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You are here: Home --> Forum Home --> Rules-based RPGs --> Dungeons and Dragons --> Bring Me That Horizon
Parent thread: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
GM for this game: Bromern Sal
Players for this game: Eol Fefalas, Keeper of Dragons, Nomad D2, Lady Dark
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    Messages in Bring Me That Horizon
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Lady Dark
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Karma: 39/2
285 Posts


Aw hell

Just as he reaches the door to the forecastle, Maggie “Hellfire” Cole pulls the barrier open and ducks through, stepping out onto the main deck, her freckled face shaded by the broad brim of her hat.

 

Into the narrow hall she steps, her mood dark and tense and restless. At sight of Cracker, she lifts her head a bit higher, eyeing him with a fiery gaze. Her lips are set in a grim line, the strain of recent event stil set at her brow that's creased with thoughts darker than her mood. She leans to the side, stretches a long arm out, palm to the wood, to block his path. Head cocked, she regards him for a silent moment, and tries to puzzle out what that look on his face might be. 

"As I live'n breathe. So ye made it back, did ye? Fall into any trouble on yer way?"

((OOC: an exchange of minor pleasantries, I'm guessing, before getting to the point))

Maggie draws herself up and crosses her arms over her chest. For a single petulant moment, she half considers refusing the summons, just to see the look on his young face. the idea almost makes her smile - almost. How would he react, she mused, if she just went back into her quarters and locked it? She bites her tongue a bit too hard to keep from a chuckle and instead, she bows with an exaggerated "after you," gesture. She'll follow him to the Captain. No need to toy with thim for just doing as told. 

“Come!” Captain Cole’s sharp command pierces the red-painted door almost immediately after the knock sounds.

Stepping through to the relatively large room, the first mate and boatswain stare across the seemingly extended and long space between the door and the captain’s desk to where the older of the Coles is sitting imperiously with her fingers steepled before her shadowy face.

“Bosun,” Anne snaps. “Yer dismissed.”

“What in the name of all nine hells,” Anastasia doesn’t raise her voice; there’s no tremor of rage either. She’s cold where Maggie runs hot, but there’s no mistaking her mood, “are ya doin’ killin’ officers o’ the city?”

"I be jus' fine, thanks fer askin," Maggie snaps back, fire rising to meet her ice. "I didn't set foot on that cursed rock wi' th' intent to do them in, and it weren't no picnic, i can prome ye tha'. Or had it not occured to ye to think I might have been forced to it?"

((OOC: A few back and forth remarks complcated by the bonds of sisterhood)) 

when they stop a moment, and there's a break in the talks, Maggie throws herself into a chair, a leg over the arm, and lets her head fall back, hat falling to the floor. She doesn't bother with it, but reaches up to pnch the bride of her nose. "Look. I be truly sorry fo rwhatever fresh hell this send our way. But you asked for it, so I'll tell it ya plain...."

And she does. She shares with her sister the details of all that transpired the moment she stepped foot on dry land, leaving nothing out, embellishing nothing. She doesn't see any reason to shave a bit here or there, aand knows Anne will see past her rashness to the facts as Maggie presents them. And her dander rises again recounting that bitter old man in the dress shop, who only had to but giver her a damned dress. She tells up to the moment of seeing Cracker before her in the passage, and closes her eyes. 

"An' I didn't come to ye straightaways because I jus' needed to get me head straight again or else all we'd 'ave done is fight and squak at each other like two mad ol' hens."

(OOC: Assuming thr conversation eventually gets back to the task Maggie had been assigned)

Maggie raises her head and frowns, watching her sister. "Aye, I got some o' that done. Though, bein' fair, not a whole hell of a lot." And she proceeds to lay out for Anne all she was able to glean about the physical layout of the island, what litle she got before things went sisdeways. 

"Next time i go ashore, might do to have a change of clothes, after all. And as hateful an idea as I find it, parading about as washer woman might not be too terrible. in terms o' gettin' more better aquainted wi' the lay o' th' land, as it were. But maybe after a bit, when they're not roustin' up the womenfolk lookin fer me?" She laughs joylessly, with a bitter edge to it. 

((OOC: Assuming a resonse of some kind, if not, she'll rise and wander the room in search of a drink.))

"I won't lie," she murmurs, turning to look at her sister. "Fear comes in many flavors, and today I tasted a new one." Taking a long pull on the bottle she lowers it and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "so what's our next move?"



Posted on 2018-04-05 at 23:49:00.

Bromern Sal
A Shadow
RDI Staff
Karma: 126/10
3268 Posts




Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 1:23 P.M.; The Sun Dog

 

“Maggie?” Anastasia’s face softens. “Tha’ li’l bird needs t’ learn t’ fly on ‘er own sooner er later. We’ll see what she brings us this time. Yer free t’ go ‘bout yer duties, Mr. Crowe.”

 

Still contemplating the conversation she’s just engaged in, Anne Cole twists her body to fully face the Bay of Tortuga and wonders when the port authorities will be visiting the Dog.

 

“Aye,” the quartermaster answers, pushing away from the railing, now, “as ye say, Capt’n.”

 

As Anne’s eyes turn shoreward, again, Fin ambles away in search of the new body that Sharktooth has brought aboard to fill out his gunners. The sailors on deck all wear faces that he knows well enough and, when he’s not immediately able to lay eyes on one that’s unfamiliar, he scowls a bit and lets his gaze sweep slowly from prow to stern in search of the phantom gunner…

 

“Lose somethin’, Mistah Crowe?”

 

Fin smirks at the sound of Chimwewe’s voice and turns his eyes in the direction of the scarified African. “No’ me, Chim,” he answers as he takes a few steps to close the distance between himself and the black man, “but I reckon someone has. Hear tell Sharky’s brought us a body ta put t’ th’ guns. Know where he’s ta be found?”

