Captain Morgan considered for a moment. He had to admit, he was curious about her. She seemed like she wanted to talk to him, but Constable Dibley's interruption prevented any hope of that.
"Sure, King, look into it. Be discreet, though. I'd like to learn what she's about without tipping her off that we're looking. If she's up to no good, we can simply dispose of her, and no one would be the wiser."
Anderson leaned back over in his spot that he snuck over to after Crown randomly walked out. Carrying his mug filled with Gallic wine.
"Tis stuff isn't all that bad." He mumbled taking another sip from the mug, before setting it down. "The Cap'n seems to have his hands a little tied, hasn't congratulated me on my first downing. Oh well." He continued to mumble before finding himself shutting up, and staring at the mug. Recalling what he had said about the Pirate code, number four, Any Buccaneer who falls behind shall be left behind. There are no execeptions to this.
Which was obviously true, once King had ejected and left in his escape pod, there was little to nothing that could save him. Either he stood his ground or fought, which Thomas did the latter, after driving the Hunter away, he turned around and took on that escort head on. Expecting the same fate as King, however with his luck he managed to make the escort pilot eject. The first thought in Thomas's mind was to get the hell out of Leeds and back to Trafalgar, where he would later find himself sitting in his normal spot, completely spaced out.
A suave man, looking somewhat out of place in this den of piracy and sin, enters with a beautiful woman at his arm. He had his dirty blonde hair slicked back and sported a fine moustache, and in addition to his excellently tailored clothes wore a sabre at his waist, a strange anachronism in these times. The woman at his arm had shimmering brown eyes waist-length brown hair, slightly wavy, and was wearing a knee length, clingy dress.
As he entered, Mr. Morris took a step back and removed his bowler hat respecfully, murmering "Sir," respectfully. The man returned the gesture with a smile and a nod, and took a seat at the bar with hs woman. Men on either side of him got up and moved several seats down. His woman whispered something in his ear and giggled, to which he responded, "Oh, not now, dear. You'll have your chance to play once we're back on board the ship," in a low voice. He then asked the bartender for two glasses of the finest wine in the house before turning back and exchanging words with his woman.
The drinks arived after a minute or so, and the bartender said, quite nervously, "Ah, here's you drinks, Mr. and Mrs. Blackburne."
The man looked at the bartender quizically as he accepted his drink. "Oh, no need for the formalities, Charles," he said with a smile.
"Ah... of course, Lucifer; Lillith," replied the bartender nervously, with a nod to each of them before backing away to deal with another customer.
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There was the sound of muted tapping as someone punched in the code on the other side of the door, followed by a small beep as the code was accepted and a bang as the door was kicked open. A slightly Hispanic looking woman was pushed through the door followed by the still slightly limping John Crown. Morris, who had been expecting them lounged on his stool in an alcove near the door. The woman who had obviously never been exposed to the horrors of Morris' face looked slightly sick. John peered around for the Captain, who appeared to have disappeared while he had been on his fact-finding mission.
"John, can you escort her to the bar and keep her there until the Captain is back? He wants a word with her, so he won't be best pleased if she runs off." Morris nodded, eyeing the woman as she walked past. John, who now had better things to be doing than baby-sit the Captain's curiosity-of-the-day, got a drink and then had a look around to see who else was around.
Spotting a fellow Lieutenant, he hobbled over. "Hello Lucifer. Good to see you again." He acknowledged Lillith with a grudging nod. He'd heard dark stories about the things she got up to, and despite the fact none of them sat well with him, it wouldn't bode well to ignore Lucifer's wife (or whatever she was) seeing as he took offence to such things.
Captain Morgan came back into the common room after finishing with his latest 'diversion' in his private room. He was in the mood to start planning the Buccaneer's next raid. The idea he had rolling around his head was quite ambitious, and he wanted to make sure that they got it right. He had other business to deal with first. Looking towards the bar, though, he saw a rather nervous looking woman standing next to Morris. Apparently, King came through for him. He walked up to the woman. She was looking quite nervous at this point. He looked her over for a moment before speaking.
"Catalina A Blys, I presume? You've been looking into our affairs a bit much lately, Corsair. Care to explain what that's about? It seemed like you wanted to talk to me yesterday in Leeds, so now's your chance. Keep in mind, though, if I don't like what you say, I'll have Mr. Morris here dispose of you."
He kept his eyes fixed on her while he waited for her to respond.
Upon seeing a person, rather, a lass walk into the bar right with Morris right behind her. Thomas Anderson took to his feet slowly and placed his hand on the butt of his B43-Pistol, the pistol was modeled after an old Flintlock pistol in the time of seafaring pirates. The weapon was laser based, however, he's never actually fired it before, and he was hoping this wouldn't be the time.
Anderson slowly un-holstered his pistol and lowered it to his side, he was a decent shot at this far of the range, so if she tried anything he would be ready to react.
The Captain saw Anderson un-holstered his pistol and held his hand out to the side giving Anderson a signal not to fire.
Thomas gave a nod back, but kept the pistol drawn anyways, however Thomas was slightly more relaxed then when this lady walked in.
Catalina looked around...There were guns out across the room, and a couple men who looked like they'd enjoy....Well. Best talk.
