Avast Ye Nationstates! (IC)

[Liecthenbourg]

Avast ye Nationstates!
Welcome to the Caribbean, 1715. A year ago, the Empires of the World fought eachother for some throne in Spain that hasn't the slightest importance to you Privateers, or should I say Former-Privateers. Now with the war over, your country no longer requires your services in raiding the trade routes of their enemies. What do you do now? Well, simple, take to the seas like your fellow privateers and become Pirates. You have no masters and only the ships of the Empires and their bounties are you goal.
Take to the seas, my fellow sea-dogs and show the West-Indies Trade a force to be reckoned with!
OOC

Nassau, 1715
The day was quiet, like always. Barely a man stood sober amongst his fellow peers and everyone was seen with a mug of rum on his or her person. However, in the "town square" a crowd had gathered even though the majority of them were drunk. It was an odd site for a crowd gathering in Nassau, the citizens of the so called "Pirate Republic" had not been known to gather to see anything. Today however, was different. From atop a podium, a man alongside several members of his crew had been shouting out, declaring that the man was to be the next Governor of Nassau. This did not seem to bother anyone, due to their state, one man though stepped out of the crowd and looked up at the individual .
"We accept your resignation" and upon saying that, he drew one of his flintlock pistols from his across chest holster and fired, hitting the delusional fool through the neck and into the skull. Mass panicked ensued amongst the drunken people watching and they made haste for their homes. As they and the dead man's crew fled in confusion, a second individual made his way towards the podium.
"You couldn't have just arrested him, Thatch?"
"O' course I did, Hornigold! No single man will rule Nassau, we be a civilized bunch" spoke Thatch and he gestured for Hornigold to follow him. He did so, rather without question and the two conversed as they made way for the shore.
Not a short way away, sitting down at the Tavern, Frederic sat. He had watched the small confrontation from afar, not believing it to be his place to get involved. He sighed for Nassau as he chugged down the remainder of his rum and stood up, fastening his weapons onto his person and looking out towards the coast, wondering if any pirate on this Godforsaken island would assist Nassau.

[Kuhlfros]

Nassau, 1715, The Swaggering Hag
Terrance shook his head, Taking the last gulp from his Grog, thinking on the confrontation outside "That man was Poxied for sure to think that he could rule Nassau or even keep it in control, The little Republic can't keep control of its citizens most of the time, Oh Well maybe one day things could be worked out." He motioned for the Bartender to refill his mug, dropping a Reale on the Counter Initially from the Ships Stores, Not his personal Share. While waiting for his mug to be refilled Terrance noticed a man on the verge of passing out trying to ask for another mug, but he was incomprehensible. Rolling his eyes Terrance grabbed the pouch carrying that mans coins, and removing the coins from it and placing them in his pouch mumbling "Let that be a lesson to ye, Never be Drunk around a pirate, For your Reale's Sake". He got up fastening his belts and placing his hat back on his head, Grabbing the refilled Mug and walked out of the bar sending a nod towards the other pirate (Frederic) whom was fastening his belts.

[Valrifell]

Nassau, 1715, The Tavern
"Can't say the poor fool didn't have it coming!" Aedan laughed gleefully. taking a long swig of his mug, of which was full to the brim with rum, a large some of it wound up getting caught in his large red beard. Aedan slammed the mug onto the counter top with a loud thud. "The rulers of this so called 'Pirate Republic' are all the same, shoot first, ask something later, of course, by that time 'tis already too late!" Aedan once more slipped into a rigid and hardy laughter, he took out a small pouch of Reales and throw at on the table "Bring me whatever this 'ill get me, and make it snappy lad!" Aedan laughed once more. Once another mug arrived, he picked it up and chugged it down, in mere seconds it was gone, once this second mug was downed, Aedan decided he had finally had enough, he grabbed the half filled mug, put his hat on, and walked out of the bar.

