Captain Sariah Quinn was having a bad day.
This became all too abundantly clear to her when, upon turning from the back exit of the tavern where she had narrowly escaped a rather rough- landing - she found herself face to face with a rather unpleasant individual from her past - right before discovering that the back door to the tavern she'd just exited locked from the inside.
The group of men in the shadows beyond the door hadn't been recognizeable- Sariah had reacted on instinct. After all, bar brawls were one thing; but a group of lads looking for fresh meat, that was a completely different type of pain in the-. Her hand closed on the door handle just as the door itself clicked shut, the lock sliding into place with an audible scrape.
"Bloody perfect." she thought. Right. So, a fight, then. Her sword hand dropped from the door, inched towards the hilt of her -
"Why, Captain Quinn!" Sariah quashed a groan, barely. "Fancy meeting you here." The slow French drawl was unmistakeable.
"Marcus?" she said, pasting a smile on her face. She turned. The men stepped out of the shadows. Five or six of them, in all- the man in front was slender, his shoulders broad for his frame. His hat sat rakishly upon his impeccably polished black curls. His eyes raked over her frame, the familiarity setting her teeth on edge.
"Marcus Jacquard," she said "As I live, how long has it been?"
"Far too long, Madamoiselle." he said. "Have you missed me as I have missed you?"
Quinn ignored him, taking the opportunity to size up the other men. Standard heavy lifters, the lot of them; a few French African, an Englishman, and two Spanish. She smiled.
"Gentlemen, I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I don't seem to recognize any of you." she slowly sidled towards one side of the alley, prompting the men to turn so that their eyes could follow.
"Then again, I expect it doesn't matter; Jacquard, you seem to change your crew so often I can hardly keep up." The Frenchman's eyes narrowed.
"A laugh, I can see your sense of humor has not deserted you." he said "Still, imagine my surprise when I heard that Sariah Quinn had made port, here- just a few months after absconding with something so valuable." He nodded his head, and two of the men stepped forward, closing the distance between themselves and Quinn. They moved, grabbing her, as Jacquard continued.
"And now, Captain, I have you at a disadvantage. Alone, without your crew, backed into a corner.." he smirked, moving close. "Perhaps, if your manner towards me were to change... Become a little bit- sweeter.." His hand reached out to cup her cheek as he lowered his face towards hers. Quinn suddenly jerked forward, cracking her skull against his, causing his head to snap back. He snarled and delt her a heavy, open-handed blow across her face.
"A shame, Madamoiselle." he said, once he had righted himself. "I had hoped that you still maintained some reason. Perhaps then I could have kept matters between us."
Quinn snorted.
"'Cause you're such a bloody gentleman, are you?" she laughed. "That'll be the day." The men on either side of her moved closer, pressing her between them, and Jaccarde sighed.
"I tire of your crass nature, Lady Quinn." he said, stepping back. "We shall speak later, yes? After my men and you have become better acquainted." He tipped his hat and stepped from the alley.
"Bastard." Quinn muttered. She struggled half-heartedly. Around her, the pair began to argue rapidly in a dialect of French she wasn't familiar with. Her eyes narrowed, even as she pulled about, giving enough trouble that her arms were pinned behind her. They were fighting over who would get 'first go'. She gently slid her hand down to the middle of her back, right against her spine. She slid her fingers through the heavy-weighted object, clenching her fist.
"I'll tell you what, lads..." she said jovially. "No need to fight- I can take you both." With that, she suddenly drew her arms upwards with all her strength, feeling the resistance has the iron knuckles connected with the joints and bones of her captors. Instinctively, they let go, and she tumbled down and away, her sword out of its sheath in the blink of an eye.
And then it was chaos. All the men drew their swords, shouting, converging on her. One of the remaining Frenchmen got there first; bracing herself against a wooden crate next to the door, Quinn brought her sword up, swiftly blocking a wild blow, and lunged forward, cracking him a blow to the ribs and dealing him a savage kick to the gut which doubled him over. Someone grabbed her from behind, their arm closing around her throat; she swung the hand encased in iron, heard a crunch and a fountain of Spanish swears, and smiled as she pulled him off and deftly delt him a blow to the side of the head with the hilt of her sword, knocking him out cold. The other men hesitated for a very short moment, sizing her up as she did the same. One Spaniard down, all three French-Africans immobile. Two men left standing. She took a deep breath as the pair glanced at each other.