 

Chimwewe’s features twist to mirror Fin’s and his eyes, too, sweep the decks in search of the man of whom the Quartermaster spoke. “We left ‘im propped agin the mast, there,” Chim answers, “de man had a sizeable hole in his leg when Mistah Stryker brung him on. He was ta be waitin’ fer th’ doctor…”

 

“Hughes go ashore, did he?”

 

“Aye, sir,” Chim nods, “Can’t say if he’s returned, yet, though. If he has, I figure, you’ll find your man in his company, gettin’ that wound tended proper.”

 

Crowe nods faintly at Chim’s guess and flicks a glance at the hatch that leads below; “Makes sense. Ye been ashore as yet?”

 

“No, sir,” the intense African returns, “still waitin’ m’ turn, mendin’ ropes while I does.”

 

Fin’s lips stretch into something that’s not quite a smile. “Vera well,” he says, tipping the rum bottle to his lips once more before offering the thing over to Chimwewe, “why’n’t ye split tha’ wit yer mates whilst ye wait fer th’ next launch, then? Get ashore an’ have yerself a bit o’ fun ‘fore th’ night runs off, aye?”

 

“Ayyyyeee,” Chim grins, accepting the bottle without question, “Thank’ee, Mistah Crowe.”

 

“Mhm,” is the quartermaster’s low reply before turning on his heel and striding for the hatch.

 

(OOC: Time is roughly 1:35 PM. - The Sun Dog - In the Hold)

 

Taking a few minutes to scour the maze of hammocks in the Dog’s crew quarters Fin, at last, locates the unfamiliar face he’s been searching for. The man is stretched out, asleep, in one of the lower berths in the aft quarters, his soft snoring interrupted now and again by a pained moan as he shifts in his slumber. For a long moment, Fin simply eyes the napping figure, taking note of the battered and bruised appearance and the crudely tended wound in his leg from which blood still slowly trickles. His initial inspection complete, the quartermaster lifts a booted foot and crudely nudges the dozing man into wakefulness.

 

The would be gunner’s eyes shoot open in a panic of confusion and, out of instinct, it seems, one hand reaches for a dagger tucked into the belt at his waist as a curse falls, unformed, from his lips, “What in bla… who?.. I’ll…”

 

“Ye’ll end up wit’ a hole in more’n yer leg, ye don’ get yer hand off that pig-sticker, boy-o,” Crowe warns, “Roust up!”

 

The man’s face contorts in an almost comical jig of battling emotions: anger, discomfort, confusion, fear—before wakefulness fully dawns on him. As it does, his visage settles into a mask of realization and, perhaps, a bit of annoyance.

 

“Who in the bloody hell’re you,” he grouses out the question, wincing at the pain in his leg as he rolls his body into a seated position on the hammock and eyes the admittedly imposing man looming over him.

 

“Ye c’n call me Crowe,” comes the gruff reply, “If I decide yer fit enough ta stay aboard th’ Sun Dog, I’ll be yer quartermaster.”

 

“Oh…” The irritation quickly drains from the would-be-gunner’s features and while he doesn’t vocalize an apology, Fin sees it well enough in the man’s eyes.

 

“Aye,” the quartermaster responds, “an’ if yer done askin’ me questions, I’ve a couple o’ my own; th’ first bein’ who in th’ bloody hell’re you?”

 

“Name’s Daxon, sir,” the man blinks, lifting a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes, “Daxon Blackheart.”

 

Fin smirks faintly at the moniker, reasonably certain Blackheart isn’t a family name. From where his arms are folded across his chest, then, he lifts a hand to his face and rubs thoughtfully at his chin. “An’ yer lookin’ ta man our guns,” the next query rumbles past Fin’s lips, “are ye, Mester Blackheart?”

 

“Aye, sir,” Daxon nods, “Shark’s Tooth said you’d lost some crew and be lookin’ to take on a few mo—”

 

“An’ yer figurin’ ye’d make a good choice wit’ that hole in yer leg, then?” Crowe interrupts.

 

“No,” Blackheart blinks rapidly and shakes his bearded head as if to clear away lingering cobwebs of drowsiness, “I mean yes. Yessir… Never been stabbed in th’ leg, before, to be honest and it hurts like the devil, but…” The man’s brow knits in such a way that it seems the realization he’s being tested has just struck him like a rogue wave and, at that point, any hint of uncertainty that may have lingered disappears from his face and he meets the quartermaster’s gaze as even as he can, the black makeup around his eyes casting his grim visage into a ghastly looking skull, “I’m as good a gunner’s mate as you’ll find in this port, Mr Crowe, an’, once your surgeon returns from wherever he’s run off to, I’m sure this knick in my leg’ll be dealt with so’s not to be a concern. If you need me on the cannons before that, then I’ll bloody well hop... sir.”

 

A grin ghosts across Crowe’s lips at that and, as he seats himself on the hammock across from Daxon, he even allows a chuckle to escape.

 

“Tha’s th’ answer I was lookin’ fer, mate.” Resting his elbows on his knees, Fin eyes the man, assessing him once more now that he seems to have his wits about him.

 

“If Sharky saw fit ta bring you back ta th’ ship,” Fin says after a moment, “I reckon there’s no need ta ask if ye know yer guns…” Surely Shark’s Tooth wouldn’t have hired on a gunner without being assured of some sort of proficiency.

 

“No, sir,” Daxon replies, “I mean you can, if you please, but Shark’s Tooth already done so and—”

 

Fin curtly waves the response away and nods, “Aye. I figured’s much. Answer me this, though, Mistah Blackheart; how long ye been ashore at Tortuga an’ whaddya know about a couple o’ blokes by th’ names o’ Davenport an’ Grover?”

 

(OOC: Aboard the Sun Dog, roughly 3:15 P.M.)

