Alistair Graw's Story

They had made it to Port Royal in one piece, much to the surprise of the people aboard. Who's idea it had been to steer the ship through the storm was still a point of debate. Whether or not it had been worth it to escape pursuit had the crew divided in two– among them the captain and the quartermaster who were still exchanging low insults under their breath when they thought the crew wasn't looking. It was late evening, so while the superiors went off to make preparations for the sale of their bounty, the crew found themselves released to their own devices. Some wasted no time in seeking out the nearest lay. Others, like Alis, drifted toward the tavern in search of a hot meal and a room with a bath.

She was halfway across the beach when her face was hit with the warm light of The Laughing Harpy. It felt good to be standing on ground again, and it would be better still when she was standing on wooden floors rather than loose sand. Reaching the stairs of the in she set her feet on the first step and let out a contented sigh. A man, smoking on the plateau outside nodded and smiled an understanding smile. Alis returned it and made her way up the steps a little quicker than first intended, approaching the door of the inn. Despite her stature she had no trouble sneaking between two drunks bickering in the doorway, and so found herself in the middle of the oppressive, hot and smelly air. Home, sweet home. Although she used the term 'home' quite loosely.

At the counter she asked for a pint of lager and whatever was brewing on the stove. She'd almost let her shoulders down when the loud crack of a breaking table had her grabbing for her axe– although the following laughter settled her a little. She looked quizzically at a nearby spectator, who shrugged.

"Captain Connor have brought us back some exotic entertainment. That woman over there has near knocked out half the island without breaking a sweat," he said.

Alis looked over, and thought the woman in question looked quite tired.

"Like they ain't ever seen a fighter before," Alis said.

"Not one the size of a thimble, for sure," the man said.

Alis rolled her eyes. "Like you ain't ever been knocked on your arse by a woman half your size, Jack."

Jack shrugged again. Another fighter approached the girl, this time withstanding the blow. Alis felt her heart in her throat for a moment before the tavern owner stepped in.

"Ain't right," she mumbled. Her instinct told her to step in, but she couldn't see any of her other crewmates yet, and starting fights like these was the kind of thing she'd have to ask her captain about. If she tried anything now, she'd found herself keelhauled before dawn.

"Have a sense of humour, Graw," Jack said. "She can take care of herself."

She heard the sound of her meal arriving on the counter behind her. "Hope you're right," she said.

"Or what?"

Alis smiled. "Guess I'd have to give you another ass-kicking."

Captain Frederich Trenchfield was denied the end of his dream by a stout voice causing him to stir. “Masts on the starboard, sir!” The Captain propped himself up on his elbow. “Configuration?” He said, voice still thick from sleep. The man shook his head. “Set course then, able on the canvas.” The sailor saluted and left. Trenchfield dressed quickly, splashing some water on his face and neck and left his room. He adjusted his jacket as he walked down the stairs leading to the main galley to speak with his first officer, Lieutenant Henry Davies who at the moment was smoking his pipe by the mizzenmast. “Davies if the boys are having a fuss at a barding sloop heading for Vera Cruz or other tradesmen port, I will be very cross they woke me.” The Officer turned to the voice and knocked the crumbs from his pipe. He whistled. “Two ships, the men have seen lights, so I shan’t think them adrift.” Davies filled his pipe, took the hanging cannonade match by the lamp and lit it, exhaling a small puff of smoke. “General goings on, the wind is clear enough for voices to carry I should guess within the hour.” Trenchfield frowned. “Then I presume we have the time to break our night’s fast.”

The two men retired to the officer’s parlour, where Second Officer Mathew Higgins already waited. “Might see a bit of bloody sport this day.” The man said, squeezing a lime half into a cup of rum. “Ah, and good morning to you horseman of war.” Davies said, smirking. Trenchfield sat and helped himself to the watery oats and salt pork. “I would like to reach Port Royal sans any combat, we still need to transfer forty men and pick up seventy yet we’d still be lacking bodies by a hundred,” He ate a spoonful of pottage before continuing. “We’re to be statues, no better than town watch; there to deter not fight. The Northumbria is nearing thirty years old gentlemen, she’s being put to pasture and they’ve turned us into her garrison.”

