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Captain Flint Date of Unification: Jul 7, 1715
Date of Events: Nov 10, 1716
4 miles off the north coast of St. Vincent


    A small, distant circle of the world surrounded by blackness. Within that circle, the icy white rage of a blizzard rushes past. It conceals and obscures, revealing in brief flashes an expanse of blue, a sandbar, and two ships anchored off the shore. They are close. Flint lowers the looking glass, frowning. He collapses it, places it back into his coat, and raises the radio again.

    "Only two," he confirms, shouting to be heard over the roaring winds of Priscilla's blizzard. The attack will commence soon. "Could be the storm."

    The captains of the Flotilla, having made an offshore platform in advance, are able to fly in their specialized craft, also within cover of the storm. From their vantage point, they can see more of the coast. The soldiers are already out in force, and are... sending patrols into the interior, for some reason.

    "Gun crews at the ready!" Flint's cry is repeated, carrying the command all the way down to the gundecks with a chorus of shouts over the blizzard. "Prepare the launches!" Pirates hurry across the deck, unfastening rowboats for any who need them to get to the shore. It's extremely ill-advised to take one if other options are available--anyone in those boats is going to be the first thing the French shoot at. The Walrus vanguard begin piling into them, the boats dropping into the water with splashes. Gunports open, revealing the ship's broadsides.

    John Silver comes up to the quarterdeck, crutch tucked under one arm while the other grips the railing tightly. He looks as though he wants to question something, but Flint doesn't allow it.

    "Cut the storm! Begin the attack!"
Morgan Berselius Some things are universal. A distaste for slavery, a hatred for slavers, a thirst for freedom on the behalf of every sentient being... These are the markings of a true revolutionary...!

Or a starry-eyed idealist.

A bolt of liquid shadow leaps from the underside of the piratical vessel as the first of the rowboats hit the water. Morgan, the scion of a night-god from a faraway land, makes good on his promise as he spreads his wings. "Worry not, dogs of the sea," he intones, his shadow spreading across the swarming rowboats as the darkness seems to tighten and swallow up all light. "I'll do what I can to make sure you land safely ashore. Open your eyes, this night shall be your shield!"

All at once, a flickering silver flame, limned with motes of violet and dark-blue light, would briefly flash in each of the rowers' eyes. As the paladin promises, they would suddenly find themselves abundantly capable of seeing through the shroud of supernatural shadow ensconcing them.

That's a luxury the French gunners, who now have to fire into an occluded mass of shadow, are not similarly afforded.
Starbound Flotilla "Well, you asked for a show."
"Always glad you can give it to me, Moonie."
"Floran wishesss we could fight on ground."
"This is the only effective way we have to cut them off."
"And we'll need to make sure they stay stranded."
"Worried. Why are they moving patrols of all things inland like that?"
"Why should we care what they scour the land for?"
"Uneasy. Well... alright."
"Closing. Watch for the slaves. Fox four."

    The beach is going to get bombarded. So the hefty gunship coming over the horizon, with its beefy crystaline VTOL engines, surges violently into action, blasting away with an array of side-mounted energy weapons more to drive the patrols away from the ships specifically than to give them space. "HEEEERETICS OF THE WAAAAVES!" Pavo's voice calls out. The gunship projects a dramatic halo of golden light around itself, and shining gold holographic feathers fall all around. "EVERY STEP YOU TAKE HERE IS BLASPHEMOUS. TAKE HEED AND SURRENDER TO THE WILL OF A GOD!" One of those mounted weapons beams down a big, ominously sweeping laser like the smiting of some evil sun deity. It's all very focused on the show; they're looking for surrender and route, though they're hardly going to abstain from lethality.

