Captain Aniruddha Tok stood on the quarter deck, leaning on the rail with his legs crossed and one of his tanned hands rubbing his upper lip as he thought. The sun was just just starting its ascent behind the waves, the ocean shining stark red as the rays stained its beauteous body. A shimmering sea of blood, it appeared to be. This was not an inappropriate image with the events of this wild day in mind. A deep sigh resounded in his chest with the thought of it, pain, concern, anxiousness, and worry riddled in the huff. Tok was not normally the sort to fret about anything, but in these days, he found himself constantly stressing. The Ratgrins were in some serious trouble, all of it undeniably his doing. First, he had lead his crew on a bat-shit crazy mission to kidnap a highly secured young princess, resulting in the death of more than a couple members. They'd managed to make a quick escape and were luckily enough that the Princess had stupidly wandered off, but it didn't make the loss of those men any less shameful. His crew wasn't happy about it and he was well aware- hell, he understood completely. They didn't even know what this charade was about.

On top of it all, they would surely have the navy pursuing them all in due time. While Princess Hermione wasn't all that iconic, she was still a princess, so stealing her was asking to be hung in the gallows. Tok knew it didn't matter though. If they made it to the final destination, the Lost City of Gold, nothing could stand in their way. He felt immensely guilty that the rest of the crew had no idea of his crazy scheme, and wondered if today ought to be the day he told them. They probably assumed he'd gone off his tracks, finally losing his marbles. You see, the only people who knew about the true motives for kidnapping the young maiden was he, Kai the scholar he'd been researching with for the past recent years, and Siegfried, the sociable first mate that had slowly won Ruddha's respect and trust during his time aboard.

If he were a more emotional man, he might have cried. The four blokes who lost their lives last night were good friends of his, and they'd given they had for his sake. He remembered when he first picked them up nearly five years ago fondly and bitterly at the same time, knowing that he wouldn't see them shuffling about his ship anymore. The loyalty his crew had almost scared him, but more so touched him.

A deep, guttural hum left his closed mouth as he began to approach his own personal cabins. "Well, I do suppose it's time to introduce myself to our princess." he said aloud, his lips pressed into a tight line as he descended some stairs at a brisk pace. His feet darted up and down each step like a needle to cloth. His movement very much resembled that of an graceful feline, fluid-like and smooth despite the fact that his posture was straight and his head proudly raised. You might wonder how he managed to keep his poise even after having two sleepless nights- he couldn't so much as shut his eyes the night before thinking about the trials the kidnapping would provide, and he certainly hadn't slept any since the abduction. Ruddha had so graciously boarded the young girl in his own personal chambers, figuring it'd be better for her to have some time alone as opposed to being crowded by all the men and women on deck. However, it seemed that the girl hadn't thought him nearly so giving, as she'd been making a huge fuss, crying and flailing and screaming and... He felt his head shake with disdain at the thought. He honestly couldn't even imagine why she'd act such a way... other than the whole being abducted deal. He waved away the thought passively. The gal would learn to love being on a ship after time- every one did. He'd never met a single person who hadn't fallen deeply in love with the sea after a long enough time to get to know it personally.

He rapped on his door a couple times to note her that he was entering, then promptly slipped the silver keys out of his pocket and into the lock, entering with ease. "Good morning, my lady. I do hope made yourself comfortable in my chambers. I'll start this off with a brief apology and a statement insuring your future safety aboard this ship. I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I can promise that you'll be treated kindly aboard The Wandering Jewel. Earlier, it seemed you weren't too happy to see me which is precisely why I've waited a couple hours to visit. I was hoping we could get over these little trivialities and start over anew," he rambled at the girl who'd fallen asleep in his large chair. Cried herself to sleep, it seemed. He spoke evenly, his deep voice vibrating against the walls. "I am Captain Aniruddha Tok, the great, the clever, the handsome. You can either call me Captain, Ruddha, or Your Grand Exquisite & Dashing Majesty." He took a deep bow and offered the girl a hand. Even in the grimmest of situations, he was never without his facetiously arrogant (or arrogantly facetious, perhaps) nature.

He chose to be as civil as possible, treating their new guest with the same chivalry he'd done with any newcomer. The young princess was in no way getting special treatment, aside from being able to sleep in his favorite chair. This was simply how Tok worked, a sly gentlemen through and through. "I'm sure you have a full throttle inquisition ready to be wrangled around my neck, so I'll just let you get that out of the way first. Go ahead, ask away. I promise you an honest and undoubtably witty response, which is actually a privilege not many get to enjoy. Also, I brought new clothes for you to change into. I'm sincerely sorry your pretty dress got ruined last night." He said, not mentioning the fact that the biggest reason he wanted her to change is so that she blended in with the pirates and couldn't be easily identified as the princess.

He said this while thinking that as soon as their conversation was over, he'd head up to order the ship to set sail. With the sun slowly creeping up, now was the best time to leave. Leaving last night would have clearly given them away, but now that all the other ships at dock began to sail off, they might be able to disguise themselves amongst the ranks. He flicked his amber eyes back to the small girl.

Unbeknownst to most people, Siegfried Howell was a very contemplative man. The sort who, even in the moments when he seemed most flippant and off-the-cuff, was always thinking, always planning, and always more curious than was perhaps safe. It was a characteristic that had been his childhood undoing on more than one occasion, when the sharp crop had rapped his knuckles and his tutors had berated him for not paying attention. They could not understand for the life of them how the boy who was always daydreaming while his more diligent sibling took furious notes could still manage to remember what they said at all. But he could, and it was this same duplicity between manner and internal character that even now allowed him to act the flawless fool whilst wondering, somewhere deep inside himself, if in the end everything would really be worth it.

He had very few moral reservations left about the lifestyle he had chosen, it was true. This was to be expected. Nobility was pretty much the same as piracy, only without a boat and the sea, and with a lot more restrictive clothing. Was it really any surprise he’d chosen to be honest in his crookedness? Well, honest as someone like him ever could be anyway. He was, after all, lying with every bumbling step he took.

Contemplative he may have been, but it would never appear so. Siegfried could scarcely be bothered to appear somber on the gravest of occasions, but today he did not think it would be so incriminating to lift the veil of humor from his demeanor and mourn with the rest. Not terribly openly, but at least sparing them the inappropriate jokes that were the hallmark of his presence. They had lost four men on their raid of the Princess’s dwelling-place, and probably would have lost more were it not for his uncanny sense of direction- more properly, the fact that he had been there on several previous occasions, but would never say as much. Luckily, Ruddha was not the kind to ask unnecessary questions, and from anyone else, he could simply deflect.

Siegfried’s own swords were coated in the blood of guards who had sought to stop them, and for that, there was no clemency. He’d killed three, knocked out several more, and that was to say nothing of the rest of the raiding party. At least he knew why it was they’d done that; to most of them, it was still as shadowed as the corners of a seedy tavern, and that could only make it worse.

Ruddha was belowdecks, no doubt attending to their newest guest. That was fine with Siegfried; he’d rather avoid contact with her if at all possible. Not from any dislike of the princess as a person, but rather from the fact that there was always a chance she’d recognize him for a certain small child in a garden, or at an event and seeking with equal fervor as Hermione herself to be anywhere else. It wasn’t all that likely; he looked very little like the scrawny child with disheveled hair he had been, but even so, he was comfortable in his relative obscurity, and had no desire to be rid of it.

It did, however mean he was ranking authority on deck. Which meant that any difficult questions would be his to field for the moment. Better to put that off as long as possible. “All right, everyone! If you’re still uninjured, get moving! We sail as soon as the Captain gives the order!” There was much to be done between now and then; the Jewel was a large ship, and supported a large crew. Supplies had been taken care of yesterday, but the actual hauling of anchor and adjustments to rigging and the setting of course would need to be done now. Everyone had been given a few hours to recuperate and so their departure would not be too well, timed, but they needed to go now, as the sun was creeping up the sky. Beyond those simple orders, he’d trust Kei, the resident bosun, to take care of actually whipping the crew into shape, so to speak. Siegfried himself assumed his usual post at the fore of the ship, leaning casually against the side-railing and watching as everyone snapped to it. They were a good crew, this lot, even if they were more eclectic a bunch than most would ever have to deal with. He crossed his arms, causing the bells on his wrists to chime softly. It was rare to hear Siegfried in motion; he had the odd talent of being able to move noiselessly even when pretending to also be graceless. The bells were as much there to remind him to jangle them occasionally as anything else, though it did make his comic-relief routine a little more believable, he supposed.

Around his wrist was a chain-link bracelet of a silver color, and he resisted the urge to chuckle. He didn’t have to try hard- though Cathy’s antics amused him to no end, now wasn’t really the time for laughter. He’d give everyone a bit before he started cracking jokes again. By then, it would be more a way to take minds off loss than anything premature. The pirating life was a risky one; death was expected on occasion. They’d all narrowly escaped it on more than one occasion, from himself and the Captain down to the cook and the carpenter. Actually, he wondered how Tinker was doing, now that he thought about it. The man was a capable combatant, but much more a lover than a fighter, as many a port-wench could attest.