Frederich poured himself a glass of brandy while the other men processed what he said. Davies went to speak before Lieutenant Ludlow knocked and entered the room and appeared breathless. “Grey Dawn, five eighths distance, no fog to speak of. Midshipman Kentsworth seems to see a red ensign.” Trenchfield came back to reality and put his glass down. “His he confident? I would so hate to nod to a Danish scout.” Jacob Ludlow nodded. “He’s sure she’s ours alright. A small brigantine, fourteen guns - can’t make out a name.” Higgins scratched his chin. “Might be Thomas’s ship, The Maxim, we were supposed to rendezvous with him a week ago but he never showed.” Trenchfield stood. “Bring us to her, give the girl a berth like scouting doves, Mr. Ludlow.” The man saluted and left, closing the door behind him.

The three men stood, leaving their breakfast and heading to the quarterdeck where Ludlow was issuing orders. “Sir, we are vocal distance from the unknown ship and issued a standard acknowledgment. A signal has been sent but was not returned. I have deemed the ship elusory, decorum states we should open fire. The port guns are manned. Shall we fire?” The Captain was stunned. “Mister Ludlow, at this indecent hour you wish to send a fellow British vessel to the sea’s bottom? No, Lieutenant we will not fire. We will ease next to them and exchange a dialogue.”

The Northumbria had limited manoeuvrability but in straight lines, she had enough canvas to overtake just about anyone. In no time the large ship’s bowsprit was passing the brigantines’ stern. The small ship’s maintop barely crested the balustrade running along the sides of the 1533 tonne second class ship of the line. Midshipman Kelly waved his hand as he shouted ‘ahoy’. After several moments a return call was issued along with safe transit flag signal.

Boarding grapples and ladders were secured, tethering both ships and Captain Thomas Lyndon along with some of his crew boarded the Northumbria. “Thomas, you old cock,” Trenchfield said. “You certainly gave some of my less seasoned men a fright, thought you to be a pirate vessel with the wings of Lucifer ushering you to our doom.” Lyndon was small, round and very sunburnt but smiled broadly when he spoke. “And you now? Like a hulking beast hunting us before first light, should be thanking you, it was great fun!” The man laughed. Pleasantries were exchanged amongst the crew along with barely for oats and tuna for wine. The rest of the journey to Port Royal was easy sails and spirited wind.

The men were elated to see terra firma, even rolling around on the sand like children. It was late however, so meeting with the standing Admiral of Port Royal would have to wait till morning. Trenchfield dismissed his men to drink and indulge in their baser pleasures as he too would find entertainment. The Laughing Harpy was convenient and yet raucous but he would be damned if he would trundle around until he found an officer’s tavern. The smells reminded him of sailor pubs when he was a boy in Bristol, the people were laughing and in that merrymaking, Frederich felt comfortable. He walked past patrons of various breeding and even women in trousers, wait till he told his father about that – continuing towards the bar and ordered a strong beer and bread paid with a half crown and told the bar man to refill when he was empty.

Everyone was concentrating on an oriental pugilist trouncing her opponents handily, almost like a dance as he too became enthralled at the display. The beer was good, bread was mealy but the ambiance was a very welcomed change for Captain Trenchfield.

Bjorn Sturmgard gave the Captain and the Quartermaster a sideways glance in passing just below the mast. The two men were still bickering quietly, and it was all the quiet Norwegian could do to keep from smirking.
He moved out of earshot, still scouring the top deck of the boat for any rot or damage to the lines, the hull or the boards that made up the overhead and deck-levels of the floating-home, as was his unofficial job before setting course and after pulling into port.
As the former First-Mate of a Royal Norwegian Navy Warship Hummeren, then later a Captain of the same vessel when he inherited and renamed it The Grey-Wanderer, he was trusted with an experience eye for the wellbeing of this current vessel.
The large man let his gaze wander to the sands of Port Royal, and The Laughing Harpy at the edge of the Beach, before moving to look out towards the sea, then back towards where land met water.
Bjorn noticed a few of the ships in port as vessels the Hummeren had done battle with when he served aboard her. Luckily, First-Mates on any vessel, even Norwegian Warships known for stints as "Pirate-Hunters" weren't as memorable as the Captains who commanded them. Mostly he was remembered as a pirate captain who had emerged from seemingly no background from a collapsing Norway as a civil-war imploded the military and economy. Unfortunately, that train of thought brought about the agonizing reminder of the stinging defeat that robbed the Norwegian of his crew, ship and status.
Bjorn tore his lost gaze from the beach and headed towards the brow, leaving the ship in favor of a stiff drink and somewhat decent food.

