T’was a time not so long ago that I, Seamus the Unlucky, was Captain of me own ship, the ‘Wolfhound’. Despite a near spotless record of boardin’ an’ raidin’, the ‘Wolfhound’ had eventually been sunk after a bungled mess of a raid on a small port town that will remain unnamed, tank ye very much. This bit of bad luck left me with few options as ta findin’ gainful employment and I was convinced that despite the successes I’d once had, piratein’ weren’t fer me. I have since that day been the cook at the “Itchy Crab” Tavern here in a port where tankfully, no one knew me name.
So there I be, mixin’ up a particularly savory batch of me gruel when I hears me a ruckus comin’ from the main hall of the tavern. Now, it can be said that much of the port’s discomfort is directly related to the “Itchy Crab”, and I for one am likely to agree with such a statement, be it from the distinguished (whom shouldn’t even be in this port in the first place) or the ne’er-do-wells that are far more likely to frequent the place, so hearing such a commotion in the “Itchy Crab” isn’t something that normally catches the attention of this now humble slinger of swill. This occurrence was different though; there was sometin’ out of place in the cacophony of noise filterin’ inta me galley, sometin’ odd enough ta make me bones shiver an’ me blood chill. There was a sound comin’ from the main hall that had once heralded the demise of the ‘Wolfhound’. Now, a wiser man than me woulda just stayed in the galley an’ focued on me gruel, but no; like a damned fool I hadda go an’ confirm wit’ me eyes what me ears was tellin’ me. That sound was the loud an’ boisterous laughter of a certain Captain Scully.
The ‘good’ Captain is a lanky fella wit’ the general shape of a main mast; tall and spindly with a lot a flap up top. An’ by me own words an’ experience this is also a true enough rendition of the man’s overall demeanor. Upon his boney lap sat a shapely beauty whose alabaster face was framed with locks the color of blood and punctuated by twin sapphires that gave view inta a darkness covered up by her radiant smile. She was a Hellstrom in the makin’, I just knew it. Best not to look directly inta them eyes lest me soul be ripped out of me body and stepped, spat, an’ shat upon by this one. Instead I turned me attention back ta the peacock of a man that was the beauty’s seat. His deafening laughter stopped but fer a few precious seconds as his eyes met mine. I could see the BB slowly find its way into the slot within the man’s skull an’ upon recognition of yers truly, the ‘good’ Captain became even more animated and boisterous, practically shovin’ the beauty offa him an’ leapin’ from his chair as if it were covered in spikes.
“Seamus!!”, he says ta me, his voice all a-flutter as if he’d just found the key ta findin’ another scallywag’s lost booty. “Seamus, ye old seadog! What in the name of Davy Jones are ye doin’ here?!?!” He asks me. I give him a look most dubious an’ gesture to the grease-stained apron me stocky frame is shrouded within. The look on his face turns inta one of amusement most jolly an’ he says ta me, “Yer a cook? YOU? The ‘terror of the seven seas’, ‘scourge of the open waters’, (an’ the kiddie pool) is a humble cook in this home for wayward bilge rats?” He asks, bringing forth another wave of boisterous laughter from the assembled crew of people around him, most motley in appearance. I grind me teeth and squeeze me fist tighter around the forgotten, gruel covered wooden spoon that had hijacked its way in me hand. I looks up at the skeleton of a man. “Aye.” Says I, me tone surprisingly even given me history of lettin’ me temper git the best o’ me at the worst o’ times. “I am, Captain. What say ye, ‘bout it, eh?”, I answered with a hint of challenge in me voice, backed up by the subtle change in me stance. It might not be me old cutlass, but the wooden spoon would certainly find its way inta the Captain’s skull should things go the way of the hairy. This is met by a raisin’ of the man’s hands and a laughed reply. “Nothin’ like that, ye scurvy dog, so sheath yer stirin’ stick! ‘Tis just a shock ta see you lowered ta such meager standards these days.” I can’t be sayin’ I blame the man fer his surprise, given the history I an’ he has had together on the open waters and many of the ports on the other end of them. Scully an’ me had sailed together years ago an’ he’d been privy ta a king’s portion of the aforementioned bad temper while he always seemed so even keeled.
The tall fella reclaimed his seat with a wide grin twisting its way across his face an’ the blood streaked beauty her own upon his lap wit’out nary a word. For a brief moment the Captain just sat there, grinning at me like a fool until finally he just came out wit’ it an’ asked the question he musta been mulling ‘bout in his head.
“Seamus, me old mate, I know ye all too well an’ yer no cookie ta be trapped on land. Yer a pirate through an’ through, an’ ye always will be! How would ye like to come back ta the life yer meant ta do? I’m offerin’ ye a place aboard my glorious Vixen.” I found meself glancin’ at the redhead at that, me mind doin’ the wrong kind of math. The beauty musta caught on by me leerin’ an’ raised a delicate crimson eyebrow, then scowled at me, twisting her lovely face as if a hook had snared it. “The Vixen is the name of the Captain’s ship, you dog!”, she growled, to which himself the Captain roared with laughter once more. “Seamus, this is me First Mate, Vega, an’ she speaks plainly but with truth. The Vixen’s me ship, an’ a fine ship it is!” he said, beamin’ wit’ pride. I wasn’t sure which he was more proud about. The ship or the beauty, but if the ship could haul up an equal share of pride as the lass, then it must be fine vessel indeed, I’d wagered.
“Well, Seamus, are ye joinin’ me crew or rottin’ away in this Hell hole of a port? What say ye?”