Dammit, Ruddha. I hope you know what you’re doing this time. We’ve lost four, and we’ll lose more before this ordeal is out. Siegfried assumed a distant but none-too-bright expression, just to make sure he wouldn’t look like he was thinking too hard, and resisted the urge to shake his head. He followed the Captain from loyalty, probably misguided sometimes, but unwavering all the same. It was the reason that, even when his better nature protested kidnapping a perfectly innocent childhood acquaintance against her will and risking all their lives to do it, he lead the men and women of the Ratgrins down the twisting stone paths anyway. It was the reason he conveniently placed himself in front of the door to block Hermione’s escape, and it was the reason he would tell nobody else about the truth behind the entire thing.

He glanced over at the unmanned helm, no more than a few feet from where he was leaning, and wondered if Raziah was uninjured. He hadn’t been able to check; their flight from the castle had been much too frantic for him to do much more than count heads, subtract for the ones he knew to be dead, and play rear guard the rest of the way.

Captain William Henry Hamilton sat at the desk in his cabin, his Sailing Master, Jack Weaver, and his second-in-command, Lieutenant Jallad Faires, sitting opposite of him, all three intently studying charts of the seas surrounding Great Britain. He had just finished his first voyage aboard the Spiteful, a month long patrol of the North Sea, and would be finished taking on provisions for the ships first circumnavigation, Admiral Wilmington-Smythe's favorite method of getting rid of William for prolonged periods of time. The good captain had been eager to start what would be his 5th trip around the world, but those plans had been drastically changed. Like a wild fire, news of the kidnapping of one of the king's daughters last night had spread through the country. And then this morning a letter had arrived from Admiral Thompson, informing him that he was to forgo his previous orders, telling him to set sail in pursuit of Her Highness' kidnappers, but that he was to make sure to wait for an individual only identified as a Miss Leanna Kovacs to arrive. Normally William would be out on deck supervising his crew, especially one as green as this one, but now he had to leave it to the other officers, all of whom he had served with before and trusted, and trusting the more experienced crew members he had been able to bring from his previous ship to show the new men the ropes.

"They're likely somewhere near the Thames if they were able to kidnap the princess." William stated, "That means their fastest route of escape would be through the Channel, but also the most dangerous. Heading through the North Sea would be slower, but also safer. The kidnappers have shown themselves to be either incredibly brave, or stupid, by their actions, so I imagine they would probably consider the Channel a viable option. Heading up the channel would be pointless for us. We'd be going against the wind and the rest of the fleet is sure to be stopping every ship that tries to go through. The real question, then, is who they're working for, where they intend to go."

William's initial thought had been it had been that it had been the actions of another nation, but that was seeming to be less likely at this point. The Spaniards seemed to be the most likely to try something like this at that time, but he just didn't feel they had the resources and ability to do so with King Philip V's focus being on the continent. The French would have been a suspect as well if it wasn't for the fact that it would ruin relations with their current allies of the Crown, possibly going so far as to push the king to leave the Triple Alliance. From the reports of the ragged and colorful group that had apparently committed the crime, it was seeming that the criminal was a very daring group of pirates. "Whoever they are, they're going to need a safe place to make port before asking for ransom. I doubt that they're going to Scandinavia or the Baltic. Africa also doesn't seem to likely. They're probably heading to the America's, I'd say the Caribbean. Opinions?" Captain Hamilton turned his attention to the two men sitting opposite him, inviting them to share their thoughts.

After hearing Sieg’s command, she hurriedly ducked into the kitchen, for fear of Kei giving her actual work. Not that she was lazy…okay, yes, she was very lazy. She’d much rather be in the kitchen cooking a victory breakfast. Though, she wondered if it was yet a victory, seeing as she had no idea why they even kidnapped the princess in the first place! Since the start of the captain had first told the crew of his plans, she had wondered if he had gone insane. Now, it dawned on her that he must have some bigger plan in mind. At least, she hoped so; cause having to work under a mental captain would probably be very tiring. Or very fun, depending on what kind of crazy he was.

Pulling out mushrooms, eggs, rice, rum, and sausage, Grace started working on breakfast. She would be making her huge omelets. They’re so big that she uses several giant cooking pots, and they come out as big as a person’s head! She also soaked them in rum, her own special ingredient. She also poured herself a glass. Well, three, actually, in large glasses. After finishing her third glass, her nerves finally calmed down. She couldn’t think very clearly, though, about the situation. Though, she supposed that was a good thing, for the time being.

She briefly wondered what Tiesa what doing. She was probably bandaging up an injured crewmate. Grace smirked when she thought about her cousin’s face when Captain Ruddha announced his plans of kidnapping the princess. “Oh shit!”, was probably what was going through her mind at the time. At least that’s what Grace’s first thought was. Grace had a reputation aboard the ship. To put it plainly, she was a slut. She was perfectly willing to bed any guy on the ship, no strings attached. That’s probably what happens when one’s mother forced you to become a prostitute at a young age. At least she could say this about herself: she didn’t charge anymore, so she wasn’t a whore.

Outside, she could hear Jimmy’s bellowing voice. It was louder than usual, which meant he was yelling at someone. She snickered, imagining what had gotten him riled up. And, who, for that matter.

Jallad wouldn't have minded a trip around the world personally, but he did wonder what his captain thought of it each time. The man wasn't prone to venting, after all. At least not to Jallad. Yet, now was clearly not the time to be mildly regretting the lost opportunity, for there was quite an alarming emergency at hand: alarming enough to have Jallad near-dragged out of bed by his ankles, despite the fact that he had a slight cold and had been promised (or was it forced to have?) a day of repose. And he had barely had the time to look presentable, to make things worse, but at least his overcoat was properly buttoned. "Surely it isn't an intention to start a war," he had mentioned, to either himself or Jack, without thinking. "There are far less risky ways of doing so."

He snapped out of his rumination with record-breaking speed when his captain asked for opinions, however. "Sir! I concur, yes sir!" Jallad wheezed. After an awkward pause, he cleared his throat, twice for good measure. "The Americas do host a multitude of unexplored territory, and the ports are not strictly supervised." Otherwise there would be far smaller of a smuggling problem.

"...Still, it may be best if we had more solid information before acting... captain, sir. We may be able to figure out a pattern--have there been any reports of what particular band of pirates these are?" To waste time in the wrong location would not be good for their image, not at all. They would be worse than laughing stocks--they would be failures. Perhaps even traitors, if the wrong person in a position of authority pointed the finger of conspiracy at them. That would be beyond dreadful.

As the sun emerged from the embrace of the sea, where it had buried itself comfortably all night long, gold and crimson hues skittered across the fine features of Raziah Moreau. Her face seemed angry and strained, radiating tension. The air was as still as it might be within the walls of a tomb. Perhaps this ship would be their tomb, Raziah mused, securing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She sat cross-legged, leaning her head against the mizzenmast. She noted without moving to the click of the Captain's shoes as he strode across the ship. She knew he wasn't coming towards her, but she wished he was. She hadn't slept last night, scimitar clutched tightly in her right hand. She was in a foul mood. She expected to see the British Navy appear any moment, and entire army marching up the docks and demanding their heads displayed on silver platters, at least they had class, the breakfast of kings. Not that she wouldn't enjoy another fight--the thought broke the tension long enough for her face relax and the corner of a single lip to twitch before they sprang back into her dedicated scowl. Air escaped her clenched teeth in a low hiss, as if the motion might deflate her wrath.

She wasn't angry at Ruddha. No, that wouldn't be likely. Her sentiments towards her friend ran unfathomably deep, but they were simple. Fiercely loyal, she often did his biding without hesitation or criticism. It was as if he could do no wrong. So she wasn't upset with Ruddha. She was frustrated that she remained in the dark. It reminded her miserably of the their childhood together. She'd never understand why he would withhold information from her. "No Raziah, you can't come." The words meant he was leaving all reason behind him. "We're just going to pick up some pastries," he told her with a wink and a devilish grin. He didn't often tell her the details of his plans, but she was almost always there supporting his cause, no matter what sort of death-sentence was attached to it. She wasn't angry with the recent progression of events, she just wished she wasn't blindly following him while the stakes were so high. When she couldn't see anything, she needed to be ready for everything. It was exhausting. It was a lifelong battle she had with the Captain. It wouldn't likely ever change.

She still didn't know why Ruddha would risk his life to kidnap the princess. She didn't know where they were going. Lips pursed and threatening to break into a snarl if it weren't for every bit of her concentration focusing on containing her feelings. Indeed, if Ruddha didn't tell her something, it was generally foolish, but it didn't serve him well to leave her confused. Her sole desire in life was to serve him, as well as interject angry sarcasm into conversations otherwise filled with fluff. She didn't mourn the loss of the crew members. She felt it was their own ineptitude that had them killed. She went on the same mission. Each of their deaths was the result of a mistake, a miscalculation in combat. If she felt anything towards them, it was resentment for jeopardizing the Captain's well-being and desires with their deaths. She felt comforted as the sun rose, casting the shadows away. The night had always been a foe of hers.