[G-Tech Corporation]

The Swaggering Hag, Street of Kings, Nassau

With an almost audible grunt the man swung at Mertois, and the blonde haired giant moved aside with nary a show of effort on his face, continuing to smile at the increasingly enraged drunkard. His steps, possibly, weren't quite as steady as they could be as he trod the boards with his fists raised; even through the catcalls and whistles of the crowd he could still feel the ale gnawing in his belly, but the other man looked about ready to drop. His fists wavered as he held them upright, and his eyes slid from Gundersun to the floor and the crowd more often than not. A drinking contest and then a fistfight, that was the agreement, for two hundred whole Reales. Scar Jack was known for his skill with his hands, which was precisely why the Swede had challenged him to the drinking contest first. He was only starting to feel the effects of the alcohol due to his enormous size and regular imbibement, but Jack was as sloshed as a fish in the waters of the beautiful Caribbean. Metro is shrugged as Jack stumbled. It was time to end this; he would hardly have seemed to have one the pouch of delightful gold coins if his opponent passes out on the boards of the low bawdyhouse stage.

A jab with the right fist at the jaw, coming in at an angle. Head turns, seeing incoming fist, blocks clumsily. Haymaker to left of face, shielded with right hand deflected by opponent. Opponent slaps down right hand just in time for left to take him in jaw full on. Checkmate.

Down Jack went like a nine-pin, and some groaned while others cheered. Some scuffles broke out as Mertois descended from the stage, wiping his face with an only modestly grimy rag proffered by one of the tavern girls. Bets being paid up, or the lack thereof, assuredly. He made his way through the throng of unsavory types over to Scar Jack's first, who looked at him with a jaundiced eye before breaking into a leering grin that lacked teeth.

"Ay ay, a bet is a bet. Jack be snoozing, and here be your coin."

The repulsive man passed the Swede a sack full of coin, and Mertois didn't bother checking the amount aside from opening it to see if it really was coin. The first knew what happened to Eagle-Eye Pete when he shorted Mertois Gundersun on the biscuits that had been duly paid for, filling them with sand and sawdust. The body had taken a very long ladder to get down off the lighthouse, and the sight of the delicately filleted skin and pile of bones under the corpse, as well as the rictus of terror on the bloody face, well, those were enough to give anybody pause.

He returned to his table where the best of his crew waited, drinking and telling lies of the high seas to the tavern girls that were the friendliest. He reached for another mug of ale, and the men laughed as their captain downed it. Mertois then roared out in a loud voice.

"Line up lads. Mertois Gundersun be recruiting."

[Bormah (Ancient)]

James Wheeler shook his head, laughing as he sat, watching the thing.

"Arkay, the Fox was not kind to that one." He said to his crew, who all laughed with him, then finished their rum.

Anyone besides James' crew would likely not know what the heck he was talking about. James was a member of an Asian cult called the Dragon Cult. He was given the title of Dragon of the West, as he was the only member in the West. Arkay was essentially the God of Life and Death, and was represented on Earth through the Fox.

"Let's have some fun while we're here!" he called to his crew, who all cheered.

The crew dispersed to have some 'fun', while James went to mingle with the other captains.

[Bujahla]

Nassau, 1715, The Swaggering Hag

What incompetent fools. Okonkwo sat watching the event unfold. Nothing really surprising. A man tried to declare himself leader of the republic and then Blackbeard shoots him. Okonkwo wasn't the least bit surprised. Nassau was an uncivilized bunch that didn't have any rules, or if they did they were pulled out of the collective asses of Thatch and Hornigold. Oknokwo gave less than a thought about the condition of Nassau. In fact, he didn't even know why he was here. Usually he'd be off with his crew aboard the A'bongo looting and pillaging, and saving slave ships. But ever since his ship, a 40 gun beauty, was destroyed last year he'd be running off an old 18 gun brig. With only a 1000 reales he was gonna need to up his supplies and ship. It would take a long time before he was able to have anything like the ship he had before, but he had faith. And with this he got up from his spot and fastened his belt. He picked up the bottle of rum he had bought and went to go aboard the A'bongo. His crew would be docked in Nassau for the week to see if anything come of this meeting. As well, they needed a break from sailing the high seas.

