All That is Gold [Mordecai and Siri]

[Siri]

The odious stench of dead fish and sea salt hung in the air, assaulting his nose with smells he'd rather not have been forcibly acquainted with. Bartholomew drew his coat tighter around him, frowning; the fact that he was forced to come down to the docks, garbed in the clothing of

peasants,

was nearly insulting. If he had any choice in the matter, he would've had the bloody pirates drag their arses up to the Buckingham Palace and parade around in the latest patrician fashions while trying not to get strung up for piracy—sadly, it was him who needed them and not the other way around, no matter how much he wished otherwise.


Continuing down the ramshackle street, Barth picked at the fraying edges of his newly purchased tunic, resisting the urge to sigh. Good God, it felt like it was made of a sack from the kitchens! Could they not afford even mid-quality linen? The auburn-haired man gave a sniff of distain, stepping around a pile of…something that was drizzled with flies, the buzzing insects not discouraged by the setting sun on the horizon. He immediately regretted the action, however, when the sour odor of dung joined the others currently smothering his nostrils.


It was a necessary precaution, however, dressing like he was a member of the working class. Down here, where souls ventured to rot and sin, the garb that would announce his opulence would also announce his heavy purse to all that could see—including those who would wish to slit it. But what worried him more, beyond the threat of cutpurses, was the fact that if he dressed in finery he could be recognized; rumors were rarely flattering, and what he was planning to do in the docks of London was already unsavory enough without the embellished flair that gossip tended to add.


Hiring pirates to look for treasure… An uncomfortable feeling trickled down his back, and the prince shivered. If his wife were to find out, she would undoubtedly tell her father, and there wasn’t much

anyone

could do against the King of England. The man had already been leery of their marriage, given Barth’s bloodline and the fact that he had accidently said a snide remark aloud at their first meeting—there was little doubt in his mind that any further provocation would result in a forced separation, no matter what the Church had to say about it.


Not that he would mind being separated from her, but it would greatly hurt his political standing, and would only serve to embarrass his family further. At that thought, his hand went to the hilt of his sword out of reflex, forgetting that he had left the ceremonial sword that bore his house’s crest in his chambers. The delicately engraved surface of a rapier greeted him instead, and Barth sighed again. Rapiers were such a lower class fashion—


Something brushed near his hand, and the auburn-haired man jerked to a stop, gaze pinned on the scrawny girl whose fingers were currently dancing along the edge of his purse. “You

wretch

,” he snarled, blue eyes flashing. “You dare to attempt to rob

me?

I should cut your fingers from your hands—“


Even as the rapier began to slither out from where it rested at his hip, the waif had already slipped away, his anger-darkened features and the fading patter of feet the only sign that she had been there at all. The

audacity

. The cutpurse tried to prey on

him

, of all people, while daylight still held? Still trembling with outrage, Barth returned his sword to its previous place of rest.


It took him several breaths to calm his ire, and then he resumed his walk, despite the fact that he hadn't the foggiest as to the location of the tavern he was supposed to meet the pirates in. Catching a glimpse of a man trying to hurry past him, head bowed in a manner meant to divert attention, the prince quickly halted him with a barked, “You there!”


The man stopped, turning to face Barth with pale, drawn features. “Aye, sir?”


Even without his royal garb, the auburn-haired man still stood in a manner that commanded attention, and he sent an imperious look down his nose at the peasant’s grubby skin and filth-coated hair. He had the look of a drunkard about him, he supposed, so there was no reason he’d be unable to answer his question. “Can you tell me where to find the Vulgar Duchess?”


Several minutes later, Bartholomew Dauncy II pushed past the doors of the sea-worn tavern known as the Vulgar Duchess, crinkling his nose at the sight of the large crowd of assumed whores and thieves. He had little doubt that there were pirates among that mix, but he was dismayed at the very idea of wading into that sea of miscreants—was it

natural

for some of them to wear such little clothing? Resisting the urge to stand and gawk, Barth cast his gaze to the table around him, hoping to find the sign he was looking for. When he finally caught sight of the bright plumage tucked into the brim of someone’s hat—as per his request—he immediately headed towards it, ducking out of the way of the beginnings of a brawl in doing so.


The smell of brandy seemed to be seeped into the tavern’s very walls, a fact he only came to notice when he had receded a safe distance away from the roaring bunch of sweat-stained men in the center. His nostrils flared as his gaze passed over the people seated at the table in front of him, trying to figure out whom he should address. There was a woman, beads glinting in her hair, who bore the bright feather that he had asked the pirate to wear as a sign of their identity—however, there was no way a

woman

was the pirate captain. So, he settled on addressing the large, dark-skinned man who was seated in a chair that looked to be several sizes too small: “Captain Kenway?" He lowered his voice a bit, cautious of the curious eyes around them. "I’m here to discuss our…arrangement.”

