she planned never, ever to be without again. Her quarters on the ship were cramped, crude and yet she was content. She didn’t need wealth and riches for comfort, she had learned to live without and was very comfortable on the ship, happy even. She just needed to know it was there, a financial safety net. She needed to know she had a choice. She needed to know that she was in control of her own destiny. Control, it all came back to that.

The warm breeze danced across the water, toying with a lock of honey blond hair and making it tickle her scarred cheek. The shadow from the brim of her hat shaded her face and kept her pale skin largely free from the freckles that pricked her vanity. Which was absurd, freckles hardly marred her more than a brand had, but even so it bothered her. She did not question it. It was what it was. Some things she was capable of accepting.

She looked away from the view as she heard the Captain call her name with orders. She could not see him over the press of bodies going about their work so she called to him.

“Aye Captain,” her accent making the words roll slow like honey across the deck towards the man where he stood unseen.

She strode forward to where she could call to the men who manned the cannons, her boots, thigh-high and sturdily made clacked on the deck, her emerald brocade coat flapping around her thighs as the breeze that had played with her hair, tickled at her clothing, as if begging like so many had, for her to remove it. She paid the breeze as much mind as she’d paid the beggars. She was in control. She barked her orders to the men, her voice had the same smooth accent but now it cracked like the sound of the whip she wielded with great precision when needed and men who had come to learn not to mess with the first mate, no matter her softness and curves jumped to obey.

“You heard the Captain, load her up and tell them Bonjour!” Her orders were carried out with the speed she had grown to expect and the attentiveness she demanded. In just a short time the crack of the Skate’s cannon ripped through the air and she felt her grin broaden, satisfied with the noise, the power, the rush of that cannon.

They would be in port soon, she had things to attend to, but just then, she was the first mate and first mate alone. Not investor, not whore, not a silly little girl who knew nothing, not a disappointment. She was Nicki. She was in control of her fate.

[AmongHeroes]

Thomas smiled at the report of the cannon, and the ensuing smell of black powder that accompanied it. It was a smell that invoked feelings of power, menace, and riches. It was a harbinger of both death and opportunity, but Thomas forced himself to view it only as the latter in this instance, with his holds full of pillaged Spanish treasures.

His smile, so much a fixture of the Skate’s successful return voyage to Port Royal, only brightened as Antonia’s inimitable voice called out his moniker of “Silver Fish.” He saw her eyes looked to Jax, and he guessed at their taunting intent. The sea-artist had not mentioned any misgivings directly to Thomas, but he had the keen feeling that the age-old sailor superstition of women on a ship being bad luck was at the forefront of the man’s mind. Thomas had noticed that Jax was not the only member of his crew to have these fears, and several had even left the Dusk Skate for service aboard more traditional vessels. To Thomas, it was hard to claim that women were catalysts for ill-fortune when the Skate was about to pull in the largest single haul for Port Royal during the year 1667.

Thomas nodded to Antonia, and responded with, “Aye, the usual place. I’m going to see to the unloading of the cargo first.” This would give Antonia plenty of time to ply her unique trade, and hopefully yield the Dusk Skate with its next lucrative venture.

He stepped away to the bow of the ship, and found Nicki’s watchful eyes upon the operations of the crew. Upon the docks, just a few hundred yards off the starboard-bow, workers awaited the throw lines from the Skate, and Thomas could hear their excited banter even now.

“Well, Ms. Beauchamp,” he said to his First Mate, a sly curve to his bearded face, “is your share of the booty already spent, eh?” Thomas raised a mischievous eyebrow to the woman. “If you have a mind, I’d love to see you try and prove the French curse erroneous by actually not losing your weight in silver at cards.”

He had to admit that he did not know if Nicki was a gambler, but he knew that he was, and any good seafarer should be able to navigate a fast-paced game of gleek, at least in Thomas humble opinion. His question had been in a manner of jest, but there was a hint of genuine challenge in his voice as well. Thomas genuinely trusted his First Mate, the fact that she held the coveted position spoke to as much, but he still knew very little about the beautiful French woman.

“Much of the crew will be at the Black Boar later on this evening, loosened with rum and angered by cards.” He said, “I hope to see you there.”

* * *

Over the next several hours the Dusk Skate set at the North Docks, having its precious cargo unloaded and precisely cataloged by the governor’s customs quartermaster. By the middle of the night all the crew had received their shares, and had dispersed to the innumerable bawdy houses, grog shops, taverns, and gambling dens that filled the waterfront of Port Royal. Though fatigued, Thomas Lightfoot still had much to attend to that evening.

He set out for a small tavern on High Street named the Parakeet. As he made his way through the muddy, stinking streets, he looked forward to his meeting with Antonia. The city of Port Royal was a place rife with rumor and gossip, and a place ripe for harvesting by the skills of one such as his eagle-eyed rogue. This was an invaluable asset for Thomas, and the information she gleaned in turn enriched his entire crew.

Making his way inside of the dimly lit interior of the Parakeet, he took an empty seat in a corner away from the entrance to the tavern. Waiting there alone with his thoughts, he knew truthfully that his main pleasure in meeting with Antonia was for much more selfishly personal reasons than the prospect of gold. With a smile of self-acknowledgment, Thomas set back and motioned for the servant-boy to bring him a tankard of grog, and waited for the grey eyes of Antonia.

[tirgesfu]

Docking was one of those thrills Jax never tired of. Yea, get that lady to approach with style and class then gently slide her next to the pier. It was a kiss. It needed skilled gentle hands to guide and coax her to sit near shore. Jax loved it. Most crew never noticed his playing with his lady love to get her touch those massive wooden piers like a wrench that knew just when to open her legs. But like that moment when any man enters Jax didn’t care much about anything other than the feel. And Dusk Skate was the best. She didn’t bump or fumble at all. She knew when to play fast and furious and when to slow things down and tickle the breeze.

It was high Jax found difficult to tuck away as he stepped back from the helm and let his grin and his closed eyes say it all. Not that any noticed. All the crew had their tasks and their own moments. He let the buzz around him settle in his own background before he opened his eyes again. He lciked his lips to taste the mix of salt and sand, of sea and land, of his hands on the best ship he ever sailed.

Jax didn’t need to be there as the ship unloaded. Truth was he wasn’t in a hurry to leave her side. And he helped just a little to relieve her of her burdens, her load. He chuckled at the thought of him trying to linger around his new found love and realized he better get his feet on land and off to some pile of hay before he jacked off in some knot hole. Ha, how amusing was that.

Most had long gone into the night with coins jingling, thirsty mouths and needy bodies. He slipped his small bag over his shoulder and stood on the deck still finding it hard to leave. He should be running down the plank. He be drunk already.

With a snicker he realized he better find a close inn and get into some quick fight before he began to wonder too much about his place on this crew. Unlike the mermaids that seem to have bewitched the Captain and run off into their own dark places, Jax knew what you did on shore made your place in the crew almost as much as your skill on deck. If the crew didn’t see him tossing down a few, new as he was, they might begin to wonder.

Let them wonder, Jax laughed out loud as he walked along the water’s edge. He just walked. Feeling the land under his feet was most always his first need after a successful dock. Not that Jax ever wanted to be grounded but he was sure that he needed the solid land under him after time on the water. He circled around and around not in a hurry. Finally he found some lively Tavern not too far from the dock to wash the marsh taste from his mouth. It was time to leave his real love and find a different taste.

And as luck would have it some younger tired maid smiled at him as he entered. “I know you hear it all the time,” He smiled brightly at her and reached to just touch her arm, “but you are a pleasant site to weary eyes.” He winked as he sat in the chair to her side. “Rum, please.”