Still a good ways down the beach from The Laughing Harpy, Bjorn could hear a menagerie of chaotic noise from the patrons within. He stopped at the door, rolling his right shoulder to readjust the hefty axe slung across his back. The big man took a deep breath and shoved the creaking door open. As soon as the seal was broken, Bjorn was assailed with the biting mixture of smoke, sweat and alcohol. The first thing he noticed was the grouping of men loosely encircling a broken table, two downed men and oddly enough, an oriental girl. There was another man, bigger than Bjorn, who was standing mere feet from the woman, and the owner of the establishment was between them.
He paused to regard the scene before continuing on his way to the bar, catching a glimpse of Alis on the way . She was hard to miss in any case, being decently tall for a woman and probably one of the easiest on the eyes in the tavern. He chuckled quietly, still confused as to how someone like her had ended up with the crew. At least she could hold her own.
Bjorn paid for an entire bottle of spiced rum, pulling the wax cork out with his teeth as he leaned back against a section of wall that attached to the bar, giving him a good view of the tavern in case all hell broke loose, his gaze though seemed to wander back to the oriental girl, then to Alis who was speaking with a fellow standing nearby.

His hopeful meal forgotten, Bjorn took big draws from the rum bottle, every bit a man who was watching for trouble to break loose.

Madeline Buckley had been the woman to go to when woes were too much, and life was too little. She was a hardened soul with a heart of gold beneath a leathery hide and silver spun hair that was reminiscent of matted spider webs. Not to mention an infamously crooked smile, complete with a few rotting teeth. Infectious as it was jilting. Quite plainly, and as most tavern goers would state -- Ms. Buckley " Weren't right in the head" most days. This was only because she had chased off more than her fair share of lowlife criminal types for not paying up with a stewing pot in one hand and a dagger in the other.

" Are ya deaf? Move yer arse. " Madeline hissed at the big man, before he bowed his head and turned on booted heel before spouting off " I weren't gunna hurt her. Just 'ave a lil fun. " It was amazing how the woman had been able to put even the biggest threat in his place. For now, Yao was content to have her break and plopped down on the nearest chair. Hazel hues filled with wonderment had quietly whisked around the tavern, mindful of all the newcomers. She had never seen so many different faces in one setting. All intriguing, especially the tall woman who had just sauntered in. " Nice to see ya, Alis. " Ms. Buckley chimed whilst brushing by.

Whether or not leaving the mainland for this was a good idea was still yet to be discovered, and she was still delightfully unaware of the danger surrounding her every day. After all, princesses were meant to be hidden away. Admired from afar, and married off later on. One might have been able to tell by the attire she wore, if the fine silk had not been tattered and dirtied from fights previous. It would seem that she was decidedly hidden within plain sight.

Though, it was painfully obvious that she was being used and even if she knew, it wasn't as though she would be able to convey the words. Ms. Buckley had slid a warm plate and a spoon in the young woman's direction which had received a look of slight confusion from Yao. Slender digits were quick to entwine with the foreign object as reticent contemplation and curiosity overtook those China doll features. Captain Connor had only fed Yao what had been readily available on the ship, in limited portions. Finger foods like stale biscuits and spoiled goods. One could only wonder how she wasn't dead yet. Hunger had begun to creep into the woman's stomach and it wasn't long before she had dug in, no longer infatuated with the spoon...Fingers would do.

Another fight had broken out near the bar counter, a bloody one at that and Madeline was back to taking care of business, leaving Yao to her own devices.

Whether or not Madeline Buckley was a sweetheart was a matter of debate on some ships, but Alis was not the least doubtful. Having warded off the beast looming over the oriental woman, she moved on to the next fight– a better peace-keeper than most British guardsmen. Alis smiled brightly as she was greeted.