 

[Mordecai]

{ooc: Yikes, this post is a bit rough. I'm sorry.}


The burning heat of the dog days of summer scorched the deck of the ship as it sat in port, idly listing back and forth in the calm waters. The vessel, an older Man-O-War named the Smoking Dog was marked on the port books as a merchant vessel, and to the untrained eye, she looked like one. Her off-white canvas sails flapped in the summer breeze, and she was anchored below the Union Jack colours. She looked innocent enough, with a glossy wooden hull that was battered and beaten from years of service. As ships went, the Smoking Dog left something to be desired. The glossy hull was battered and scarred from years of service, and nothing about the exterior of the vessel was all that attractive and looked as though it was assembled from parts of many different ships all slapped together and it groaned out as it rocked to and fro. Still, the vessel was revered for its longevity and its Captain, a bold young woman who went by Kenway, found it to be a ship blessed with the luck of Gods.


She watched the ship in the last light of day with keen green eyes from the pier, as she idly played with her cutlass that had been fastened to her hip. It was clear from the hard look on her face that she was engronsed in some deep thought. Small wrinkles pinched at the corners of her eyes as she squinted, watching as her ship disappeared into the darkness of the bay as the sun continued to crawl down into the horizon, blanketing the entire skyline in an inky, moonless darkness.


Charlotte Kenway had always been pretty. Neither gorgeous nor stunning, but pretty enough as women went. She was tall and broad-shouldered, muscular, physically powerful—but she was perfectly proportioned, a beautiful golden-skinned woman with unkempt red hair, glinting almond-shaped eyed, full red lips that needed no cosmetic in an oval, strong-boned face that seemed perfectly shaped for a man to cup his hands. There had been several men in the past who could say they had cupped that face in their hand, but they had been far and few in-between and most of them were dead, anyhow. Such was the life of piracy. As a young woman, she had grown up to two very poor parents who rarely had the scratch to feed her; so turning to piracy was a natural progression. Her life of crime started at the age of thirteen, at which time she sliced off all of her hair and went under the name of Edward. After fighting and backstabbing her way to the top of their ranks, and having tricked the previous Captain to relinquish the rights to his vessel to her, Charlotte dropped her act and came out as what she was: a woman.


She was a rare breed, in fact, the only of her kind that she had ever known, but her crew followed her like loyal dogs. Out of loyalty to her cunning or to her sex appeal, it was hard to say, but they had yet to fail her. Not even once. Of course, for many years, no one took her seriously, not other pirates, not the navy. But her reputation slowly grew until she became to be known as a scrappy, but impressive, buccaneer.


“Very well,” she finally sighed, speaking more to herself than anyone around her as she brushed her hands off on the grey thighs of her trousers and turned on a brisk heel. She began to make her way away from port and into the heart of the sea town, ambling through the streets that she had grown to know quite intimately over the years. It didn’t take her long to find her destination and, upon arriving, she settled herself down on a bar stool and waited. Normally, Char would be enjoying a cup of wine or rum on such evenings spent in port, but determined to keep her senses attentive, she refrained. Instead, she set about tapping her fingernails rhythmically against the sticky bar top, her eyes slitted as she peered through the throngs of people, mostly men, crowding into the small tavern. Adrenaline trickled through her veins when she heard her name, causing a slurry of goose bumps to ribbon up her arms. Quickly, she angled her head to investigate the unfamiliar voice, her eyes quickly landing on a young gentleman. While he was dressed the part, there was something much too manicured about him to truly be of this part of town. The site caused a smile to curve into her cheekbones—knowing she had found her man.


“You’re barking up the wrong tree, mate,” Charlotte heard the word arrangement drop from the stranger’s mouth, and her eyes darted over him at once. There wasn’t anything she found particularly appealing about the man and her lips curled against her white teeth with disinterest, glancing between him and the man who sat at the bar front between them. “I’m Captain Kenway,” she explained, sliding from her barstool and pulling the feather from her trifold hat as she closed the distance between herself and her new business partner. Once she was close enough to distinguish his facial features, a charmed smile crossed her. “You weren’t expecting a woman, yea?” she breathed in a husky voice, brushing the feather across his throat. “Well, too bad, because I’m all you got.”