    "Watch our altitude and keep us moving. I don't want even muskets striking our engines." Albert says, full of paranoia. All kinds of people have that annoying habit of recognizing and firing at the Glowing Weak Points of technology. If they can make a good first impression, they can help Morgan with covering the initial advance, as well as work with the ominous themes of the shadow, and get everything ready for the plan to execute on the shoreline bombardment. With luck, someone can get onto those ships and hijack them ASAP!
Priscilla     This atrocious weather that is every sailor's nightmare, only bearable for being so close to the coast as to not lose sight of it in the snow, is something Priscilla is glad to have found a need for. For once, the gleaming waters and sweltering sun of the Caribbean are pushed out, and the dark and the cold and the raging wind and biting snow are painted over the beautiful coast in broad, heavy strokes, welcomed in as comforting blanket over this island for the one amongst them born into the dark and the cold, but a frozen hell for the French.

    It takes a considerable amount of effort to maintain a caricature of the Painted World of this scale however. Recent trifles with awakening further power had proved fruitful in taking the veil of impossible ice and gales she could summon up from enough for one ship, to the three of them and the sea between, but when Flint indicates it's time to drop the curtain for the first round of surprise fire, Priscilla does so with some gladness, finally releasing a deeply held, tense breath from the center of the deck and lowering her arms.

    It doesn't disappear all at once. Chunks of ice now litter the waves, frost covering the decks and railings, and snow has piled in all sorts of unfortunate places that only the Walrus' crew has had the luxury of keeping clear. One can see their own breath, even so close to the equator as they are, and the snowfall will continue for some amount of time as it peters out with the wind over the next half hour. Repugnant fighting conditions for sailors used to Cuban waters.

    "And pray remember that we desireth to know their purpose for being here. Restrain thine enthusiasm long enough to avoid killing all of their officers." she adds with a hint of exhaustion, silently resolving to increase focus on her practice as she wipes a frozen drop of sweat from her chin.
Captain Flint      'Bloodthirsty' might be a good way to describe Flint's men, once Morgan gives them anything resembling an advantage. Under any other circumstance, the men on the rowboats would pretty much be suicide in this situation--and they seem to understand that very well. Muskets, lever-action rifles and even assault rifles riddle the beach with bullets, thinning the horde of French uniforms on the shore. Soldiers retreat from the interior to rejoin the main force, only to encounter the same problem: they only have one shot before a reload, and they're not sure where they're supposed to be firing. A few of the pirates in the launches get nailed, by chance--that's just the nature of an invasion by sea. But Morgan's trick has greatly evened the odds for them.

     They will remember this.

     The slaves are nowhere to be seen on the beach, despite the fact that the invading party has clearly arrived after the French. There's been no effort to set up anything for the colony yet, and, for that matter, the supplies haven't been unloaded either. The slaves and the supplies alike could be locked up aboard the ships, assuming nothing worse has happened.

     When Pavo announces the Flotilla's presence, something wonderful happens. She, the Flotilla, and anyone else curious about the French scouring the undeveloped interior find out the reason for those sorties. French soldiers close to the shoreline begin to drop. Anyone with sharp eyes or advanced sensors can see why. Muzzle flashes, arrows, and darts emerge from the treeline, as if the attacks were goaded by Pavo's lively exhortation. One French soldier, fleeing from the vegetated interior with terror in his eyes, falls face-first into the snow with a thrown knife stuck into his back. All around, the snow-covered coastline grows gradually more red.

     As the storm begins to falter, visibility on the shore improves. John Silver stays aboard the Walrus, taking up a position on the railing with what appears to be a Henry repeating rifle. He's not stupid enough to try fighting on snow and sand at the same time with a prosthetic leg. Were it not for the position of the frosted-over rigging aboard the square-rigger, Priscilla might get the idea Silver would've slipped and fallen already.

     It happens sooner than anyone expects, really. But in a way, it makes perfect sense. As the visibility mentioned before improves, the French just... lose the will to fight. With every available option for retreat cut off by pirates on the shore, a ship in the air, and as-yet unknown forces in the interior, one of the surviving officers manages to raise a hastily-erected white flag of surrender. The remaining troops--less than a third of what should rightfully be there--throw down their weapons. Silver and Flint cry out to their men to cease fire, and the pirates with some authority on the shore relay these orders, not keen on crossing Priscilla or Flint. Efforts begin to collect weapons from the enemy after the fight has barely started. By all accounts, it's gone better than it's had any right to.