"Always a pleasure, Ms. Buckley," she replied, taking a sip of her beer.

A few of her crewmen had entered the inn by now, settling in or greeting friends in the corners. She spotted Bjorn by the bar, apparently aiming to finish a bottle of rum by himself. She couldn't blame him– though she loved the sea, and the life that came with their dedication to it, the last trip had been a little much. If not for her gender she would have considered doing the same, but it was an unfortunate truth that she had to keep a clear head in places like these.

Nodding her goodbyes to Jack, she decided it was time the foreigner met a friendly face that didn't want to knock her down. Plus, it wasn't as though she had an abundance of women to talk to in this place anyway. It could make a nice change. She put down her plate at Yao's table and smiled down at the stranger. "You mind if I sit?"

She didn't really wait for a reply, deciding to sit down anyway. Some manners were lost even on the gentlest of pirates. Picking up her own spoon, she gestured to Yao's abandoned utensil and made a movement– showing her how to use it. "You scoop it up," she said, doing just that with the stew in front of her. "Better than getting blood all over your food."

She paused for a moment, only now realising that she might be intruding. "I'm Alis," she said. "What's your name?"

The ale stood still as a lake in the tankards held firm in Petra's hands as the sudden crack of a table breaking sounded from behind her. She sidestepped between cheering men and nearly slipped up on a puddle of the drinks she had gone through the trouble of pouring the bastards. She was going to have hell cleaning that up while they were all passed out and snoring. As she moved through the crowd she was frisked by the hands of pirates looking to score gold or a feel but she never even flinched, even when the prying was more forceful. At last she slammed the tankards down on a table and put one hand on her hip, blowing a lock of dark hair from her eyes.

"Anything else I can get you gentlemen?" She said, her voice either naturally or intended to be provocative. There was the crunching of a man losing his teeth as her full lips turned up into a forced, almost sarcastic smile at the two men in front of her. They merely leaned out with wide eyes to look around her to the spectacle. She rolled her eyes and finally looked over her bare shoulder to acknowledge the elephant in the room. The young and bloody foreign woman was happily chugging down a drink and Petra gave an exasperated sigh. The fighting had been going on for the past week and Madeline hadn't lifted a finger, so it was OK to let it slide, right? "... Dinner and a show. She's spoiling you, breathing that heavy without a charge..." Petra turned her head back to the distracted pirates with a raised eyebrow. "I'm not so generous." She gestured with a slender yet calloused finger to hand over the coin, but they didn't notice. "Boys..."

Her sensual voice earned more male attention than intended, and many who were near her turned their heads and did a double take before having their attentions snatched back up by the next challenger approaching the foreigner. The men sat in front of her both looked up and one elbowed the other, who fished out the payment. Petra gave the pile of coins in her hand a scan and flicked her eyes back up to him questioningly. This was definitely too much to be the price of two ales.

"Oh, that's not a tip, sweet'art." The ruddy faced bloke grinned revealing golden yellow teeth. Petra shook her head with a chuckle and her brown eyes softened with false sympathy.

"Sorry champ, I don't do that kinda work no more. But since you know how to flatter a woman, I'll treat you..." she leaned over the table towards him with a smirk and slowly slipped the coins between her generous cleavage. The pirates watched her breasts with hungry eyes and twitching hands and as Petra made the last coin disappear, she winked. "Stay late enough and you might earn a dance. I'll see you boys around." She turned swiftly and sashayed away, her chest heavy with the money she had so blatantly stolen from the man without him even realizing. The ruckus of another fight breaking out called her attention and she groaned and made her way over. One of the local wenches, Mabel, had fallen to the ground with her skirt over her head and two wasted men were going all out over the top of her, punching and cursing. They were going as 'all out' as they could in their intoxicated states, with dis-coordinated footing and swings. Petra gestured for poor Mabel to go crawl under a table and cracked her neck before forcing herself between their sweaty bodies and elbowing them away from each other.

