[PM to Join] A Parlay with Pirates

Corwynn assembles a few of the Harbor's decent pirates for a plot.

Old Rose Harbor is Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld.
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Corwynn
Posts: 113
Joined: Fri Apr 20, 2018 10:03 am
Topics: 7
Location: Ol' Rose
Race: Galdor
: The Taxman
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Writer: Muse
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Thu Apr 25, 2019 3:39 pm

​​28th of Intas, 2719
​​The PALACE
Late EVENING
to parlay (something) into (something else)

To use a particular quality, asset, or trait so well or strategically that it becomes something even more valuable.


An idiom
​​Night had fallen heavily over Old Rose Harbor, and with it the temperatures dove deeply, driving denizens into taverns and pubs, into beds and bedrolls. The first month of the year had been full of bitterness—bitter cold, bitter blood, and bitter losses. Trade was slipping over the ice and the Drain had become far bolder in their seafaring exploits against the shipments and holdings of one King of the Underworld, leader of the Bad Brothers, Silas Hawke.

And yet, somehow, Corwynn had managed to weave his way with his typical grace through all the chaos of the Palace, to the heart of things, to the wick who'd called him both enemy and friend in his enviable lifetime and convince the sly creature to allow him a bit of a strange experiment. What had begun as an admittedly selfish and self-serving ploy at revenge against a small but well-connected Hessean gang who'd made some rather sharp, pointed threats in Dentis, especially against his physical person (and also against his Esteemed Employer) had evolved into a far larger scheme.

Only because those assumed small-time Hessean gangsters had been far better connected than expected.

Connected to the clocking Drain.

The blond gunman had used his two decades of putting down roots in the Harbor to garner favors, to turn over a few rocks, and to call to the Palace a handful of pirates he considered worthy of his plans—whether they proved themselves true to the rumors that preceded them or not, however, was anyone's clocking guess. Corwynn had no qualms about leaving those who didn't make the cut somewhere at the bottom of the sea if things got out of hand, but for now, the Bad Brother was as optimistic as he could be in the moment.

Invitations made, food and drink provided in one of the Palace's lavish rooms, Corwynn had only to sit back and wait, maps and a few other rather official-looking documents spread out over one end of the long table where he was quite aware there was more than enough room to peruse them and sit at the opposite end, though the details were still all being carefully tooled.

This evening was a gauge of interest and an exploration of the bigger picture—there was still leeway. There was still room, in the end, to refuse.
Once everyone had assembled, eaten their fill, made their introductions, drank more than enough to scuttle a galleon, the older galdor seized his moment to address his small, comfortable audience. Casually leaning just so in the overstuffed chair at the head of the table, expensive boots on the freshly waxed wooden surface in his typical hatcher-may-care fashion, the Bad Brother removed an opal-handled knife from the left one to tap loudly against his thick glass tumbler of something well-aged and spicy and so very Mugrobi, garnering attention with the sharp sound,

"While there's little more I'd love in all of Vita than to reminisce the night away over sails long past, I invited you all for business instead of just pleasure—a disappointment, I'm aware." Clearing his throat, Corwynn stuck the memento of a blade that had once been lodged in his person into the arm of his chair—an arm that may or may not have already possessed a few disturbingly similar marks on its worn curve, "I'm going to assume that because you're here, you don't have any objections to doing a bit of off the books business that you've already been told you'll be compensated for, but just in case you've changed your mind—"

His galdor-bred dimpled chin angled toward the door,

"—you know your way out. Otherwise, what I've got to say tonight is not normal Brothers' business and isn't to be shared with anyone. Even Silas has asked to not be informed until we've returned, so this is quite solidly between myself and you lot. Understood?"
word count: 790

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Lacey Lovell
Posts: 32
Joined: Fri Nov 02, 2018 6:49 pm
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Race: Human
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Writer: Raksha
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Sat Apr 27, 2019 8:32 pm

28th of Intas, 2718
THE PALACE| THE BEST TIME of DAY
Image
"Oh look at you luv…prettiest clockin’ lass in th’ harbor.” Lacey purred, running her inked fingertips over thick curves and dips, drawing her lower lip between her teeth with a soft sigh of delight.