Her sharp eyes locked on Siegfried as he shouted the obvious. Shooting him a quick look that clearly said, I'm doing this of my own accord, not because you told me to, she rose and slinked over to the helm, knowing that if they were awaiting the Captain's orders, there was plenty of time.

Cathy had not been part of the storming of the castle. Of course not! Somebody had to keep watch over the ship, make sure they wouldn't get snucked up on and scream her Godforsaken lungs out if they would. Besides, what would they do if their poor, precious little gem of a lookout got injured? They'd be blinder than blind mice and run into icebergs two seconds after she was gone, yeah! She guaranteed it, sticking her tongue out at no one in particular.

No, actually, there was a bird in the direction her tongue was pointing. It tilted its head, beady eyes and white feathery fat body unmoving from its perch on the rim of her little wooden bucket of a home in the sky. After a brief staring contest, she quickly retracted her tongue and pursed her lips at it, feigning innocence with wide eyes. It was a seagull, and that was always bad news. Seagulls held grudges. She was pretty sure seagulls told all their relatives about their grudges, so that they could all ambush her when she wasn't looking. Someday, it would happen.

The seagulls.

She would have to warn nursey Tiesa about the seagulls, tell her to write Cathy's will and never ever include a seagull in there. Fiends, all of them--As if reading her thoughts (or her very readable expression), the bird cawed and flapped its wings, causing Cathy to squawk in surprise and throw her arms over her face. It left her in a confetti of feathers. "Fiend, that's right!" she hissed after it, near shaking her fist. Luckily for her, it was long gone, and didn't seem to notice her small display of rage.

...Cathy placed her hands on the rim of the Crow's Nest, leaning so far forward her feet departed from the ground an inch or five. She wondered if any one got hurt. Well duh, of course some people got hurt, they were storming the castle with royal guards and... Cathy huffed. What was the point of all this? Sure, the captain would know, but she doubt he'd tell her. The first mate would know, but he'd enjoy not telling her. Kai... Cathy scowled deeply. Definitely knows what's going on. She'll deal with him later, she will. Not that she had any big reason for wanting to know, though. Cathy gradually sunk over the edge, but she had a strong grip. Straining her arms, she lifted herself into a handstand, and gravity tugged her skirts down over her face. She wobbled only slightly as she swiped at and snatched a portion of suspended rope with her feet. She returned upright after pulling the rope down after her, then tugged on it to make sure it was nice and secure. Cathy batted at her dress to smooth out any major rumples, and didn't bother trying to fix her hair. This was the rope she used for getting higher up, and she might need it soon. It was almost her best friend.

Was it wrong to be curious about what was going on though? She was part of the team, wasn't she? Of course she was.

"You know, these bindings are hardly necessary."
"We wouldn't want you running away, would we Miss Kovacs? You have a job to do."

Leanna Kovacs and four British soldiers made their way through the less scrupulous part of town, near the docks. Her hands and feet both bound as she shuffled along. The soldiers behind her pushed her. It's not as if she wanted to escape. After all, where would she go? The Admiral made it very clear that she'd be executed if she didn't cooperate. That alone would be enough to sway her to action, but they offered money too! She just felt it might be faster to have her unbound, so they all might be able to run to the ship, The Spiteful, and begin their journey. Regardless, the group pressed on.

Reaching the dock that said ship was docked at, the officer in charge exchanged some words with a crewman, and moved Leanna on board. "Welcome home, lass" the officer had a smug grin on his face as he ordered her bindings be undone. Minutes later, Leanna rubbed her wrists, which ached from the shackles and stretched leisurely. She was interrupted by the weight of her weapons and pack impacting her chest, causing her to cough as she barely managed to catch them.

"You got me a present, John" She smiled at the officer. "How sweet." She tied off her belt, which held her sword; an elegant but practical smallsword which she picked up in France; and her two flintlock pistols. She wouldn't accept any other weapons.

"She's your problem now." With that, the officer turned from the crewman and returned to the dock. Without explicit orders to do anything specific, Leanna decided she'd introduce herself, and try to get a better room than the brig. After some searching, she located what appeared to be the captains cabin. It was closed, and that nearly deterred her, but she figured her presence was probably more important than whatever was being discussed. With renewed confidence, she turned the handle on the door, and entered the captain's cabin. She caught the end of a statement.

"...band of pirates these are?" She could see the captains face, but the other three in the room were facing away from her, towards the captain. She decided not to speak.

The whole situation had been a complete and utter nightmare, the loss of four of their men was a clear hit to the crew's morale, which ment questions would soon start being asked, if not already. He couldn't help but know there had to be hints of doubt in the crews mind. He was perched near stern of the ship, watching everything around him. His own sword had been bloodied by guards, and his fists sore from skulls he had to crack. Though the had succeeded at kidnapping the princess, at the cost of a lot of morale; as well as possible the complete trust of the crew.

He would never question the captain, at least not out loud. He couldn't this grand adventure was one that he had no plans of stopping, not until the reached their fabled destination. He heard Siegfried's orders and couldn't help but push himself off the railing he was leaning against, passing bay Raziah as she moved to the helm. He had been lucky to get away without a scratch from the battle, looking up to notice Cathy fighting with a seagull, or something of that nature. "Cathy" He name entered his thoughts, they had met sometime long ago, and then when the unfortunate happened they had parted ways. It was quite a tale, but one he didn't plan on sharing. He let out a slight sigh as he moved below deck towards the galley. He slowed his step as the aroma of food hit his nose. Then realizing that he was starving, it had been hours sense the battle; but still the adrenaline in his system didn't die away, maybe it was paranoia that kept him waiting for an attack, or it could just be the fact that they were pirates and everyone usually wanted their heads.

He shook his head, his mind clearing of these thoughts as he took in the sight of Grace, and what a lovely sight it was; much like their doctor on board she had red hair, something that wasn't common where he was from, and he found it quite exotic, which was why they had a bit of a past together. "no, no sudden trips down that memory lane..not yet anyways" He thought to himself; taking a few more steps towards her. He cleared his throat to let her know that he was near before he spoke, "That sure was a skirmish that could have been avoided." he used this as well to announce his presence to her, as he closed the gap between them leaning against the counter nearest to her as he looked over at her, waiting for her to comment on his thought about the situation that had finally been resolved, or at least put off until they got far enough away. Unfortunately his act at being smooth, was not to be so, his stomach taking control, and bellowing out loudly to announce that he was hungry, and with that color coated his cheeks as he smiled bashfully at her, chuckling nervously. "Well, guess I'm hungry" He announced, trying to play it off, these situations of embarrassment always seemed to find him at the oddest of moments.

Jack wasn’t a fan of sitting with his back to doors. Especially not in closed quarters, when someone could sneak up on you at any moment and slip a knife in your back. The sailing master had better fighting instincts than most, but even he would admit that he’d once met a soul who could have done it. Not that this particular man was anywhere around, but you didn’t make it out of your childhood alive in scummy Glasgow without maintaining more paranoia than would be considered healthy anywhere else.

The navigator’s leg jimmied up and down in place, a twitchy habit that he’d never been able to break. He just wasn’t used to being still for that long, full stop. His long, femininely-tapered fingers drummed a steady rhythm against his thigh as he contemplated the maps arrayed out in front of him. The Captain had the right of it; the Channel was of little use to them. Even so, if the scumbags who’d taken the princess were indeed on a ship and indeed headed to the Americas as would seem to make the most sense, then the Channel was the straightest shot there.

Why they weren’t just searching everything in the Thames from the capital flagships to the tiniest dinghy was beyond Jack; he did not claim to understand how nobility thought, and that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He had no desire to be an arrogant, pampered hound for the king. He’d be much happier as a feral wolf at the beck and call of a much worthier man, and that was what he was. Like any wild animal, Jack was gifted with a rare cunning and a shrewd intelligence, though he knew very little of those things which came as part of a general education.

Jallad piped up, with a question only somewhat relevant, but Jack’s own reply was stymied by the rather brazen entrance of a woman with red hair. The sailing master’s eyes narrowed; barging in like that was disrespectful, and since it was Captain Hamilton being disrespected, Jack wasn’t taking kindly to it. His first instinct was to shove the woman right back out the door and tell her to wait until such time as she was actually called-for, but he settled for appearing to ignore her existence.

“If they knew who’d done it, they’d not bother mobilizing us,” Jack pointed out realistically. There was no denying that they were not the admiralty’s favorite crew; it was why they’d wound up with so many circumnavigation assignments. “These guys don’t know caution. If they do, they’ve thrown it to the wind for whatever they’ve got planned. Someone was willing to risk a lot just to get a hold of the princess. They won’t be afraid to risk more to keep her. They’ll go for the Channel.” There was no way to know something like that with absolute certainty, of course, but Jack understood a little something of the criminal mindset, and was not afraid to share.

“If we want to catch them…’ Jack traced a finger along the North Sea route. “We sail with the wind, and predict their likeliest stops once we get sight of the Americas. Assuming it takes that long.” He’d never been fond of talking, so he clamped his mouth shut immediately afterwards. His gaze flickered to the armed woman still standing at the door, and Jack did not hide his distaste for the interruption. He was grateful for the flintlock pistol in one boot and the long knife in the other, though his preferred method of fighting had always been tooth, nail, and fist.