     One ship missing, a substantial force gone, an effort to search the forest... what happened here?
Morgan Berselius Bloodthirsty is fine. Bloodthirsty is great. The impulse for violence, the ability to assign self-righteous zeal behind every action, these too are fundamentally undeniable aspects of humanity. Morgan looks on as the French are summarily torn to shreds by the combination of sky-fire and plain old ordinary gunfire. And yet... Something... does not seem right.

"This is too easy," he finds himself muttering. "What's going on...?"

Soon, the guns go silent. The last of the French offer themselves up in surrender-- and...

Who /were/ those strange guerrila fighters?

Maybe one of the Frenchmen knows something.

The shadowy paladin materializes on the beach from a pool of creeping darkness. There may indeed be some credence to the strange sky-creature's claims of a hostile divinity repelling the Frenchmen from these isles. The report to their superiors-- if one is ever written-- would be an entertaining read. But Morgan has other matters to attend to.

Such as the surrendering officer.

"Talk," the dark man says, a jet black tendril winding out of his shadow and up and around the officer's waist. "Surely this is not the full whole of the French forces sent to settle these isles. Where are the rest of your people? And the supplies that you have brought here?"

"Careful now," he whispers, shadows growing thick all around him. "The gods of these seas are wrathful indeed."
Priscilla     The ambush had gone even better than Priscilla had expected. Of course she'd expected it to *work*, and to work *well*, but the addition of the unknown for once has been a welcome discovery rather than a complication for once, and it is with a note of satisfaction that she watches the surrender take place so promptly, albeit quite obviously keeping an eye out for disobedient members of the crew.


With the snowstorm finally becoming a slowly descending mist of diamond dust, Priscilla walks right up to the railing of the Walrus just off shore, and then where an additional step would take her over it, she disappears; not unusual in of itself, until the next step after that carries her to the beach, arriving with a sudden, glacial zephyr that blows a drift of sand and snow up the shore and briefly whips out her hair and dress. She trudges through the frozen sand with the audible crackle of frost announcing each step with an inexplicably ominous air.

    She stops only shortly below the treeline, likely bringing some relief to the Frenchmen she approaches only to walk past. The ships and soldiers, aberrantly lacklustre as they are, have been captured, and can be searched and interrogated at convenience. "I wouldst supposeth not that Lady Pavo hath made some pre-existing arrangements on this spit of land." Priscilla says out loud, entirely rhetorically. "Yet such wouldst seemeth not a fortuitous coincidence."

    This time she raises her voice such that someone in the vegetation would reasonably hear it. "Hail, unknown warriors. I entreat thee to show thineselves, so that we may speak. As current allies, even if only of convenience, thou hast mine word thou art welcomed to come forth freely and without harm. There is aught that I wouldst ask thee."
Starbound Flotilla "Anxious. Something's wrong."
"I see something! Someone's firing!"
"Firing at our foes."
"Isss huntersss from treesss! Yaaaay!"
"Something wrong. What's going on here?"
"I really don't give a shit who's on this island, as long as we get the supplies."
"Spiteful. There might not be /any/."
"What are they here for? What are they searching for?"
"Floran sssaw arrowsss! Let'sss go!!"

    The shining craft descends upon the surrendering men. They're not pointlessly violent, people surrendering are accepted. Pavo is the one who descends from it first, dramatic machine stretched out wide and projecting a brilliant halo. Some of the others beam down as well: George, Seft, and Biteblade all make their landing. "Hey fellas! White as a sheet there, boys, you shouldn't be worrying so much. Not good for your health." George says, in upbeat tones, to the surrendered men. "Where's all that good stuff you guys got for making this place all civil? I'd love to take a tour. Is it on the boat?"