“Never thought I would see y’again t’ be honest. I mean…y’saw how y’were. Aye, a bad way it were. But, I came t’ th’ rescue, like I told y’I would luv.” Leaning down, the piratess pressed her lips against the cool surface under her palm, straightening and letting her hand trail away as she moved across the wooden decking beneath her feet. Her hazel eyes swept over the rigging and tall masts, the railing and the quarterdeck.

She was home. The Laced Lady lived again.

Walking down the stairs away from the wheel, Lacey ran her hand over the chilled steel chimney pipe that replaced her mizzen mast, looking up at the towering masterpiece. Under the deck, there was a steam powered engine, a bizarre contraption that Dragus had come up with she had yet to run into on water. The old pirate had secrets even the blonde woman hadn’t known, his past something between fiction and biography. At the rear of the ship, either side of her hull, two steel waterwheels were attached to an axel. Rubbery sap from the palm trees that grew around the Rose had been used to seal the wooden structure around the pole, and the wheels turned on the axel. The engine could be turned on to power the wheels, should they need a boost of speed or should the wind stop blowing.

A brilliant design to be sure, though the downside is that the ship became a little erseheavy. To compensate, Dragus had mounted two heavy iron cannons on the front of the Laced Lady. They pointed directly ahead, like two great guns, an advantage when it came to forward warfare…

Unless one of them was turned to clay thanks to a certain albino passive.

Still, the mending had been done, and the cannon replaced and frankly Flyboy and his bosses lackeys had done a clocking good job. The hole in the deck had been mended with strong ironwood and even the figurehead on the bow had been replaced, a curvaceous tumble with flowing hair that seemed caught in the ocean breeze with all her best parts on display should anyone look up at her.

Walking down the gangplank, Lacey jumped off the end and adjusted her pistol and sword where they sat on her belt, dressed in corset and oiled leggings and long sleeved white top. Dragus’ cloak was thrown overtop and his tricorn had sat firmly on loose blonde dreadlocks. Seaglass beads a couple of silvery woven threads caught in the evening moonlight as the piratess made her way along the street towards Silas Hawke’s palace. Corwynn had held up his word, repairing her ship almost to newer than when she’d been left it by Dragus. Now it was her turn to hold up her end of the bargain.


Downing another two fingers of rum, the inked creature winced and toyed with the glass before placing it on the table before her and taking a handful of spiced nuts. Sitting back in the chair, she crossed her booted ankles where they sat on the table, letting her eyes roam the others in the room. Oh, but what a lavish affair the King put on. Nibbles and enough drink to soothe even the nastiest pirate, and all sorts of plans laid out on the fancy table, Lacey saw more than perhaps had been suggested. This wasn’t just a little run to the islands and back. There was a plan here, and whilst she’d been sleeping with the blonde galdor at the head of the table to her immediate right, the human knew no more than anyone else here.

Throwing a nut in the air and catching it in her mouth, Lacey crunched the morsel in her teeth as Corwynn drew the opal handed knife to tap his glass. Oh yes, she remembered that particular knife. Those bastard Hessean’s didn’t count on pirate code, fucking gold-hoarders. Listening to the Taxman talk, the piratess ate her nuts and chewed quietly, taking in everything he said with what could have been mistaken as a disinterested gaze. Truth be told, the galdor should know her enough by now to read her poker face.

Mostly.

As the gold tanned man finished his warning and opportunity to leave to those gathered in the room, Lacey looked around at those gathered slowly before taking her feet off the table one at a time. Taking her time, the piratess stood with glass in hand, moving around the room towards a collection of bottles of various fullness. Picking up what might have been rum or whisky, the human woman poured herself a large serve of the alcohol, plugging the cork and lifting her glass. Taking a sip of the drink, her hazel eyes scanned the people, carefully gauging those who she was about to get into bed with—metaphorically at least, literally at the most—before raising her drink to the galdor.