"Oy! What'sa matter, ay?" She managed a breathless chuckle. "Scared of one little lass?" she raised her sword. "Disappointing, that is. Not much of a fight." One of the men, older stepped forward. He was bald, his skin weathered, his sword ancient and poorly cared for.
"Alright then, sweetheart." he growled. "Time to bring you d-" his sentence went unfinished as he attacked; Quinn parried, locking blades with him. He pressed on, raining blow after blow onto her sword. She sidestepped, ducking a wild plunge, and narrowly escaping being skewered. She swung up, and countered, slashing; there was a soft, but recognizeable sound as her weapon broke skin. The man's eyes widen as he froze, looking down at her sword, buried in his abdomen. He gave a small sigh and keeled over.
Quinn wiped her blade on his shirt before looking up at the last man standing. She saw now that he was young; obviously English, and very, very scared. She sighed, sheathing her sword.
"Look, lad." she said, sliding the knuckles off her hand and tucking them back where they belonged "It's enough. I'm not looking to fight anymore today. What's say we put down our arms and talk for a moment." The boy stayed silent, his throat worked as he swallowed nervously. The sword in his hand pointed towards the dirt, and it was shaking.
She sighed and kneeled over each fallen man, patting him down and inspecting his possessions, pocketing any coin he had. She didn't even bother to keep him in her sight.
"Just joined up, have you?" she asked conversationally as she foraged. He said nothing. She stood. "Looking for adventure, yes?" she asked. He nodded, eyes fixed on her.
"You picked the wrong ship to work for, boy." she said, gently. Moving forward slowly, she gently took his wrist, and he let her disarm him.
"On the wrong crew, you are." she continued. "They'll chew you up, they will; for fun, too." the boy's brows furrowed. Quinn continued
"So, the way I see it, you've got a choice. You can stay here, bleeding, as a message from me. Tell Jacquard what's happened here, and count on his mercy." she smiled humorlessly.
"Or join my crew, prove yourself useful, and do your duties; be good to me, and I'll be fair. S'more than you can count on with Jacquard." she said.
"So? What's it going to be?"
The group of men in the shadows beyond the door hadn't been recognizeable- Sariah had reacted on instinct. After all, bar brawls were one thing; but a group of lads looking for fresh meat, that was a completely different type of pain in the-. Her hand closed on the door handle just as the door itself clicked shut, the lock sliding into place with an audible scrape.
"Bloody perfect." she thought. Right. So, a fight, then. Her sword hand dropped from the door, inched towards the hilt of her -
"Why, Captain Quinn!" Sariah quashed a groan, barely. "Fancy meeting you here." The slow French drawl was unmistakeable.
"Marcus?" she said, pasting a smile on her face. She turned. The men stepped out of the shadows. Five or six of them, in all- the man in front was slender, his shoulders broad for his frame. His hat sat rakishly upon his impeccably polished black curls. His eyes raked over her frame, the familiarity setting her teeth on edge.
"Marcus Jacquard," she said "As I live, how long has it been?"
"Far too long, Madamoiselle." he said. "Have you missed me as I have missed you?"
Quinn ignored him, taking the opportunity to size up the other men. Standard heavy lifters, the lot of them; a few French African, an Englishman, and two Spanish. She smiled.
"Gentlemen, I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I don't seem to recognize any of you." she slowly sidled towards one side of the alley, prompting the men to turn so that their eyes could follow.
"Then again, I expect it doesn't matter; Jacquard, you seem to change your crew so often I can hardly keep up." The Frenchman's eyes narrowed.
"A laugh, I can see your sense of humor has not deserted you." he said "Still, imagine my surprise when I heard that Sariah Quinn had made port, here- just a few months after absconding with something so valuable." He nodded his head, and two of the men stepped forward, closing the distance between themselves and Quinn. They moved, grabbing her, as Jacquard continued.
"And now, Captain, I have you at a disadvantage. Alone, without your crew, backed into a corner.." he smirked, moving close. "Perhaps, if your manner towards me were to change... Become a little bit- sweeter.." His hand reached out to cup her cheek as he lowered his face towards hers. Quinn suddenly jerked forward, cracking her skull against his, causing his head to snap back. He snarled and delt her a heavy, open-handed blow across her face.