[Lillian Thorne]

Nicki watched the motions of the crew as they moved about the deck with a keen eye. Not looking at each task so much as the general rhythm and movement of the lot of them. Everyone was in a good mood. The energy of the crew as a whole was buoyed by being so close to pay and recreation. She couldn’t blame them, though she doubted her recreation would measure up to theirs. She was about to bark a warning to two crew members when a voice sounded at her side and made her jump, then stiffen to hide the jump.

“Captain.” She said, keeping a professional tone to her honeyed voice as she bowed her head respectfully to him. The Skate was not the navy, the pirates, though some of them had been, they were no longer serving in the armed forces of any country. While the berth of a privateer lacked most of the rigid discipline of it, she found that it was better to hold herself up to that level of discipline lest she be found wanting. Her gender was a huge disadvantage to her as she’d learned so often in her life, but she was done hiding it. She was in control.

She kept her face still, a perfect mask as he spoke and then forced herself to smile, her plump cheek shifting, stretching her brand though the smile did not reach her eyes. Even as she smiled and nodded her mind was scrambling to reschedule her plans. It wasn’t an order he gave her, but it also wasn’t, [i]not[/i} an order. It was certainly not something she could afford to turn down. She didn’t want to seem stand-offish, to make herself open to scrutiny further than she already was.

“I…” she began and then stopped and bit her lip, the flesh dimpled by her white even, teeth. How much could she afford to lose? Then she nodded, did some mental calculations, licked her lips and began again.

“It would be my pleasure, Captain, though I am afraid I will prove nothing by my performance at cards. I will simply prove the curse true. Cards have never been my thing. But I will join you as soon as I am able. I thank you for the invitation.”

With that she returned to her work, stepping in to sooth the tempers of the two who she had been about to speak too before the captain came with his… invitation. As she settled things out between the two men, part of her mind ran over and over the conversation she’d had with the captain, if it could be called that. Why had he come to her? Why then? She served at his pleasure and before now he’d been content to let her be so long as she’d done her work. He’d made no effort to protect her or keep her from the Crew’s suspicions for which she had been grateful. She’d managed the men on her own and had gained some small amount of grudging respect, or something like it, from the men. So what had changed? Nothing happened to chance, she was certain of it.

She felt her eyes flick to the grinning man at the helm and narrowed. He was new, the helmsman with a smile that made her think he was laughing at her, or at them all. Had he been part of the change that had moved the captain to seek her out? She watched him and wondered. Had he ambitions? Was being the pilot not enough for him? It was clear he loved the Skate, she’d seen him touching the wood of the wheel like a lover’s cheek. Was it love that drove him to want a higher position? Was the captain’s position even at stake? She didn’t know and it made her uneasy to have so many unanswered questions at hand. She didn’t like such mystery. So she would go, she would lose a set amount at cards and learn what she could. It was a start.

She turned back to her work and left the troubles of the night for the moment. She would lose much respect and have to fight twice as hard to get it back if she let it slip by inattention.

~~*~~

Hours later, goods unpacked, Nicki strolled down the boulevard from the heights where the Banker’s homes clustered white and lovely over the best view of the bay. She had left her hat off, the sun had descended and it was no longer necessary and the errant breezes over the ocean tickled at stray wisps of blond hair against her neck. She had spoken with her man and discussed the next round of investments and was rather pleased with how things stood for her. She wasn’t greedy, if she were she would certainly not be bothering with the work that she did. No, what drove her was deeper than greed. When she tried to think of what it was she was after the only word that came close was security, but it was not quite the right fit either. If she wished to be safe and secure she would hardly be riding the waves on a rogue vessel engaging in piracy now would she? But for all the times she’d pondered it, for all the languages she spoke, all the philosophers she read she lacked a better one.

She put aside the thought and listened to the ringing of the bells that marked the hour. Normally she’d spend a few hours in the poorer section of town plying her Doctor’s trade for little more than good will and perhaps some prayers to help with the tarnish on her soul but with the Captain’s demand taking up her free time she would not be able to do so. Perhaps if they were in port long enough she could see to it tomorrow. In the meantime she had no choice. She shifted her direction and strolled through the cooling evening towards the tavern she knew was favored by the crew at this port, the Black Boar. She seemed to recall that they made a particularly fine Pepper-Pot there. That at least made her mood brighten some as she made her way towards the tavern.

[Igraine]

"Non, non mon petit chou-chou," whispered a warm voice laced with spice, the woman's lush, crimson-painted lips beside the boy's ear as he moved with the customer's tankard of grog, toward his table in the shadowy back. "I will take care of him tonight, Luc - oh, don't look so sad, sweet boy. You are doing a brilliant job. Your Maman would be proud, not a drop spilt! Go on now... "

Her hands full, the dusky woman's hip swayed softly as she stood back up to her full height. "There, in the purse - go on, you take a reale for this night. Give it straight to your Maman - and I'll know if you don't Luc!" At the sound of her low, musical laugh, the boy's dark eyes lifted up, sparkling with an impish delight as his hand emerged from the night blue purse at the woman's waist with the silver-stamped coin between his small fingers. The young woman nodded her assent, the tiny, clever silver bells stitched into the edges of her pale silken head wrap tinkling merrily as the child scooted away with the still-filled tankard.

She watched after Luc for a moment, perhaps a touch of wistfulness lingering in those kohl-rimmed grey eyes, before she returned to the "business" at hand. The soft hiss of her sapphire blue skirts followed in her wake, the delicate ivory of the lace edging the sleeves contrasting prettily against the warm, caramel skin of her arm.

"When will you stop ordering that piss water grog, Thomas?" Antonia asked, a small lift of those brilliant lips as she bent beside him at the table, a lovely eyeful of her generous décolletage accompanying the heavy plate and the tankard she set so expertly before him. Fresh bread and a hunk of good cheese, a still steaming rack of blood red roast aside thick slices of papaya fruit.

"You may adore your Dusk Skate, lovely man," she teased as one, tapering fingertip tapped lightly against the tankard she'd brought herself, "But she will never make you so sweet as your little thief. You drink the bumbo I bring you." One graceful hand wafted over the tankard as she leaned forward, a genuinely precarious moment for the straining neckline of her bodice as she breathed in deeply. "Nutmeg... Sugar and rum... Delicious... "

Slowly she stood, moving to stand behind the pirate captain, her arms wrapped loosely about his shoulders as she bent to his ear, her soft lips whispering a new song, yet familiar enough between them, while he ate. The smile on her lips would read to any casual observer, a woman plying her 'wares' most effectively, the soft whispers and the tender, knowing fingers of one hand that played almost absently with the ends of Thomas' auburn and golden hair.

The truth of those words may have been a... A touch surprising, perhaps, were anyone else able to hear them, these little snippets of talk. But Antonia stood where she would, where she chose to be, at Thomas' back.

"A strange bird, your new helmsman - the smiling man Jax with no love for women on a ship, not on their backs. He went on a walkabout, he did. Aye, you do know I was afraid at first, the poor man might have to have a terrible, tragic accident, if he'd been making for some of les voleurs... "

"Now you just take that grin off your face, Thomas. I'm almost sincere on that score! Even I can see he's a fine helmsman, navigator - and he loves the Dusk Skate well. Very well. Truly and deeply, I must say... Ha! Half-expected him to insist on some 'alone time' in the hull 'fore he finally left... "

"Oh yes, to Havana first, then Cadiz. It's as good as done, 'tis a haul like no other we've seen in some time... Oh... Oh no, the Clear Plume's captain shan't be waking for a good night, nor found for a good day or two, we've all the time we need... "

Antonia's hand slipped down, over his chest, the pistols, languidly making its way to his belt where she lingered, fingers slipping beneath the thick leather for some moments, palming a piece of parchment against the soft skin of his belly, coordinates and ship's names, destinations and ship plans...