 

In the past couple of hours Fin Crowe had made his rounds of the Sun Dog, from bilge to belaying pins, tending to the various duties of his station. First, he had found Daxon Blackheart, the man whom Sharky had brought aboard as a potential addition to the gunnery crew. While the man couldn’t be classified precisely as able-bodied given the stab wound in his leg, he’d seemed ready and willing enough to suit the purpose and, just as importantly, Fin had learned, that Daxon had been on Tortuga for enough time as to have provided some bit of insight into the powers and players on the little island. The information Daxon had provided chased through the quartermaster’s mind even after he’d left the new gunner to rest up and await Hughes’ return and, as he’d prowled the Dog’s decks, Fin couldn’t help but to allow the implications of what he’d learned to pepper into every inventory and investment… Whose purses would they fill in stocking the Sun Dog’s larder? Whose for powder, sail, and timber? Was the balance of power on Tortuga so far tipped to one side that they may have already run afoul of the larger and, perhaps more importantly, if they had, would the Dog and her crew jumping on the other side of the scale manage to bring any sort of equilibrium? Thoughts like these follow Crowe back through the hatch and onto the mid-deck as he climbs from the hold and back into the late afternoon sun.

 

He stands just outside the hatch for a moment and runs a hand through his hair as he gazes, narrow-eyed, upon the town across the bay and, as he considers what he’s learned, he blows the weight of them into the air in the form of an ambiguous sigh.

 

“Either that, Mr. Crowe, or you’ll not find this port so friendly as you have.”

 

Oken’s parting words swirl amidst the information and questions playing in his brain and, as his hand falls from his hair and come to rest on the hilt of his blade, Fin gives a slow shake of his head and smirks at the town.

 

“Aye,” he grumbles under his breath, tearing his eyes from the sprawl of the town and suspiciously eyeing the fort that tops it all, “we’ll see, won’t we? Sooner rather’n later, I reckon.”

 

He heaves another sigh into the air and forces his eyes from the Tortuga Bay Settlement, rasping something about a “f#@kin’ pansy peacock” under his breath and, with more of a glare than a glance, dismissing the view of the town as he strides for the forecastle. The day’s events (and the warmth of the rum in his belly) have almost given physical weight to the thoughts churning in his head he finds the idea of a piece of quiet and a sprawl on his bunk to be an acceptable remedy for such a thing.

 

Moments later he’s in his cabin, shrugging out of his blood-spattered shirt and sitting on the edge of his bed. After tossing the tunic aside, his hands found his tobacco pouch and his fingers fidget with the making of another cigarillo as his mind does the same with all he’s learned today. After striking a spark to the cigarillo, he works his way across the mattress and presses his back to the inner wall of the cabin, letting the tension ease from his shoulders as the first draw of sweetened smoke mulls the myriad thoughts in his mind.

 

“Somethin’ ta save fer th’ council, later,” he mutters to himself, watching in an almost zen-like manner as the smoke writhes and curls it’s way toward one of the open portholes on the far wall. He debates, of course, taking what he’s learned to the Captain before the council begins but, given that the Dog has only been ported in Tortuga Bay for less than a day and the fact that Anna, likely, has other concerns weighing on her at present, Fin decides that it can wait. She’ll want the others to weigh in with their thoughts anyway, and to his way of thinking, there is no sense in having the same conversation twice. So, it is that Fin Crowe convinces himself to simply sit and smoke, letting the cares of the day seep from mind and body alike as he soaks in a few moments of solitude.

 

As it happens aboard a ship, though, those moments of blessed silence are cracked by the sound of a door just beyond that of his cabin, banging shut and, thereafter, the echo of boot heels falling purposefully on the deck-boards of the corridor. His eyes turn towards his own door then and, as he slides toward the edge of his bunk, his ears pick up on a muffled bit of chatter between voices that he recognizes as Maggie’s and Cracker’s.

 

When’d Mags get back, he wonders, lifting himself off of the thin mattress and making for the door to his cabin, Must’ve been when I was below, else I’d’ve seen ‘er. An’ what’s Cracker soundin’ so bunched up about?

 

Drawing lazily on his smoke, Fin follows the voices out onto the main deck but by the time he’s thumbs the latch and steps out into the Caribbean air again, all he is able to catch is the sight of Cracker and Maggie trudging across the deck towards the captain’s quarters. They’re through that farther door before the Quartermaster can so much as guess at what they’d been talking about. Doesn’ look at all good, Fin muses, noting the way Maggie’s steps fall as he presses his back against the bulkhead and takes another drag of his cigarillo. Her or Anna want me t’ know, one of ‘em’ll tell me soon enough.

 

----------------------------------------------------

 

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), aboard the Sun Dog, 3:15 P.M.

 

(OOC: Time is roughly 3:15 PM)

 

Just as Cracker reaches the door to the forecastle, Maggie “Hellfire” Cole pulls the barrier open and ducks through, stepping out onto the main deck, her freckled face shaded by the broad brim of her hat.

 

Her mood dark, tense, and restless already, the sight of Cracker causes her to lift her head a bit higher, eyeing him with a fiery gaze. Her lips are set in a grim line, the strain of recent events still set upon her brow that's creased with thoughts darker than her mood. She leans to the side, stretches a long arm out, palm to the wood, to block his path should he be trying to get past her. Cocking her head to the side, she regards him for a silent moment, and tries to puzzle out what that look on his face might be.

 

"As I live'n breathe. So ye made it back, did ye? Fall into any trouble on yer way?"

 

The boatswain stalls and sucks in a deep breath before bravely offering a simple explanation for his being at the forecastle’s entrance. Maggie draws herself up and crosses her arms over her chest. For a single petulant moment, she half considers refusing the summons, just to see the look on his young face. The idea almost makes her smile—almost. How would he react, she muses, if I just went back into my quarters and locked it? She bites her tongue a bit too hard to keep from a chuckle and instead bows with an exaggerated "after you," gesture. She'll follow him to the Captain. No need to toy with him for just doing as told.