As he made his way down to the shore he passed the two, Thatch and Hornigold. He wasn't big fans of them, but neither did he dislike them. Thatch had a reputation that he didn't wanna deal with and Hornigold was an interesting character. "Hey, black fellow!" Okonkwo turned around to the sound of Hornigold, "Why I've never seen you before? Ye got a name?" "Deh call me Okonkwo." "Well, Okonkwo, what do you think of our pirate republic?" Thatch made a grand gesture as he waved his hand at what appeared to be a bunch of houses that looked like they were falling apart. "It's a pig's pot. Ye got nothin' here but broken houses, rats in the streets, and none of them god damned Brits. From what I see you shot a man who wanted to be governor because you already claimed the title yeself." "Why you little--" "Wow, calm down Thatch. The man's got a point. It is a dump and you are well aware of that." "Yah, but so? Its our dump. A dump free of the greedy hands of the king." "Well if you want this pirate republic to survive, I'd suggest getting yourself some supplies. Use that fort. Get some medicine. This place is obviously in need of it. Make a real council, today." And with that Okonkwo left the two 'governors' to their duty.

[Black Marshes]

Muhammad had watched the incident at the town square from the tavern, and he was not impressed.
"How can these people possibly hope to survive if they are all killing each other?" he thought.
He wanted to help them, but their insolence was uncontrollable-they would only listen when they were actually in immediate peril. Unfortunately there was nothing much he could do, so in the meantime he would return to his piratical lifestyle, the ways in which he had gained gold and glory in the Mediterranean.
He looked out accross the bar, finding the drunken remains of so-called 'men', but among this crowd of wretchedness were good, hardworking men, and they were who Muhammad fought for, for he believed that they were the shining future of this cesspit of an island, and that eventually Nassau would join the ranks of great cities.
But preventing this dream were the drunken fools and whores that dominated the island, and most of all the British, who any week now might dispatch a fleet to retake the island, in which endeavour they would definately succeed.
Nassau needed defences and supplies, and quickly, and Muhammad planned on giving it precisely that. He wrote a small note, commanding his crew to prepare to sail the next day, and handed it to his falcon, Malik, who flew away, grasping it in his talons, towards the Jawhara. And with this Muhammad ordered a tankard of rum, his first of the day.

[Ayreonia]

So uncouth, Ibrahim Kassad, popularly known as the Saracen, thought.

Ususally, Ibrahim didn't mind the company of his fellow pirates, but on occasions such as these, he honestly wished he were somewhere else. Like out on the sea. Still, Nassau was a decent enough place. At least here he was free of the usual prejudices and crooked looks that seemed to follow the Saracen wherever he went.

"Bumbo, my friend," he ordered his preferred drink, leaning against the counter to watch a fistfight between a gigantic blond man and a drunkard, mildly amused. The hulk certainly had size to his advantage, but Ibrahim had a hunch that the smaller man would have been able to hold his own, were he not drunk as a sailor after his first Equator-crossing ceremony.

He got his drink, tossed a coin on the counter and took a sip. I'm probably going to hell for this, he thought. Meh, let it be the least of my sins.

He noticed another man leaning next to him, chugging on a big-ass mug of what smelled like rum. That, in itself, was far from unusual, but the guy had the look of a fellow Muslim, which was. Taking another sip, he muttered, "Friend, you're a disgrace to all true followers of the Prophet everywhere."

[Bormah (Ancient)]

James walked into the tavern, noticing a fight between a large man and a much smaller one.

"I call next fight!" he called out.

His call was met with a loud 'aye'. He was well known for his physical prowess. Heck, he was just well known in general in Nassau. Almost everyone had heard of the Dragon, as some called him. They all knew of his religious beliefs, and being the only member of the Dragon Cult in the West, he was often the subject of gossip. James still managed to get along with nearly everyone though. He walked up beside two Muslims, ordered a drink, and started taking large swigs of the stuff, watching the fight.