"... You do know if she joins you for gleek this night, I'm laying even odds she wipes the floor with you, lovely man. You are all risk, Thomas, where she tolerates none. Oh, this should be a grand showing, and I wouldn't miss it for all the world. But I'll be there this night, at the Black Boar. You won't see me of course, but we can't have my lovely man's back laid bare in the night, can we?"

Antonia moved to Thomas' side, reaching to gently cradle his chin in her hand as she turned those lovely copper eyes to her own grey gaze. The young woman smiled, and bent to press a kiss to the side of his mouth, his cheek, leaving a crimson impression behind as she pulled back, grinning wickedly.

"There we go now, well-marked. How I love to see you like this, Thomas. All my world lacks now, dear Silver Fish, is the soft music of your snoring." She caressed his cheek with the pad of her thumb before she stood to her full height once more. "Tonight then, and have another tankard of the bumbo before you leave. You'll thank me, lovely man."

[AmongHeroes]

Thomas watched Antonia appear like a ghost out of the darkness of the Parakeet. The exotic woman, ravishing in her layered azure skirts and plunging neckline, was a sight to behold, and the captain marveled at how such a creature could disappear so completely when she so desired. He smirked at the thought of just how close he had come to waking up with a crimson smile being drawn upon the flesh of his neck that fateful night seemingly a lifetime ago. Thankfully I’m just that damnably charming, even when piss-drunk.

As Antonia came to his table, Thomas made no effort to hide the path of his eyes. A gentleman he was not, and he made no bones about his admiration for the female form. In response to the creole woman’s teasing, his eyes narrowed with a smile.

“I’ll take my drink how I wish, my dear rogue.” His eyes at last moved up to Antonia’s face, and he was surprised at how salacious the woman’s gaze was, even when compared to the divine curve of her bodice. In spite of his words, he took a drink of the spicy, sweet liquor she offered before pulling away a hunk of bread and cheese. With his mouth filled, Thomas said nothing as she bent around his shoulders, and her piquant words danced across his ears.

She spoke of Jax, and his eyebrow raised a fraction. He swallowed his food. “Our helmsman is a man of the times, and no mistake. I shan’t fault him for such worries though, for the female can be a most dangerous creature. In my estimation he is worth his own weight in gold behind the tiller.”

Thomas wondered if Jax had felt just how close to a knife being thrust between the space of his ribs he had come this very night, had of course the man been found guilty in the eyes of Antonia. Judging by Thomas’ own first meeting with Antonia, he guessed that Jax had not, and he probably never would. Thomas certainly had not foreseen the spider. Luckily for him his only lingering evidence of her bite had been the red brand of rouge upon his cheek, and a lighter purse.

Her words turned to talk of a more serious matter, and though his face was a mask of drunken detachment, his ears hung upon every word. A Spanish galleon was rumored to be lost from its treasure fleet during its voyage from Veracruz to Havana. Her cargo had been of inestimable value, and now alone, she presented an opportunity too precious to pass up. Thomas did not dwell upon the fate of the captain whom Antonia had pried this information, for truly he cared not at all. The calling of Spanish gold was all he heard, and in that moment he decided that they must sail again. The turnaround time from the last voyage was unheard of, and it would take effort to outfit the Skate for another long excursion in such a short period of time. Still, Thomas would be damned before he would pass up an opportunity to deprive the Don of such a haul of bullion.

His mind was brought from the warmth of gold to thoughts of a very different kind of warmth as Antonia’s hands pressed the parchment beneath the band of his belt. Thomas closed his eyes and swallowed several gulps of grog to repress the desirous gurgle in his throat. He had never tasted the delicacy that Antonia most certainly was, and his will to maintain the elaborate game of tension between them was becoming perilously thin.

She spoke of gleek, she spoke of his recklessness, and she spoke of a bare back. He relished her silky speech, and he pressed his cheek against her lips as she kissed him. Thomas smiled up into her deep, kohl rimmed eyes. He said nothing at first, deciding to down the remaining mouthfuls of the bumbo. Still silent, he stood, his eyes ever affixed upon hers. With an air of sensuality that matched her own, Thomas leaned down until his lips were a mere finger’s breadth away from hers. His right hand snaked down beneath her skirts, tracing up the smooth skin of her calf until he encountered the knife he knew she kept there.

With a quick movement that he hoped would impress the deft thief, he brought the knife up to the straining laces of her bodice, and with a twinkle in his copper eyes, he cut the lowermost cord. As the garment loosened mightily, Thomas planted the blade of the knife into the wooden table, and gave Antonia a wink.

“All risk, indeed,” he whispered into her ear before he spun on his heels, and began to make his way out of the Parakeet. As he made it to the door, he tossed the servant-boy a gold piece, and called back to Antonia. “I look forward to our next meeting, my dear.”

* * *

Thomas, still drunk with the fantasy spurned by his meeting with Antonia, walked through the streets of Port Royal. His path meandered through the raucous avenues, until at last he returned to the waterfront, and the bustling and boisterous interior of the Black Boar.

Many of his crew were already there, deep in their cups, and they greeted him with a rough cacophony of yelled exultations. His hand was filled with a tankard of strong grog, and he planted himself down at one of the many gambling tables. With a hearty laugh, and a smile lubricated with a haze of drink, he tossed several coins into the pile upon the rough wooden table, and took up the deck of cards. As he shuffled the deck, his eyes passed around the rough men at the table.

“Mark me, you’ll be begging for mercy, you surly bastards, and it’ll be the Devil’s own work for you to get it!” To a chorus of laughs and drunken “aye’s” Thomas dealt the cards, intent on passing the time until the rest of his guests arrived.

[tirgesfu]

The rum was watered down, the crowd was silently slumped over their nursed brews and Jax realized pretty quickly he picked the wrong Inn. The wrench wasn’t bad, when she smiled. But after a few quick feels of her shapely curves Jax found her and the place lacking. He couldn’t really place why. He had been in uninspired hole in the walls before. Never found a reason not to just drink, watch, play and when needed extra excitement, start a fight.

Jax looked over the room again and grinned. Maybe a quick bash of some poor drunks face would liven up this crowd. Or a smashed bottle against the wall. No, don’t want to waste the stuff when a chair would be just as good. He sat and pictured the feel of the chair in his hands, the swing, the splitter of the wood as it shattered. Jax smiled.
As quick as the grin found its place on his face he jumped up yipped a yell and took hold of the very seat he was slumping on just seconds before. With hands on the back runs of island pine he took and swung the chair against the table. His hands felt the life of the tree splinter, he heard the crack of years of growth, he smelled the ages of soaked in brew and thrown up stomachs. With a wide grin he stood above the shattered chair and table. That felt much better. He tossed a coin to the stunned bar keep with a smile that no one answered or for that matter questioned. With a laugh he spun from wreckage and left the dull boring Inn.

Once out in the salt thick night air of the port Jax felt a lightness to his step and he began to whistle. It was on old dutch tune familiar to all of the northern seas. Not something he expected anyone would know in these warmer waters. But that made the notes purer to him thinking of them under these southern skies. He liked the sound in his ears.

As he strolled down the docks he saw a figure move gracefully through the streets from the land side of town. He stopped his whistle. There was purpose to the strides he watched and it didn't take Jax long to identify the height and the slight sway of that gate. The first mate was heading into the Black Boar.

Jax stopped and looked at the peeling painted sign. At first he thought he should find some other place to drink. But the vibrations of the broken chair still stung very slightly in his hands and he wasn’t ready to just slump away. With quick steps almost a run he was at the door before his superior made it through.