Explosions of mottled colours – purple, green, yellow, red and blue – swelled around Tinker's unveiled eye and lips, and partially around the majority of the left side of his face. Bruises much more abysmal than black and blue, sweltering freshly and thrumming with rekindled pain whenever he flinched. It was proof he was still living, proof blood is still pulsing, throbbing, sounding, resonating beneath his weathered skin. It was confirmation that he wasn't sinking into the depths of the salty seas with his four friends, and proof that maybe he should've been sucking seaweed and inhabiting sea urchins instead of them. They might've been better men, stronger and braver, protecting everyone aboard the Ratgrins. Bruises map his body like an atlas that has forgotten who it was and becomes only something you look at and touch and pound for answers, expecting nothing but receiving a houndish loyalty. The Carpenter wasn't a fighter but was asked to blindly retrieve a young Princess whose royal ilk would serve them in some mysterious way, and though Tinker wanted to ask why the hell they were doing something like that, he didn't bother questioning Captain Tok. His fingers thumbed across his heavy brows, pushing sodden bangs back across his skull and thumbing the small bump marring the base of his skull. A solid goose egg from the butt of a rifle, he guessed.

Tinker's shoulders hunched forward as he surveyed the damage in his small hand mirror, cracked and brittle in the corners, turning it this way and that. The ivory paint was chipped along the edges and displayed the auburn copper in slivers; a cheap memorabilia from an old woman peddling rustic wares in dusky marketplace. A small bottle of brandy was placed precariously on the wooden worktable, half empty and staining the burnished wood around it with wet blotches. He leaned back in his chair, breathing deeply. His mouth felt as dry as the sands, lapping nothing much but the aftertastes of sweet brandy. Pirates did not miss. They did not long for another person. They didn't feel heartache or loss. They were not forgiven … when they murdered, even if they felt the drowning guilt throttling their hearts. And they certainly did not fall in love. These were essential qualities when living the dangerous life of a shoddy privateer, staring death in the face, and carrying on when you lose good friends – strong men and women who were better than you were. His thoughts pounded restlessly against his temples and he found he couldn't smear the medicinal paste given to him by Tiesa on his wounds; the thought of impending agony was daunting and he didn't want to cry out in pain, alerting the others' of his weakness.

He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. Tinker's swollen eyes were tired and he still felt weary, so utterly beaten, but something told him he should sleep no more. He'd collapsed aboard the Ratgrins upon delivering Princess Hermione and found himself nestled in his bunk, half-bandaged with an unopened bottle of brandy tucked into the crook of his arm, courtesy of his old friend Siegfried. Grudgingly, he reached over to the table next to him and took a swig from the bottle that sat on top of it. He breathed out after setting the bottle back on the table and the thick, pungent scent of alcohol filled his quarters. As much as he loved the smell, he didn't wish to stay cooped up and breathing it was becoming inexorable. He opened the hatch above him and crawled out into the brisk breeze that was whipping past him, leaving him breathless. It was all that could ever take his mind off the subtle pleasures and burdens of a pirate's life. Not unusual was this behaviour; this feeling that perhaps there was something more or maybe even less than what he had been pursuing in his life for so long, and that was freedom. He genuinely believed that after a few days spent aboard the Ratgrins, even the screaming, clawing Princess could come to adore their roguish lifestyle.

The Carpenter staggered to the bow of the ship and leaned over the side, peering into the lapping ocean and reflecting orange hues casting a strange ember glow across the horizon. He turned his back to the ocean and, leaning up against the intricate railings, he could see the black sails whipping back and forth. Almost as the sun rose, he could feel its warmth wash over him. Most of the time, he would watch the sun rise. Even pirates take pleasure in the beauty of the sunrises, and they never get old when you're sailing on the ocean. Instead of watching one sun, it's as though you're watching two, for the colours are reflected in the water and can give off almost twice as much light and charm as one sunrise. Although, it's glamour seemed to be waning thing today. Tinker observed the crowded decks and smiled, somewhat wickedly, flinched a moment later and bowed his head. The decks shifted beneath his feet, and he didn't doubt that if he staggered forward he'd find his cheek pressed against it. Embarrassing Tinker was an impossible feat, and even if he dived headfirst into the mast, he'd find a way to slough off the humiliation and cause others to laugh.

And now, Tinker and the Ratgrins' crew were being tailed by some hoighty-toighty British Naval crew that would have them hanged, drawn and quartered because they'd abducted a Princess for reasons that they didn't even understand. It nearly caused him to shake his head miserably, but he couldn't find it in himself to not find their doom-and-gloom situation amusing. It might've been the brandy threading it's warm fingers through his belly, too. Either way, they'd find a way to weasel out of their fatal predicament and come out none the wiser, and hopefully a little richer, too. Thankfully, the carpenter wasn't exactly asked to do anything besides recover. The faithful ship wasn't damaged while porting, nor was it in need of any grave repairs until they retreated – hopefully the British ships lagged behind and he wouldn't need to repair a splintered mess. If it came down to that, he'd be hanging, anyway. He licked his dry lips, wishing he hadn't left the remaining brandy down in his holds. He would've gone in search of Tiesa but didn't want to be reprimanded for not using her ointments; he wasn't a glutton for pain and often whined far more than a man should, though if he was asked to perform said mission again he wouldn't dare decline. Loyalty ran pure as wine in his blood.

Tinker seemed to regain some sort of balance and dimensional perception as he rubbed his knuckles against his temples, and regarded the flourishing scene before him. The Ratgrins seemed to come alive with it's restless crew-mates. He spotted Cathy battling a seagull in her perch, flailing her arms out and leaning precariously out of the nest to examine the decks below. It was a wonder how she'd never fallen from such heights, acting as if she had a monkey's tail and the balance of a squirrel. Again, the decks below him swirled nauseatingly and he decided it was best if slumped down across the steps leading to the upper decks. His stomach grumbled, and he immediately thought of Grace – a woman who could rival him in sexual tenacity and brave the most lecherous comments. They might've had a quick tumble or two, though there was a lot of booze involved. Rum, mostly. He didn't really want to face Grace or Tiesa looking like a bedraggled, beaten dog, and so he mumbled something under his breath and leaned his head back against the wood.

The sun was peeking through the glass of the windows she’d already tried to get out of. It was casting oddly askew rectangles across the planks of the captain’s chambers and she stared at them, practically lifeless. After the rogue had locked her in his room, she’d worn herself completely ragged trying to find any method of escape. She’d checked all the windows, finding that any way off the ship meant diving into the waters. A good idea, really, but she would surely drown. Not only would her petticoats and linens weigh her down, but the Princess had never been given the opportunity to learn how to swim. It never seemed to be a problem until now.

Her face was pale, having lost all color when she’d finally curled up in the large chair. Hermione couldn’t scream any louder, cry any harder, think any longer. Her body and mind were numb and all she kept seeing, over and over again, was blood. It made her heart rend in two and she could only close her eyes, hoping it would keep the visions out. Whatever their purpose had been, it couldn’t have been worth it to lose men. Not for her. Who was she but the King’s homely, oddly proportioned daughter? Other sons and daughter produced from his wife were small in the face, large in the body and well mannered. They all maintain poise and grace and only spoke when spoken to. Hermione couldn’t help herself. Even now, she was proving quite the opposite of what her family would have wanted.

Then, there was the nagging thought of being alone. The Princess was more than used to being lonesome. Left to her studies that were quickly replaced with novels of adventure and chaos, sometimes love. Love was an odd emotion for Hermione, for she’d never actually experienced it. Yes, she could say she loved her family and her country, but she wasn’t entirely sure it was true. None of them liked her and she liked none of them. So how can one love something they do not like? Perhaps they had set this all up? It was very possible her father had hired these thugs to come and kidnap her and take her away to some foreign country so he wouldn’t have to worry about paying the dowry to her poor, poor, fiancé.

Of course her family didn’t want her. The burden. The careless, middle child. Hermione sighed and closed her eyes, trying to remember where it was she’d left off in her last book. The memories of their words were knocked away with the rapping of a hand against the door. No sleep for the weary, she supposed. Her soft green eyes sharpened as the door came open and she spied the captain’s visage. Her eyelashes slammed shut and she fell limp in the chair, feigning sleep. As he approached, swaggering steps toward her, Hermione could feel her heart racing and her mind began pumping out thoughts and actions a mile a minute.

At his address of her she opened one eye and watched him carefully.

He had to be joking. Hermione, had she been in a better mood, would have laughed in mirth at his vernacular, his demeanor and general society ridden ways. He was surely no pirate she’d ever heard of. Instead, the young lady just stared at him, dumbfounded and still thinking that the door behind him was unlocked now. She had to get over there. She had to get out and get to shore. His words were muffled by her thoughts and she let her bare feet slide down toward the floor. Yes, they were bare. In her hidden hand, tucked away somewhere in one of her petticoats, Hermione had placed her slippers. A useless weapon, but a weapon nonetheless.