[G-Tech Corporation]

The Swaggering Hag, Street of Kings, Nassau

Mertois had signed up several men from the line in front of his table; stout lads all, they were the type he needed. Brightness was a plus, but combat experience was best. The Darkwalker sailed fast and light, closing on her prizes and boarding them after clearing the decks with the triple guns. A beautiful symphony if pulled off successfully, but generally not without its casualties. Marines and paid merchant guards could put up a fight if you let them, and so the swivel guns and his boarders were always hard at work, which meant he generally had vacant bunks to fill of expendables that rotated through the boarding crews. The pay was good, if you managed to survive, but surviving was the tricky part. A fair surgeon, Mertois had saved his share of lives on the butcher's slab that most men called an operating table, the one they kept in the company mess, but medicine just wasn't up to the task of fixing ruptured intestines and sewing arms back onto bodies. A rough job, but a man who would work on the plantations until the day he died and still be poor could become a veritable king among men if he could hold his own in a battle and live to sell off the rich cargoes that made their way through the Caribbean on a regular basis.

From somewhere near the bar he heard a man sing out, calling for the next fight. He smiled. Scar Jack had landed some good punches, but nothing more than a day's work at the sea could do, and the Iron Giant hadn't earned his nickname for nothing. He nodded to Sigurd, his first mate, and rose from his chair. The little contraption was the bar's strongest, barely able to keep the mass of Mertois Gundersun from shattering it, but it served its purpose, and now it was time for some more fun. Behind him he could heard Sigurd talking to the next potential recruit; a skinny man, but he might serve, if he knew his way around firearms. His mug of ale in hand, the Swede walked casually over to the bar, and spoke to the fellow who had called out.

"I am the next fight, stranger. What will you lay that you don't end up on the floor?"

[Bormah (Ancient)]

The Swaggering Hag, Street of Kings, Nassau

Mertois had signed up several men from the line in front of his table; stout lads all, they were the type he needed. Brightness was a plus, but combat experience was best. The Darkwalker sailed fast and light, closing on her prizes and boarding them after clearing the decks with the triple guns. A beautiful symphony if pulled off successfully, but generally not without its casualties. Marines and paid merchant guards could put up a fight if you let them, and so the swivel guns and his boarders were always hard at work, which meant he generally had vacant bunks to fill of expendables that rotated through the boarding crews. The pay was good, if you managed to survive, but surviving was the tricky part. A fair surgeon, Mertois had saved his share of lives on the butcher's slab that most men called an operating table, the one they kept in the company mess, but medicine just wasn't up to the task of fixing ruptured intestines and sewing arms back onto bodies. A rough job, but a man who would work on the plantations until the day he died and still be poor could become a veritable king among men if he could hold his own in a battle and live to sell off the rich cargoes that made their way through the Caribbean on a regular basis.

From somewhere near the bar he heard a man sing out, calling for the next fight. He smiled. Scar Jack had landed some good punches, but nothing more than a day's work at the sea could do, and the Iron Giant hadn't earned his nickname for nothing. He nodded to Sigurd, his first mate, and rose from his chair. The little contraption was the bar's strongest, barely able to keep the mass of Mertois Gundersun from shattering it, but it served its purpose, and now it was time for some more fun. Behind him he could heard Sigurd talking to the next potential recruit; a skinny man, but he might serve, if he knew his way around firearms. His mug of ale in hand, the Swede walked casually over to the bar, and spoke to the fellow who had called out.

"I am the next fight, stranger. What will you lay that you don't end up on the floor?"

James smiled as he heard the challenge, turning towards the man. He cracked his neck, his muscles rippling under his fur armor, and stood up. He grabbed his mug and finished the drink, silently sending up a prayer to Shor, who was embodied by the snake.

"How about three drinks for you, plus my favorite war axe." he said, taking one of the axes out of its hilt on his belt.

[G-Tech Corporation]

The Swaggering Hag, Street of Kings, Nassau

The Swede smiles, white teeth shining in a face so tan as to almost be Italian, and shakes his head gently.