They weren’t on board so he could afford a wide grin as he opened the door , with an exaggerated sweep of his arm in front of her, for the woman who did not have the sense enough to know her place. Unless that is she was going in for her other profession.

[Lillian Thorne]

She was, admittedly a little distracted as she worked her way towards the Boar. She had a lot on her mind. The change in her routine was something she was still grappling with as she swapped out priorities. She also ran through lists of medical supplies she might need for the ship and for her charity work. From that she moved onto the card game at hand, Gleek and her curiosity about why the Captain had made his strange demand.

She was familiar with the game, having played it often enough and moreover having studied it with her father as an exercise in numbers and chance. Though when she’d played it in the posh parlor of her manor home so long ago they had called it Glic and it had lacked the trick round of play. Her father would have said it made it more civilized, but she would have argued that it made it more tame. Tame or civilized, she had adapted and the presence of the Trick round was something she had easily overcome the first time she’d encountered it when she’d joined the Navy.

She had learned then the trouble that came with winning too often. She’d been given her fair share of bruises for “cheating”. But her time for winning at such things was long past and her lessons long ago healed. As she walked to the Boar she was building up a new strategy in her head so intently that she didn’t see her crewmate until an arm was thrust in front of her.

Instinct, reaction, action, all flowed into one another like spring runoff and before she had caught up with the moment she reached out, grabbed the Helmsman’s arm, twisted it and pressed him into the rough wood of the door with surprising strength. For a second she held him there, his well muscled body held, likely more from surprise than from her decent leverage. As she caught up with the moment and she realized what had happened she let her hands drop from him and with a touch of color on her pale cheeks she spoke in her honeyed voice into the relative quiet of the tavern,

“Pardonnez-moi, you startled me.”

She tugged smartly at the bottom of her vest, putting herself back together and giving the helmsman a smile that did not reach her eyes. For all that he hadn’t been attacking her, she had seen in his eyes just then, and many times before a light, a hint of disrespect that he had yet exhibited openly but still she sensed. That coupled with her newest fear, that somehow he was at the heart of changes coming her way made her want to both keep close to watch his every move and to keep him at arm’s length lest he oust her easily.

“I will buy you some Rum to make up for my rudeness.” She said graciously since arm’s length did not work on a boat, even one so fine as the Skate.

[Igraine]

From the shadow-lined edge of the alleyway, Édouard smirked as he watched the little tableau play out across the cramped, filthy street before the Black Boar. The golden-haired woman was unspeakably graceful, a delight to watch, as she made short shrift of the smiling man's attempt at something that might have otherwise resembled chivalry -

- If, of course, the smiling man's grin weren't so strangely reminiscent of the angry, open-mouthed invitation of a viper. Such fun, these two - but Édouard had business within.

Édouard took his chance, pushing off the wall swiftly, his lithe body darting across the street, slipping past them with nary a breeze to mark his passage - though he did tip the brim of his hat to the lady, whether she noted or not (and he rather hoped she didn't - he didn't have near the muscle mass of the smiling man, and that move she did on him definitely looked like it hurt) - into the loud, bustling interior of the Black Boar.

A mass of long, black, braided hair fell down his back, tied from his face by a simple leather thong, all barely kept in place by a jaunty black velvet, wide-brimmed hat, a long ostrich feather bouncing with every purposeful stride of those high, black boots on the inn's floor. The brim fell easily over his eyes, though nothing of the eternal smirk in that sun-browned face was lost to its shadows. A deep purple jacket covered the ivory shirt beneath, falling to mid-thigh of the fine ebony pants.

And though Édouard might seem the very epitome of a dandy, the regulars of the Black Boar knew enough to move away swiftly from the path of the slender man, as quick with those blades of his, to skewer an eye or remove a finger, as he was to laughter and drink. But tonight? Tonight Édouard had other pursuits in mind, and his steps took him directly to the woman who was the beginning and ending of all of them.

"Madeleine... " His hand slipped lightly about her small, corseted waist where she stood, speaking with the Black Boar's proprietor behind his bar. His lips nibbled hungrily at the tender, mahogany-colored skin of her neck, the edges of her curled ebony tendrils tickled his nose, scented - even here in this rank place - of exotic fruits and cinnamon.

She turned to him in turn, those large, midnight eyes searching his face for a moment before she kissed him softly. "You're late," she whispered, her own Creole accent as warm and thick as his patois.

"I was... delayed. A certain unexpected matter arose, unwound and undid my plans without the least warning, at the very last second, cut deeply into my time. Truly embarrassing, if I may be frank - but why you should stand here so coy, enjoying my discomfort when I know damn well you witnessed all... "

"Because you are so rarely undone yourself, my dear Édouard - 'twas a treat to watch, a sight I might savor to my dying day truth be told."

"You are cruel, Madeleine."

"I am honest."

"'Tis half your charm."

"That isn't even the half of it, and you damn well know it."

Édouard laughed, grinning widely as he swung the young woman around, pulling her toward the thick timber stairs leading to the mezzanine above the gaming tables, choosing the shadow-lined edge closest to the rail, a truly perfect vantage above the raucous goings-on of the Black Boar. Madeleine had a moment to wave to the bartender far below, before Édouard pulled the lovely, lush woman to his lap, one hand slipping to the swell of her generous bottom.

Madeleine leaned into his embrace, wrapping one arm across his shoulders as she lay her lips against his ear, nibbling softly. "He has a whole gold piece now, you know," she said in thick, island-accented French. "I thought he might explode with happiness, the sweet boy. I thought the reale was a bit much, but that... ?"

"I saw," Édouard replied in French as well with a sigh, "I wasn't so distracted to miss that, Madeleine."

"I couldn't let him keep it."

"Of course you couldn't. Far too much for a child his age, but... I can find him a tutor, before I leave. Astronomy. Would you do this for me, Madeleine?"

"Astronomy? What in the world are you - "

"Yes. Astronomy. Constellations and the stars in the heavens... Even the Home Star... "

"The Home Star?" Madeleine giggled softly into his neck, and that sound finally broke the smirk on Édouard's face, his whole body stiffening suddenly.

"Oh sweetness," she said quickly, cradling the young man's smooth, beardless face in her hand as she turned his eyes to hers, sensing his sudden distress. "Forgive me, I never meant to be cruel... I just... No, no, don't look like that... " As the bartender set the tankards of grog at their table and retreated back down the stairs, Madeleine kissed Édouard's face, loving small pecks until that smile finally began to return.

"Will you do that for me, Madeleine?" he asked, looking up into her face once more. "Luc should learn to use the sextant and the compass, to chart and navigate and learn astronomy, to follow the course of the skies. If he doesn't follow in his Papa's footsteps and run the Parakeet, perhaps one day he'll pilot a merchant ship then. Good work. Honest work as an educated free man... "

Madeleine studied the young man's face earnestly, for several long moments, before laying her lovely head against his shoulder, cradled against his neck. "Work someday, to keep a woman as precious and lovely as his dear Maman, in silks and jewels and every least thing she could ever wish for and deserve." Édouard whispered into the soft, matchless darkness of her hair, wrapping his arms about the young woman tightly before releasing her, and reaching with one hand for the tankard of grog.

"He should know, one day - " Madeleine began swiftly as Édouard took one deep drink, and then set the tankard back down with a resounding "no" back to the table.

"What should he know, Madeleine?" the young man asked, with a furious shake of his head. "That the world is an evil, beastly place, full of malice and every manner of ugliness? Oh, have no fear, he'll learn that lesson well enough in time. It's unavoidable, you know."

"But for now? For now it's enough that he knows what every little boy should: that his Maman and his Papa love him dearly; that he is the most brilliant, sweet boy ever walked the Earth. That is enough, Madeleine. Let it be."