“Y’know whare me loyalties lie fly—Taxman. Pirates code. Loose lips sink ships, an’ I ain’t about t’ loose m’ girl a second time. S’far as I’m concerned, Silas an me ain’t got any reason t’speak lad.” Smirking, she downed another gulp of the drink, before raising an eyebrow.

“Lest it’s t’ test his bed.”

word count: 972
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Murko Muelton
Posts: 18
Joined: Fri Mar 22, 2019 2:45 pm
Topics: 4
Location: Old Rose Harbor
Race: Galdor
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Writer: Mythic
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Mon Apr 29, 2019 8:51 am

28th of Intas, 2719
In the eye of the storm, all is silent.

Murko Muelton felt that much of Intas was muted, the deafening silence that haunted him in the wake of the previous year. First, he'd lost his best mate. In the midst of his grief, he threw himself at the sea, into the "good works" that padded Hawke's coffers and funneled enough whiskey for two down his gullet. Over and over, blood caked at his fingernails, the lipids and oils of burning fat and tissue stained his lips. Tom Cooke died...

And so did part of Murko.

What followed those seasons of grief was cold acceptance. The appetite for something new threw itself by the wayside, replaced by the bitter comfort taken in what was left of the old. Murko Muelton smiled when the world demanded him to, he gritted his teeth when he needed to and he spilled blood in every situation in between.

The storm had passed, or so the galdor hoped. The months since his soul had steeled itself to the agony of the heart passed in a blur. Though Murko freed himself of the pain, there was no denying the crater left behind. When the Murobi received an invitation to the Palace, he nearly scoffed at the source.

Corwynn Wynngate.

The name was well-known to most that flew under the banner of Silas Hawke's Bad Brothers. Closer to the King than most anyone, Murko'd learned to keep his mouth shut around the other galdor. Particularly for the very fact of what they both were beings in possession of sensitivity to the mona that most of the other Bad Brothers could never understand, it was this Brother more than most that he could not be around in the wake of tragedy.

What the ruddy fuck does he want? Murko wondered, furious both to receive the invitation and for knowing that to refuse it was folly. Murko stared at the invitation before him as his quarters clouded with the weight of smoked opium. It was at least a house before he needed to find his way before he needed to leave the safe privacy of his ship and enter the fray.

I've got to get meself together. Fuckin' Cor might snoop and see things he shouldn't, he ruminated. The heavy smoke in his lungs pulled at his senses. The soreness of the body bowed to the drug and eventually, the tragedy of lucidity did as well. When Murko Muelton found his peace, all but the last half-hour had passed. He rose from his bed in a lazy drag of the feet. Prepared he was, and so... he went. The galdor was unsure of what to expect and so, he dressed as he might on a normal day. He threw his pants on, letting a tunic join the garment in a half-hearted effort to seem decent. Worn soles hit the ground anew, and he took with him his tobacco pipe before absconding from his ship. The playful sway of the cataraman against his step had him holding to the wooden wall for but a moment. Then, the pirate re-familiarized himself with the concept of walking on firm earth.

Murko stuffed a swell of Mugrobi tobacco into the pipe, pulling on the tip while the casual flick of a match against a nearby building sparked the flame. Successful in lighting his pipe, several pulls flooded the barrel with oxygen and a flame in infancy ignited the bowl. Smoke flooded his lungs, far darker and lighter than the opium. He threw it from his lungs, timing the endeavor with a particularly feral expression as he caught the eye of a queer assortment of lads in his way. Perhaps it was the way the plumes rose from his nostrils and into the air... but those lads were out of his way quickly enough. Without a need to shift his step, he passed them by, snide laughter following his advancement. The Mugrobi made sure to send for Makia, figuring that if she wasn't invited for being new to the Bad Brothers, his "pull" might allow her in on... whatever was happening.

Better more familiar faces than less, he reasoned. Besides, she had a strong head on her shoulders. Surely she'd be of use somehow. With that bit of business taken care of preemptively, he was free to keep watch on his temper, pulling his field close to his body. He held a hefty leash on himself just as he passed the threshold, and intended to keep it that way until long after he left Corwynn's presence.