She used them now. The first one was thrown as she screamed at him. “How dare you kidnap a Princess of England!” The second flew in the same general direction and she’d already made her way toward his desk, covered in other items of a throwing nature. “How dare you show impudence and disregard for the Royal Crown! You traitor!” Now, she had quills and ink and paper and paperweights and many other assortments to send flying through the air. “You mongrel! Scoundrel!” She spat in his direction, literally. No real liquid was produced, but the effect was enough for her. “I will call you dog before I call you anything else!” Hermione wasn’t really the “think before you leap” kind of lady, and it became very obvious at the moment she picked up the aforementioned ink bottle and the cap came flying off. The liquid spilled down the side of her face and the front of her dress. She screeched and threw the bottle to the floor, thoroughly disgusted with the sudden turn of events.

It was disgust, followed by a tidal wave of grief, sadness, and loneliness. New tears brimmed at her eyelashes and she fell into the wall behind her, trying desperately to wipe the ink from her dress.

“My mother is going to kill me!” The tears streaked through the ink dripping off her left cheek. Lifting her green eyes to meet his honey eyes, she scowled. “How could you?!” She sniffled and fought back a wave of sobbing and incoherence. “Those men died! For what?! For me?” Hermione dropped her hands down at her sides, her shoulders sloping and her head lolling on her neck. “For this pathetic… thing?” She sobbed and slid to the ground, cradling her forehead in her blackened hands. Hermione just wanted to go home. She wanted to be safe in her bed, with her servants, and her lonely little corner. Right now, that loneliness, the one she tried to continuously fill with fictitious people, sounded absolutely perfect.

“You idiot…”

Albel like normal was in a hurry to check, double check and then triple check all of his tools and equipment contained within the medical room aboard the Spiteful. He hadn’t heard exactly what was going on but he had noticed that Captain Hamilton, Lieutenant Faires and Jack had all gathered within the Captain’s quarters and Albel had learned that, that meant only one thing. Soon this ship would be set out onto a destination whether everyone was prepared to or not and Albel did not want to leave shore without everything he needed to keep the crew in a survivable shape.

”Alright, alright. I have my surgical tools, plenty of cloth and dressings, various plants and dried herbs, and my books…Damn where are those books!?” Albel had begun to frantically search the confines of the medical room for some of his medical reference books that he had acquired and modified in his time as a doctor. But like always the room was a mess with different kinds of papers all over the place it appeared as if a tornado had torn through the room but Albel always managed to come through when his medical skills were needed.
”Ah there you are my lovelies." As usual Albel hadn’t really lost the books he was searching for instead it had just been buried underneath a multitude of other books and papers that had to do with some kind of medical procedure or some kind of obscure experiment that he has been working on.

After completing his final check Albel had decided it would be best to store his surgical tools within his large wood and glass medical cabinet that contained all of the various herbs, medical concoctions, clean cloth and dressings and now his surgical tools and the recently found surgical books. Albel then let out a content sigh at the fact that he had been able to organize the room and while the room still looked to be a hideous mess it was probably the best it was going to get unless the Captain literally forced Albel to organize the room and supervised him while doing it. Well best discover what the others are doing then. The Surgeon thought as he exited the medical room and closed the wooden door behind him observing those upon the deck, it appeared that he had not been the only one that noticed the trio within the Captain’s Cabin.

"Sir! I concur, yes sir!" Lieutenant Faires exclaimed with sudden enthusiasm. Clearing his throat twice, he continued more calmly, "The Americas do host a multitude of unexplored territory, and the ports are not strictly supervised. ...Still, it may be best if we had more solid information before acting... captain, sir. We may be able to figure out a pattern--have there been any reports of what particular band of pirates these are?"

William opened his mouth to answer when the door to his cabin opened and a red-haired women armed with sword and pistols entered. William looked at her curiously, though not with any anger. His eyes weren't on her long as Jack Weaver had started speaking and the Captain turned his attention to him.

“If they knew who’d done it, they’d not bother mobilizing us. These guys don’t know caution. If they do, they’ve thrown it to the wind for whatever they’ve got planned. Someone was willing to risk a lot just to get a hold of the princess. They won’t be afraid to risk more to keep her. They’ll go for the Channel. If we want to catch them…" Jack's finger traced a route across the North Sea. “We sail with the wind, and predict their likeliest stops once we get sight of the Americas. Assuming it takes that long.”

"I think Mr. Weaver has the gist of it. What little information we have now is all we are likely to get, and so we must act with it. Ultimately the Admiralty chose us for a reason. We are already provisioned for a long voyage and were already planning to set sail today. No, we can not wait on the slim hope of receiving information that is not likely to be had. We'll do as Mr. Weaver says, sail with the wind and try to predict the most likely places where they will make port." William then turned his attention back to the red-haired woman.

"And I am assuming you must be Miss Leanna Kovacs," He said warmly, standing and offering his hand in greeting. "The last piece we were waiting for. With you on board we should finally be ready to set sail. However, before we set things into motion let me fill you in on what is happening." She probably had some idea of the job she had signed up for, but it was best to make sure. "I imagine you are aware by now that Her Royal Highness Princess Hermione was kidnapped at some point last night in an act believed to be the work of pirates. This morning my ship and crew received orders that we were to sail as soon as possible upon your arrival and to pursue or intercept the band of criminals which currently hold the Princess. However we have very little to work with other than guesswork, luck and Divine Providence. The current thought is to sail to the America's and then try to intercept them at the port we feel they are most likely to dock at. Do you have any thoughts or questions that you feel might add to the current conversation?"

So they were to set off soon? Well, she'd be ready for it, when it came. And she would be damn sure that everyone else would be ready and prepared for it too. It was her job after all. And they should be happy, she wasn't an overbearing bo'sun. Usually. And she never demanded more than anyone could take. She simply expected the best out of everyone, and if that meant that one of the sailors collapsed while working from exhaustion, then so be it. But she wasn't too harsh of a task-master. The Captain wouldn't allow anyone such as that on board his ship in the first place. She simply like a ship-shape ship. Was that really so much to ask?

"Alrigh' ye scabrous dogs. Get off'a yer lazy arses and put yer backs int'a it!" Kei Yukimura yelled across the decks. if they were to shove off at anytime then they had to be ready to do so. That would never happen if she didn't get these people to work, and soon. They were soft from their brief time on land, or so it was in her mind.

"Hn, it seems to be going well enough. But where is that blasted gun? I swear I had it only a minute before." Kei only spoke in that roughened accent when she was yelling at the crew to do something. Or when she was extremely angry. She didn't particularly like speaking like that anyway, preferring her natural accent that was more of a lilting drawl.

Kei dug through her unusual attire that consisted of heavy robes made of silk and other such fine materials that were embroidered with distinctly Nohin patterns from the far Eastern seas.

ANIRUDDHA TOK

When the young thin girl first began her tantrum, throwing a slipper that plopped him straight in the head, Tok felt his meticulously pampered composure twitch with frustration. He found himself annoyed, which didn't actually happen often. “How dare you kidnap a Princess of England! How dare you show impudence and disregard for the Royal Crown! You traitor!” she had screeched at him in her fit of rage, all of his most valuable items on his desk hurling towards his face as she did. Her words unleashed a dull, familiar bitterness- one he hadn't been in touch with in a while. He couldn't quite place what it was that she was reminding him of, but knew that it ruffled his feathers in all the wrong ways. He felt grossly underappreciated, more than anything. His handsome entrance and rehearsed introduction hadn't been appreciated, the same way his personal sleeping chamber hadn't been appreciated, and the same way the grand adventure he was handing to her on a silver platter wasn't being appreciated. Tok had to throw his life away and fight desperately to get aboard this ship and sleep in that chair, anything to quench his need for thrilling, fantastical lifestyle. Here, this little girl was given the perfect opportunity to go crazy like most kids would like to, and she was wrecking his beloved study. “You mongrel! Scoundrel! I will call you dog before I call you anything else!” she hissed like an angry cat and Tok felt the pressure building up inside his chest.

Suddenly, it clicked. He realized why this was all so vaguely familiar to him. Why, she was acting just as he had when he was a boy. Her blind rage and irrational tantrum mirrored almost precisely his own when he was trapped and lonely in his own home, a brat through and through. It wasn't until he encountered Raziah when he was 13 that he first began to tunnel these feelings into more productive means, as Raziah would terrorize him relentlessly if he ever complained. He shook his head and cleared away the memories just as the young princess spilled his favorite ink all over herself and smashed the rest of it on his floor. Perhaps he would have been more angry if she didn't begin to bawl. In an instant, she didn't seem so much like Tok anymore. He'd never cried the way she had, that was for sure. Somehow, these new tears made Tok's chest sag much more effectively than her arriving ones had, almost as if these were more sincere and less a reaction to being startled.