"Ay! Not on the carpet!" She shouted. She kept them apart with a hand on each of their chests and they calmed and backed off. She kicked the carpet aside with a heeled boot and slapped her hands together. "Alright, there you go. May the best man win." She made a bowing gesture, but as soon as she leaned over someone took advantage of it and slapped her ass, which she promptly ignored. The two men whose passions had fizzled since the heat of the moment just looked at each other like, 'should we...?' and Petra snorted and stuck out a hand for Mabel to hoist herself up with. She immediately was assaulted by a bone crushing hug from the young blonde. Over Mabel's freckled shoulder she spied two men sitting at the bar, one oddly well groomed for the type of establishment he was sitting in and another very familiar dark haired man drinking himself into a coma. As she met his eyes, she flashed him a wolfish grin and hugged Mabel back.

"Oh, Petra! Laurie found out I gave better prices to the nicer looking ones and... that happened..."

Petra tore her eyes from the man and looked at Mabel sternly, her mouth set into a firm line. "Be more careful with that, will ya? It's more likely you're the one that ends up getting beat on. You're a lucky duckling. You don't screw pirates out of their money unless - well, unless you're like me, and I am exceptionally good at it." She spent some time reassuring Mabel and giving her tips to handle such a situation then wriggled out of her grasp to walk towards the dark haired man when a rough hand caught her arm and she was turned to see Madeline Buckley, the only one empathetic enough to hire an ex-whore.

"Rough 'em up like that, an' when I keel o'er, ya could be running this joint." She praised her, making Petra raise her head proudly. The skin around Madeline's eyes crinkled more than usual as she grinned. "Now, we're runnin' low on the good stuff. Be a dearie and go fetch?"

~~~

The sounds of merriment felt worlds away as Petra descended down the steps to the cellar with nothing but a flickering lamp lighting the dark. As she got to the bottom and navigated her way around the barrels, she made clicking noises with her mouth and kept a watchful eye on the shadows. When she saw one move, she smiled and sidled up alongside the barrel the movement came from and stretched out her arm. A furry leg unfurled hesitantly and drew back when it touched her fingers, then came back to her as it recognized her clicks. Seven legs followed and Petra's heartbeat went forcibly calm as the creature's fat furry abdomen dragged along her arm as it made its way up to greet her. Both she and the spider froze as two hands grabbed hold of her hips. Petra's fear quickly subsided and she groaned.

"I thought I told Mad Buckley to spread the word. Find another hole to pleasure your cock with." The stranger took no heed and pressed up against her and her face turned stony with annoyance. "Keep doing that and I'll jam it down the end of your gun barrel. How's that for blowing a load..."

"Shut up. Yer kidding me, right? Came all this way looking forward for ya, and you've decided you're too good for it?"

Petra tilted her head and scrunched up her face, which her giant spider was climbing up over. "Allan?" Oh great, a regular. She sighed. "Whores come and whores go, don't cry over me. Now, Leanne. Leanne's been selling herself short lately, a bit too desperate for quick coin if you ask me. She's worth so much more. She's still fresh, only been rooted twi-"

"I don't want Leanne, I came here for you." His grip tightened and he held her wrists, forcing her over a table. Petra snorted and blew the chunk of disheveled hair out of her face.

"Worried about her experience? You do like a woman that can move. Makes sense when you're as lifeless as a dead fish." At that he grabbed her hair and shoved her face down, but unbeknownst to him, she was smirking against the cold wood of the table. Without warning, a furry ball shot up his arm and latched onto his face and Petra raised up to take up arms - her weapon of choice being the mop leaning on the wall next to her.

~~~

The fight took less than thirty seconds. Getting the barrel up the stairs was much more strenuous, but she was tougher than she looked. Scratch that, with her defined muscles splattered with blood that bulged as she hauled the barrel up each step, she looked exactly as tough as she was. She dragged the barrel to the middle of the tavern and grabbed an axe to chop off the top, yelling, "Drop a coin in the barrel and grab a pint!" Madeline huffed from the bar and made sure the pirates followed through. After all, these people weren't too familiar with the trust system. "I'm going on break." A scuffed up Petra informed the woman. She caught a glimpse of Alis talking to the foreigner while she was making her way to the bar and shot a flirtatious wink at her before looking back to see... that Bjorn was no longer sitting down drinking and a fight had broken out at the bar. Again.

"I..." she seethed, "I am going to need a bigger mop."