Édouard sat back in his chair, pulling the beautiful woman a little closer to him with one arm, the other tipping the brim of his hat back as his grey-eyed gaze fell over the assembled masses below, lighting solely on one laughing, drinking figure below.

He had business here this night, after all.

[AmongHeroes]

Captain Thomas Lightfoot was drunk, and no mistake. As he stared at the cards in his hand, he had to squint one eye to make the collage of numbers and suits cease to double in his vision. After a time, he tossed more coins into the pot and placed his bid. His one open eye looked around to the two other men around the table, and his expression was one of overt challenge, his smog of grog notwithstanding.

“Well? What’ll it be you tottering swine-bred louts?” Thomas said, looking down his nose at the two seamen.

Begrudgingly, the two men finally declared their hands, and Thomas found he had yet again won the lion’s share of the pot. “By God’s bones!” Thomas yelled, much too loud, a lopsided smile splitting his face. He began to rake the coins towards his lap when he saw the figures of Nicolette and Jax enter the Black Boar. The winnings were forgotten, and he stood and waived an arm at his first mate, and the accompanying sea-artist.

“Ahoy!” He called out, “finally you’ve made it.” Thomas looked back down to the two men who were still sitting at the table, eyeing the pile of coins hungrily. His palms slammed down on the table, and Thomas passed his face before each of the rough men. “Ne’er you worry, my dear friends. I shall watch over the safety of your lost coinage.” Thomas expression shifted to a sour one. “Now piss off.”

With apparent anger in their faces, the two men stood, and stalked off into the still large crowd. They were instantly forgotten to Thomas, and he thudded himself back into his chair, motioning for Jax and Nicolette to take the recently vacated seats. As he waited for the two to join him, his eyebrows raised as he looked about the tavern. Even in his drunken stupor, he could see that the Boar was now filled with members of another privateer crew, as well as his own. To Thomas’ eyes, they looked to be from the Crimson Feather, a most notoriously cruel and barbaric ship of corsairs that had recently moved into the Caribbean from the Mediterranean Sea.

What Thomas failed to notice, was that the two men he had most recently relieved of their coins were gunners aboard the Feather, and they were now moving throughout their churlish brethren, and speaking in hushed tones.

With the grin returned to his face, Thomas began shuffling the cards once more. He looked between the two members of his crew as they sat, and he was just about to reiterate his greeting when he felt a strong hand land upon his shoulder, and lift him from his seat. In his current state of mind, Thomas’ body followed organically, and provided little resistance to the maneuver. He stood a moment, dazed and slightly confused, until the press of a knife against the side of his belly brought the reality of his situation into sharp and blinding focus.

Though still drunk, Thomas’ mind fought and won the battle with his senses, and in an instant the pirate captain was calculating his next move.

A rough and thickly accented voice spoke into his ear. “You cheated me, dam’ you. Han o’er the purse, Cap’n sir, or you’ll fin’ you’sef breavin thru ye belly.”

Anger was the first emotion that surfaced in Thomas’ mind. Anger that he had been taken by surprise by such a buffoon, and even more so that the man had accused him of cheating. Thomas Lightfoot never cheated at cards. In that moment, Thomas also had a decisive moment of clarity. His eyes flitted between Nicolette and Jax. A man could learn a lot about those who he served with by how they played a hand of cards, but in truth he learned even more by watching how they fought.

A wicked smile, unseen by the pirate at his back, narrowed his eyes. He danced his copper gaze to Jax and Nicolette, and then they scanned across the Black Boar, alighting upon the members of his crew, before once again returning to the faces of the first mate and helmsman.

“Care for a fight?” He said softly to them, before spinning on his heels with remarkable swiftness. In that motion Thomas brought his right hand up to one of the pistols that hung across his chest. His left arm lifted, and before the pirate could move to stab at his now moving captive, a pistol ball exploded full into his face. The impact knocked the pirate back, slamming him into a table, and spilling the now faceless body onto the floor some five feet away.

Amidst the thick smoke of the discharged pistol, Thomas drew the second, and trained it into the crowd of crewmen from the Crimson Feather. His voice rose clear above the now silent tavern. “You’ve cast your lot in blood you fen-sucked dandies, now play the hand you were dealt!” And then he fired, and all hell broke loose.

[tirgesfu]

Whao! It was the speed and the surprise that made Jax catch his breath. She wasn’t that strong but damn if she couldn’t make her point. She had him against the door. Pushed tight for a few minutes. He didn’t even think to swing back because he was stopping himself from wrapping both arms around her and keeping her right where she pushed herself, against him. Frisky little sea witch, this one. His shocked eyes slipped quickly to lustful delight. And he smiled.

When First Mate Nicolette Beauchamp pulled back and blushed his grin widen and his eyes did not hide his pleasure in the whole thing. She spoke and for the first time he heard the sweetness of that commanding guarded tone. Ah, how the words he did not understand slip from that blushed face with an alluring sound. Jax at least had the sense to cover his enjoyment slightly. He kept his eyes on her as she offered drink. He didn’t trust himself just yet to say much of anything but his smile must have given away his enjoyment; he caught her off guard and that in his book was his first success.

Besides she offered rum. He nodded and very carefully gestured of her to enter the Inn before him. She might have taken offense to that but a voice from inside gave her little time to show it. Her Captain called. Jax knew she would answer. Of course so would he.

Once inside and adjusted to the casting light, hefty smell, and smoky hazy Jax saw the cards on the table and Captain Thomas calling for them to join him. Cards and rum? Now this was the right Inn he was sure. He found a chair almost tempted to pull the other out for the red faced first mate but he was not a fool and he knew not to press his luck. Beside he should save it, luck that is, for cards.

Just as he was sitting down, noticing the weaving nature of his admired commander - now how is it he is so nicely sauced and Jax was not? - when a few other wharf rats seemed to close in.

Then as quick as that, cards and rum dimmed and the feel of a splintered chair in his hands was brought back by the eyes of his Captain more than the words. Jax was sure he liked this man.

When the pistol fired Jax jumped up quickly and sprang onto the man that had accompanied the now faceless fool who had accused one of their crew, the Captain no less, of something dishonorable. Take that! His knuckles found the man’s face before the rat could even show surprise at the fate of his mate.

He had a piece secured on his side but Jax liked the feel of a fight, at least in a tavern. He would rather beat and punch when he could. Something about the real physical taste of fist to face and hand to gut. Jax was a bit scrappy. In close quarters like this is was a brawl he wanted not bullets.

“Get your hands dirty there Captn’.” Jax cried over the beginnings of battle noise. “Save the balls.” Jax laughed as he pushed a second man over the table beside theirs. “Yours and the bullets!” He managed to yell as he tumbled over on top of the man. He held the fools hand high over his head with a dagger clutched tight that Jax was pounding against the wood trying to release. No knives just yet. Jax had to teach these fools how to enjoy a fight. Battered faces and sore guts better than dead bodies. Save death for times needed, was Jax thought. Not that he wouldn’t slice a throat when appropriate. Still smashing a chair, a table or a face or two always felt better to Jax.

[Lillian Thorne]

The Captain’s booming voice was not a welcome one, not then at least. She’d seen a light in the Helmsman’s eyes that she didn’t like, or maybe didn’t like. Regardless it was one she couldn’t stand for, not and maintain her position with any ease. But when the Captain bellowed she could only obey, to be an example of obedience was to teach and have the right to command it for herself. So with a sharp, correct nod and none of this grinning and mooning he was so quick to engage in she slipped past Jax and walked towards the captain with what passed for stiffness in her spine which really translated into a sedate sway that couldn’t help but catch the eye.
She was halfway across the room when she smelled it. Above the stink of sea-ripened, sun-baked bodies, spilled rum, stale vomit and greed she scented trouble. She had only to look at the captain with his too broad smile and his too bright eyes as he stood over the too large pile of loot to see that he was at the heart of it. She sighed, she’d not yet been in a fight before the captain and felt a strange flutter of nerves in her belly at the prospect of it. She’d demonstrated moves like what she’d done with Jax, demonstrated she could keep her men in line, but a fight was different. On the ship she executed careful shows of force, demonstrations in pain, speed and where needed, ruthlessness. A fight was chaos and she didn’t like chaos. There was no control in chaos.