    Biteblade, the little savage, just sort of runs for the trees. "Heyyyyy! Big fluffy friend isss right! Floran isss good friend! Floran thinksss, great huntersss here! Sssaw arrowsss, very good. Anyone theeere?" She's gonna be looking all around. Hopefully they didn't leave! She wants to say hi, but if she can't, she'll at least scour around for the spots she saw arrows coming from, to see if she can't find any hints.
Captain Flint      The officer is... about Flint's age, really. His face, like Flint's, is beaten by sun and sea. There are differences, of course. His hair is a bright blonde, his eyes a deep brown. But, like Flint, he's a man whose stone-faced gaze speaks of one accustomed to hard decisions. He... actually speaks English. Officers in this period may be better-educated than their counterparts. "Dead," he says plainly. He seems to be making a pointed effort not to be shaken by Morgan's darkness, looking him directly in the eye. "The Amphitrite's crew and the colonists went first. Their throats were slit in the night. She was gone before we knew what happened. Then the raids came." He levels a glance past Morgan, to the densely vegetated interior. "We haven't been able to unload the supplies, much less use them." He looks at George, whose magnanimous entrance isn't received as warmly as he'd doubtless like. "You'll therefore find what's left aboard the other two ships."

     The quiet of the surrender is broken by the crack of a pistol. It would seem Priscilla's suspicions were well-founded. A French soldier lies dead in the snow, blood and brains leaking out of him into the icy white expanse. The officer Morgan's interrogating sighs through his nose and looks away. Flint, meanwhile, who made this execution close to the treeline, rumbles his agreement with Priscilla.

     The First's address to the jungle is, at first, unanswered. But a veteran of her world is likely quite accustomed to being watched. She can feel eyes upon her, which measure and consider and examine. A tense moment passes before the dense foliage rustles. Out step men which stand in stark contrast to most of those here, save a few members of Flint's crew. Some of them wear the clothes forced upon them by a society believing itself superior, clothes made loose and dingy by humidity and toil. Some of them wear the clothes of an entirely different society.

     Their skin varies in hue, but they are all clearly of African or Caribbean, rather than European descent. They carry whatever weapons blood, sweat or fate have afforded them. They've come out, at least, a contigent slightly larger than Flint's crew. But their faces are mistrustful--the faces of those who have earned something and will not have it taken away without a fight.

     "Black Caribs," explains Flint, the local scholar. "Indigenous people, escaped slaves. It's no wonder they attacked the French. Many of them no doubt fled here to escape Europeans."

     "And yet," says the leader, a hard man with thinning natural hair and some visible ritual scarification, "Here you are." Biteblade gets an odd look. So odd that some weapons are raised in a suspicious fashion the hunter is probably familiar with. "Here... she is. What is it you want?"
Starbound Flotilla     "Floran doesssn't know what a Europe isss. Floran came with good friendsss to take sssupply from..." Biteblade looks at something on her hands. Did she write a cheat sheet? "Ffffrance, from Francian ship on shore. Over there?" She gestures emphatically. "Floran asssignment isss, get sssupply, free ssslave, then go fix great town of Nassssau. Mind if Floran takesss prisssonersss without shooting?"

    She takes an upright posture, like a student reciting something they've been taught extensively. "Prisssoner isss a sssnack for /later/, not a sssnack for /now/, ssso keep them fresh!" She declares. "Ship isss misssing though. What happened?"

    Pavo wanders over. "Yeah, that's the question I've got on the brain too. I'm hearing you might have slit some throats, which I can really respect. I was looking to poach those supplies, though." She looks cranky. "What's going on here? Did they get away with the boat, or did you take what they had?" She looks a bit critical.

    "Focused. Pavo! They're escaped slaves, they need any help they can get." Seft turns to face and speak with them. "Helpful. Did any of their patrols wound you? Have the French been in conflict with you long, or did this start recently?" As always, the humanitarian. She seems quite focused on this.

    George takes a smoke break and observes the direction of the various conversations, seemingly formulating ideas for what they need to do from here on out.
Morgan Berselius For a moment longer, Morgan's gaze remains fixed on the unfortunate officer. Unsettling light smolders in their depths as he quietly contemplates whether this man is in fact telling the truth.

The roar of a pistol discharging its lethal burden is enough.