However, contrary to expectation, the other galdor didn't immediately get to business. Instead, the Brothers that were invited were made off into the luxury that certainly none of them would experience otherwise. The opulence of it all caught the Mugrobi off guard, but he insisted on keeping silent. Dark eyes watched the others as he breakfasted in relative silence. He'd helped himself to some of the whiskey Corwynn threw back, his fingertips dancing easily along the pristine surface of crystal before it too flowed down his throat. He leaned back in his seat, looking over the allotment of faces with varying degrees of familiarity to each. Then, once he was finished with his meal, he refilled his glass, keeping a bottle close as he awaited the real reason for their collective invitation.

And then...

"While there's little more I'd love in all of Vita than to reminisce the night away over sails long past, I invited you all for business instead of just pleasure—a disappointment, I'm aware."

Fuckin' hell, if I wanted to hear a golly throw into a speech, I'd be in post-grad at Brunnhold, wouldn' I? he mocked, hiding his smirk behind his glass before taking another sip. He listened with as much polite interest as he could muster, waiting for Corwynn to get to the fucking point. It was apparent that the hardened souls at the table were murderers and thieves in their own right. Making the point clearer and clearer hardly needed to be done. Anger threatened to wax, alway so close to the surface, but he forced himself to reign in the feeling.

What kind of shit ye gettin' pirates in on? Firs' months of the year are the fuckin' worst for our ilk. Surely there's some lubber or two ye can throw to their deaths, ayy?

Never voiced, Murko Muelton's doubts were in direct conflict with the copius curiosity that bloomed within him. He held his cards close to his chest, never intent on revealing his hand until the opportune moment. And so, he said nothing for a long moment. Then the blonde lass spoke. Affirmation was always the best sort to soothe doubts. Murko didn't know the lass too well or even by name, but he'd seen her face around. And if there was anything the Mugrobi knew of himself... he wasn't the sort to forget a face like that.

Too bad she got 'ere before me, ayy? Maybe I'd recognize her ass over her face,
he thought. Unable to conceal his laughter by mere smirks anymore, he pushed himself into speech instead.

"'Ow are we supposed to make a decision without ye fuckin' tellin' us what we're doin', aye? If yer questionin' the loyalty of the King's men, what's the point in inviting us in the firs' place, hm? Get on with it, Taxman," he encouraged. The words, while biting in nature, were covered at last by the laughter he couldn't help. He placed it in a suitable location, shrugging his shoulders before he leaned back. The Mugrobi hadn't realized he'd shifted his position until after he spoke.

The dark clouds are ahead of us again, aren't they? he mused. Corwynn was taking far too long to get to his point for this to be anything good.


word count: 1359
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Luella Blythe
Posts: 12
Joined: Fri Apr 05, 2019 12:29 am
Topics: 3
Race: Human
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Tue Apr 30, 2019 12:01 am

28th of Intas, 2719
“Oi, ye clumsy sack o’ kenser shit!” Luella Blythe’s voice rose easily over the noise of the docks, striding over to the teenager who was doing his utmost to juggle a parcel far too large for his gangly frame. The venture was failing as much as anything could fail, the box falling to the ground repeatedly while the awkward adolescent did his best to cover up his blunders. Unfortunately for him, Luella saw it all, and she was ready to flay the boy alive if he damaged even an inch of the merchandise some fool had entrusted him with.

Her face set in harsh lines of sharp irritation, the pirate yanked the package from his hands, jerking her chin in the direction of the ship he’d just departed. “How ‘bout ye don’t destroy all the King’s goods, eh? We ent payin’ ye t' break 't, boy. Ye drop one more box, an’ we ent payin’ ye at all, ye chen?”

Several rapid nods showed his understanding, hastening off in the other direction before she could say another word. “Bunch o’ clockin’ idiots,” Luella muttered in disgust, dropping the package at its intended destination with far more ease than its previous handler. Drawing her sleeve across her forehead to dry the sweat from her labor, her eyes narrowed when she saw another boy heading in her direction.

“Miss Blythe,” he greeted her with a nod, holding a folded scrap of paper in her direction. “Got a message for ye from th’ Taxman. Said t’ make sure it got put in yer hands.”