To Frederich the Laughing Harpy was an enjoyable reprieve. The amount of passion residing within, was intoxicating. It was a shame were it up to the navy and indeed all of England places like this would cease to be. The freedom to answer to no man, to keep what was earned was to go back to the idiom of antiquity. Often Frederich thought of his half-brother who was removed from his family’s station and wealth to make his own way as a merchant sailor and eventually founding a small shipping company -much to his father’s chagrin. Frederich even sailed with him as escort to the Orient, seeing the lands of Nippon and Corea, the magnificence of the Hindustani and Qing empires only to come back from that adventure to England, changed, dampened even by the dreary tableau before him.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice a man approach him and clap him on the back. "Were I a Dane, you’d be dead," Said Marcus Cook. “Our Christian Lord, you’ve thinned out Freddy, like a street urchin or whore fed only on wine and Papist contempt.” Trenchfield turned to meet the man who had been his friend since college and through a war with the Spanish, now with the Dutch. Captain Marcus Cook was tall with fierce Prussian blue eyes and a forced smiled. “Aye, thin to be sure, hard life as a ship’s captain not so much, as I see captaining a clerk’s office. Though, I do admit the paunch and pallor of a family drunkard suits you well.” The two men laughed and shook hands. “Thought my engagement with you and yours was tomorrow morning Marcus?” Trenchfield asked. “Is the admiralty so eager to meet me they’d have me here?” Cook shook his head, frown and ordered two cups of rum from the bar maid paying with two reals. “Coin of the realm, this. Spanish money it pains me, but this is the way of things.”

The man paused, took the two cups and placed one in front of Frederich. “The way of things…I guess there is no tender way of saying this but to speak it plain. They are taking the sea away from you Freddy, your ship will be repurposed, guns sent back to England, your crew spread to other ships. You of course will be promoted, perhaps even given a lordship over the Carolinas. I would not hazard to-“

Frederich held his hand up. “Please stop your prattle and tell me true, who I offended so? That instead of a duel they would strip me of all I am?” Marcus looked slapped. “Stripped you say? Only you would see promotion and an estate as a slight. This war is not going well and since you were a part of taking West Africa from the Dutch and skirmishes with the Spanish on at least five occasions. Hell, you even sank the galleon Tigre di Dia. Frederich, they want you planning; they want you in front of a map not in the middle of sea.” He said. Trenchfield saw it was clear that his decision was already made for him, his life changed by the whim of some Lord in York who only ever saw the sea in a painting. He had a choice, rather he had freedom to choose at the very least. “I refuse.” The man said. “Refuse what, orders? This is not a request from an un-loved aunt, but from England herself, man. You can’t refuse!” Marcus said. “Nevertheless, I do” He replied.

“You do this, you are renouncing your commission and will never be on a ship again, they may even decide to clap you in irons. Stop being a child, Freddy and wait.” Marcus said. “Weight broke the horse’s back.” Trenchfield said, getting up to leave when the other man grabbed him. “You will not leave me with a quipped pun you bas-“ The once Captain, once Knight of the Sea, Sir Frederich Trenchfield turned, breaking the man’s grasp and punched him. Marcus stumbled back, leaning against the bar, his mouth a silent ‘O’ of surprise. Frederich took the man’s purse from his belt, breaking the throngs of leather and dropped it on the bar spilling the coins. “Drinks are on him tonight since he so rich in friends he could lose one." Trenchfield took his cup and a bottle of rum, moving towards an unoccupied corner he bumped the leg of the table of the Oriental pugilist now joined by another woman. "Apologies, ladies." He muttered as he continued on.

Bjorn's attention was pulled by sudden movement to his right side, just barely catching some poor bloke taking a fist from a tall, rather well-maintained fellow. Seeing that it wasn't a fight at all, he was just about to turn his attention back to his rum when someone bumped into him, causing him to spill his rum down his spun-cotton shirt.
He looked up in irritation and was met by an apologetic face with mocking eyes, both held on the features of a fairly large, bald man.

"My apologies, friend". , the man said.

Bjorn grunted. "No worries".

The bald-man didn't move, instead he stood there for a few uncomfortable seconds and Bjorn was getting the idea maybe the man wanted trouble.

Baldy grinned, his wooden teeth barred. "Wait. I know you".

