Mick did not turn to look at the new arrival, but instead smiled at the sound of his voice
"Mac" Said Mick. Turning like a Butler would turn to allow a guest though his door. "I'd like to introduce you to Captain Anderson..." Mick had now looked at the figure " I... Think"
Mick looked at him through squinted eyes for a moment as though it somhow made him easier to recognise. One of the prospects slided up alongside Mick.
"What happened to his face?" the Prospect wispered in Micks ear.
Mick allowed himself a little grin as he turned to the Prospect, put a gun shaped hand to his temple and pulled the imaginary trigger. He widened his eyes and made quiet "boom" sound for added effect.
The Prospect looked a little repulsed as Mick turned back to the figure.
"You better be Captain Anderson mate, Noone else would get away with face like that around here"
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Mac's dirk dissapeared as quickly and as silently as it had come. He offered his hand to the masked fellow, nodding.
"Th' pleasure's all mine, good sir. MacAllistair Drake. Former assassin to th' queen. May she die slowly."
A serious look crosses his face.
"Sorry about the popper to th' face, I know th' feelin'. That betch Queen tried ta tell me she were done wif me as well." His evil grin returns. "Didnt go well at all fer th' messenger. Hope yers fared th' same."
Bill was in the corner table, working under the light assembling some kind of explosive as it was his favorite hobby. He didn't mind all the shouting and cursing around him, as it helped him concentrate. Suddenly he noticed all the noise around him stopped. He turned around and looked at the shocked faces around.
"Wha' the hell is goin on" He mumbled to himself, glancing at the man standing in the room shaking Mac's hand.
He finally recognized the man, it was Thomas Anderson. Captain of the Buccaneers. He heard the stories about him but never had the chance to meet him. Till now that is.
He didn't stare at the captain's mask even as he noticed there was a scar hiding under it. But he did watch captain's every move. He lit a cigar and curiously observed what is going on in the room.
The tension in the room was palpable.
A quick mental check and MacAllistair confirmed the placement of all eleven blades stashed on his person.
His knees unlocked, and he loosened his joints, ready to react. Quickly, if need be.
He blinked, his gloved hand still held out to the person being referred to as 'the Captain'
Anderson glanced down at Mac's hand, and shook his head. "I might've tried taken my life. But if ye want t' finish the job, David yer more then likely t' try." He snarled, glancing over towards O'Brien, "Ofcourse, that'd make ye the most wanted lad in both Bretonia and the Buccaneers themselves. So shove off laddie, we've got some business we need t' start. Gettin' the Leviathan back."
He turned around briefly to head back to the room he came out from, but stopped.
"And until ye can mustard up the courage t' draw a pistol out on me in this bar, O'Brien, yer not movin' up in the world. So, do yerself a favor and keep yer respect. Or ye'll find yerself tied outside of a ship, and keelhauled through a jumphole. Ye understand?"
He looked around with his lonely eye, "As fer the rest of ye. Get yer asses drunk, or get out of my tavern."
Mick walked up behind Mac and slapped his hand on his shoulder.
"Dont worry about him mate, I can imagine hes a tad crabby. He dident punch you in the gut so thats practicaly a cheery greeting around here."
Mick pulled two bottles of somthing out from behind his back and put one into Mac's hand.
"The man did say get drunk though, and I aint going against orders ahha"
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MacAllistair brought the bottle to his lips and drank. Not as much as it looked like he had drank, but as his Oyabun had said, "A drunken assassin is a nearly dead fool." Still, he wasn't going to offend, and a few sips only calmed his already taut nerves.
As the others doled out the bounty from their last raid, Mac deferred. Loot was not his interest.
The worried twisiting of the Crown on the Queen's head was his goal.
And the continued discomfort of anyone who would ally themselves with her took up all his thoughts and machinations.
He sipped, smiling broadly.
"Thanks mate! S' a fine welcome then, I do suppose. Cheers." his eyes flicked to the Captain. Leviathan, he thought. And wondered.
O'brien glowered from behind the bar, cowed, for the moment. But not enough to stop him smashing his glass over the head of a nearby prospect.
"Oh I got plenty courage.." he grumbled as he stooped behind the bar. "Just you wait, 'Captain',"VC the word was spat out with disgust, "I'll make sure your half-assed job gets done fully."
The old pirate turned the familiar corner in the lower decks of Trafalgar. At the end of the corridor was the door to the old Bay. He had made some discreet inquiries when he arrived here and learned that nobody had since rented or used the space, so it was free for his use. The old security code still worked, and a sharp kick opened up the door. Too bad he didn't have any Prospects handy to get it fixed.
The pirate took a good look around the bay. All that was left was the cargo containers that made up the bar, and a few tables and chairs that were left behind when the old Bay was abandoned. Aside from that, all that was left was the case of Gundey VIII and a thick layer of dust on everything. The mattress on his bunk was still there, so at least he'd have a place to lay his head. Before he slept, though, the old pirate had a few calls to make. He uncorked one of the bottles of Gundey VIII and settled down in front of the comm unit.
Captain Morgan was back, and he has an empire to rebuild.