His heart tugged and his throat tightened as her tears blended in with the ink, and he thought he might have rather died in that moment than look into her woeful green eyes. "Those men died! For what?! For me? This pathetic... thing? You idiot..." she sobbed, slipping into a pool of misery on the floor. Ruddha was instantly consumed with guilt, so much so he couldn't find any words to say. What if the girl was right after all? Were his men worth it? Did he have any right stealing this princess away from her home? He'd assumed she'd adore to get away from the dull aristocratic life that Ruddha had always despised, unable to grasp the concept of loving any home other than the blue sea. His mouth opened multiple times as if to reply, but would shut right back up again as soon as it had, unable to hold onto a coherent thought. He ran his hands through his dreaded hair with distraught. He'd never known how to handle tears, and this seemed to be more of a tricky situation that most. He was, after all, the maker of these tears. How could he possibly have the power to stop them without ruining his life's work? He felt himself deflate onto the floor beside her with a long, tired sigh and a mighty eye rub. This was too much. Even for the infamous Aniruddha Tok, this was way too much. This had no doubtably been his biggest charade, the riskiest feat he'd ever attempted. The youngling's crying rammed into his brain like a bull to a matador, over and over again. Finally, he gathered his thoughts and turned his face too look at her.

"Miss Hermione, there are many ways one may exert their energy. You can fight with all your might, swim a thousand seas, plot revenge, couple with lovers, create art, even wail on the floorboards of a pirate captain's personal study. I happen to believe that if one were to spend their energy crying, that there are more important things to cry over than than abduction- than homesickness and loneliness- than death and even love. I want you to think about that, princess." he said, the enthusiasm he had before stripped down to leave nothing but a man's stark honesty in the face of a upcoming disaster. His head was flopped over to look at the girl, her shoulders a couple feet away from his own. "Would you believe me if I told you that you are apart of one of those very important things? You and you alone are the key to something far grander than any life on this ship- any life in this world. Miss Hermione, believe me when I say that each and every death that occurred last night pains me more deeply than you imagine. The loss of my men alone pierces through my heart as real as any blade might. It's something I was prepared to deal with for the sake of having you aboard this ship. This probably makes little sense to you, but believe me when I say with the utmost sincerity that I- this whole ship- needs you."

He sighed and tossed his head so it was staring at the wall in front of him. "You know, I heard from an old friend of mine that you were a radiant young lady, full of curiosity and equipped with a strong heart. I wasn't expecting this reaction. I would've prepared a more suiting speech, perhaps one riddled with tear-absorbing agents." he said, a small grin wryly tugging at the ends of his lips. "Honestly, I thought you would've been jumping for joy with this opportunity to scrape off your aristocratic ties and live as a free child. I guess I forgot that you're just a young lady, after all." By now, he was more talking to himself, the delirium of no sleep waring at his keenness. Suddenly, Ruddha perked up, rising to his feet, and grabbed the clothing that lay on his table- now wrinkled and messed up because of Hermione's grubby grip. It was as if his aura suddenly changed from being glumly introspective to quite the opposite, a light radiating form his amber orbs. This was the way of Tok, able to go off on tangents and then reel back in. Few men had the power to snap out of dazes the way Ruddha did. He simply had to remind himself what his goal was and he didn't mind so much the fact that everything seemed to be pitted against him. "Here, take these clothes. No use in wearing an ink stained dress now. I could see if I could get it out but I doubt as much... Hmmm," suddenly he was whipping his gaze around the office, searching through drawers and bowls in pursuit of something. It seemed he found it as he tossed it at the girl along with her new clothes. "And here is some candy. Everyone likes candy, right? That should cheer you up, I think. Why don't you mop up your tears so we can move on with this conversation, hm? And on an entirely different note, let me assure you that I am not an idiot contrary to your previous declaration." He smiled lightly and took a seat in his chair, propping his boot-clad feet atop his table. It was already a wreck anyway. He peered back to the still locked door as he felt the key's weight in his pocket, and thought about how the rest of his crew was doing right about now.

CALEB FOUL

"Oh shit... Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit... SHIT, MAN. Caleb, what the shit are you going to do? Shiiit." murmured a scrawny man as he pushed with all his might on the lid that trapped him inside his cage at the moment. Why in God's name (not that Caleb believed in God in times other than in dire emergencies) hadn't he picked a better place to hide than a pickle barrel? He didn't even like pickles! And he was fairly certain that one pickle in particular was getting fresh with him, with agitation. Another chorus of "shit" rained down as he arched his back against the hard wood to no avail. The juices he was swimming in went just below his chin, not leaving much room to relax in unless he fancied drowning. Maybe he would fancy drowning here instead of facing the wrath of the goddamn NAVY.

WHY WAS HE ON A NAVY SHIP? It became clear that's exactly where he was when he'd heard some lady get escorted onto their ship and briefly caught wind of something to do with pirates. He always had a grudge against pirates, he did. Mostly because they were able to accomplish what he was never able to- muster bravery and courage which was something he just couldn't get himself around to doing. Of course they'd end up being the reason for his confinement in not only a green vat but also the military's tight grip. He was going to die here, that was for sure. There was a small hole, just about the size of a quarter, that Caleb kept his eye on, spying on the busy bodies on board with anxiety levels boosting up way too high for an average man.

Maybe he should rub one of these zombified cucumbers and a genie would appear. First he'd wish for all the riches in the world, then his disappearance from this blasted ship. The money came first, of course. One could never be without enough money. This reminded him of something more depressing than the predicament he was stuck in now... He'd left all the money he'd gotten from his ingenious (in his opinion, at least) poop fiasco. He'd been selling the dingleberries of dogs for a hefty price and had almost gotten away with it, too. If only it weren't for that damn dog and those meddling... soldiers.

A heart does not stop yearning for things just because the mind says so. And so Domus toiled over heated pots and pans, stirring in cinnamon and whole cloves, sloughing slivers of ginger and sprinkling nutmeg. He was already sweating, often pausing to blot his forehead with his silken handkerchief, then returning to his tedious work. Thankfully, the crew-mates never went without splendiferous, impressive dishes because of Domus' passion for the culinary arts – and because of all the casks and barrels of produce, spices and salted meats. This morning the Spiteful's inhabitants would be breaking their fast on pomegranates and peaches, succulents figs and dates basted in the juices of an orange, a loaf of pinenut bread threaded with apple and cinnamon, freshwater lamprey seasoned with lemon and sweet onions, and served alongside mulberry wine and strong, bitter ale for those who enjoyed it better. Whilst preparing the meal, Domus peered through the small ocular window, rubbed it with the heel of his hand and took a deep breath. The rising sun was breathtaking, creating shades and hues of the brightest colours and intertwining with the blossoming blues. There wasn't a sunrise that Domus didn't enjoy, and so he rocked back on his heels, holding the dripping ladle over his shoulder in sheer admiration.

He wanted to paint myself with a sea-foam green, with dried grass and turquoise river, with bare rocks and the endless sky that covered everything, everything. Domus wanted to mean more and become more than what he was. There wasn't any noble future planned out for a former boy-whore or a ravishingly dressed cook aboard a British Naval ship. That thought alone caused his stomach to roil unpleasantly. Any life living simply meant that he wasn't moving fast enough, wasn't moving forward but remaining in place – and that just wasn't acceptable. Swishing the disproportional ladle in front of him, Domus' expression wildly brightened as he gracefully parried, slashed and darted forwards. Driblets of grease spotted the ground as he moved, but he didn't seem to notice. His mismatched eyes danced with his renown mirth; one a shocking Cerulean shade, while the other was an oddly coloured russet. Below decks, the cook could be anything he wanted to be without putting himself at any danger. Sword fighting in reality was terrifying and he'd rather hide behind anyone's skirts or trousers than jump in the fray, risking his life for naught.

Finally setting the ladle down amongst his other culinary weapons, Domus nodded his head and fancied himself with whistling a sweet tune he'd recently heard in one of the taverns he frequented. That was, before they'd all rushed aboard the Spiteful to chase down a pirate ship. He'd been in the middle of playing fanciful, frivolous songs about pretty maidens and chivalrous knights when some of the British guards bustled in, gathering up each and every crew mate to return back the faithful ship. Princess Hermione had been kidnapped in the black of night, without so much as a warning, and disappeared just as quickly while knocking a few guards unconscious on the way. Four foolish men had died that night, along with a couple guardsman and the old swabbie – all dying for a foolish cause. Domus certainly didn't chase off any pirates. He remained safe and sound in the holds, relaxing in the large tub installed into the lower decks; smelling of lavender and rose petals, as usual. Of course, the cook had acted quite surprised and shocked to learn the news of the Princess' abduction and even feigned being upset, but that was as far as his sentiments went. He truly didn't care whether or not the Princess was taken, because he didn't understand the gravity of the situation.

There was something he was forgetting. It felt like two fingering probes pressing down on his cranium, willing him to sit and think before he called the crew-mates down for breakfast. Domus rubbed his chin, wondering vaguely what it could've been that he'd forgotten. Everything was prepared and ready; wooden forks and small dirks placed into wooden crates beside large copper platers. There wasn't anything he could spot that was out of place – the Lieutenant had seen to all of his culinary needs and he'd been gathering whatever spices he was missing whenever they ported. Pickles! Yes, that was it! Old Dickens loved pickles more than anything, and he'd have a fit if it wasn't offered alongside the more gracious plates. It wasn't anything he could help. He'd already tried his best to push his tastes onto the others, but only Jack seemed willing to entertain his European flavours.