Here we go, the Norwegian thought to himself.

"You was a Captain once, right? Captain Sturm--somethin'

At this point Bjorn was half-listening, some of his attention was on the two men back down the bar from where Woodteeth came from. He glanced at them, noticing the whispering and sneers they shared as they watched the exchanged.

He felt Woodteeth poke his broad chest with a finger.

"Oi, I'm talkin' to you", he growled.

"Unfortunately", Bjorn retorted, not hiding the slowly rising ire in his voice.

"What was that?", Woodteeth asked mockingly, not even bothering to make a half-assed façade at decent conversation anymore. Oh, right, he continued, snapping his fingers. "Captain Sturmgard. "Prince of Pirates", they used to call you. Your ship went down with your crew some years ago, yet here you are".

Bjorn clenched his teeth for a moment before bringing the rum back to his lips, but the bottle was smacked to the side by Woodteeth, spilling yet more of the liquid.

And that's when he felt his cool temperament shatter.

" Funny how shite always floats to the to-", Bjorn cut him off with a firm head-butt to the bridge of his nose, causing him to stumble back.

There was the sound of tankards hitting the bar and boots on the floor as Woodteeth's two friends came to join in, and Bjorn turned to rush them.

The first one to greet him took a swing at his face. Bjorn responded by lunging to his side and ducking under his opponents arm to slam his shoulder into his ribcage and sending him off his feet and into a crowded table, causing the group around it to respond with a mixture of laughter and anguished cries as their alcohol was sent in all directions.

The third attacker shot down low as Bjorn squared up with him, planting his shoulder in the Norwegian's abdomen and wrapping his arms around him, attempting to lift him up.
Bjorn kicked both of his legs back and leaned forward on his opponent's back, wrapping his left arm around the third man's neck and pulling up, affectively cutting off his airway.

He heard a knife being pulled from a sheathe behind him and assumed it was Woodteeth finally recovering, so instead of waiting for his current opponent to pass out, he loosened his headlock, grabbed the back of his head by his hair and brought a knee to his face.
Number three crumpled to the ground from the blow, allowing Bjorn to put his attention on Woodteeth, now spotting a broken nose and a dagger. Unfortunately, the second man he had thrown into the table had gotten up as well and rushed Bjorn from the side, taking him by surprise.
Bjorn caught a sucker punch to the right side of his face, which sent him stumbling into the bar. He turned, placing his back against it and intercepting a second punch forearm-to-forearm. He then grabbed the second-man's head by his greasy rat-tail and smashed his face on the edge of the bar, making a sickening crunch as he scattered his front teeth all over the hardwood surface.
Bjorn had to fight against panic when he heard how close Woodteeth was behind him, knowing he still had the knife.. He pivoted on his heel letting Rat-tail collapse on the floor. He swung his fist out sideways to catch the knife-wielder with a hammer blow to the head, but Woodteeth ducked under and left a burning red trail as he slice the dagger's jagged edge up Bjorn's side on his way back up.
Woodteeth didn't stop there, immediately bringing the light-weapon back and making a stab at Bjorn's abdomen. The Norwegian was ready this time, sidestepping the jab, and snatching his attacker's wrist. He slammed the arm onto the table and brought his free hand around in a fist to deliver a right-hook to Woodteeth's face, stunning him. Bjorn then brought his elbow up and rammed it down onto Woodteeth's pinned armed, audibly snapping a bone in his forearm and causing him to release the blade.
Woodteeth's yelp turned into a howl when Bjorn picked up the dagger and brought it down with such force onto his outstretched hand, it pinned the appendage to the wood-surface.

Bjorn looked at the now sobbing man, then at the empty bottle of rum on the ground, his shoulders slumping.
"I just wanted to be left in peace". With that, he placed a hand on his bleeding side and shouldered the door of the estalbisment open, walking out of The Laughing Harpy and back to the beach of Port Royal.

A slender brow had been raised, her head quirked to the side in silent bewilderment. The nice stranger was talking, but Yao wasn't quite comprehending the words that were being spoken. It was then that the spoon had again been picked up, and she scooped it into the stew which was immediately shoveled into her mouth. It was quite clear that the hidden princess would have probably starved tonight as well, if it hadn't been for Madeline Buckley's good will.

