D
Dervish
Guest
((I do like to work humour into my posts from time to time. ;D
Also, continuing on!))
MacNichols took a large, calloused hand and squeezed his temples gently between a pair of fingers and his thumb, as if it would alleviate the encroaching headache. A part of him wished for water, but considering the last time he drank a glass of water in port gave him the shits for four days. The Reale pinching tavern keeps seldom boiled their water, much to the chagrin of many a sailor. It became a guessing game of whether or not the water would make a man ill, so it came down to if you trusted the man serving you – and if you'd been generous with coin in the past. It was cheaper and safer to just drink the wine or rum, which was usually imported from some place with a measure of sanitation. Bird shit contaminated rain water wasn't particularly appetizing after your stomach feels like it was being tied into a slipknot.
"Well, isn't that just dandy." MacNichols replied dryly, glancing back at the amber lanterns of Nassau, as if he could see the danger manifesting itself within the shadows. "Fuck. Those four have been looking like grave, slighted men lately and their harsh countenances haven't been very settling, and now we know why. It's good you had the foresight to start making moves of your own; those three have to be winning some of the lads to their cause." He replied, mentally reminding himself whereas he swayed men with reason, dependability, and a cordial disposition, Jackham and the others were severe, dangerous men who had no problem intimidating people to get what they desired. The Trident would be an altogether different vessel if those three took charge. A storm was brewing, foreshadowed just as surely as the wispy, cool air and higher air pressure foretold the coming of a tropical storm days in advance. "I never would have figured Kitchen Wench to have the balls to join in a mutiny. Man lacks a spine… and probably a set of balls. Probably from a potato peeling incident before he hit puberty." The Scotsman said, referring to Jafferty's higher-than-normal voice.
It was good to be wary, but he couldn't be afraid- not yet. Still, it sat ill with him that men he served with would even consider him to be a threat, let alone one worth murdering in cold blood. It was far more sobering than a bucket of water splashed across the face; he might actually die from this. He was not a craven man; quite the contrary, he'd faced down death many times and come out on top. But that was a different beast, the threat of blade, cannon, and musket fire. Still, he couldn't back down. Either it was pride or the booze talking, or a sense of higher duty. He couldn't relent, not when he made a promise. "What am I going to do? Stay my current heading, and hope it stays true." He said somberly. "I back off now, they'll know something's up, and think I've grown soft – and there goes any support or faith in our support of the Captain. If I don't stand by the man, especially after I said I would, what does that say about me and my gratitude? I don't aim to die, Mabel, but I hope if a man does come to take my life, I can at least face it down like a man. I quite like the idea of not having to pull a dagger from my back." He said, a small sad smile crossing his face. "I'm beginning to wish you didn't waste my rum, Mabel."
Also, continuing on!))
MacNichols took a large, calloused hand and squeezed his temples gently between a pair of fingers and his thumb, as if it would alleviate the encroaching headache. A part of him wished for water, but considering the last time he drank a glass of water in port gave him the shits for four days. The Reale pinching tavern keeps seldom boiled their water, much to the chagrin of many a sailor. It became a guessing game of whether or not the water would make a man ill, so it came down to if you trusted the man serving you – and if you'd been generous with coin in the past. It was cheaper and safer to just drink the wine or rum, which was usually imported from some place with a measure of sanitation. Bird shit contaminated rain water wasn't particularly appetizing after your stomach feels like it was being tied into a slipknot.
"Well, isn't that just dandy." MacNichols replied dryly, glancing back at the amber lanterns of Nassau, as if he could see the danger manifesting itself within the shadows. "Fuck. Those four have been looking like grave, slighted men lately and their harsh countenances haven't been very settling, and now we know why. It's good you had the foresight to start making moves of your own; those three have to be winning some of the lads to their cause." He replied, mentally reminding himself whereas he swayed men with reason, dependability, and a cordial disposition, Jackham and the others were severe, dangerous men who had no problem intimidating people to get what they desired. The Trident would be an altogether different vessel if those three took charge. A storm was brewing, foreshadowed just as surely as the wispy, cool air and higher air pressure foretold the coming of a tropical storm days in advance. "I never would have figured Kitchen Wench to have the balls to join in a mutiny. Man lacks a spine… and probably a set of balls. Probably from a potato peeling incident before he hit puberty." The Scotsman said, referring to Jafferty's higher-than-normal voice.
It was good to be wary, but he couldn't be afraid- not yet. Still, it sat ill with him that men he served with would even consider him to be a threat, let alone one worth murdering in cold blood. It was far more sobering than a bucket of water splashed across the face; he might actually die from this. He was not a craven man; quite the contrary, he'd faced down death many times and come out on top. But that was a different beast, the threat of blade, cannon, and musket fire. Still, he couldn't back down. Either it was pride or the booze talking, or a sense of higher duty. He couldn't relent, not when he made a promise. "What am I going to do? Stay my current heading, and hope it stays true." He said somberly. "I back off now, they'll know something's up, and think I've grown soft – and there goes any support or faith in our support of the Captain. If I don't stand by the man, especially after I said I would, what does that say about me and my gratitude? I don't aim to die, Mabel, but I hope if a man does come to take my life, I can at least face it down like a man. I quite like the idea of not having to pull a dagger from my back." He said, a small sad smile crossing his face. "I'm beginning to wish you didn't waste my rum, Mabel."