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Elious
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Awesome Mates

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga (Ile de la Tortue), 11:35 A.M.
Port of Tortuga
The One-Eyed Parrot

"Me name is Daxon, Thank you for yer help. Ole sharktooth here has been one saving grace. T'is good to meet more of yer mates. What do you do on the ship?"

(OOC: Daxon is trying to get to know cracker since he will be boarding the ship.)

Posted on 2017-08-14 at 09:39:34.

Bromern Sal
A Shadow
RDI Staff
Karma: 124/10
2966 Posts


A couple of the characters are really close in time stamps now, but there's still some discrepancies

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 5:15 P.M.; The Le Porc Fattest Tavern

As the ale flows, the others become more talkative. It may have taken several hours but Goncalvo has gathered valuable information. "I thank you for the company gentlemen but I must be getting back to my ship. You know how captains are about the crew returning late." The drunk captain almost manages a remark but his eyes drift shut instead. Concalvo thanks the bar maid and then heads out the door and back to the long boat. He intends to share what he has learned with the captain.

Heat still boils the very air around the sailmaster and the streets of the settlement are just as busy as when he had arrived hours past. It is stifling, but not too unlike his native Spain along the southernmost coast. Remaining free from jostling is also a stifling task due to the traffic along the way back to the water. Nothing missing, Goncalvo is left waiting for the longboat to return. He can see it in the bay, still bobbing next to the sleek lines of the Dog, but there’s not a soul in it.

“You seem the lonely sort,” a soft voice sings behind him, drawing his attention.

She stands, perhaps, ten feet from him, a small woman of petite build with frizzy brown hair that sits atop her head and ragged skirts. White was once the color of her blouse but it is now soiled and gray, thin and drifting in the wind. Plain brown eyes stare up from beneath too of long lashes, flitting up and down his frame but refusing to rest upon his face.

“Do ya wanna be un-lonely?” she timidly asks with a simple and barely recognizable jerk of her head back towards the buildings. “Jus’ a few pennies for a sailin’ man whose been too long at sail?”

(OOC: Time is roughly 5:32 PM.)

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

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 11:12 A.M.; The Town

As he draws nearer, the dark-skinned woman breaks from the crowd and approaches, the troubled expression still playing on her dusky features. The moment she is free of the throng in which she has been standing, a spark of recognition is struck in Crowe’s memory. The tobacco pouch is forgotten and returned to its place in his belt as he tries to kindle that spark into a more enlightening flame… Everything about the woman is familiar—from the hue of her skin to the way she dresses and moves—despite that familiarity, though, Fin can’t quite place why or precisely from where it might have come. By the time the space between them has been diminished enough for her to reach out a hand and press it against his chest to stop him in his tracks, the only thing he manages to recall with any sort of certainty is a name… Raisa Taïa.

“Why are you back?” The woman’s voice hisses in his ear as his gaze dips, momentarily, to where her dainty, black hand rests close to the brand hidden beneath his shirt.

A wolfish grin starts to tug at the corners of his mouth and his eyes glint a bit bluer as they lift to find hers. “An’ why wouldn’ I be, Raisa-luv,” he asks, his gravelly voice softens a bit with the smile. The hand that isn’t resting on the hilt of his blade lifts to capture hers and pry it gently away from his chest. He keeps her hand trapped in his as his grin moves slowly from wolfish to shark-like; “If I dared believe it, I’d think ya din’t miss me…”

Eyes narrowing, Raisa presses her lips together and defiantly meets his gaze, “I didn’, but I know someone who did—someone who’s been lookin’ forward t’ this reunion fer some time now.”

His hand tightens a bit around hers and his eyes let go of her just long enough to scan the streets around them before he begins walking again, not quite forcefully hauling her along beside him as he continues his progress into the town. "Don' mind refamiliarizin' me wit' th' place, do ya, poppet?"

Tugging her hand free with no exaggeration of effort, the woman stops dead in her tracks and forced Fin to turn from his progress once again to face her. “Yer no’ listenin’ to a word I’m sayin’, Fin Crowe.”

More than a few heads turn, but the glances are fleeting and cautious enough that though Fin can be sure there were many he catches but a few.

“He swore he’d see you dead fer what you did,” Raisa continues in a lower tone. “He’ll do it too. He won’ rest until he’s avenged LeRoux.”