"A shame, Madamoiselle." he said, once he had righted himself. "I had hoped that you still maintained some reason. Perhaps then I could have kept matters between us."
Quinn snorted.
"'Cause you're such a bloody gentleman, are you?" she laughed. "That'll be the day." The men on either side of her moved closer, pressing her between them, and Jaccarde sighed.
"I tire of your crass nature, Lady Quinn." he said, stepping back. "We shall speak later, yes? After my men and you have become better acquainted." He tipped his hat and stepped from the alley.
"Bastard." Quinn muttered. She struggled half-heartedly. Around her, the pair began to argue rapidly in a dialect of French she wasn't familiar with. Her eyes narrowed, even as she pulled about, giving enough trouble that her arms were pinned behind her. They were fighting over who would get 'first go'. She gently slid her hand down to the middle of her back, right against her spine. She slid her fingers through the heavy-weighted object, clenching her fist.
"I'll tell you what, lads..." she said jovially. "No need to fight- I can take you both." With that, she suddenly drew her arms upwards with all her strength, feeling the resistance has the iron knuckles connected with the joints and bones of her captors. Instinctively, they let go, and she tumbled down and away, her sword out of its sheath in the blink of an eye.
And then it was chaos. All the men drew their swords, shouting, converging on her. One of the remaining Frenchmen got there first; bracing herself against a wooden crate next to the door, Quinn brought her sword up, swiftly blocking a wild blow, and lunged forward, cracking him a blow to the ribs and dealing him a savage kick to the gut which doubled him over. Someone grabbed her from behind, their arm closing around her throat; she swung the hand encased in iron, heard a crunch and a fountain of Spanish swears, and smiled as she pulled him off and deftly delt him a blow to the side of the head with the hilt of her sword, knocking him out cold. The other men hesitated for a very short moment, sizing her up as she did the same. One Spaniard down, all three French-Africans immobile. Two men left standing. She took a deep breath as the pair glanced at each other.
"Oy! What'sa matter, ay?" She managed a breathless chuckle. "Scared of one little lass?" she raised her sword. "Disappointing, that is. Not much of a fight." One of the men, older stepped forward. He was bald, his skin weathered, his sword ancient and poorly cared for.
"Alright then, sweetheart." he growled. "Time to bring you d-" his sentence went unfinished as he attacked; Quinn parried, locking blades with him. He pressed on, raining blow after blow onto her sword. She sidestepped, ducking a wild plunge, and narrowly escaping being skewered. She swung up, and countered, slashing; there was a soft, but recognizeable sound as her weapon broke skin. The man's eyes widen as he froze, looking down at her sword, buried in his abdomen. He gave a small sigh and keeled over.
Quinn wiped her blade on his shirt before looking up at the last man standing. She saw now that he was young; obviously English, and very, very scared. She sighed, sheathing her sword.
"Look, lad." she said, sliding the knuckles off her hand and tucking them back where they belonged "It's enough. I'm not looking to fight anymore today. What's say we put down our arms and talk for a moment." The boy stayed silent, his throat worked as he swallowed nervously. The sword in his hand pointed towards the dirt, and it was shaking.
She sighed and kneeled over each fallen man, patting him down and inspecting his possessions, pocketing any coin he had. She didn't even bother to keep him in her sight.
"Just joined up, have you?" she asked conversationally as she foraged. He said nothing. She stood. "Looking for adventure, yes?" she asked. He nodded, eyes fixed on her.
"You picked the wrong ship to work for, boy." she said, gently. Moving forward slowly, she gently took his wrist, and he let her disarm him.
"On the wrong crew, you are." she continued. "They'll chew you up, they will; for fun, too." the boy's brows furrowed. Quinn continued
"So, the way I see it, you've got a choice. You can stay here, bleeding, as a message from me. Tell Jacquard what's happened here, and count on his mercy." she smiled humorlessly.
"Or join my crew, prove yourself useful, and do your duties; be good to me, and I'll be fair. S'more than you can count on with Jacquard." she said.
"So? What's it going to be?"
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