The woman continued to speak, and Yao continued to stare blankly. Absentmindedly scooping every last bite up. Of course, there was a moment of recognition before she had excitedly pointed towards herself, a half cocked, half proud smile splayed over the pink hue of the womans lips. " Yao ! " Despite the odd predicament the woman had found herself in, she had managed to come across quite charismatic. Pirate life had not yet rendered nativity from her youthful spirit.

That same hand was quick to entwine with the hilt of the native Jian, as a well dressed gentlemen had bumped into their table. Yao's glance had befallen the fellow with immediate distrust, though his apology seemed or sounded sincere. His attire had looked subtly familiar and triggered a long lost memory of foreigners visiting the mainland. It had been her first look at a roundeye, but would not be the last.

Yet another battle had broken out, and Yao had caught a sideways glance at it before returning her attention back to Alis. The constant state of war in which the tavern seemed to be in had not quite bothered the runaway. In fact, it was reminiscent of her homeland. She was from an empire, after all and empires often fell to those who acquired more power be it through heavier military, or intelligence. At least, that was how her father had taught her. She may have wanted to rejoined the fray but sitting comfortably away from it seemed to be benefiting those tired knuckles.

For now, there were only a select few words the woman had come to know at this point. Food, sorry, bastard, wench and most importantly rum.

Frederich took a rather large gulp of his rum and wished it had been an ale. He was not a remarkable lover of the drink; wine with a meal or brandy with a pipe at the behest of a comrade was not out of the norm. A pint of bitter ale when the weather turned to chill, the crunch of frost under his boot and rosy cheek walking home. Thinking he had perhaps made a grievous error in judgment, another gulp was taken. The Admiralty would surely hear of this though Marcus would likely not rush over at this late hour, he would lick his wounds and occupy himself with whores or at least a bawdy house full of pornographic statues and loutish epigrams until morning. Frederich, were he to commit to this recalcitrant behaviour would have to acquire the means to elude capture and of course the gallows.

He took off his most glaring accoutrement, the uniform coat which was as a signal fire for anyone looking for an English Naval Captain. He draped the covering along the bench next to him and felt just as blatant in a scarlet waistcoat. He could perhaps discard that as well however that would leave him in just his shirt which was sweat-soaked and clung to his body uncomfortably. This ensemble would have to suffice for the time being at least delay a rope around his neck – his neck…Frederich’s hand went to his throat and took out his gold collar pin then proceeded to untie the strip of black silk that was a barrier between his cotton shirt and wool coat. His undid the whale bone toggle at the top of the shirt and felt truly embarrassed at his state of undress in public.

Trenchfield also needed to accumulate filth, if the gathering here was any speculation - as to blend in with the common people. He thought a single person might stand out in such a place as this. This was a tavern after all, full of vigour, spilled drinks and clapped backs. The man needed to befriend someone, perhaps if only for a short time in case dear diligent Marcus did fetch someone to detain him. It was at this time a large man was involved in quite the altercation. He seemed to be of Teutonic stock, Lord knows if those people even left their forest villages regularly but he did come across an errant Saxon sell-sword now and then so he being there was not out of the realm of possibility. Though this German may have been the instigant it seemed he also would finish what the other men could not and all without a weapon drawn by his own hand, for that, Frederich had great respect. Trenchfield watched him leave, trailed by a barmaid as buxom as one would happen upon as graffito donning the wall of a piss alley.

He recalled the two women’s table he jostled earlier when he was away in thought. He saw the Oriental eating very hungrily and the other making pantomime motions to her, a translator Frederich thought. The man had employed them before in most exotic locales since he only seemed to have the tongue for given English, French and Latin. Wonderful, he would make their acquaintance post haste. The man stood, grabbed his rum bottle and cup but left his jacket on the bench then walked over to the two women. He nodded slightly at Oriental woman then at the other. “Good eve, I saw you two sitting here and was in desperate need of conversation, forgive me for being so brash. I am Captain” – should have not mentioned rank, far too late now, can’t un-say it. Can’t use your name either unless you plan to tell them of your knighthood you dullard. An alias, something common, a peasant’s name. “Mathaias Trench, at your service.” The man smiled.