 

“Come!” Captain Cole’s sharp command pierces the red-painted door almost immediately after the knock sounds.

 

Stepping through to the relatively large room, the first mate and boatswain stare across the seemingly extended and long space between the door and the captain’s desk to where the older of the Coles is sitting imperiously with her fingers steepled before her shadowy face.

 

“Bosun,” Anna snaps, “yer dismissed.”

 

Cracker is quick to comply, not wishing to be caught between the two sisters.

 

“What in the name of all nine hells,” Anastasia doesn’t raise her voice when the door closes behind the boatswain; there’s no tremor of rage either. She’s cold where Maggie runs hot, but there’s no mistaking her mood, “are ya doin’ killin’ officers o’ the city?”

 

"I be jus' fine, thanks fer askin," Maggie snaps back, fire rising to meet her ice. "I didn't set foot on that cursed rock wi' th' intent to do them in, and it weren't no picnic, I can promise ye tha'. Or had it not occurred to ye to think I might have been forced to it?"

 

“Unfortunately, Maggie,” Captain Cole responds with cold accusation, “Every time ya run afoul o’ somethin’ ya got yer reasons. So, I imagine this’ll be no different.”

 

True to form, the two women begin the world famous Dance of the at Odds Siblings, sparring with words, glares, pacing about, pointing fingers, allegations, defences, and finally sullen silence.

 

As the silence draws on, Maggie throws herself into a chair, drapes a leg over the arm, and allows her head to fall backward; hat dropping to the floor. She doesn't bother with it, but reaches up to pinch the bridge of her freckled nose.

 

"Look,” she musters. “I be truly sorry for whatever fresh hell this send our way. But you asked for it, so I'll tell it t’ ya plain..."

 

And she does. She shares with her sister the details of all that transpired the moment she stepped foot on dry land, leaving nothing out, embellishing nothing. She doesn't see any reason to shave a bit here or there, and knows Anne will see past her rashness to the facts as Maggie presents them. And her dander rises again recounting that bitter old man in the dress shop, who only had to but giver her a damned dress. She tells up to the moment of seeing Cracker before her in the passage, and closes her eyes.

 

"An' I didn't come to ye straightaways because I jus' needed to get me head straight again or else all we'd 'ave done is fight and squak at each other like two mad ol' hens."

 

Anna raises her thin eyebrows and peers amusedly across the room at the girl she’s been taking care of practically their whole lives, “As if we didn’t?”

 

Maggie raises her head and frowns, watching her sister. "Aye, I got some o' that done. Though, bein' fair, not a whole hell of a lot." And she proceeds to lay out for Anne all she was able to glean about the physical layout of the island, what little she got before things went sideways.

 

"Next time I go ashore, might do to have a change of clothes, after all. And as hateful an idea as I find it, parading about as washer woman might not be too terrible. in terms o' gettin' more better acquainted wi' the lay o' th' land, as it were. But maybe after a bit, when they're not roustin' up the womenfolk lookin fer me?" She laughs joylessly, with a bitter edge to it.

 

“Might be best if you don’ set foot t’ Tortuga’s soil fer a time,” Anna holds up a hand to forestall any argument. “Crowe may ‘ave some adventure fer ya.”

 

Closing her eyes for a moment, the older Cole sister breathes out and snatches a bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind her. Padding across the cabin she offers it to Maggie and says, “I’m pleased tha’ you’re well, Mags.”

 

"I won't lie," the younger sister murmurs, turning to look at her sibling. "Fear comes in many flavors, and today I tasted a new one." Taking a long pull on the bottle she lowers it and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "so what's our next move?"

 

“We drink,” Anastasia holds out her hand to receive the bottle back. “We drink some more, an’ we take the edge off. Then we eat, get sober, an’ meet with the officers o’ this ship t’ gather t’gether all o’ the intelligence available.” Tipping the mouth of the bottle to her lips, Anna takes a quick pull resulting in a grimace and sucking on her teeth as she offers the beverage back to Maggie.

 

(OOC: Time is roughly 4:25 PM)

 

----------------------------------------------------

 

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), aboard the Sun Dog, 7:30 P.M.

 

Evening finds Captain Cole sitting at the head of the small table that has been brought up from the cargo bay area for the purpose of councils such as these. A cooler evening breeze draws the Caribbean heat from the deck and off the attendee’s flesh while a jug of ale is present to be shared amongst the lot of them should they wish to imbibe. At this table sits Fin Crowe to Anne’s left and Maggie Cole to her right. Goncalvo and Cracker share the other end.

 

“In summary,” Anne slowly turns the tin cup with the amber liquid on the table, “we’ve still no’ been visited by the port authority, so this is likely one o’ them ports tha’ require me t’ go ashore which I’ll do t’morrow. We’ve precious li’l on the powers here’bouts but ‘ave already sold t’ one—Mr. Virgil Grover—whilst Mr. Crowe’s received an offer o’ bounty from an agent o’ the other—Mr. Davenport—or so we assume…”

 

This prompts a short nod from the quartermaster and his dark eyes lift from their contemplation of the ale in his mug. “More’n assumption at this point, luv,” he rumbles. He doesn’t elaborate immediately, though; instead, he lifts his mug and takes a drink, allowing the Captain to continue.

 

“An’,” Cole continues, “we likely ‘ave an issue brewin’ with the authorities ‘ere that’ll need addressin’.”

 

Crowe returns his mug to the table, here, and his eyes, too, flick across the table to where Maggie sits. He says nothing but offers the tempestuous woman a wry smile and a quick wink.

