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Deep Water and Shoals II
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<blockquote data-quote="Bob Aberton" data-source="post: 1167536" data-attributes="member: 1518"><p>Malachi,</p><p></p><p>"Y'r sure, Mr. Legba? Y' saved my life, y' know. It doesn't sit right thet y've got t' stay on the ship for fear o' clamdiggers," the Captain says. But he sees that there will be no moving you from your decision, and quickly gives up his attempts at persuasion. </p><p></p><p>"I owe y' my life, though, an' that isn' something thet Roger T. McCrenshaw forgets easily, you mind thet," he says by way of a parting shot. "I'll pay y' back somehow."</p><p></p><p>Malthas, Nicodemus, & Anyone Else who Followed the Captain,</p><p></p><p>The "White Horse Inn" is indeed a cut above the rest, and certainly many cuts above the tavern where you brawled with the Standishtowners. The customers are mostly sea captains and ships officers, with the odd merchant and supercargo scattered in the crowd. The drink here is no throat-stripping Standishtown rum, but Iberrean wine and Esfordshire brandy from Hull with a velvet finish. The serving girls are none of the easy and seedy lot found in most seaport taverns, but are clean, well dressed, and range from mildly pretty to quite beautiful.</p><p></p><p>"Well, gen'lemen," Captain McCrenshaw says, raising his glass (he seems to prefer Standishtown rum to the best Iberrean wine or Esfordshire brandy), "here's to survivin', an' a fair wind t' speed us out o' this place. May Calypso never let th' seas get rougher than the drink in y'r glasses."</p><p></p><p>Vemuz,</p><p></p><p>You sit back and relax as the Captain and those of the crew who felt celebratory follow him.</p><p></p><p>The CALYPSO'S GRACE is well into the lazy evening dogwatch; what men are not on shore are lounging on the foredeck, smoking their pipes, or skylarking in the rigging.</p><p></p><p>Mr. Ames, the second mate, stayed with the ship, and he greets you on his way to the chartroom.</p><p></p><p>"Top o' the evening, Mr. Thriceborn," he says cheerfully. "I hear tell it's up anchor and off soundings tomorrow; Mr. Lang filled the holds while you were skylarking in the woods. There'll be some new hands - clamdiggers probably - that'll need breaking in, I suppose."</p><p></p><p>Lupe Sanchez, who had gone with the longboat upstream, is sitting on the capstan head, idly flipping a knife into the air; it is the same knife you saw once before, when you pulled him from the sea. It is the knife with BLACK MAST engraved into the hilt. Sanchez shoots a glance at you and you lock gazes for a brief moment.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Bob Aberton, post: 1167536, member: 1518"] Malachi, "Y'r sure, Mr. Legba? Y' saved my life, y' know. It doesn't sit right thet y've got t' stay on the ship for fear o' clamdiggers," the Captain says. But he sees that there will be no moving you from your decision, and quickly gives up his attempts at persuasion. "I owe y' my life, though, an' that isn' something thet Roger T. McCrenshaw forgets easily, you mind thet," he says by way of a parting shot. "I'll pay y' back somehow." Malthas, Nicodemus, & Anyone Else who Followed the Captain, The "White Horse Inn" is indeed a cut above the rest, and certainly many cuts above the tavern where you brawled with the Standishtowners. The customers are mostly sea captains and ships officers, with the odd merchant and supercargo scattered in the crowd. The drink here is no throat-stripping Standishtown rum, but Iberrean wine and Esfordshire brandy from Hull with a velvet finish. The serving girls are none of the easy and seedy lot found in most seaport taverns, but are clean, well dressed, and range from mildly pretty to quite beautiful. "Well, gen'lemen," Captain McCrenshaw says, raising his glass (he seems to prefer Standishtown rum to the best Iberrean wine or Esfordshire brandy), "here's to survivin', an' a fair wind t' speed us out o' this place. May Calypso never let th' seas get rougher than the drink in y'r glasses." Vemuz, You sit back and relax as the Captain and those of the crew who felt celebratory follow him. The CALYPSO'S GRACE is well into the lazy evening dogwatch; what men are not on shore are lounging on the foredeck, smoking their pipes, or skylarking in the rigging. Mr. Ames, the second mate, stayed with the ship, and he greets you on his way to the chartroom. "Top o' the evening, Mr. Thriceborn," he says cheerfully. "I hear tell it's up anchor and off soundings tomorrow; Mr. Lang filled the holds while you were skylarking in the woods. There'll be some new hands - clamdiggers probably - that'll need breaking in, I suppose." Lupe Sanchez, who had gone with the longboat upstream, is sitting on the capstan head, idly flipping a knife into the air; it is the same knife you saw once before, when you pulled him from the sea. It is the knife with BLACK MAST engraved into the hilt. Sanchez shoots a glance at you and you lock gazes for a brief moment. [/QUOTE]
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