“In a world far away, we may meet again,” Domus sang huskily, threading his way around the barrels settled in the holding chambers. He bowed his head, then threw it back gaudily, ebon tresses frumping back into his mismatched eyes, “But now hear my song, like the dawn of the night.” He suddenly wished more than anything that he was plucking the strings of his lute. It would have to wait until everyone was full and fed, satisfied with their fantastically prepared meals. His vanity truly only stemmed from his finesse in the small kitchen provided in the Spiteful's bowels. “Take us away, far from home, no one will ever know of this,” His voice thrummed melodically, softening into a whisper as he neared the pickle barrels.

He thought he heard some noises, but immediately dismissed it as the sound of scurrying rats. Domus was frightened of many a' things, including rats, but knew that he flailed and yelled at them they'd most likely run away. Well, most likely. The cook tiptoed towards the closest barrel and thumped it with the toe of his leather boot – it would be no match for Domus La'vala, the Prince of Delicious Pastries and rugged good looks! No, never! Alas, his probing fingers caught the barrel's lid and he attempted hauling it off, while only managing to lose all strength in his lanky arms. A stubborn pout immediately coloured his Persian features and he yanked hard on the lid again, panting with the exertion and finally throwing his hands out in front of him.

“Damnable barrel, I shan't be foiled by the likes of you,” Domus declared, drumming his fingers on the lid. He keeled forward, placing his hands on his knees to peer through the breathing hole. Perhaps someone had overfilled the pickle barrel, causing the juices to congeal around the lid? That must've been the case because Domus was as strong as an ox – on good days, well, not really, but he'd like to think that he was. And that's when he saw it. A clear, Cerulean eye surrounded by a panicked white. He shrieked like a little girl and jumped backwards, hands thrown up defensively.

“J-J—Jack!” He sputtered, gasping for air like a floundering fish. His throat was suddenly parched and goosebumps threaded across his arms, lending him the courage of a mouse. And then Domus was stumbling backwards, calling the sailing master's name whilst disentangling himself from other fallen barrels.

“Like my mother used to say, ‘men have two emotions: Hungry and Horny. If you see him without a boner, make him an omelet,” Grace said to Kai as they gave him a plate. “Actually the saying is a sandwich, but that wouldn’t make much sense right now.” She glanced at her glass of rum. “I need to stop drinking; I have no idea what I’m talking about!” She put her glass aside, making a mental note to pick up where she left off later tonight. “Quick question. What is up with you and Cathy? I see you looking at her sometimes. Do you like her? Cause, if you’re going to be rolling around with another girl, I just want to let you know that I don’t do threesomes. Unless it’s with two guys, and I don’t think that’s really your style.”

Suddenly, Grace heard a racket coming from across the ship in the captain’s cabin. “I wish Ruddha would shut her up. Give her some rum to make her so hopelessly drunk that’s she’s entertaining.” She smiled at this though, imagining the princess stumbling about and singing off-key. Or joining Tinker in his private chambers. Grace would love to see the look on her face the morning after. “Or let me put something in her food that would knock her out for the next year. Then we can draw on her face, and make her do things like a puppet.”

Jallad had carefully placed a hand up to his nose, and decided to stay quiet in order to listen attentively (as well as prevent any unfortunate dribbling that could happen should he jabber on a bit too much). In doing so, one of his nostrils gradually became stuffed up.

Eugh...

Still, he tried to pay no mind to the unpleasantness of almost everything of that moment, and wore a polite smile when the door opened. He turned in his seat, as well as feigning surprise. "Ah. Our guest for this venture, I presume." He waited for a short while before standing as well, elbows tucked in at the waist, and palms facing upwards invitingly.when he noticed a second comer at the door. "And our surgeon. Good of you to come, sir, I feared we might have, sniff, left without you." He noted the surgeon behind her through the open door, and tucked his relief in the back of his mind.

And he did. There would be far more casualties than necessary should they be lacking their fine Mr. Elama, and he was glad the man didn't miss the boat. After all, they were departing rather abruptly. Too abruptly, in Jallad's secret, tired opinion, but he wouldn't have tried to stall them for the world. All things considered, he was taking the situation rather lightly. That is, until there was a screech from below deck. Hand immediately at the blade at his side, he marched forth a few wide steps before slowing to a stop, and glancing over his shoulder to the navigator with a growing wry smile. "Shall you get that or shall I?" Because come to think of it, if they were being invaded, there should be more hullabaloo than from the cook, who is far in the belly of the ship. (Unless the attackers poked a hole in the bottom of the vessel and were climbing in, ha ha!)

The aroma of food drifted through the ship so lazily the scent might have been one of the sluggish crew members. One by one, individuals seemed to awaken from a trance and congregate at the kitchen. She took this opportunity to speak with Siegfried alone, though her reason for starting a conversation with him was not without an ulterior motive or two. Rolling her shoulders back and lifting up a defiant chin, she marched up to him with an aura of a mischievous imp. The faintest smile could be read upon her lips, although it was not necessarily a pleasant one. Indeed, her grin reeked more with deviousness than anything else. Despite her apparent goal to wreak havoc, she still possessed her signature determined, serious atmosphere. When she walked, her body seemed to roll, each joint loose. She was naturally quite graceful, footfalls hardly perceptible even without the effort of trying to mask the sounds of her steps.

"Hello Sieg," she chimed. She could be rather charming at times, though it wasn't something she could sustain for long periods of time--an entire conversation, persay. "I hope last night's skirmishes left you uninjured," she nodded towards him, eyes searching for any proof of what Raziah would call mistake from the night before. If Siegfried didn't note that such a greeting was uncharacteristic of Raziah, he would be a fool. It was clear to anyone who'd spent even a smidgen of time with her that she was quite clearly after something. She took a spot beside him, practically flopping next to him in a grandiose display of informality, placing the majority of her weight on her upper back with the rest of her body curving away from the wall with uncanny lax. Raziah didn't bother look at the man who put on a fool's front, even as she began her inquisition.

"Mind telling me what the hell is going on?" She asked, looking away from him and towards the slowly awakening ship. "I know that you're privy to Ruddha's plan," her voice grew low and threatening, "so don't try and bullshit me," she spat. "I've waited patiently, noting that you disappear with Ruddha for hours at a time. Whispering in shadows. The furtive glances." She tilted her head back to search the sky for answers, an amused twinkle glittering on her face as she relished in what she imagined his reaction would be: uncomfortable and on edge as she pushed him.

"Unless it's a steamy romance that you need to confess." she mused, tidbits of facetiousness flickering in her words. She began smiling at her own joke, arching her back over and allowing her hair to cascade down her dark back. Her face met the sky, and she traced the clouds, mouth slightly agape as if she might be chuckling with the impression of a smile pulling at her lips. "I do have a brain, I don't miss these sorts of things--it's a heart I'm lacking. And it will be sea snake and a couple of spiny urchins that you'll be missing if you try to prance around this subject."

She cracked her neck and swiveled to look directly at him, exotic eyes fiercely boring into his own obsidian ones. All mirth seemed to dissipate from her being. "I could have spied and found out, you know. However, I have too much respect to resort to such things. I didn't want to intrude," she spat the last word, as if the verb itself was revolting. "I suppose I figured that someone would at least feign enough courtesy to eventually clue me in to this little plan. I deserve a bit of fucking respect. I deserve that much." Her eyes were ablaze and she savagely tore them away from him once more. She began to simmer down now, the ferocity pumping through her veins beginning to thin as her eyes followed the white capped waves.

"I know I'm usually late to the loop, but goddamnit, this is getting out of hand!" she said, waving her hand to indicate the Captain's quarters where the princess was being held, regaining the self control that she was renowned for. Indeed, the rage was hollowed out shell from which her true feelings of hurt betrayal could hide, like a human soul possessing the body of the more formidable golem. What she really wanted was to lash out at somebody, exhaustion wearing down that thick wall that contained her tumultuous feelings so that the crashing might be heard from the other side.

Siegfried had taken up humming something of a little dirge-tune to himself as he watched the members of the crew move back and forth over the deck, their little personal dramas intermingling with work even now. Honestly, he would have given just about anything to be his old friend Tinker right about now, stuffed in a bunk with a bottle of good liquor. Instead, he’d carried him there after he collapsed on deck and raided his own cabin for the brandy. Good year, that stuff; Tinker would appreciate it.

Would that he could have made such subtle apologies to the rest of the crew. Alas, all he’d really done was make more work for them, not least of all Tiesa, who passed him with a small acknowledgement which he returned in kind, forcing a smaller-than-usual smile onto his face. The absence of his usual jocularity would be understood and perhaps forgiven, considering the circumstances. “Miss Tiesa.” He had something of an odd habit of referring to all the female crew as “Miss,” regardless of whether or not they liked it. He’d use the preferred first name, so instead of “Miss Catherine,” the lookout was “Miss Cathy,” but the honorific was something he could not shake. In respect to her home culture, the bosun was “Kei-san,” since it meant the same thing and thus satisfied him.

Raziah stalked to the helm, and he reflected that if he bothered to drop the façade, the two of them would be more similar than she would probably like to think. Granted, he wasn’t quite as temperamental even without the constant jokes, but all the same… He closed his eyes and leaned his head backwards slightly, but this did not stop him from hearing her coming. Ah, and this was exactly why he’d take a head injury to be elsewhere. The questions.