 

Anastasia’s green eyes flit briefly to where Maggie sits and her mug stalls its rotations. “This be where ideas be brought t’ the table. How’re we t’ no’ get dashed on the political rocks o’ Tortuga whilst buildin’ a network o’ folks willin’ t’ give us line when probable hauls be runnin’ these waters? The crew be happy fer the time bein’ so long as their purses are full. This… well, we all know this is no’ long asail an’ other captains’ll be poachin’ our crew once they learn there be a female captain o’ this boat. So, spill yer guts.”

 

"If this is like most ports the local constabulary will have hot heads but short memories,” the sailsmaster advises. “There is always something going on and today’s news is forgotten as quickly as it spreads. This is likely not the first, or last time, an officer of the port will have met an untimely end. Time and distance often aids one in forgetting old, distant problems when new ones close at hand pop into play. Perhaps now would be a good time to set sail for the Indies and search for a fat merchant ship to plunder. The only thing guaranteed to make near any harbormaster forget past transgressions is a fat purse of gold."  Goncalvo falls quiet and waits for the Captain's reply.

 

The Sailmaster’s words evoke another clipped nod and a grunt of what might be interpreted as concurrence from Fin. Still, the quartermaster holds his tongue, preferring to hear what Cracker has to say before he speaks, himself.

 

Cracker sits at the table and listens to the captain give her little speech. He doesn’t like the talk about losing crew members. Others might be stupid about Captain Cole, but he knows a good captain when he sees one. He isn’t going anywhere and the thought of deserters irritates him a great deal. Still, her main point is well taken. A ship sitting in port makes no money and can pay no sailors. They needed to find a target and that means information.

 

“Captain,” the bosun pipes up. “I spent my time today posing as a sailor looking for work. I spied out some of the docks and found out where some of these ships are headed. Towards the North American coast is a common one. At least a couple of nice ships are headed that way. I couldn’t tell you what their cargo was as it was pretty well crated, but they were headed out ‘fore long. Details available if desired, but this is really just general info on one or two ships.” He feels a bit uncomfortable adding the last bit, but given the captain’s own comments, it seems needed.  “And Captain, since you mentioned the risk of losing crew members, I think I could o’ gained a berth on at least a few ships. Admittedly, they thought I was desperate to reach Georgia to see my sick mum, but it doesn’t seem like there is a surplus of sailors here.”

 

He looks at the first mate as he continued. “A bit later the First Mate brought Shark’s Tooth and I ashore to try and gather more information. I’d already done the dock thing, so I followed some sailors to a bar and drank ‘em up a bit. They talked about a ‘Gory Tremane’ as a man I needed to talk to if I was lookin’ for a spot on a ship. It wasn’t quite clear if this guy was just the quartermaster on the Minnow or if he was a bigger name in the port at large. At first, I got the sense that this Tremane was a big name for anyone looking for work. That he was a player here. But they also said he could be found on the Minnow which lends itself to thinkin’ he might just be the quartermaster for that one. I’m not sure, but one of ‘em seemed irritated that I’d been given the name, as if it was somehow a secret or something.”

 

As expected, the Bosun relates the details of his various excursions into town. Much of what Cracker says props up Fin’s own, as yet, unspoken assessment of the place—lots of tight lips and a semblance of fearful secret-keeping pervades Tortuga Bay. The mention of Gory Tremane piques Crowe’s interest and, from behind a fresh tipping of his mug, he first arches a brow, then, seems to slip into a deeper contemplation, trying to piece this name in with the others he’s learned today.  

 

Here Cracker nods at the Dog’s quartermaster, “I don’t think Crowe here’d be upset about crewmen givin’ out his name to prospective recruits.” Earning a shake of Fin’s head in agreement, the bosun continues, “That makes me think he might be more.” Cracker shrugs. “But honestly, I don’t have much to go on beyond the name of a person and a ship.”

 

He leans back in his chair a bit. He’s had his say and hopes it helps. When he’d first heard the name Tremane, he’d thought it might be important, but the more he thinks about it, the less sure he is. But the guy had reacted suspiciously. Why would his identity be a secret?

 

Still shirtless, as he had spent some time scrubbing Kidane’s blood from his tunic and had left it to dry in his cabin, Fin Crowe occupies his usual position to the Captain’s left. He sits in brooding silence, a mug of ale cupped between his hands. Fin floats in his quiet consideration for a moment longer, his eyes skimming the faces at the table as his thoughts shuffle and sort themselves in his mind. He indulges in another sip of ale before his gaze meets Anne’s and it is then that he sets the mug aside and laces his fingers together on the table before him. “From th’ minute me an’ Cracker set foot t’ th’ docks,” he says in the wake of a heavy puff of air that escapes his lips, “I figgered there were somethin’ off-kilter ‘bout this place. Took me a bit of lookin’, listenin’, an’ thinkin’ to piece t’gether exactly wha’ tha’ might be but, giv’n wha’ I’ve heard from th’ lot o’ ye an’ some others, here an’ ashore, I c’n say wit’ more’n some certainty, it’s fear. Th’ balance o’ power’s been tipped, hereabouts, an’ th’ folk o’ this town be terrified o’ th’ way she’s leanin’.”

 

Fin’s gaze ticks to Cracker (OOC: Shark’s Tooth is not there as he isn’t an officer). “Yer new mate, Daxon, filled me in on some scuttlebutt tha’ helped put th’ pieces t’gether fer me.” His attentions shift back to Anne, then, and he continues.

 

“Yer man, Grover,” he offers, “he’s a local lad made good, as I hear told, an’ fer a time, held a good deal o’ sway in Tortuga but th’ folk here’re figgerin’ he’s on his last leg. This Davenport fella; he’s an aristocrat come over from England an’s ruthless enough as to have all but taken th’ place over, stealin’ power from th’ likes o’ Grover an’ pilin’ it all on his side o’ the scale, savvy? Th’ peacock wha’ offered me th’ bounty job, t’day, he’s rumored t’ be th’ bloke wha’ handles Davenport’s less savory op’rations. Havin’ seen fer myself th’ way folk react t’ th’ man an’ knowin’ th’ sort o’ blokes he’s prone ta hirin’ on, I’m figgerin’ tha’ Davenport’s th’ iron-fisted type tha’ people’re wont t’ avoid crossin’ fer fear o’ their lives.”