"I fight for coin, lad, not drinks and trinkets. I'll lay twenty five Reales that you go down first."

Ice-gray eyes take in the other man, this unknown quantity, weighing him. Perhaps a decent fighter. But small. The odds, well, Mertois was never a gambling man. He preferred to win, not bet on luck. With a booming echo, Mertois spoke out over the din of the carousing and other activites of the Swaggering Hag.

"Next fight, this man here and I. Lay your bets. And barkeep, sweep Jack off the stage."

Laughs greeted his proclamation, and a few cheers, and two bouncers walked up to bundle off the unconscious Jack- which his first mate apparently hadn't bothered to retrieve- to some new vista or hogpen to sleep off his drink and concussion. Doubtless his purse would be gone in minutes, but this was Nassau. Such was life.

[Liecthenbourg]

The Swaggering Hag, Street of Kings, Nassau
Frederic turned from looking over at the coast, his rapier swinging slightly as he did so. He placed his rum down onto the table he was sitting at, having heard the sound of a challenge being called amongst his fellow pirates. He sat down at his table and looked across the tavern, awaiting the fight to commence. As he did so, he began to pen a letter to his quartermaster, a noble man from the Orient whom had found his way westwards to Europe, before setting off to the Americas, detailing the fact he wished to leave Nassau soon, to continue their raiding of British trade in the Caribbean. Despite being a pirate, Frederic had not taken much joy in raiding his fellow countrymen's vessels and had not done so for a few years. He snapped once more, looking up at the call for betting. He himself would not bet, but would simply play close mind to whom was betting on whom, if any did.

[Illan]

The Swaggering Hag | Nassau | 1715

With a simple walk, Garrett made his way to the tavern alone, his coat trailing in the ocean breeze behind him accompanied by his two cutlasses and his flintlock pair across his waist. He had watched quite the event unfold as he made his way towards the tavern; some poor, brainless bastard tried to assert his dominance to Nassau, and promptly got gunned down by Edward Teach, or more commonly known as Blackbeard. That was how politics worked on Nassau - There were no politics. No rules, except one: Don't screw with Blackbeard or Thatch. And that's how Garrett liked it.

Garrett proceeded to sit down at a small wooden table, spectating the events of the tavern. There was a fight being wrapped up, it seems, and another brewing in the process. Not unusual events for the bar. He had no desire to be involved in it, however, and he simply sat back with a grin watching the events unfold. A scantily-dressed woman walked up to him, and spoke up.

"What can I get for ya?" She called out

"A mug o' rum, as the usual for everyone." Garrett said, dropping a couple Reales on the table. The woman nodded, and sulked off to retrieve the drink. Garrett continued to watch the fight brewing up, and called out with laughter.

"Ten Reales on the big one!" Garrett called out, lifting his legs to rest on the table.

[Olthenia]

Nassau, 1715
The Swaggering Hag

The smell was palpable.

Roldana had set foot in many a tavern and bawdyhouse across the Caribbean. From Petite Goave to Kingston and St. Kitts to Caracas. Even Vera Cruz once, but that was long ago. Each place had its own particular smell however, and The Hag stank. A reek of sweat and chalk from the floor of the bawdyhouse stage mixed with the scent of tobacco-smoke and spicy pinpricks of watered rum.

“How is she armed?” he ventured. “How many guns?”

Roldana almost shouted the questions. A fist-fight was in full swing on the other side of the taproom, where a tall, blonde boar of a man dodged jabs from a local bully-rock bruiser. Hoots and catcalls from the wall of bodies clustered about the two made hearing a luxury.

“Twelve,” replied the man across the table from him. “Four-pounders, all o’em,” He had three days worth of stubble on his bony chin and coarse, wiry side-whiskers. “I told you, she’s a rumrunner. Headed from El Condido to Tortuga. Captain’s a bastard Spaniard, name’o Vasquez.” The man’s name was Foulke, and he was a midshipman. Ex midshipman, in fact, of the Espiritu Santo. He’d been ashore in Tortuga when some lads from his own crew had caught him in bed with a colored girl not twelve years old. They’d beaten him bloody for that, Foulke’s lads had, and chased his naked through the hot Tortuga streets.