Luella’s brow rose in confusion and curiosity alike. “Th’ Taxman, eh?” Dusting off dirty hands on equally dirty pants, the Brother unfolded the missive and briefly scanned its contents, her brow only rising further into her forehead. “An invitation to th’ Palace,” she murmured in surprise, flicking the boy a penny for his troubles. Accepting it gratefully, he bit into the coin before shoving it in his pocket. “Don’ know wha’ I were expectin’, but it weren’t that.” With a snort, she glanced down at her disheveled appearance and shook her head.

“Guess I best get cleaned up, eh?”


A mouthful of rum shot a column of fire down her throat, the sweet burn settling in Luella’s belly and unravelling whatever tangles lay within. The King knows ‘ow t’ treat ‘is subjects, the pirate thought to herself before another swallow joined the first, setting her glass down in front of her. She'd been at the Palace for nearly an hour, plenty of time for her to drain a bottle, and still she had no idea why she'd been summoned. Be nice t’ know why we’s all ‘ere in th’ first place, she mused behind half-lidded eyes, barely concealed impatience starting to find its way to the surface. A lit cigarette replaced the rum in her mouth, the woman dragging on the spur and releasing the smoke in wafting tendrils around her head. Even if I ent one t’ complain ‘bout free booze.

Restless fingers tapped the surface of the table, a dark gaze sifting to and fro. Gatherin’ like this means somethin’ big, she reasoned, her eyes lighting first on the golden-haired galdor at the head of the table. Corwynn Wynngate. The Taxman was a household name among the Brothers, and one who didn’t call on such a group without cause. If he was involved, it was sure to be something worth her time, and every moment that passed just revved her up that much more. Why were they here? What was happening? And when would they get to the clocking point?

Next, she took in the tattooed lass beside him, a woman whose skin was as colorful as her own. Lacey Lovell. A wench she knew by sight and reputation, even if their paths had rarely crossed before. A good pirate, but not a Brother. What the clock’s she doin’ ‘ere? The others that she recognized were definitely Brothers, so she couldn’t help but wonder why someone not in their organization would be among them. Was she joining? Was this some other kind of business entirely? Luella had nothing but questions, and no answers seemed forthcoming.

The next face she stopped on was that of Murko Muelton, a Mugrobi raider and close associate of the late Tom Cooke. A clockin’ moron at that, she added silently in her head before taking another swallow of rum. He was respected well enough among the Brothers, and with good reason, but any time she’d had the misfortune to be in his presence, she’d come to regret it. If ‘e’s ‘ere too… Luella rolled her eyes. Maybe I shouldn’t have accepted Wynngate’s invitation. Shrugging, she took another drag off her cigarette. Too late now, I s’pose.

Leaning back in her chair, she took in the rest of the room with a smug, satisfied nod. At least Anders an’ Will was left off th’ invite list, she thought with no small amount of relief when she found no trace of either one. Though I doubt any man wi’ a lick o’ sense would throw us all in the same room so soon. Not ‘less ‘e’s wantin’ ‘is palace painted red. A smirk briefly crossed her lips. I do wish I could see their faces after findin’ out I was invited an’ they wasn’t.

As she had the thought, Luella couldn’t help but wonder why she had been invited. Her disgraceful departure from The Hammerhead’s Prize was common knowledge around the Harbour by now, and she would’ve thought such a separation would take her out of more than a few good graces. Not like I were in many t’ begin wi’, but th’ point still stands. Luella was respectable in her own right, the surly pirate a good navigator and an excellent fighter, but she wasn’t particularly known for her ability to get on with others. A group this large and varied… whoever had thrown this venture together must have decided her biting attitude was worth the other skills she could bring to the table. I guess we’ll find out, eh?

After what seemed like hours of drinking and speculation, Corwynn at last began to speak—pulling them all back together and demanding their attention on him. “’Bout clockin’ time,” she muttered. “Didn’t come ‘ere for no fuckin’ family reunion…”

Draining the rest of her glass, she leaned forward to hear what the galdor had to say. Which wasn’t much, as it turned out; Lu’s head turned toward a disgruntled Muelton, who spoke aloud the thoughts reflected in her head.