(OOC: Time is roughly 11:13 AM.)

----------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), The Sun Dog, 12:25 P.M.

“We are going to do this job right?” Maggie says, her excitement evident in her voice. She isn’t usually the thinker of this pair, but she thinks this could be a major boon for them. Anything that might bring them more coin, and better trading relationships was always welcome. She knows that having a favorable relationship with a trader, in a port like Tortuga, is a good thing. They can often steer you towards good prospects to 'hunt' in the future.

“You think so, do ya?” Anna graces Maggie with the contemplative look of one who knows something the others in the conversation do not and are not asking the right questions to win over.

“F***ing yea, I do!” Maggie responds a little testily, which she often gets when it seems as if Anna is addressing her like she was a child. Anna loved to play this question/answer game where she would answer her question with a question, and try to get Maggie to make the right response; at first, it always irritated her. She was glad that they were in Anna's quarters and not in front of the crew; Maggie seldom raised her tone, or showed any disrespect, to her sister around the crew. She respected her sister and her position as Captain, and she wouldn't do anything that might give the crew members reason to doubt their Captain's decisions.

“So, we’re t’ jus’ flip up our skirts and offer ourselves t’ the firs’ sweet talker we come across in port, Mags?” the captain instructs by patiently posing questions, something she’s done as long as Maggie can remember.

See, another question. Maggie visibly pauses and tries to calm herself, she knew that was what Anna expected of her. It was a technique that Anna always used, and it usually worked.

“No,” Maggie responded after a few seconds, “of course not.” She was calming herself and starting to consider the options and what her sister might be working at here.

“We need t’ get a better picture o’ the tides before we become bedfellows with anyone,” Anna takes up the quill from the cork holder in the writing set on her desk and delicately runs the feather along her lips. “We need t’ see ‘bout this Davenport. We need t’ see ‘bout the others as well. Any others. How’re we going t’ go ‘bout that, my dear sister?”

“Well, there's nothing that says we must have only one 'bed' partner.” Maggie grins at the thought. It wasn't a bad idea to play rivals off against each other, and let them fight it out while the sister's benefited.

“Well,” she went on while trying to think of an answer to Anna's last question, “we could try and contact this Davenport guy and get a feel for what he's like.” She raised her left hand and brushed it absently through her hair; Anna would recognize this for her sister's frustration at not being very good and coming up with 'plans'.

“Do you want me to go check him out?” Her questioning tone left no doubt that she wasn't sure if that was a wise choice or not.

“Aye, Mags,” Anna nods into the feather. “I want you t’ figure the lay o’ the land an’ quick like lightnin’ as we’re no’ t’ have much time fer it. Gather what men ya need t’ do it.” Lowering the quill, Anna levels her stare at Hellfire Maggie, her younger sister and only living family. “Ya need yer head ‘bout ya in this, Mags. Fire’ll sink yer ship.”
(OOC: Time is roughly 12:27 PM.)

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

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga (Ile de la Tortue), 11:35 A.M. - Port of Tortuga - The One-Eyed Parrot

"Time ta get yer ta der Dog," grunts Shark Tooth. "Ta git Mr. Hughes ta fix yer laig proper."

Cracker steps into the One-Eyed Parrot and lets his eyes adjust to the light. He is looking for a good meal, or at least the best meal this establishment can manage. As he stands in the entrance he has visions of beef and bread and ale even as he knows stew of questionable origin and biscuits are more likely. But a sailor can dream.

As his eyes adjust, he leaves his reverie behind and starts to step into the room for whatever reality might serve up. But what it serves up is an odd assortment of people on one side of the room and... Shark Tooth and an injured man on the other side. The Shark doesn’t seem to have noticed him and for a moment thoughts of quickly fleeing to another public house flit across his mind. But he shakes the idea out of his head because he knows he can never just ditch a shipmate in need. With an inward groan and a glance at the kitchen, he moves towards the two who seem to have half a tavern to themselves.

As he approaches, Shark Tooth seems to hear his steps and turn warily in his direction. When he turns, Cracker gets a full glimpse of the fun that he has been having. His shipmate has clearly had a tough go of it and the man on the table even worse. Stopping only a couple of feet away so that their conversation won’t be overheard by the other side of the room, Cracker shakes his head saying, "Ah, Sharky, what'd you go and get yourself into?"