Which was why he was selling them.

“One ‘undred reales,” Foulke drawled, “and I’ll tell you what date she sails on.”

A roar from the crowd drowned Roldana’s reply. Up on the stage, the bully-rock bruiser had hit the boards with a crash. Some cursed. Some laughed. The blonde giant collected his dues.

As the crowd calmed, Roldana fixed Foulke with a stonefaced stare. He was a lean, cadaverous man, his long Iberian horseface scarred by the pox he’d had as a boy. His hair was thin and black and flaky, tarred into a limp little rattail that reached just past his neck. It bounced when he walked, andh is wispy beard was no better. He seldom smiled, Roldana did, and he had brown, contemptuous eyes. Those eyes, those dark, dangerous eyes, were his protection.

“A hundred reals is a hefty price.”

Foulke shrugged, his forehead gleaming with sweat. “Aye. But the Santo’s is worth it, for them that’s bold enough to take her.”

Roldana scratched absentmindedly at the scar across his chin. “What’s her cargo? If your Santo’s carrying knickknacks and gewgaws, I’ll-”

Foulke cut him off before he could finish. “Rum. Four casks of it, and seven crates o’dry goods. Then there’s a shipment of furniture and a couple bales o’tobacco.”

That settled it. Dry goods and tobacco was one thing, but worked goods? Like rum and fine European furniture? That was money in a man’s purse. “Fine,” Roldana said, “I’ll bite.”

The rest was rum, handshakes and a clink of coins.

As Foulke swaggered off, money in hand, Captain Roldana swallowed the last of his rum.

Now all he needed was a partner.

[Kuhlfros]

Nassau, Street of Kings

As he walked down the street for the Docks, Terrance suddenly stopped and quickly spun around, The Grog sloshing in his hand. He called over his Quatermaster, Jerome Higgins, whom was sweet talking two wenches, a habit most pirates had. When his First Mate arrived Terrance said "Get a Table and Chairs, We are doing some Night Recruiting". Jerome Quickly did so and placed two chairs and a table, with a Parchment and quill along with Terrance's Pirate Articles in the Town Square, Just to the Left of the Tavern. He hopped up on the table quickly drawing one of his Flintlocks firing it up in the air. With the Attention Diverting to him he called out "Any Able Bodied and Experienced Sailor with the Skill to be on my ship sign up here! We offer Fine Food, Fair Shares and Riches to come!"

Back down in his seat as a line began to form at the table Terrance Whispered to Jerome "Keep a Weather Eye for any Specialists, May be useful as we sail Savvy?" and turned to the front of the table to interview the First Man wishing to join saying "Have You Sailed Before?", "Do you have any Special Skills useful on-board a ship?", "Have Ye been and able in Combat?" and Finally "Are You willing to Follow to this Pirate Code and Sail under the Pirate Brand and Obey Orders from your Captain?"

[Black Marshes]

So uncouth, Ibrahim Kassad, popularly known as the Saracen, thought.

Ususally, Ibrahim didn't mind the company of his fellow pirates, but on occasions such as these, he honestly wished he were somewhere else. Like out on the sea. Still, Nassau was a decent enough place. At least here he was free of the usual prejudices and crooked looks that seemed to follow the Saracen wherever he went.

"Bumbo, my friend," he ordered his preferred drink, leaning against the counter to watch a fistfight between a gigantic blond man and a drunkard, mildly amused. The hulk certainly had size to his advantage, but Ibrahim had a hunch that the smaller man would have been able to hold his own, were he not drunk as a sailor after his first Equator-crossing ceremony.

He got his drink, tossed a coin on the counter and took a sip. I'm probably going to hell for this, he thought. Meh, let it be the least of my sins.

He noticed another man leaning next to him, chugging on a big-ass mug of what smelled like rum. That, in itself, was far from unusual, but the guy had the look of a fellow Muslim, which was. Taking another sip, he muttered, "Friend, you're a disgrace to all true followers of the Prophet everywhere."

