No blood stained his Blade requiring a thorough cleaning, and no Powder need vacate his flask to replenish spent shots. Between the two of those, the minor bruises Juan suffered to his ribs and right arm seemed trivial compared to the Outcome of a tavern full of occupants willing to leave him to his Business without interruption. Though one might consider the odd Looks from the other patrons of this out of the way establishment a detriment to the Plans he had for those who resided within. Here on the island of Espiritu Santo, outsiders were regarded with a fierce sort of skepticism that made up for the complete lack of hesitance on the part of the island's original occupants when they accepted the first disease-bearing Spanish visitors over a century and a half before. The locals called the place the San Andreas islands (or more commonly just the Andros Islands), but this particular point of interest was Morgan's bluff, named for the famous but dead privateer Henry Morgan. Juan mused on that fact as he carried his mug of the local drink of choice back to the lone empty table he'd spotted. He stepped over a sprawled and squirming rapscallion stretched out on the floor, careful not to spill his cup of lime juice, sugar water, and rum as he made it to the seat. In stark contrast with the cloth-clad troublemakers who'd sought to sour his night, Juan wore a reinforced leather jacket, with strips of material stiffening the shoulders and upper arms, and a simply ridiculous number of clasps and buttons adorning the dark black leather, most attached to nothing at all and probably never would, though a few kept the garment clothed over his toned muscular body. Already women were coming along to wake the bested scoundrels with splashes of water or slaps to the face, the groggy bullies roused with groans of unhappiness as they faced their failure to fend off the suspect newcomer. At least none of them sported any serious lasting injuries, and with Time the rowdy atmosphere of the pub returned, the slurred drinking songs of the sauced trio at the bar picked back up as if they'd never paused; the heated debates and lively conversation of men far too drunk to actually carry on an intelligent discussion picked up again. And corset-clad barmaids shuffled their way from table to table with plenty a dip to show cleavage in the hopes of eliciting a generous Tip from the clouded brains of their clientele. Juan observed it all with the satisfied smile of a man who belonged, well Assured in his purpose and able to wave away the latest approaching wench so as not to busy himself with idle chitchat. For he had a Mission here, a goal in mind. The trip from Spain had been long and harrowing, and a harsh Storm had seen to it that several of the men he's set out with did not make it to their Destination. Two gunners down, valiant men seeing to it that their carronade stayed put on deck and did not buck forth to slide into the deep- but for that they'd paid with their lives. And what's more his Second Mate had succumbed to an Illness on the way, and he faced promoting an undeserving member of the crew to such a position lest he find someone right for the spot in town. To that End, he'd had the word spread by his Contacts here in Morgan's Bluff that any man seeking fortune on the seas come here to the Wetted Tongue pub, to find him at his table and make their case for a spot on his ship, should they desire a share in the grand Prize he sought. The night was still young, and combined with the feat of hand to hand combat he'd demonstrated against admittedly unprepared drunkards at the bar, word would spread faster than wildfire on a parched plain. All Juan had to do was wait, he knew, and at the very least a few down and out sailors would stagger forth to claim his Offer.