Morgan breathes a quiet sigh. "Regrettable. You have my condolences." The shadowy tendril seems to withdraw... before going to bind the man's wrists and ankles. Morgan rises, turning toward the men coming out of the trees. Slaves. The people he's looking for.

"Hello there," he says, hooking his thumbs into his pockets. "You lot look somewhat worse for wear. You can relax, though. We've come in part to guarantee your freedom. I can provide some measure of healing if it's neccessary."

"That said, I am curious as to who took that third ship."
Priscilla     The slow, steady exhalation from Priscilla upon hearing the pistol going off is telling. It doesn't take more than a glance to confirm it's Flint, and not one of his crew, and thus the prisoners must still be ready to try something, even stranded on a frozen island with savages on all sides. Indeed, Priscilla can feel that highly specific brand of wary, desperate killer instinct from them. Colour and slavery aren't that kind of viscerally linked in her head, what with her homeworld having next to nowhere to even live that doesn't see yearly snow, but the aura of '-or death' that surrounds the grimy and impoverished band is palpable.

    "One wouldst expecteth met by surprise, if the French sent only this paltry token force to build a life upon this island. I wouldst hope, at least, that they didst not underestimate an enemy of sufficient number and human intellect *so* severely." she says. "What drove them to maketh landfall here so thoroughly uninformed and underprepared, supposedly far in advance of their honest timeline, is the issue of import, here. What is it about this island that they wouldst desire so suddenly and with such impromptu design?"

    A brief pause. "I imagine they shalt cometh again; the time next with adequate soldiers and a desire to avenge their slain countrymen. It wouldst be advisable to share what it is that thou knowest, but they shalt certainly find out as much just as soon."
Captain Flint      "We're already free," says the leader. "Any who didn't choose to stay here left with the ship. Take as many French as you want--we'll kill the rest." That's... direct. But probably not unwarranted. Any left alive would just be liabilities. That being said, Biteblade's gleeful admission to cannibalism does turn a few heads.

     Pavo's respect is apparently misplaced, as the Carib leader shakes his head. "Take the supplies if you want. Some of us have lived here for years; we don't need them. But you should know it wasn't us that killed the crew or the colonists. That was the men from the ring." He angles his head towards the dense vegetation behind him. "They came through several days ago. They mentioned Nassau, as you did." He nods towards Biteblade. "Their leader was... strange. As if he were awake for the first time in a long while. They wanted passage off the island, we told them about the ship. Not only did they take it without a sound, they freed the slaves and let them choose whether to sail or stay."

     He then responds to Seft. But, only after getting over the shock of being talked to by something that isn't even apparently alive. "All... within the past few days," he says. "There are some wounded. If you'll accept an armed escort, we'll allow you to treat them." This, spoken with glances both at Seft and at Morgan. "If you truly want to guarantee our freedom, you can tell us how to use the ring to leave here."

     "They had no idea we were here--but the ring, they knew about that. It had gone undisturbed for nearly a year. Then one of our scouts spotted it... spitting a man out, as if he'd opened a door on the other side. He made it through to the other side before our scout could kill him. If there were a way to... seal it, or... destroy it..." He trails off. Hopefully. Who will deliver the bad news?
Morgan Berselius The alien's claims of cannibalism earns a withering stare from the shadowy paladin-- but he can address it later. He's nowhere near as perturbed by the Caribs' admission of intent. The French /were/ their overlords, after all. It's only right for the oppressed to shatter the shackles of oppression. But...

"Ring..." Morgan's brow furrows thoughtfully-- before his eyes widen suddenly. "...A warp gate? There's one here, of all places? That doesn't make sense. Why would someone use an inactive gate and then immediately leave here some other way, instead of just taking the gate somewhere else...? Unless it only goes to and from one place."

He shakes his head, then. "I don't know if you'd really like where it leads, friend," Morgan says to the Carib. "But that's a question we'll have to look into. For now, please, show us to your sick and injured-- I'll be glad to do what I can." Even under guard, at that.
Priscilla     There are several points at which Priscilla experiences the urge to interrupt and ask what exactly 'the ring' is supposed to be, but her patience with the Carib's awkward explanation of events is rewarded by the slow, subtle eye-widening and tilt-back of an 'ah' moment.