 

“As t’ th’ politics o’ it,” Crowe leans back in his chair and lifts his hands to push back his hair as he heaves a sigh, “We climb aboard wit Grover an’ we’re on the wrong side o’ power in this town but there’s th’ chance we c’n help shift some of it back… mebbe even take some of it fer ourselves… O’ course, tha’ll be much akin ta cuttin’ yer wrist an’ swimmin’ wit’ sharks.

 

On t’other hand,” Fin continues, “we get in bed wit’ Davenport an’ we are th’ sharks, aye? No’ th’ sort o’ shark I’d care ta be, mind ye. I’m more’n a wee bit familiar wit’ th’ sort wha’ run fer th’ man an’, truth o’ it is, I’d jus’ as soon kill th’ lot o’ ‘em as give ‘em a sideways eye. We’d be well off, fer sure, so long’s we kowtowed ta ever’thin’ th’ man said but, th’ second we aired so much’s a question, he’d likely have us killed.

 

As ta Maggie’s predicament,” he says, storm colored eyes fixing on the First Mate, “I ain’t certain she’s got much ta worry on. If this town’s deep in Davenport’s purse as I been led ta believe, he won’ find it hard ta replace some dandy politician an’ a f*#kin’ guardsman; it’ll be li’l more’n a tick in his ledgers, I reckon. Bloody hell, I killed one o’ Oken’s lads t’day, meself, an’ th’ bugger din’t so much’s blink… jus’ offered me a job an’ tossed wha’ he figgered might be some threatin’ words inta th’ wind.

 

Anyway,” Crowe says, reaching for his mug, again, “we stay here long, Capt’n, an’ we’re like to kick th’ hornets’ nest. Tha’ much be certain. How we handle th’ hornets once they be angry an’ swarmin’, tha’s another matter all t’gether.” He tips the mug to his lips and offers up an ambiguous raising of his brows to indicate he’s finished for the moment, then, reclines in his chair allowing the others to mull over what he’s brought to the table.

 

Anastasia stares at the table’s worn surface for a moment as quiet descends upon them. She considers the options, the information, and the possibilities during this time. Not sure how much of that precious commodity has passed, she finally settles on their course.

 

“We’re too new t’ these waters t’ make brash decisions,” she counsels. “So, we’re not going t’ tie ourselves off t’ either boat jus’ yet.”

 

Turning her steely-eyed gaze to her quartermaster, Captain Cole begins to give orders. “Crowe’ll put together a small crew from the Dog—one tha’ includes Maggie. You lot’ll complete the task set t’ you by Davenport. This’ll put us even on the scale while I ‘sess out which tide we’re gonna sail. Goncalvo, you can ‘elp me with the task. Cracker’d make a good addition t’ yer crew, Mr. Crowe. Any questions?”

 

(OOC: Time is 7:50 P.M.)



Posted on 2018-04-17 at 22:30:10.

Eol Fefalas
Witless Protection
RDI Staff
Karma: 432/28
6751 Posts




Nursing his ale, Fin watches as, in the hush that has descended over their little table, Anastasia stares at the worn surface for a moment. He could almost hear the woman’s mind at work, weighing options, information, and possibilities in order to get her bearings and determine the ebb or flow of the tides of their fate. 

“We’re too new t’ these waters t’ make brash decisions,” she counsels, her gaze lifting from the tabletop to frame the faces of her officers, once more, “So, we’re not going t’ tie ourselves off t’ either boat jus’ yet.”

 Turning her steely-eyed gaze to her quartermaster, Captain Cole begins to give orders. “Crowe’ll put together a small crew from the Dog—one tha’ includes Maggie. You lot’ll complete the task set t’ you by Davenport. This’ll put us even on the scale while I ‘sess out which tide we’re gonna sail. Goncalvo, you can ‘elp me with the task. Cracker’d make a good addition t’ yer crew, Mr. Crowe. Any questions?”

“None from me, Capt’n,” Crowe rasps, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table for a moment. His own gaze pans from Maggie to Cracker and back again as a faint smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “I don’ reckon I’ll be needin’ none but these two, neither,” he offers, glancing at Anna, once more, “it’s naught but th’ one man we’re after an’, per’aps a competin’ crew er two ta handle should it come ta tha’.”

Shrugging his shoulders, the quartermaster lifts his mug and drains the remainder of its contents in a single swallow. As he rises out of his seat, he wipes his mouth on the back of his forearm and eyes Maggie and Cracker, again. “Take th’ night ta get yer s#y^e t’gether,” he suggests, “I reckon we’ll be gone ‘bout a week. Less if fortune favors us, savvy? Come sun-up, we go ashore an’ find us a float ta Barbados. Ye wanna know more ‘bout this hunt afore then, ye c’n find me in me cabin.”



Posted on 2018-04-25 at 07:05:20.

Keeper of Dragons
Devil's Advocate
Karma: 47/18
2006 Posts




  "Aye Captain.  Give me a moment to gather my notes and tide charts and I will return so we can plan."  With that the sailing master returned to his cabin to gather the necessary items.  When everything was in order he returned to the Captains quarters and knocked.    



Posted on 2018-05-05 at 17:23:08.

Nomad D2
RDI Fixture
Karma: 41/4
2083 Posts


Banter time

So he was going to join Crowe and Maggie on a side trip?  What the #$%@? Leave the dog and go fatch someone?  But they needed money and they needed time to find their spot in this place.  So it made some sense - and he wasn't about to question the captain.  And if you had to go out with a 3-person crew this would be a pretty good pair.  He just didn't like being dependent on someobody else's boat.  