"Well, this fine sailor here was being set upon by a ship’s worth of ruffians and I thought it a bit unfair, so I helped out." He grins a battered and bruised grin and, pointing towards his swelling face, adds, "see? I kept all of these blows from hitting him? A victory I call it!"

When all Cracker does is shake his head and inspect the man on the table, Shark Tooth takes a more serious line. "It may prove to be a victory. My gun crew needs a man. This is Daxon and he is interested in the Dog. If a few bruises gets a good crew, it is worth it!"

The boatswain looks over the man on the table and can’t help but notice the bloody rag tied around his leg and the look of pain on his face. Hopefully he'll end up a good gunner, because right now he looks more like a gutter rat. "Looks like he needs the surgeon before he'll be manning any guns."

Shark Tooth grins a bruised and battered grin. "You said it! Yeh see the need! Help me get Daxon back to the Dog, Cracker."

Cracker looks at his shipmate and sighs audibly. "I wouldn't leave a mate like this, but..." and here he can not help but glance at the kitchen, "you owe me a good meal next time we get to shore, Sharky." He moves to the side of the new sailor named Daxon and assists the man to his feet. "I'll welcome you to the Sun Dog, Daxon, if we can get you there. Come on, let’s get you to the doc."

"Aye Cracker! Yur Hep Me Git Mah Heartie Ta Dah Sun Dog 'N Ye Be Gittin Yur Sharky Meal Fer Shur!" Shark Tooth grins against his pain and moves to do his part.

"Me name is Daxon, Thank you for yer help. Ole sharktooth here has been one saving grace. T'is good to meet more of yer mates. What do you do on the ship?"

(OOC: Cracker’s response…)

Blackheart’s leg throbs as the three men move from the tavern. Beat up and wounded, Daxon and Wylie glance about but their concentration is more on their own cautious movements and avoiding impacting their injuries which result in stabbing pain lancing throughout their bodies whenever they fail. Cracker, on the other hand, is very much in full control of his senses and scans the lopsided tavern crowd with impunity as he bears a good portion of the potentially new gunner across the worn and stained planks of the establishment. The promise of a future meal does nothing to satisfy his hunger for the moment, Shark Tooth’s involvement in another man’s troubles is alarming enough that the boatswain does not feel comfortable letting his guard down. No one in the Parrot’s patronage turns their curious gazes from the trio, but who can blame them? It is quite the spectacle. To the Dog’s junior officer, they seem nothing more than curious.

Passing through the door and back into the fully oppressive heat, Cracker keeps one eye shut and the moment he passes into the penetrating light cast by the equatorial sun, he closes the open eye and opens the closed. It’s an old trick he learned from a sailor on in the British Navy to adjust more quickly between light sources such as when coming up from below deck into the bright sunshine during a combat situation.

Peering first to the left and then to the right, the ex-navy man can see no immediate threat. It would appear to him that those who had dealt out the sever punishment to his brother and the possible new recruit have no further interest in the matter. Turning the hobbling Blackheart in the direction of the bay, Cracker and Shark’s Tooth practically drag Daxon on the long-haul, again, drawing many a curious glance, furtive though they may be.

Sand is a merciless floor upon which to walk when not burdened. When assisting a man who is essentially rendered one-legged, the tiny dead bodies of ocean creatures and shells under boot become downright bothersome. Worse; when the beach is achieved, the longboat is barely making its way back from the Dog with a single passenger to deposit on shore requiring them to wait for ten minutes or so before the bow cuts into the sand.

“Ho, thar!” Cyril Daumier is the sailor manning the longboat. A friendly Frenchman with a long, narrow face and a prominent nose, he usually works the sails. “Who’s this an’ wha’ in the bloody ‘ell ‘appened t’ you Les mecs?”

(OOC: Whatever reply, by whomever…)

The passenger, a large man with no neck whom none of the three men on the beach have seen before, disembarks without so much as a nod in their direction. He doesn’t even look back choosing to trudge willfully across the beach as he departs.