“Aye, a bit o’ an explanation would do wonders, Wynngate,” Blythe added her dry voice to Murko’s, straightening in her seat and cocking a brow in the Taxman’s direction. “Ent a one o’ us ‘ere that’d dare snitch a Brother’s business. Don’ get me wrong, I’m all fer a bit o’ dirty dealin’, but it’d be nice t’ know jus’ wha’ th’ dirty dealin’ is.


word count: 1224
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Corwynn
Posts: 113
Joined: Fri Apr 20, 2018 10:03 am
Topics: 7
Location: Ol' Rose
Race: Galdor
: The Taxman
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Writer: Muse
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Fri May 10, 2019 11:31 am

​​28th of Intas, 2719
​​The PALACE
Late EVENING
​​Corwynn was aware that he worked for and alongside an organization of criminals, ne'er-do-wells, back-stabbers, forgers, pirates, and sneaks. He was also aware that some of those people weren't to be trusted but others were, in fact, quite trustworthy indeed. Not that the blond galdor relied on anyone but himself anymore, not fully. It was just part of the way he'd chosen to live.

Here he'd gathered just the captains for his plan, just skilled pirates he'd taken the time to study. Choices made, he didn't move his feet from the table, comfortable even while his fingers slowly replaced the knife back into his boot, smirking at Lacey without bothering to confirm or deny whether Hawke would even bother testing a bed, the sultry inside joke the Taxman's to savor as he rolled another sip of his drink over his tongue.

Crystalline gaze washed over Murko's handsome, broody expression, jaw clenching at the other galdor's petulant comments. The Mug had been in quite the fucking foul, pouty mood for a few seasons too long, and while the older galdor had hoped an opportunity to set sail for Silas would have lifted his spirits, the pirate's tone revealed he'd done him no such favors. While Corwynn's true rivalry lay elsewhere, with a particular brothel madame, he'd never bothered to make himself a particular friend of Hawke's other galdori pets, too aloof to really ever feel comfortable around his own damn kind for longer than necessary,

"I think you've gotten to know me well enough to be able to make decisions with or without the godsbedamned details, Mister Muelton." Lips curled into a sneer, the mocked propriety in his gravely voice far more refined than the rougher tones of his darker-skinned peer, "And I'm pretty sure a job's a job for you, Miss Blythe."

Gods, he hated the sound of his surname here in the Harbor, the weight of such a family heirloom only appropriate for the thick, stuffy atmosphere of Viendan politics.

He sighed, finishing his drink and setting the glass on the tabletop near his boots, reaching up to lace his nine fingers behind his curly blond head, staring up at the ceiling instead of looking at the expectant faces of his rather captive audience, "Aye, well. Since you're all on board for the moment, here's the course—the Drain's gone and set fire to all of Hawke's poppy fields in the Muluku Isles. Oh no, there's not one left, but it's not like our Crop buyers know that. Not yet. I've got word that there's other fields, ones we obviously don't own but I'll bet you a plumb fair tumble right here I can guess who's running them. Well—"

He'd give a fair tumble regardless. Everyone knew this.

Corwynn chuckled, tilting his head in Lacey's direction before glancing back at his fellow Brothers,

"—sailing as an unassociated party, Miss Lovell will be picking up a shipment of freshly processed opium, unlabeled and unrefined, under the guise of running for the Drain back here to the Harbor. The rest of us, flying the King's flag, will be staging a raid, making sure that every tavern from here to Laos Oma knows we're coming, all with the hopes of flushing some of the Drain's defenses so we can bring home some prisoners—alive this time."

Yes, he'd said we, meaning he wasn't staying out of things after all, and if his crystalline gaze slid away from Lacey with a hint of slyness creasing the sun-kissed edges of his eyes, well, fuck it. As if it hadn't been obvious he'd have to have his hands all over this plan, every last bit of it, apparently,

"If we happen to learn where the Drain's getting their pretty flowers, then you know there'll be more work once we make it back to tell Silas."

