|| Captain Finn Jones
Custom Meshes by Jerome
Heads by Heather
told by Captain Finn Jones
Johannes Houtenpoot could only walk a few steps in the darkness before pulling
his stump out of the mire. "Curse ye, Island Fool," said he quiet-like. Poppycock,
the parrot o' his shoulder, snapped at his head. "Silky is better suited for
this slinking around business," he complained, under his breath, swatting at
Francois the Haitian was his company. The sky was at its full darkness now, and
the wharf had gone mostly quiet. A few voices still playing cards could they
hear, and a hearty laugh on occasion. They hid themselves in the shadows.
"You would think Pete would have the mind to skulk the place about before casting
some plan to take the Colonel's map. He have a retainer or two or five about
the mansion yard. He doesn't trust his rum-runners."
"And we give de Col'nel reason to not trust," sayed Francois.
"Aye," grinned the Dutchman. "Aye."
They marked the grounds of the mansion well; the Colonel had his hires about, and
they nearly made themselves known to the Colonel's men on two occasions. The
colonel's retainers were nothing more than they themselves had been. They were
buccaneers, but not in their season. The men under his hire were pirates, not
runners, and usually hit the Spanish Platt fleet in the late spring. They wintered
in Jamaica, and came to St. Simmons at the time that the cane harvest ended-
rum season. The colonel was well known to have at a time five to ten ships that
he employed to run, and at least ten men to protect him from the runners themselves.
It was a quagmire of a business, yet the Colonel never lacked for money.
And then they saw the crocs. Chained like dogs, they were, around the back o' the
tavern, by a watering hole. Francois had no love of crocs.
This photo has been cleverly crafted.
"Step on 'is heed," said he to the Peg-leg.
Ol' Houtenpoot thought for a while. Its mouth was muzzled; everyman knows that
the strength of a croc lies not in the opening of his mouth, but in the closing.
He had once told a man that he lost his leg to a croc… but twasn't true. In truth,
he had been careless with some black powder.
"The ole bag suffers enough," said he, bending over the poor creature. "Not right
to do that to God's own."
No sooner had these words crossed his lips, then the croc thrashed suddenly with
a violence, and the bird fluttered in Peg-leg's face, and he fell backward on
his arse, in the muck. The Haitian had good sport o' this.
So it stands that Johannes Peg-leg pushed Francois away and snarled, then took
the heel of his stump and buried it as far as it would go right between the croc's
"Leave us go. You get the rest of the crew into ship. They're likely whoring in
the bathhouse. Pete' ll be needin' to know this." He looked back at the beast
he had smashed, and spat.
"C'mon Poppy. Damnable bag!"
told by Hildy
She shuddered awake in the darkness. Her senses were overwhelmed, her arms tied.
She struggled for a moment, there in the blackness, and stopped… for a while.
Certain smells were always very distinctive to her. It was musty, and salty, and
there was a faint hint of ether in the air. Ether. She smelled it on her shoulder
and clothes. She knew it had been used upon her. With that knowledge, it seemed
she recovered herself entirely.