Muhammad looked up at the speaker.
"As are you, sadiq," he replied, motioning towards the speaker's drink. "So, where would you happen to be from, young hypocrite?"
By now Muhammad had stopped drinking, becoming interested in the conversation-after all, this seemed to be the last sober man in all of Nassau, and another Muslim at that-a rarity in the Caribbean.

[Bormah (Ancient)]

The Swaggering Hag, Street of Kings, Nassau

The Swede smiles, white teeth shining in a face so tan as to almost be Italian, and shakes his head gently.

"I fight for coin, lad, not drinks and trinkets. I'll lay twenty five Reales that you go down first."

Ice-gray eyes take in the other man, this unknown quantity, weighing him. Perhaps a decent fighter. But small. The odds, well, Mertois was never a gambling man. He preferred to win, not bet on luck. With a booming echo, Mertois spoke out over the din of the carousing and other activites of the Swaggering Hag.

"Next fight, this man here and I. Lay your bets. And barkeep, sweep Jack off the stage."

Laughs greeted his proclamation, and a few cheers, and two bouncers walked up to bundle off the unconscious Jack- which his first mate apparently hadn't bothered to retrieve- to some new vista or hogpen to sleep off his drink and concussion. Doubtless his purse would be gone in minutes, but this was Nassau. Such was life.

"Twenty five Reales it is." James smirked, "You look famili-ah yes! The Iron Bear, if I'm right? Let's see who remains standing, the Bear or the Dragon."

James cracked his knuckles and got into a fighting stance, legs apart, one back, his arms up, ready to throw punch after punch. He loved a good a fight.

"Whenever you're ready." he said, a tone of confidence in his voice.

[G-Tech Corporation]

"The Iron Giant, actually."

Mertois grinned. The man, a head below him, and likely a hundred pounds lighter, would have to have skills unknown in order to come out on top. He stepped up onto the Hag's stage, and without much formality, raised his hands to slightly in front of his face. They were a captain's hands, nicked by dozens of swordfights, heavily callused and with knuckles like rivets from heavy use. A brawler's hands. Without any twitch in his core to give him away, his eyes firmly fixed on the other man's, he loosed a quick right jab with a fist the size of a child's skull at the other man's right arm, testing his reflexes and durability.

[New Panti]

The Swaggering Hag, Nassau, 1715

"Oh boy, looks like another fight comin' up."
Edgar's feet lay atop his table as he leaned back in his chair and taunted gravity with his recklessness. It was quite obvious he didn't care whether he fell or not, affirming this to those who were unaware when he tilted his head back and put a bottle of rum to his lips, leaning back farther and coming ever so closely to falling.
He finished it off and fell forward, his chair legs slamming into the ground at the same time the rum bottle slammed onto the table.
"ANOTHER!" he shouted.
"YEEEAAAAAAH!" the other men at his table, made up of his most trusted crew, screamed.
Edgar leaned onto his elbows as his first mate slammed some reales on the table. The bartender brought over another bottle as Edgar said "Let's see this fight then, lads."

[Bormah (Ancient)]

"The Iron Giant, actually."

Mertois grinned. The man, a head below him, and likely a hundred pounds lighter, would have to have skills unknown in order to come out on top. He stepped up onto the Hag's stage, and without much formality, raised his hands to slightly in front of his face. They were a captain's hands, nicked by dozens of swordfights, heavily callused and with knuckles like rivets from heavy use. A brawler's hands. Without any twitch in his core to give him away, his eyes firmly fixed on the other man's, he loosed a quick right jab with a fist the size of a child's skull at the other man's right arm, testing his reflexes and durability.

James was able to sidestep and dodge that arm. It was a common first move. Wheeler had heard stories about the Iron Giant, and if anything those stories were understatements of the sheer size of this man. He circled the man, waiting for his opening. If there was one thing James knew how to do, it was too fight, all Dragons were taught to fight when given the title. He also knew how to talk.