On one ship she’d been in the positions were not given out, they were fought for. She hadn’t been long on that ship since it hadn’t been worth the constant battles that she’d had to endure or the way her clothing always got torn in the process of the fights. But she had put all that brawling to practical use, honing some of the skills gained in lessons and not put into practical usage. One could pay for the best of tutors but not even the golden skinned men of the orient who had cost her a pretty penny to engage could make the lessons stick like honest to god combat. So as she readied for the fight in the seconds before it broke out she told herself to think of it as a demonstration of her suitability for her position. A yardstick for her skills. It was all the time she had.

“Care for a fight.” She heard the captain say to them. It wasn’t a question.

The retort of the second pistol shot rang in her hears long enough to drown out the roar from the crew whose man was just murdered. She did not know the crew but the look in the eyes of the captain as he’d gunned that man down and then fired his second shot into a crowd of men, spoke of long standing rivalries and bad blood. She turned to face the crowd and with quick eyes assessed the danger. Holding herself back long enough to make a plan. She did not dive in gleefully like Jax whose body held all the power he needed. Her power lay somewhat northing and she needed everything she had to help control the chaos that had just broken out.

She saw movement, a dull gleam of metal and in response, before the motion was half done she’d moved. She had seen that motion but a moment before in the hands of her captain, a pistol brought to bear. It just wouldn’t do. She dove and grabbed the arm, twisting and letting her momentum give her movement strength, leverage could offset lots if one knew how to apply it, Nicki did and when the shot rang out, it did so to the detriment of the floor inches from Nicki’s foot. She’d aimed him down, mindful of the second floor, of the balcony with tables that overlooked the first floor. She didn’t stop moving, but kept the momentum going and with a bend to lower her seat of gravity tossed the man hard to the floor, his head bounced but she didn’t stick around to see the light go out of his eyes from the impact, no she was gone, moving onward, order into chaos, wanting the fight over as quickly as possible so she could lose her money and be done with this.

She delivered careful blows meant to hurt her opponents badly but not do much actual damage unless she saw a weapon in hand, then she went for debilitating blows that would drop the greater threat. Most of the men were drunk and that made them easier if harder to predict targets and she found a sort of rhythm to the work. She kept the Captain in her awareness at all times, wanting to keep him safe, especially in his judgment impaired state of inebriation. She would have words with him later about bringing a pistol to bear in what should have been just a brawl. Until then, she circled him, bringing men down with a strange, violent grace, no expression at all on her lovely, marred face.

[Igraine]

Perhaps only a handful of times in this life, had Édouard known such deep, black waters of rage. But in that moment, as those incomparable grey eyes caught the flash of the brigand’s blade at Lightfoot’s back, he could not have said whether that cold, still pool threatened to drown him beneath its icy waters, for his failure to foresee this danger, or the soon-to-be-dead man who dared press a blade against -

”Merde!” In one deft movement, Édouard lifted the woman from his lap, depositing her gently into a seat and leaping to his feet. "Stay here, Madeleine - do not move from this spot!" The long, deep purple coat fell from his shoulders to the floor, revealing the slender stiletto daggers sheathed at his waist, and the pistol holstered at his shoulder.

He pulled the pistol swiftly, pressing its smooth grip into her hand. "Anyone not me comes up those stairs, and you shoot the bastard, you hear me? Anything happens to you, James will never forgive me. Luc will never forgive me."

'I'll never forgive me... ' The first pistol shot thundered as he bent to kiss the woman's worried brow swiftly. Soft lips brushed over those tiny furrows before he turned to the crowd below, the only emotion left to be found on his face was in that deep, determined frown and the firm set of his jaw.

By the second report of the captain’s pistol, those steel stilettos were already unsheathed. Édouard leapt to the railing, balancing there for a split second before stepping off, silent as death itself, into the furious storm of shouts, thrown chairs and pressing flesh below. Édouard landed easily on his feet and stood slowly, a preternatural calm, the eye of this mad storm as he moved across the floor, his eyes never leaving the chaos that swarmed around Lightfoot.

Not a single member of the Skate’s crew saw so much as a scratch as body and blade danced with a mesmerizing grace across the tavern floor, though the belligerent corsairs of the Feather were not near so fortunate. Hamstrung, blinded, bleeding - Édouard’s cold, silent rage found many warm, ready targets as he strode to the drunken captain, crimson spray and a chorus of surprised screams in his wake.

His head snapped to the left when the third pistol shot roared, the golden Nicolette breaking a man so thoroughly and skillfully with her bare hands he did not rise again, and then moving to the next with an inexorable efficiency that was sheer poetry. As gleefully as a Viking of old, the helmsman was smashing men and chairs with equal relish, broken men and broken wood falling to either side as the remainder of the Skate’s crew erupted throughout the Boar. But even in the chaos, those eyes still discerned a deadly order, spotted the mortal threat come from a shadowed corner.

Swift as a serpent, Édouard wrapped his arm about Lightfoot’s shoulders, his neck, both stilettos in one hand now as he snatched the taller man backward to his chest. Bearing the captain’s weight in a preternatural display of strength and uncommon grace, Édouard reached with his free hand for the perfectly-balanced throwing knife tucked into the top of his tall leather boots.

As if guided by the divine hand of the huntress Artemis herself, the blade sailed across the length of the tavern, burying itself in the neck of the most unfortunate First Mate of the Crimson Feather just as his own pistol exploded, the musket ball hurtling through the empty air where Captain Lightfoot’s head had been less than a second before.

Édouard spat his disgust to the filthy floor. He had little mercy for fools who lacked the foresight not to bring yet another pistol to a knife fight. He heaved Captain Lightfoot back to his feet, spinning the man around and snatching at the collar of his shirt, yanking the taller man’s face to his own, bending the brim of his lovely black velvet chapeau as he did.

”Quel idiot!” he hissed through bared teeth, “You drink your piss water, and then invite death!?” Grey eyes blinked away some unnamed emotion with a growl as Édouard shoved Lightfoot away, turning to disappear back into the press of battling flesh as he snarled over his shoulder. “You return my blade when that bastard is done dying on it, you hear me? If you are so drunk you forget, I shall not be pleased… “

[AmongHeroes]

With the recoil of his second pistol shot still shivering in his hand, Thomas spun the weapons in his hand to brandish the brass-capped butts like clubs. Without a word he plunged into the crowd of corsairs who were still cringing from the shot. The impromptu bludgeons swung with deadly effect; smashing jaws, cracking noses, and crushing throats. Screams and cries of pain filled the Black Boar, and through his drunkenness Thomas felt a surge of pleasant adrenaline.

Thomas method of combat was a fluid dance of chaos, perfected and taught by none other than hard experience and the occasional word of wisdom from a fellow brigand. Fighting was something that had been a part of his life since Lightfoot had saved Thomas as a boy, and the first hard lesson the legendary pirate had taught him was that the man that fights without limits, fights upon the side of victory. In Thomas’ estimation, a gentleman who saves his virtue in combat will just as soon lose his life.

Thomas spat into the eyes of a burly pirate raising a hatchet above his head. Blinded, the pirate wavered in his motion, and Thomas struck him hard across the temple with the butt of a pistol. Instantly the man crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and Thomas spun to engage the next of the corsairs.