"I'm....Honestly, I'm just looking into things. Personal history. I'm a corsair, see? But only since about...600 or so. Family settled on Crete, joined the fleet, and otherwise just bred in...I'm not looking at your affairs. I don't even know who you are...I'm just...just...Look. I'm...My gran had a blanket, ok? With a Bretonian crest. Which wasn't stolen. Its my crest. Sort of. I inherit the crest. I think. My name is Catalina A Yovem. My grandmum was called Blys... I took her name, because...because my family, right now...are disgusting. So I grabbed my grandmum's name. I inhereted her estate, on Crete, anyway. Been fixing the place up. Found some records. This base, Trafalgar, used to be...my anscestor ran it. Before the Junkers owned it. I'm...not following you around. I just...ended up near you, coming in to trafalgar. I was...well. Paladins aren't ships I can't handle...
I don't know what you want...I just...I'm looking into me. Not following you around. Cause, really, I don't know who I am, anymore."
Ambrose Shelvocke came stumbling out from the back rooms, rubbing at his left eye and muttering darkly about hangovers. The youngest of the Buccaneer's Lieutenants, Ambrose was barely twenty-two but a hard life if toil and crime on Leeds had aged and hardened him, and he looked a fair bit older than he was. He still wore the stubble from a few nights without a razor, and his mop of sandy-blonde hair spilled out from under a black bandanna. Clutching at his shirt and peering over his shoulder was his ever-present pet, Jingles, a tiny arboreal scaled monkey-type creature 'liberated' from the cargo hold of a Gaian wildlife smuggler.
Ever since the destruction of his ship, his first since he'd got off that hellhole and turned from petty crime to actual piracy, he'd been drinking heavier than usual to pass the time while his mates went off and had fun buccaneering. A replacement was on its way, he said, and an upgrade from his old Griffen, so he claimed. After two weeks of waiting he was starting to get a bit impatient.
Ambrose staggered up to the bar and collapsed on a stool, folding his arms and resting them on the bar top, then resting his forehead on his folded arms. Jingles climbed up to sit on his head, peering around for something edible. "'ey, Charlie, how about some hair 'o the dog, eh?" Ambrose asked, not bothering to look up as he let a few credits fall from his hand onto the bar. After a moment he seemed to realize that he wasn't alone with the barkeep, and tilted his head to the side (causing Jingles to chirp in displeasure as he was dropped to the bar) to get a look at the Captain and his 'companion'. "Oh, mornin' Cap'n, didn't notice you there. Always were the sneaky type, like to catch people off guard. Good trait for a pirate, 'tis why you're the cap'n." His eyes focused (sort of) on Catalina, and she was able to see that his right eye socket had a short, thin scar running across it from his eyebrow to the bridge of his nose, and the eye itself was a solid black orb, likely a cybernetic replacement. "Well, Captain, who's your 'friend'?" he asked with a slowly widening grin, almost a leer.
Captain Morgan listened to her story. He wasn't entirely certain he believed it, but it was certainly possible. He did know that after Dunsburry's Folly, that the Buccaneers of that age did scatter far and wide. It wasn't impossible that one found their way to Crete.
"So, you say your ancestor ran this base? That you're descended from a Buccaneer of times past? I'll be checking into your past, of course. Assuming you're telling the truth, I'd say that your past and present just met. What, exactly, is it that you're wanting?"
He ordered one of his Lieutenants to dig into the past history of the Buccaneers a bit, to see if this woman was telling the truth. He then waited for her reply.
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John wandered out of a back room with a bottle of pills in his hand. Whatever they were they'd taken the cramp and pain right out of his leg. He'd got them off a junker who'd claimed it was 'patent medicine' or something. That'd been on the landing deck after coming in from his last sortie. He'd been told not to mix the pills with alcohol, but why the hell not? What didn't kill him could only make him stronger. Charles quickly transformed some of the weight in John's wallet into booze. Not that it would be physically possible to completely squander his wealth on drink - he'd probably get a tenth of the way through before going into terminal liver failure - maybe less than that.
Peering through the smoke he could see the Captain was still interrogating Catalina at the other side of the bar surface, Ambrose seemingly comatose next to them (with that damned monkey thing skittering around on the floor next to them) and a huddle of Prospects were watching some sort of game on a view screen set into the wall. With an evil grin partly influenced by the cocktail of drugs he'd just pumped through his system, he wandered over and set them to various duties involving cleaning all the bar's toilets with their own tooth brushes. Just as well the unhygienic gits rarely used them.
Moving over to a well lit alcove he scrutinised a number of brass plates that had been fixed to the walls, one for each Buccaneer above the status of Prospect currently piloting a ship. He slipped a small utility knife out of his pocket, and etched on a few more strokes to his tally with a somewhat shaky hand. Each stroke represented a confirmed kill. There hadn't been many traders paying that day.
John drained the last of his pint, when it really hit him that he shouldn't have mixed booze with those pills. He just about had time to roar "Buccaneer's is best!" to the bar in general before crumpling to the floor. After a moment or two he started loudly snoring. Upon this outburst, the Catalina snapped her head around to stare at the now unconscious Lieutenant. She hadn't expected to hear that here.