Her eyes shifted to the gentleman that had been sitting between them, licking the corner of her lips in thought before turning her attention back to the man she’d later come to know as Bartholomew. “This is a terrible place to discuss matters, unless you’re interested in hirin’ a whore, knave.”

 

[Siri]

The prince watched with baited breath, blue eyes narrowed, for the presumed captain’s reply. As he stared, the large man tilted his head and furrowed his brows; then he chucked, the tattoos sprawled across his chest rippling with the movement. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, mate,” he got out, accent thick around his words, but not thick enough that Barth couldn’t understand him.


It took a moment, but as soon as the implication of the other man’s words hit him, Barth gave an ugly flush, one that crawled up from his neck and was beginning to spread to his cheeks when he next choked out: “N-No, not

that

—sorry, sorry, my mistake—I mistook you for someone else—“ Feeling distinctly mortified, skin crawling with discomfort, the auburn-haired man turned to leave. Or, his mind helpfully supplied, to get a drink.

Surely

there were more then a fair amount of pubs here?


Out of all the things he had expected, he hadn’t really expecting to be mistaken for a…what? A knave? A rake? Lecher? Some sort of degenerate? But to mistaken as a sodomite of all things… This type of slight was one he was unused to facing directly, in the face of the accuser. In court, it was only rumors that were spread, little more—and such rumors were usually snuffed with great speed by their targets when they inevitably caught wind of them. Still, the insult stung, and Barth quickly found his chagrin being replaced with anger. How

dare

he? It appeared no one in the docks had anything close to a proper sense of decorum; he had been here a scarce hour, and he’d already been propositioned, had his purse nearly cut, and then been

accused

of propositioning. By a man, nonetheless!


His lips thinned with displeasure; Barth’s mood had taken an irritable turn in the short span of time it took the woman to slid off the chair, so when she spoke he replied with a clipped and angered, “

Pardon?

” However, he processed the words once more and went nearly cross-eyed as he watched her twirl the bright feather with wary eyes. “

You’re

Captain Kenway,” he echoed somewhat distantly, blatant disbelief coloring his tone.


Stifling a noise of discomfort as the woman stepped closer, the brush of the feather across his neck rose gooseflesh in its wake, and Barth tilted his chin up a prideful notch, glaring at the captain down his nose. “No, I admit I wasn’t. Women are supposed to stay in their husband’s home and rear children, not sail the seas waving around a sword and personating a pirate,” he retorted, lip turning upwards in scorn. After a heartbeat, however, his mouth twisted again—this time down into a frown.


As true as that may be, he really didn’t have many options as it were—and cutting her off would be daft. He didn’t have the luxury of being selective of the captain’s gender. Trying to order this operation to be kept mum among naval officers would have been a fool’s errand, which is why he had posted his request near the docks—it wasn’t a secret that distasteful business was often conducted with a desirable amount of surreptitiousness. However, a surprising number of pirates and captains were unwilling to accept a request that ask them to take a wealthy man on a treasure hunt; albeit, it

was

allegedly curse, according to his source, but surely gold outweighed some silly myth.


Not for the first time that month, he cursed sailors and their superstitious natures.


Barth blinked once, eyeing the captain with resignation and something close to annoyance, before letting a measured huff of air exhale from his nose. “I’m far more aware of that than you might imagine, unfortunately,” he commented idly, temper cooled by the fact that her comment seemed to indicate that she was going to accept—and he hoped she would, else Barth had just spend a good portion of his time on something completely without a point.


Resisting the urge to roll his eyes in a completely plebeian manner at the words that followed, the prince raised a single hand, plucking the feather from her grasp before she could move it back; the bright plumage seemed to be luridly bright against the dull wash of his clothes, an unpleasant and unusual visual contrast he’d never really had the chance to be exposed to. Still, he twirled it between his fingers, fighting not to crush it between his fingertips, and gave her a tight smile, one filled with both discomfort and the beginnings of the embers of his irritation stirring back to life at her forwardness. “I suppose it is, Captain,” he said, the pleasantness of his tone somewhat strangled, “But please don’t insult me by lowering me to…” his smile took on the faint twitch of a sneer, “Well, suggesting that I’d deign to hire a whore, when I’ve never and will never do such a thing.”


His rapier was warm on his hip, welcoming. Already, he missed the leniency of the courts; if some wretch had spoken to him like this yesterday, he would have been able to challenge them to a duel. Now, he had no such ability, for fear that he’d be left without a transport. “Where do you suggest we go to finish our discussion, then?”