In this briefest of lulls, Thomas called back to Jax, who was in the process of plowing through a group of seaman with a chair. “I’ll save the balls…” Thomas ducked beneath a wild haymaker from his left, “…you save the rum!” The now off-balance corsair that had thrown the punch received a cruel stomp to the back of his knee, then a second to kick to the head as he fell. The man lay unconscious or dead, Thomas could not tell, and truly he did not care a whit for the man’s disposition.

A pistol report from off to his right drew Thomas’ attention, and he spun just in time to see his First Mate deftly toss the assailant onto the floor, knocking him out cold. Somewhere in the back of his drunken mind he made a mental note of the woman’s composure and skill. He would recall it later, and dwell upon its deadly efficacy. In the middle of the bedlam, even though it had taken only mere seconds to observe, Thomas had let his attention become singularly focused upon the sight of Nicolette dispatching the corsair. He failed to perceive the second pistol, this one held by the Feather’s own First Mate, being trained upon him.

Thomas felt himself being grabbed, and before he could even consider a response he was being flung backwards. He heard yet another blast of powder, accompanied by the hiss-snap of a lead ball as it flew past his head. Then, like a spring being released, he was standing again. Still wholly disoriented, Thomas was met with a caramel face with delicate features and grey eyes filled with a demonic fury. His mind had only time to complete one thought before the man who had saved his life spoke. Those eyes…

Then the man spoke, saying words of admonishment for drinking piss water, and then beckoning death’s embrace. Even in the midst of the still roiling fight, Thomas could not but stand stunned as he viewed the slim, cat-like man in the dandified clothing stalk away from him. The man spat something about retrieving his knife, and Thomas tracked the man’s gaze back to the dying corsair with the hilt of a stiletto blade protruding from his throat.

Still in a thin trance of bewilderment, Thomas looked back. His blank expression at last brightened as realization struck him. Antonia!?

The next thing to strike him was a fist, and it caught him high upon his left cheek. Thomas lurched to his right, stumbled, and fell atop the body of the hemorrhaging First Mate. Stars burst before his vision, and only his innate skill allowed him to roll to safety as a boot-heel landed where his neck had just been. The roll had taken him over the top of the now dead First Mate, and as he completed the roll, his right hand clutched around the bloody hilt of the knife.

Using his remaining momentum, Thomas came up on one knee facing the man that had struck him. In a flash the small knife came up, burying itself into the soft flesh near the man’s groin. With a resounding scream from the stabbed corsair, Thomas removed the blade. A river of blood from the wound followed with it. As the man began to collapse into his own pool of blood, Thomas stood.

Disoriented from the blow though he was, Thomas pulled the dagger from the strap at his back, and wielded in a reverse grip in his right hand. The smaller stiletto he had acquired was held in his left. With a ferocity that belied his injury and sobriety, Thomas moved to kill yet another pirate of the Crimson Feather.

A gunshot, insanely loud in the confines of the Boar, halted him in his tracks. It was not the sound of a pistol shot, no, it had the unmistakable roar of a long-musket. With the noise ringing in his ears, Thomas heard the hoarse cry of “Avast! Avast, damn you, in the name of His Excellency, the Governor!”

Through the cloud of smoke, Thomas made out Commander Robert Murray, the officer of the garrison at Fort Charles. Beside him stood a dozen men, armed with muskets trained indiscriminately into the crowd of pirates. The fighting in the Black Boar ceased instantly, and all eyes affixed upon the red-coated soldiers lining the walls of the tavern.

The handsome and ridgid commander looked about the crowd, his expression sour and disapproving. “You will all disperse at once, or be locked in Fort Charles on pain of penalty!”

In the lull, Thomas could see that the crew of the Skate had laid waste to those of the Feather. Many of the corsairs lay dead, dying, or severely wounded about the tavern. Those that remained saw the reality of their situation, and they were quick to take the commander up on his offer of a safe escape. Slowly, the tavern began to empty, the watchful eyes of the garrison soldiers never leaving the crowd.

With his chest still heaving from exertion, Thomas sheathed his dagger. There was nothing for it now. The governor was careful to provide a safe harbor for the pirates in Port Royal, for indeed it was the pirates that kept the Spanish at bay, and in turn kept gold flowing into the coffers of both the governor and the king himself. Still, the pirates of the Caribbean would be foolish to cast away the hospitality and legitimacy—paper thin though it was—afforded by the Crown.

The buzz of adrenaline began to fade as Thomas retrieved his pistols from the floor, and jammed them into their leather holsters. Pain throbbed with staccato heat upon his cheek, and even now he could feel the flesh swelling around his eye. He began to step towards the door, rubbing gingerly at his cheek when he came to the corpse of the corsair that had first held the knife to his back. Thomas stopped, staring down at the faceless bloody pulp of the head.

He fished into his pocket and removed a silver reale. Kneeling, he placed it almost reverently upon the man’s still chest. “For the boatman,” he said quietly.

[tirgesfu]

The adrenalin rush was slow to work its way from Jax’s fighting instincts even as the soldiers stood with muskets aimed. Sweat dripped in his eyes and his breath was fast and shallow. He noted quickly that more men he knew were on their feet and ones he did not were spread across the now cluttered floor. His crew had won of that he was sure. Even more so when he turned to see the face of his Captain.

It was time to go. Through the chaos of the fight Jax remember he heard the command that he was to guard the rum. As the men struggled to their feet, the ones that could, Jax reached for a surprisingly full bottle of rum. He was going to need that. Tucking that one in under his arm he reached for another only to realize the fresh blood and unworking of his own hand. Something was wrong. He sort of remembered striking someone backhanded and hearing an unhealthy snap. It wasn’t him was it? Jax looked at his hand a little more carefully. His one finger, the one beside his little one, was bent wrong and there under the joint he could see his bone.

Jax struggled to hold the other bottle of rum and he poured it over his hand keeping his teeth clamped tight to stifle his own cries of pain. He mumbled the anguish trying hard to hide it. He moved closer to Thomas watching him kneel by the dead boatman. There on the bar was a only slightly used bar rag and Jax took that quickly trying to wrap it around his injured hand. He wasn’t sure he wanted the Captain to see his wound. If Jax could sneak out without his broken hand being noticed maybe he could fix it up before they sailed again. He wasn’t sure if Captain Thomas would allow him the wheel with any injury at all. Jax wanted to stay on Dusk Skate. So he circled his hand quickly with the rag and tucked it under his coat.

His eyes flashed over the crew as they began to leave the scene looking for the first mate and healer. He was sure he had to hide from her. Doctor or first mate he didn’t want either to know of his failure, of his shortcomings. Jax had coins in his pocket and he could find someone in this port to pull his finger right. Or maybe he could after he drank the bottle of rum.

To cover things he grinned to the Captain as he passed him by, “Such distractions are a lucky thing for you sir, because I was getting ready to sit down and relieve you of your coins.” He glanced to the cards spread over the floor and then back to Thomas. “Another time.” He took a few steps away only to bump into the one he was supposed to avoid.

To Doctor Beacuhamp he tipped his head as if there were some cap upon it even though there was not. He took her in first to see if she managed to avoid or dance away from the hardest of hits. His hand was tucked inside his coat. Keeping one hand hidden he lifted the edge of his coat with the other hand to show her the bottle of rum he had tucked under his arm.

He smiled and winked thinking of her earlier offer. But Jax believed she would only give him a cold hard look and spin away leaving him the night to attend to his broken hand. He tried hard to keep his smile as he began to feel each heart beat in thumping pain through his fingers.