Sitting up, finally sliding his expensive boots from the table, he leaned on his elbows instead, resting his chin on the back of his hands as coyly as possible and fluttering fair eyelashes tauntingly in Murko's direction,

"That enough for you, then?"

Rolling his broad for a galdor shoulders in a shrug and shifting to stand, the middle finger of his less-whole hand pointing to charts and paperwork, Corwynn continued, addressing everyone, "Now, I know I've said don't talk about things but also to talk about things. I'm sure you're all fucking bright enough to know the difference, as I want my name out of the rumor mongering. I've got a creeping suspicion who all is in bed with the Drain, and I'm only coming along as crew, not sailing a ship of my own. Do I hear any questions? Any objections? Think you can chart it better, hmm?"
word count: 888
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Lacey Lovell
Posts: 32
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Tue May 14, 2019 6:13 pm

28th of Intas, 2718
THE PALACE| THE BEST TIME of DAY
Image
L​​​​acey looked at the Mugrobi over the rim of her glass, smirking and tilting her head a little before taking another sip. He was familiar, though not from her bedsheets. Maybe. Possibly. It was hard to tell some days, though of late there’d been less random bodies and more blonde galdor. A word came to mind at his half laughed comment.
​​
​​Impatient.
​​
​​Scanning across to the woman who spoke next, the piratess cast an appreciative eye over the brunette, brow raised. There were delightful colors disappearing underneath dark clothing and lustrous long hair, and it would be remiss for Lacey to say she didn’t want to find out how far they went. Compare notes, as it was. She sipped quietly, first impressions ingraining.
​​
​​Loyal.
​​
​​Her hazel gaze scanned back to Corwynn, picking up the too formal last names for the two, other brow raising at the galdor’s own last name. Wynngate? The blonde tried not to snort into her drink, saving that tidbit for later. As Corwynn continued on, the tattooed creature sipped her drink, raising her glass at the mention of her name and swigging the last of it, turning to get another as she listened.
​​
​​We.
​​
​​The pirate looked back at the Taxman with a slight narrowing of her eyes.
​​
​​ “Tis Cap’n Lovell, or jus’ Lacey. I ain’t no lady an’ I certainly ain’t a Miss Anythin’.” Lifting the fresh drink to her lips, Lacey gestured with the glass.
​​
​​ “So, ye want me t’ be bait. Aye…that’s a little concernin’. Am I allowed t’fight back?” Her thoughts dwelled on her ship, only just repaired, this false raid would need to look real if they wanted to flush the rival drug ring out. Which meant cannons needed firing. Which meant her Lady was probably going to be hurt. Again. The blond sucked on her teeth, contemplating.
​​
​​ “Y’better not sink me, flyboy.” She growled, coming back to the table and turning her chair to sit in it backwards. Glancing down at the charts, lacquered fingernails tapped gently on the glass between them, the colourful human studying the maps before her and mulling over his words. A large grin broke out, and she looked at the other two with waggling brows.
​​
​​ “Story time at th’ taverns then! I dibs the Queen. Ye know, f’ th’ biggest crowd n’ all.” Nothing to do with the tumbles, of course.
​​
​​Nothing at all.
​​
​​Looking back at Corwynn, Lacey nodded with her chin in a questioning movement.
​​
​​ “So, r’we sayin’ I’m Drain? Coz I ain’t wantin’ t’ get me erse shived before I get t’ the Islands. Y’understand? R’ we sayin’ tis jus’ talk o’this shipment n’such?” Sitting straighter, she shot the rest of her drink and shrugged, placing the glass on the table.
​​
​​ “I’m in either way, though ye better find a good ship f’th’ chase. My Lady’s th’ fastest wench on th’ waves.” Looking at the other two, the blonde pointed between them.
​​
​​ “So which one o’ y’delicious bastards are th’ other Captain? I’m fairly certain I’d know ye if I’d fought or fu—slept with ye.” Her grin was that of a shark, full of teeth and possibly a bite, waiting for them to reply.

“An’ who’s ship exactly is who goin’ on? Is this me crew, or are ye th’ one t’ try an’ catch me girl?”

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