Shaking his head and clicking his tongue, Cyril turns away just a little too late to hide his smile. Holding the longboat steady, he waits until Daxon is loaded and the others are situated before pushing the vessel into the surf and quickly splashing aboard (an act that sends droplets of seaspray across his passengers).

“Ya think tha’ Captain Cole will fancy takin’ on a wounded man, hmmm?” Daumier puts his back to the act of rowing. He eyes Blackheart with half-hooded eyes the mood of which cannot be discerned by the others. “Je suppose que cela dépend de combien de temps nous sommes à l'ancre, non?

(OOC: Whatever replies are appropriate. Remember to check your character sheets to see if you speak French before using Google Translate to see what he said.)

Ten minutes later and the longboat draws up alongside the Sun Dog. Cyril reaches out and grabs hold of the rope dangling next to the thick rope ladder dangling over the edge and raises his eyebrows. “Does he need t’ be ‘oisted up, perhaps?”

(OOC: Decision…)

On deck, the sun almost directly overhead, Cracker catches the eye of one of the sailors on watch named Chimwemwe, a man of average stature with skin as black as the night who prefers to fight with a mooring hook, and asks after Hughes.

“He be ashore,” Chim replies, looking both Shark’s Tooth and Blackheart over with his beady eyes. Nodding to Daxon, the man asks, “Who be him?”

(OOC: Answer as you see fit…)

(OOC: Time is approximately 12:33 PM.)



Posted on 2017-08-24 at 12:09:39.

Eol Fefalas
Witless Protection
RDI Staff
Karma: 427/28
6498 Posts


Old, cold memories...

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 11:12 A.M.; The Town
“Why are you back?”

“An’ why wouldn’ I be, Raisa-luv? If I dared believe it, I’d think ya din’t miss me…”

Raisa’s eyes narrowed as her full lips pressed together and she defiantly met Fin’s gaze. “I didn’,” she said, “but I know someone who did – someone who’s been lookin’ forward t’ this reunion fer some time now.”

His hand tightens a bit around hers and his eyes let go of her just long enough to scan the streets around them before he begins walking again, not quite forcefully hauling her along beside him as he continues his progress into the town. "Don' mind refamiliarizin' me wit' th' place, do ya, poppet?"

Tugging her hand free with no exaggeration of effort, the woman stopped dead in her tracks and forced Fin to turn from his progress once again to face her. “Yer no’ listenin’ to a word I’m sayin’, Fin Crowe.”

More than a few heads turned, but the glances are fleeting and cautious enough that, though Fin was sure there were many, he had caught but a few. His eyes chased the onlookers as his mind chased memories… Where’n th’ hell do I know ya from, Raisa, he kept wondering, an’ wha’ in th’ f**k’re ya goin’ on about?

“He swore he’d see you dead fer what you did,” Raisa continued in a lower tone as Fin’s gaze settled on her again. “He’ll do it too. He won’ rest until he’s avenged LeRoux.”

The mention of LeRoux’s name cracked his memory like a lightning bolt might crack a mainmast. His fingers curled into tight fists, a phantom burning licked at the brand on his chest, and his storm-filled eyes might have blinked as the recollections came rushing back…

Raisa Taïa was a whore. One favored, all those years ago, by his former “master,” LeRoux. In those days, Fin had only had passing interactions with the woman and, aside from her looks, nothing beyond that stood out any clearer in his memory. She may have been there when Fin finally killed the slaving bastard but Crowe couldn’t remember for certain… the red cloud of rage clouded most everything but the violence he’d visited on LeRoux … and there had been many people there on that blood-soaked night – slaves and servants, foremen and crackers – there could be know way he’d have remembered them all.

Fin did remember one person who hadn’t been there, though, and in that thunderclap of remembrance, he knew precisely to whom Raisa referred. Temesgen Kidane, a giant of an African with a lust for blood and more than enough skill with a sword to satisfy it. Kidane had been LeRoux's right hand man and, on that night, had been off-island (procuring new slaves or “enforcing timber contracts” most likely). Had he not been… well… that night might have sailed on a much different tide.

…Despite the cold fire that burned in his gut and the fact that his hand no longer just rested on the hilt of his blade but, instead, curled purposefully around it, Fin Crowe offered the woman a cold, mirthless smile. “Good ta know someone’s losin’ sleep over me,” he rumbled.