    "Then thine island home is unfortunately no longer as isolated and obscure as it once was, and no doubt far less so than thou wouldst wish. It is possible that there may be nothing to be done about it, though at least unlikely for others outside of this particularly strange fellowship thou hast described to taketh any serious interest in it. Why they wouldst cometh to this miniscule corner of the sea in the first place is questionable."

    "Thou wouldst do well to describeth them in as much detail as any of thine men art able. Their appearances, their manner of speech, any hints as to their professed goal. I doubt they shalt be back any time especially soon, but word of their way here shalt no doubt spread. It is almost certain that evacuating this soil within the next month shouldst be a priority of thine, if thou truly wish to remaineth undisturbed. The others art no doubt capable of demonstrating to thee how to do so, but knoweth that thou taketh a gamble by doing so."
Captain Flint      "He said he needed a ship," explains the leader to Morgan. "One large enough to carry he and his men back to Nassau."

     He then describes this man. "White," he begins. "But sunbeaten. Even more than him," says the leader, pointing to the rugged Captain Flint. "His hair was long, matted. Interwoven with baubles--"

     "Charles Vane," spits Flint.

     "That was his name." The leaders nods.

     Flint slowly raises his hands up to his face, each one shaking with barely constrained rage. The jewels set in the rings upon his fingers glimmer in the sunlight. He cups his hands over his face, running them back through his amber-brown hair as his eyes screw tightly shut. He takes a deep breath. "That man," rumbles the captain in his gravelly baritone, "Tried to usurp my captaincy, steal my fucking map, take my fucking gold, and run my fucking island. He was removed from the account. Made an outcast. Now he has a ship, and a crew, heading back to Nassau, and who the fffFUCK knows what he's going to do now?!" The last sentence is near-bellowed.

     Priscilla would remember him. Thanks to her Concord, he was left a pitiful, broken man, living out his days strung out on opium amongst the lepers at the wrecks. So what changed?

     Morgan, Seft and anyone else wishing to aid the wounded are allowed to do so, taken further inland to a well-hidden community that must've been here for years before the gate ever appeared. Anyone wishing to find it can also find plenty of people to take them there. It's not far from the community, but the former is hidden from the latter by dense foliage. The gate stands in the middle of a clearing, relatively less obscure than many others of its kind. It's merely geographically, rather than structurally, obscured.

     "I'll take any man who will come, and provide him the use of a launch to make landfall upon any island between here and Nassau," says Flint. "But I will not stop. Not until I get back there and discover whatever the fuck that man thinks he's doing on my island."
Starbound Flotilla     George is about halfway through his cigarette. "Yeah, birdbrain here sounds like he knows what's up. But hey! Look on the bright side." He says, wandering on over to the group. "The frogs are here to come fuck with you, buuuuut..." He's the only one around here who looks remotely normal besides Flint, so he's in an advantageous position. "I hear the British are saying they own this turf. They just sure can't afford to claim it." He gets over tapping his head. "If you say to 'em that you're their foothold, they'll give you all kinds of diplomatic protections from the French, I'm betting. And as long as you pull out before they get too strong, you'll never be under their thumb. Think about it. Just a tip from an old man."

    George winks, and moves on socially, to deal with the rest of this. Pavo forms up on him, eyes narrowed. "Vane. Didn't that man get taken out of the picture over something to do with Guthrie? I can tell you what he thinks, though, something stupid for sure, if he's making a habit of taking what's ours." She calls up to Albert. "Get the gunship disassembled and packed. Keep the ammo. We're going to need it. Get the transport gear, we're heading with Flint to Nassau and we're putting the gunship to use if we need to."