She had every right to ask them, of course, and he very much wished to be as blunt with her as she was being with him, but there were two very significant things stopping him. One was his inexorable need to project the mannerisms of, to put it bluntly, a fool. The other was less complicated, but even more important, and it was to this that he would have to appeal.

The false charm leaking from her greeting was so ironic that it almost made him laugh. Putting on a front for the king of fronts, and when he knew it, no less. Still, idiot that he was pretending to be, he responded in kind. “Ah no, I’m still luckier than a cheating gambler, I am,” he replied with a grin. “Glad to see you’re all right as well, Miss Raziah.” He nodded amicably, then pretended to be surprised when she abruptly demanded the information she was really seeking. She was good, he had to give her that. Most men would be falling over themselves trying to find a way to deny that the whole thing was anything like what she’d suggested it to be, especially when the asker happened to be quite a comely lass at that.

Fortunately for Siegfried, he’d been desensitized to jabs at his (apparent lack of) sexuality a number of years ago. He didn’t go whoring at port, he’d never slept with Gracie, and he could not or would not name any past lovers or spouses. Small wonder he wasn’t bugged about these facts more often. The truth was nothing quite so scandalous, but he wasn’t about to rush to defend himself. Instead, he turned the jest back at its originator. “Were that the truth, I do think you would have tried to kill me by now, Miss Raziah,” he pronounced, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly. Her devotion to Ruddha certainly bordered on romantic even if it wasn’t, and he was one of the few people around who wasn’t afraid of the tempestuous Persian woman, so the jests in this direction were considerably less frequent and almost entirely his purview.

Her threat just had him shaking his head ruefully, though his facial expression did sober somewhat. “I’d love to tell you, I would,” he admitted, and the sincerity in this statement would not be denied, “but it’s not my secret to tell. It belongs to the Captain, it does, and I daresay you wouldn’t be telling me if our situations were reversed, now would you?” Even if the majority of their similarities went unknown, they both shared a loyalty to Ruddha that was unquestionable, and his implication was clear. You wouldn’t betray the Captain, and I will not either. “For all the good it doesn’t do: I don’t think he much likes keeping the secret, I don’t. I’ll talk to him in a bit; see if I can’t convince him to share, eh?”

As always, Siegfried met anger without any of the same; the anger had been sapped out of him quite some time ago, and now lay slumbering like some kind of recuperating beast somewhere deep in his soul, where, for the most part, he could not reach it. All that was left was placidity, jocularity- mostly feigned- loyalty, a proclivity for thought and humor. Even happiness had lost its bite, and melancholy with it.

Leanna stopped paying attention to the conversation between 2 and four seconds after entering it. She leaned against a support and looked to the waves outside the window. Leanna was not much of a sailor, and she dreaded having to find her 'sea legs'. It was not something that came easily. From there, her thoughts drifted to the people in the cabin. There were three of them, other than her, and two had mostly faced away from her. The captain sat across from them, and he looked the eldest. His face was stern, but calm and he looked like a typical, experienced officer. There was an air about him, though, that even through his strict nature, he cared about more than career. He had the makings of a fine soldier, if Leanna would say so herself.

Directly in front of her were what she assumed were the Captains head officers. Closest to her was who appeared the sailing master, because of his knowledge and use of the map. There was something odd about him, but Leanna couldn't place it in her off-hand analysis, and she decided to look out for him. Next to him was the man who had been talking when Leanna entered. He appeared to be the Lieutenant from his uniform, and had a good look to him. His face showed a past, but that had never deterred Leanna before, especially from someone so handsome. Her thoughts were interrupted when she realized the captain was speaking to her. She managed to hear a question.

"Do you have any thoughts or questions that you feel might add to the current conversation?"
"Wha?" Leanna spoke, confused for a moment. "I...Uh"
She was still trying to piece together the meaning of what the captain had said, when the Lieutenant spoke up.
"Ah. Our guest for this venture, I presume." He stood with his palms up, and Leanna thought he wanted a hug. She nearly gave him one, too, before realizing how odd it would be for a man like him to ask such a thing. Instead, she took the captains outstretched hand, and shook it gently.

The lieutenant said something to the Navigator, but Leanna was paying more attention the captain.

"Definitely a Kovacs." She flashed the captain a smile. "I will be taking up residence in the Lieutenant's cabin, I assume?"
She gave a playful smile to the Lieutenant, he seemed like a man willing to have a little fun. "Anywhere but the brig really. My...'escorts' didn't know a thing about a woman's dignity, even in chains."

Jack was beginning to entertain doubts as to his own sanity. There was not nearly enough space left in this room now, and he was beginning to feel the claustrophobia set in.

So when someone shouted his name from outside, Jack sprang to his feet in an instant. Jallad, perhaps sensing his discomfort, offered to let Jack handle the matter, and he nodded firmly before turning his attention to the Captain. “That’s all I can say on the matter, sir.” The sailing master saluted crisply and waited for a verbal dismissal before he took his leave. He’d never been much of a stickler for matters of procedure, but his respect for Hamilton ran deep enough that he never forewent one of them where the ship’s commanding officer was concerned.

It was obvious who required his assistance, and in all honesty, Jack was tempted to run a callused hand down his face. Nary a day seemed to pass without Domus getting into some kind of trouble, and for some reason, Jack was usually the one he went to for assistance. The navigator didn’t mind, exactly, but sometimes Domus’s opinions on what required urgency and what did not clashed rather sharply with what the navy had to say on the matter.

Once on deck, Jack passed the ship’s surgeon, Albel, and offered a terse nod before continuing on his way. Not because he had anything against the man (though for obvious reasons he refused any and all medical examinations and insisted on treating his own wounds) but because he had business to get to and the same was probably true of the doctor. Hindrances to efficiency were enough of an irritant to the half-wild soldier that he absolutely detested the notion of becoming one. He’d sooner cut off his own arm than become an obstruction, plain and simple. Underneath his feet, the ship began to move, and he glanced up to see the helmsman steering them out of port. He’d have to go give them the course here soon, but for now it was pretty much a straight shot.

Jack clambered down to the kitchens in the belly of the ship, in enough time to see Domus scrabbling along the floor, backing up and staring at a particular barrel. Despite himself, Jack’s protective instinct kicked in, and he stepped in front of the bare-chested cook, cocking his head to one side as he crept closer to the barrel. The wiry navigator drew the glinting dagger from his boot and held it loosely in one hand, laid blade-out against his forearm.

“So help me, Domus, if this is because you couldn’t get the damn thing open…” He didn’t bother finishing the sentence. It was an empty threat, and they both knew it. Somewhere in between voyages, late-night trips to the kitchen, a staring contest between cat-eyes and boat lights and an agreement about food-testing, the two of them had struck up what had to be the oddest association in the history of the British Navy: a man who could neither fight nor sail and a woman who could do both only so long as she kept up her disguise. Only Jack appreciated that particular aspect of it, of course, but it didn’t really matter. The point was that, weird as he found it, the no-nonsense navigator was willing to endure a certain degree of nonsense from the cook.

The barrel in question stank of pickles and salt, and Jack’s nose wrinkled in distaste. Bloody well figures. I hate pickles. Shooting a glance backward at Domus as if to ask if he was really completely serious about this and not playing some stupid joke, Jack tugged on the lid to the barrel. It resisted slightly; someone had stuck it on wrong, but with another tug, it came off easily enough.

Jack found himself staring into a pair of blue eyes, connected to a man that could almost rival himself in scrawniness, and his own eyes went nearly childishly wise in surprise, though he suppressed the feminine yelp that threatened. Saucer-wide lids closed over his sclera, reducing the effect to a sliver of iris between thick lashes, and he struck quickly, a strong hand finding its way around the neck of the stowaway and hauling upward. The barrel tipped over, coating the floor in pickle juice, and Jack quite nearly snarled.

“And jus’ whatta we got ‘ere? Kinnae a bloody Navy ship stay free o’ the rats?” Jack’s accent thickened considerably with his irritation, and his chokehold tightened around the man’s throat, the dagger in his other hand now pressing there. “Stowin’ away be a crime, laddy. If’n ye value that bilge-rat’s life o’ yers, you’ll get ta thinking o’ a good reason.” With considerable strength and effort, Jack pressed his captive up against the kitchen wall, still glaring furiously. “Domus! Get the cap’n in ‘ere, hasty-like. Don’ like the rat’s chances if’n he’s alone with me fer too long, eh?” His twisted smirk was positively feral, and he chuckled quietly in a way that lacked any mirth whatsoever.

“Don’ get me wrong, rat. There ain’t much room for mercy in me own dirty soul, but I won’ gutcha till the boss says so. Maybe ‘e’ll even spare ya. ‘E’s too fair fer his own good, ‘e is. Me though? I’mma nasty lit'le vermin meself, I am.” The cold steel of Jack’s knife pressed firmly into the hollow of the intruder’s throat, discouraging any form of movement, though he had slackened his grip enough to allow the man to breathe.