The meeting, it seemed, was over.  Crowe gave him some time to figure out what he needed to take.  The very idea made him laugh - what sailor needed more than a minute to grab all of their worldy possessions. After a little banter he headed for the door.  He'd give Crowe a little time before he met the others in Crowe's bunk.  He wanted a bit more information on just what they were up to.  



Posted on 2018-05-12 at 20:36:31.

Lady Dark
Resident
Karma: 39/2
285 Posts


a working vacation

Of course, Maggie mused, anything to get rid of your troublesome younger sister, and nearly frowned. But the prospect of getting away for a bit appealed to her. And there was sure to be some excitement on this mission. Maggie tossed a nod to her sister and rose at the end of the meeting, Catching Crowe's eye, she winked, a grin wide on her face. "Need a bit o' time to make yer bunk a proper place ta entertain a lady...or two?" At that, she winked ant Cracker and laughed lightly. "If ya be up for it, I'll stop by in a bit ta hear more about this trip."

whatever gets me away from this accursed rock, she sighed to herself. 



Posted on 2018-05-14 at 17:16:07.

Eol Fefalas
Witless Protection
RDI Staff
Karma: 432/28
6751 Posts




Cracker wasn't sure what to think of the plan.  He was nervous about having the Dog stay in port, but their options were limited.  He'd trust his captain on this.  And they would be getting the Frist Mate away from here for a while.  That made sense.  But now it seemed that a small group of them were to leave the Dog and find a different ship to take off on this other side trip.  That didn't sound much like pirating to him, but he wasn't so much into the thing of it all - he just wanted to have a way to survive, have some freedom and believe that he wasn't part of some big machine making his and everyone else’s life miserable.  If the way to fund that life was with some side trip to catch some guy, so be it.  

With his mind wandering through a slew of scenarios, the Bosun looked at Crowe with a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth.  "A night to gather m' s#y^e together?  You think I'm some pomp with a chest full of necessaries to bring?"  He chuckled at the thought.  "What sailor you know needs more'n a minute to dump their worldly possessions into a sack and run?  I'll be by your cabin shortly - I'd like to have more of an idea of what we are trying to do."  

Maggie, largely silent through the bulk of this meeting, gives a nod. A little more space between them would likely be better for the sisters right now, and she's eager to put a little coin in their pockets. Cracker's remark gives her a genuine chuckle as he's right, no season water rat would need more than but a minute. But she's glad for the chance to rest a little before jumping into another adventure - and maybe this one won’t go as sideways as the last. 

"Aye," she agrees, "I'll tag along. Best we give the man a few to put away those frilly things he be hiding first," she teases with a playful wink.

Cracker grinned at the First Mate's jest.  She seemed a bit uptight and nervous at the moment, which was probably reasonable, but she was still a Cole.  "Don't need to see Crowe's frillies . . . there isn't enough whiskey in the world, let alone that bottle, for that!" he noted indicating the now nearly empty whiskey bottle in front of them.  With that he stood and gave the captain a nod.  "With your leave captain, I shall go get my necessaries together for this little trip."  He grinned at Crowe.  "I shall see you shortly once you've tidied up a bit."

He walked away from the table whistling Booty and the Beast.

Fin smirks at the remarks from Maggie and Cracker. “Aye,” he rumbles, taking a backward step in the direction of the forecastle, “I’ve go’ frillies fer ye.” His grin widens a bit as he raises the middle finger of his left hand in the Bosun’s direction; “Thar be one fer you, Cracker,” and wider still as he offers a similar gesture to Maggie with his right, upon which a simple gold ring glints in the moonlight, “an’ a fancy one fer you, as well, poppet.” Chuckling softly and with a scant shake of his head the quartermaster turns on his heel and strides purposefully toward his cabin.

He pushes through the door to his cabin, not bothering to close it behind him, and reaches for his shirt. The fabric is still mildly damp but he shrugs into the thing, anyway, and then flops himself down on the bunk and sets about rolling a smoke. That done, Fin tucks the thing into the corner of his mouth, reaches for his blade and whetstone, and, for a long moment, loses himself in the staccato rhythm of honing the cutlass’ edge as he awaits the arrival of Cracker and Maggie.

 

((OOC: I've got more in the works on this, just figured that I'd post this much as I've held thing up long enough... The first bit, here, of course, comes from the collab that Lady D, Nomad and I worked on, with the rest being Fin's reaction to their comments. So, now he's sitting in his cabin, waiting for them to show, at which point he'll give them a rundown on the job Oken offered. Feel free to post arrivals and such before I get the rest of this written up, if you like.))



Posted on 2018-05-24 at 09:55:57.

Nomad D2
RDI Fixture
Karma: 41/4
2083 Posts


And here I thought he was a choir boy

Cracker's laugh at Crowe's crude gesture interupted his whistling.  "Frillies and a couple of fingers, it seems the quartermaster may not be the little choir boy we all assumed he was.  What your momma would say if she could see you now . . ."  

And with that he resumed whsitling and zipped out of the room - he really didn't need to hear what Crowe's momma would say in reply to that!  Smiling and pondering the future he whistled his way to his bunk and put together the few things he had and would need for the trip.  As he'd indicated earlier, it wasn't much.  Then he headed to Crowe's roost.  As he approached he saw that the door was ajar and he could hear the sound of a wet stone and blade coming from inside.  

He tapped at the entrance and stepped in.  "It is a dangerous man that mush sharpen his frillies."  He grinned and nodded at the blade.  "What do you put the odds that we will need that sort of a thing?"



Posted on 2018-05-24 at 20:07:57.

