The doors to the inn burst open. A woman, buxom and wide hipped, was silhouetted in the doorway. She could have been gorgeous, if she would have made any effort. As it was, you would have been generous to call her pleasant. Nevertheless, she still had definitive presence. The setting sun set her flaxen hair aflame. A fire matching the anger on her face. “Mr. Taylor!” Her glare searched the room. “Where’s my ship!?”
In the back, an older man with a hook in place of his right hand. “It be Capt’n Taylor, you stupid cunt, and The Blackthorn be mine. Ain’t that right men?” A dozen or so men stood up, drawing swords and hatchets. “We’ve served on her fer years; most mar years dan ye been liven. An’ we’ll be the Devil’s mates before we be shipping fer no fucking twat; no matter who yer daddy be!”
You glanced at Laura, or ‘Elizabeth’ as it was now. You face asked the obvious question.
“Fine,” she whispered, “but who do we side with? We’ll be out manned five to one if we join her, but I don’t see the Taylor being the grateful type.”
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