"Giant, like in the old days?" James said, not showing the least bit of concern, "A Bear would be more intimidating for me. I'd hate to fight against someone bearing the name of Stuhn. I'll tell you about him after the fight if you wish."

James smirked and saw the opening. He faked a punch to the left arm, but was going to switch to a blow straight to the giants side.

[Ayaroko]

The Swaggering Hag, Nassau, 1715
Katrin strides into the Swaggering Hag, looking around and taking note of the hustle and bustle of the establishment. She turns to her cook, who had followed her in timidly.

"Alright, Gustav, this is the first time I've let you get some shore leave in a while. Try to behave. Keep your coins close, and your knife closer. Don't do anything stupid."

"I'm an Austrian, miss Schäfer, not an idiot..."

"Those two words are synonymous. Now, let's go."

Katrin walks into the crowd, keeping an arm over her coinpurse, which is fastened to her belt underneath her coat. She pushes away a heavily intoxicated man in a black leather shirt as he falls against her, singing horribly along to a drinking ballad. Her face sours with disgust as the reeking stench of his breath wafts over her. She weaves her way through the crowd of drunken, celebrating louts and sits at the bar, sliding a few Reales to the bartender and ordering a generic mug of cheap rum.

She turns with interest, watching the preparation of a fight between a gargantuan blonde-haired titan and a fur-clothed man, who looks like a toddler compared to the massive Swede.

Glück, you crazy bastard...

[G-Tech Corporation]

Mertois didn't even move as the first punch began, tracking it with the languid ease of a boxer onto his arm, and therefore not something to be worried about. As the arm changed direction towards his midriff, his right arm came down on top of the punch, knocking it away and to the right, missing his core by a few inches. At the same time his right fist came forward in a swinging arc about his shoulders and down, directed into the man's own core. The weight of the blow was moderate, not a staggering one, his weight still balanced over his core. The Swede's feet were planted wide, a solid stance that had seen him well on many shipboard actions where a less experienced swordfighters was undone by the shifting of the deck beneath him, a fatal lapse of attention.

As the blow swung in, he spoke in conversational tones.

"Verily. The lads of my village always did say I had some Jotun blood in me. A bear, now that is less of an issue. I have killed many bears. They make good hearty stew."

[Bormah (Ancient)]

Mertois didn't even move as the first punch began, tracking it with the languid ease of a boxer onto his arm, and therefore not something to be worried about. As the arm changed direction towards his midriff, his right arm came down on top of the punch, knocking it away and to the right, missing his core by a few inches. At the same time his right fist came forward in a swinging arc about his shoulders and down, directed into the man's own core. The weight of the blow was moderate, not a staggering one, his weight still balanced over his core. The Swede's feet were planted wide, a solid stance that had seen him well on many shipboard actions where a less experienced swordfighters was undone by the shifting of the deck beneath him, a fatal lapse of attention.

As the blow swung in, he spoke in conversational tones.

"Verily. The lads of my village always did say I had some Jotun blood in me. A bear, now that is less of an issue. I have killed many bears. They make good hearty stew."

James moved backwards, turning towards his right. The blow managed to get his arm, however. James blinked hard, then shook his arm out a bit. The pain was intense but short-lived. It was a pretty good punch, but James wasn't deterred so easily. He shot a quick glance at at the mans right sight, and went for a jab to the left side with his left arm. James was, however, a faker when it came to fights, early on anyway. He would shift his muscles as his fist was about to make impact so that his knee would slam just below the knee of the Giant, which he planned on following up with a shoulder thrust to the midsection.

"You look more like a child of Tsun, to me." he said just before swinging.

[Ayreonia]

Ibrahim drained his drink in one big swallow and motioned for the bartender to fill it up.

"Oh, I'm from... around," he said, waving the glass dismissively. "I guess Nassau is as close as I have to a home, but I was born on the golden shores of Algeria. Fuck that place, though. Tell me, brother, what does the Prophet say about gambling? Because I seem to have forgotten, and am about to bet you a hundred reals on the fur-dressed caveman."