“Is it Kidane’s rest er my safety tha’ concerns ya more, Raisa-luv? If it’s th’ former,” he leered, gesturing at a random street or alleyway, “steer me a course to ‘im an’ I’ll loose ‘im from ‘is restlessness, aye?” His hand swept back, then, and came to rest at his waist, a thumb hooking over the top of his belt as he arched a brow at the woman; “If it’s th’ latter – which I can’t imagine, as ye’ve a’ready said ya din’t miss me an’, I reckon, I must’ve cost ya a pretty penny er two by spillin’ LeRoux’s guts – but if it is, poppet, ya just point me ta where I c’n find a prize ta hunt an’ I’ll be gone ‘fore th’ rum’s empty.”



Posted on 2017-08-25 at 11:08:46.

Nomad D2
RDI Fixture
Karma: 33/4
1751 Posts


I bring you a generous gift . . . a bloody sailor. Who could say no to that?

As Daxon listened to Sharktooth’s tale about the brawl in the bar, the new guy finally proved he wasn’t quite dead yet and spoke up. “What do you do on the ship?”

‘At least he is alive enough to speak,’ thought Cracker as he helped Sharktooth get the man to his feet. “Boatswain. It’s a job that generally requires two legs. I’d have thought gunner did as well.” He grinned at the man as he groaned in pain when they moved towards the door. Keeping his eyes on his surroundings he responded to the man’s pain with a bit of sympathy. “Hopefully doc can get that leg fixed and you’ll fit right in. The Dog is a good ship.”

The walk across the town and then the sands was certainly not fun. About the only enjoyment Cracker got out of it was knowing that the other two were both enjoying it even less than he was. It was small consolation.

After a wait on the shore, annoying but welcome after the adventure of the sand, Cyril Daumier and the longboat finally arrived. After it had deposited its occupant, a large man William Wiley had never seen before, Cyril grinned and reacted to their new crewmate. “Who’s this an’ wha’ in the bloody ‘ell ‘appened t’ you Les mecs?”

‘Les mecs?’ thought Cracker. He hated it when these guys spoke French, which Cyril immediately proceeded to do. He knew Cracker didn’t understand it, so he was probably just trying to get a rise out of them. He’d give the man crap about being a frog some other time, but for now he was just curious about the big guy. “Kill the froggish, Cyril. Sharky found himself a gunner in mid’ brawl. Hopefully he can aim a gun better’n he aims a knife. Who was the big guy?” The boatswain knew such information was probably above his paygrade, but curiosity made life a bit more interesting.

When they finally arrived back on the Dog they heard from Chimwemwe that the Doc was ashore. Sighing, Cracker looked at Sharky again. “Well, not much to do, but wait. Help him into the shade. Doc has to return sooner or later. Sober or not.”

After helping Daxon to a reasonable seat, William Wiley took a seat just a few feet away. As much as he’d like to, there was no point in going back into town. His next shift might well start soon and while he had not been on the Dog all that long yet, it was long enough to know that it was unwise to anger either of the Cole sisters. He’d be here, on time and sober, when his shift started. But if he had to be on the dog, that didn’t mean he needed to go below decks just yet. After weeks of seeing nothing but water all around, just the sight of land, a town and people was worth staying on deck.


Posted on 2017-09-03 at 00:25:26.

Elious
Regular Visitor
Karma: 2/0
56 Posts


Does my leg have its own heart beat? Oh that's just the pain.

“Boatswain. It’s a job that generally requires two legs. I’d have thought gunner did as well.” He grinned at the man as he groaned in pain when they moved towards the door.

Daxon laughed the best he could at the Boatswains humor. "It's good to hear some light jokes considering the situation."

Daxon hearing the doctor is not aboard still is still feeling a sense of relief. Knowing that at some point a possible solution is near.

"Never been stabbed in the leg, Not suggesting it for others. Have you guys been on the Dog long?"

Posted on 2017-09-06 at 09:35:09.

Keeper of Dragons
Devil's Advocate
Karma: 46/18
1910 Posts


lass

"Lass, if that I was free to enjoy the pleasures you peddle. Alas my heart still belongs to another. The only 'service' I seek is one that tells of the coming and going of ships and sailors."

Posted on 2017-09-07 at 18:22:59.

   
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