    George is uneasy about conflict with a traitor. All things considered, he'd default to being on a traitor's side, but this is much newer business. What he should do is work on his level. "A man like that isn't heading there for the kind of reasons a man with sense would do goddamn anything, Flint." He says. "Which makes whatever he does next something we're gonna have a hell of a time predicting. If he's got that reborn look to him, even worse. It's never a good look. Men get too light on their feet when they leave their baggage behind." He flicks his cigarette and stomps it.
Priscilla     "Yes." Priscilla replies suddenly to Pavo, having already realized so at the mention matted hair and baubles, her memory drifting all the way back to a particular cellar. "Whatever hath possessed him is a powerful urge indeed, if it inspires him so to interfere with us a second time. How he hath met with any success at all is a matter of more significant inquiry. He is being aided, encouraged, somehow, by someone with interests specifically against our own. Not slaying him hast done us good only in the sense of potentially revealing to whose directions it is that he dances."
Captain Flint Date of Unification: Jul 7, 1715
Date of Events: June 1705

James McGraw holds in his hand a leaflet printed by an anonymous author. Titled "An Account of the Barbarous and Debauched Pyrate Menace of the Bahama Islands," its cover is no less subtle. An inked illustration of a devilish pirate, eyes wild with hatred, teeth sharpened into fangs, hair dirty and wildly unkempt. He menaces an innocent woman, a severed head held in one hand and a sword in the other. She and her child both recoil in fear. Palm trees feature in the background of the otherwise nondescript beach, just so the reader can be sure it's "suitably exotic."

"Herein lies the problem we face if we are to secure Nassau's future. It is a problem that has festered for more than a generation," says Thomas Hamilton.

"Illiteracy," says McGraw with a smirk. The two have become more comfortable with each other in passing months. James has removed his overcoat, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Thomas no longer bothers wearing his wig. Instead, he is revealed to have a short length of blonde hair.

"Her husband," says Thomas, deflecting the quip with a smirk of his own. His finger points to the woman depicted on the cover of the leaflet. "Governor Robert Thompson, the one accepting bribes from pirate captains as fast as they can pay them, in exchange for catering to their every need. Meanwhile," says Hamilton, leaning upon his desk as McGraw skims through the leaflet. "He's sending word back to his pamphleteer friends about the scourge of the pirate menace. It garners sympathy and support, solidifies his position, and only fuels the underlying problem."

McGraw closes the leaflet and peers at the two unfinished glasses of brandy sitting upon the desk between them. "That's true, but I don't see how we can do anything about it."

"We can't get an honest man appointed governor in the Bahamas?"

McGraw raises his brow, shaking his head and throwing his hands up slightly. "We can get him appointed. The problem seems to be keeping him honest thereafter."

"What stands in the way of it?"

"Well... the Atlantic ocean." McGraw scoffs. "Put a man on an island, give him power over other men, and it won't be long before he realizes that the limits of that power are nowhere to be seen. No man, given that kind of influence, will remain honest for very long." His response is interrupted by a knock upon the door.

"Yes?" Lord Hamilton calls.

The lady Hamilton enters the study, a smile upon her lightly painted face. "I came to make sure you two were still alive," she teases. McGraw rises, regarding her with a somewhat uneasy version of his usual passive expression. With a nod of greeting towards McGraw, she adds, "No one's heard from you in hours."

Avoiding her gaze, McGraw sits back down. She circles around the desk, sitting upon her husband's lap and placing a hand upon his shoulder with a warm, fond smile.

"The lieutenant was just recounting to me his belief that the only thing which stands between us and a prosperous Nassau is an ocean, a hundred years of history, and human nature."

Lady Hamilton squeezes Thomas' shoulder. "Has he been like this all day?"

"More or less, ma'am, yes," rumbles McGraw with a small smile.

She rises, strolling over to Thomas' well-stocked bookshelf and retrieving a leather-bound tome. Setting it upon the desk, she explains, "A gift. One of my favorites." The title of the book, displayed in gold letters, is none other than Don Quixote, the story of the delusional knight making dragons of windmills. "You might find it useful in dealing with my husband, going forward."

Thomas chuckles. "Thank you, dear, well played. Although..."
Captain Flint "That edition is in Spanish. I don't think the lieutenant speaks it."

"Well, perhaps he should learn," muses the lady Hamilton playfully. "In his profession, you never know when it might be useful."