Bromern Sal
A Shadow
RDI Staff
Karma: 126/10
3268 Posts




Wednesday, June 4th, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 6:30 A.M.; The Sand Dollar || Clear, High: 124°F (51°C) /  Low: 108°F (42°C) :: Wind Force: Light :: Wind Speed: 1 mph (1 kph)

Dawn finds the sailors boarding a smaller sloop of approximately 50 feet keel-length under the captainage of one Leonardo Collazo, a Latino man who is reluctant to take the three on, but was convinced over a few drinks the previous night by a persuasive Crowe.

Standing to the right of the gangplank, Captain Collazo scowls through his heavy black mustaches and narrows his beady eyes. Grunting with a finality that speaks of little joy, Leonardo motions his crew to bring up the planks.

“Stay out o’ me way an’ we be square once we hit port,” he snarls and uses the cloth about his neck to white the resulting spittle from his lips as he walks towards the poop deck.

Other crew cast wary glances their way but ignore the three while going about their various duties. There’s not much room on deck but around the forecastle and within minutes of being aboard, that’s where the Dog’s crew find themselves.

The ocean is calm and there’s nary a wind. The weather doesn’t look fair and the cursing and bellowing of Captain Collazo confirms that the conditions are less than optimal. Still, a small taste of wind can move a sloop and that’s what they have. Within an hour they’re underway at a ponderous pace.

Despite the Sand Dollar’s graceful lines, the heated hours drift by like seaweed upon the swell. Devilishly slow does not suit the captain of this vessel and Collazo is a loud fellow when cursing the winds. It is mostly what the crew of the Dog hear throughout the rise and fall of the sun. While the captain swears, the sailors remain sullenly quiet.

Once the sun kisses the waters of the horizon bringing relative relief from the burning rays, Leonardo Collazo stomps into his quarters and slams the door shut only to be disturbed when a lone man brings him a tin plate filled with his dinner.

Dinner is nothing to be excited about, consisting of salted herring, boiled eggs, and sea biscuits with a mug of ale to wash it down. After the meal, while the day shift settled down and the night shift came alive, the passengers are left to sleep on deck at the stern. However, as small a vessel as the Sand Dollar is, interaction is inevitable.

With the changing of the shift a figure practically floats onto the forecastle. He’s olive-skinned with a split beard and wide, curled mustaches. His nose is large and beaked, painted black at the tip and he wears heavy eyeliner. Thick black hair is braided down his bare back and his muscular form is covered by only a broad brown belt, a scimitar, and a burgundy wrapped cloth about his loins. His feet and hands are blackened through to mid-forearm and mid-calf.

“Up for some dicing?” he grins broadly and says in a heavily accented voice dripping oil. Holding out his painted left hand, the man displays five bone die.

(OOC: roughly 9:00 PM)

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wednesday, June 4th, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 7:30 A.M.; The Sand Dollar || Clear, High: 124°F (51°C) /  Low: 108°F (42°C) :: Wind Force: Light :: Wind Speed: 1 mph (1 kph)

Properly refreshed, Goncalvo is awakened by the clomping of boots on the deck overhead and the muttering of his fellow shipmates stumbling from their hammocks about him. Following the pattern of his mates, the sailsmaster has time to prepare himself for the day. He can tell from the way that the air hangs heavy with humidity throughout the belly of the Sun Dog that it is going to be a scorcher. Barely bobbing in the water, the ship is an indicator that there’s not much wind to boot.

Before he had managed to climb into one of the free-swinging hammocks in the aft section of the ship, Goncalvo had been told by the captain herself that he would be assisting her with their situation in Ile de la Tortuga and no sooner than he’d snagged a plate of boiled fish—likely near the last of their stores—and climbed the hold ladder to the main deck does he catch sight of Captain Cole peering across the remainder of the bay to the settlement beyond.

She strikes a mean pose; commanding, domineering, and sullen. Red hair hangs limply about her shoulders, already caught up in the salted mists and dampened by the sweat the early morning sun coaxes from her brow. A paisley sash is wrapped about her head and hangs down the back of her dingy white blouse, of which the sleeves are rolled to her elbows displaying the many bracelets she wears on both wrists. Her broad black belt bears a brace of two flintlocks and her saber as well as a dirk. Red and black striped pants are tucked into knee-high leather boots with buckles at the ankles and slightly raised heels common amongst the French aristocracy.

“She be lookin’ fer ya, mate,” Nico Berganza, a Spanish fellow with a nose that has been broken multiple times steps up near the sailsmaster and shoves the remainder of a hard roll into his mouth.  

(OOC: Assuming that Goncalvo approaches Anne.)

Glancing his way as the well-dressed man sidles up next to her, Anne Cole returns her gaze to the buildings along the shore. “Still no sign of the harbormaster,” she mutters through a frown. “I don’ like it none. ‘Tis no’ like the other ports. They would no’ ‘ave allowed us t’ stay sittin’ in their waters without so much of a hello. I don’ like it none.”

Straightening, Anne wipes the sweat from her cheek with the back of her hand causing the baubles about her wrist to jingle. “What could they be waitin’ fer, Mr. Goncalvo?”

(OOC: Room for an answer&hellip

“Huh,” chewing on her bottom lip her frown deepens. “Well, whate’er it be, I want you t’ go pay the harbormaster a visit. Check us in. Make sure there’re no surprises. Take a couple o’ the crew with you. Send one o’ them back when you’ve accomplished as much. Then, I want you t’ set up a meetin’ with Mr. Davenport. Savvy? I wanna read the tides within his eyes an’ see where he sails.

“If he asks what the meetin’ be ‘bout, tell ‘im I’m lookin’ t’ set up business relations.”

(OOC: Questions, acceptance, and other things&hellip

(OOC: roughly 8:10 AM)



Posted on 2018-07-06 at 21:04:38.

   
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