[Lillian Thorne]

She ignored the soldiers, or rather she shot them a cool glance that dared them to stop her and then she moved through the crowd of downed men, stooping and checking to see what needed seeing to, regardless of crew. Perhaps it would be seen as disloyal, but she didn’t care. The battle was done, the victors clear. She passed by the dead and dying, there was nothing to be done for a gut wound, but all in all the fatalities were minimal and the injuries not too dire.

One man, from the enemy ship took her kneeling at his side to be an invitation and took the opportunity to grope her. As his hand reached up, filthy, bloody fingers taking a hold of her breast, fingers restlessly searching for something to tweak she calmly pulled back her arm and delivered a careful blow that broke his nose with a sigh of long suffering. He screamed and released his grip leaving behind a bloody hand print on her shirt and the upper swell of her breast. She knelt by him impassibly until the screams turned into curses. The as she stood she said to him,

“Do not mistake kindness for weakness. You will live but your face will be marred with your inner ugliness.”

She gently touched her cheek where her own blackness was displayed and moved onto the next man. It wasn’t much longer before she was done, having shooed off the crew of the Skate, all of whom were mobile. She was just ready to turn to leave when someone bumped into her. She turned, her face still that calm mask that it wore in the face of chaos and she let her eyebrow rise as she faced the helmsman. She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him, something was off. That smile of his was in place broad and bright, but was it too bright? She looked him over, the lines around his eyes were deep, etched into his skin from the wind and sun but they looked deeper, tighter. They spoke of pain, pain the bright smile was trying to hide. She drew herself up and stepped back, her eyes sweeping over him in appraisal, though not of the sort he would likely appreciate.

He thought himself clever when he lifted his coat to show her the rum but it revealed a good deal more. She caught sight of the rag, filthy and grimy pressed to his side and winced. This was not good, but the fact that he was upright made her think it might not be so bad. But she still wanted to see it, to know that her crew, even one as flippant as this one, was well and had not lost something as valuable as his life in this absurd little skirmish.

“Show me.” She said, her honeyed voice commanding.

He was crew and it was her job to keep the crew inline and in one piece. She didn’t like that he hid his wound from her, as if he didn’t trust her to take care of it. He was new so perhaps she hadn’t made her point clear enough with him yet. She had fought this fight before, to prove her place on the crew as not just an officer but as a Doctor. So many of the crew at first would not come to her with illnesses, embarrassed or disbelieving. She would admit she wasn’t thrilled when she had to treat her crew for the various things they picked up in brothels but she did because it was her job and the ones who thought to cover their embarrassment and discomfort with lewdness and crude jokes found themselves with a flux from the medicines she gave them, the ones who behaved did not. But in the end, they all wound up clean.

“Do not make me pull your hand off of that wound.” She said misunderstanding what it was he was hiding but implacable nevertheless. “Do you know what a gut wound does to a man? We can stay here and listen to him scream.” She said and pointed to the man who was beginning to stir restlessly on the ground, his feet shifting weakly against the floorboards as his shit mingled with his insides.

[Igraine]

"Non ma chère, I am fine, just fine... Stop fretting over me... Here... " Madeleine might have laughed to lighten the dark, intractable look that sat on Édouard's face, but she was confounded by the seemingly unshakeable frown. The stilettos were already sheathed and, as the young man holstered the pistol, he allowed Madeleine to help him shrug back into the purple velvet jacket.

"You shouldn't be so angry with him," she continued blithely, her thick Creole accent a warm breeze between them as she walked back about the young man to settle his lapels just so, pulling his long, thick braids from beneath its folds, "He is what he is, and always was, and will not change! Danger follows in his wake like a cur, and he does love to keep that beast on a loose chain!"

"I'm not angry, Madeleine. Not with him, at least." Édouard said simply, almost too quickly for the truthfulness he never meant to reveal. The young man affixed the cuffs of his jacket before his eyes returned to Madeleine's face, the smallest attempt at something not a frown trying to emerge on his full lips.

Madeleine studied that face for a long moment, midnight-colored eyes narrowed in thought before she caught her breath with a sudden realization. "Oh no," she whispered, the backs of her fingers softly grazing the young man's smooth cheeks. "You've got it bad, dearest heart... "

That hint of a smile disappeared in an instant, replaced by confusion, denial - and then simple irritation as Édouard shook his head swiftly and, with a roll of his grey eyes, caught Madeleine's fingers in his hand to kiss them softly. "I'm in no mood for anymore idiocy tonight," he replied in French before wrapping one arm about her waist protectively, making their way to descend the stairs of the mezzanine. "Let's get you home, Madeleine. We've cuckolded your good husband enough for one evening, wouldn't you say?"

The young woman really did laugh then, smacking Édouard's arm playfully and letting the import of her previous words fall to the side, when it became obvious there would be no further headway made. Stubborn, impossibly stubborn, the single most bullheaded creature ever born, truly...

Édouard's eyes lingered over the dead and dying as the pair hit the main floor. Most of those still able to walk had made their way, quick or slow, from the main floor beneath the watchful, weary eyes of the garrison soldiers and threat of long muskets. The golden Nicolette shone like the sun herself in such a dingy, dreary place as she moved with admirable efficiency among the fallen, though the young man could not begin to embrace the emotion that drove her to do as she did, to deal succor among the very men they'd only just cut down.

But she was a grown woman, and a consummate professional, and would do as she would - though watching her break that fool's nose in a split-second brought the first hint of a genuinely wicked little smile to his face since the arrival of Commander Murray's men. Jax had somehow managed to find his way to her as well, a pained smile on his face though whether for some injury he couldn't see, or the likely insane amount of effort he must have to put into being vaguely "charming" before a woman like the First Mate, Édouard couldn't begin to guess.

No matter though, the night was still far too young, and there was yet gleek to be played, and business to be planned. He stepped lithely over bodies, limbs and puddles of blood, lifting Madeleine easily as if she were the finest of gentlewomen, to Nicolette.

"Mademoiselle Beauchamp?" he said in his perfect, Parisian French, lifting the brim of his hat to meet her large pale eyes with his own steady, grey-eyed gaze. "If you would be so kind, when you are finished here putting back together all the bits and pieces some of us worked so hard to separate from their owners?"

"This is Madame Madeleine Williams who, with her good husband, runs the Parakeet tavern. Our good Captain Silver Fish does not know it yet, but I would suggest it might be a very wise notion to meet up at the Parakeet this night. Why, there are still cards to be played after all, and no small number of worthy matters yet to discuss."

Édouard's gaze fell on Jax with an almost longsuffering smile, though he still spoke to the First Mate - this time in English laced with that heavily-accented Creole. "Bring the helmsman too if you like. He should have an earful, as well as a bellyful of rum and a night full of losing all his coin at gleek." The young man laughed warmly, and then bowed, the jaunty ostrich feather in his hat floating in his wake before he turned, his arm still protectively about Madeleine's waist. He strode the length of the tavern to the door, stopping only long enough behind Captain Lightfoot to whisper softly over his shoulder, into his ear.

"Silver Fish?" he said softly as the man stood over the faceless body. Édouard nodded appreciatively when he noted the reale placed for the man's strange loa, but said nothing more on the matter when he caught the man's copper gaze. "The Parakeet tonight," Édouard continued quickly, the fingers of his free hand clutched into a sudden, white-knuckled fist at his side. Traitorous fingers suddenly ached to tend to the rising reddish-purple bruise on Lightfoot's face and that... That simply would not do.

"Invitations have been made," he added, nodding toward the First Mate and the helmsman, "And I do still look forward to seeing her wipe the floor with you in cards." The young man smiled, nodding slowly before he turned with Madeleine once more.

"Your Antonia will be there as well," Édouard added over his shoulder as he made his way past Commander Murray without a single glance - wisely - in the man's direction.