Tudor MercWench Smith

Since after the meal had ended, Tudor had not held still. While the captain adressed the men who were to sign the articles, she worked on clearing away what was left from dinner. She smiled to herself as she noticed the curious glances of the new men. It was always the same and a period of adjustment was always needed when outsiders joined whatever crew she was serving with, and they were shocked to find a woman. It made no diffrence to her, other's opinions. After she had finished with that, and bore the last load of dishes to the galley, she had offered her aide to Mr. Gage, who was prepairing food for Doctor Van Zandt and Raymer, who even at that late hour were still at work among their wounded, and any other late serving crew. They worked in silence till all was done, and the Ship's cook started to put the kitchen fires down. All became silent in the galley, and she made her way to the ward room, to make sure it was secure before she would retire. In almost wraith like silence, she moved around the empty room, making sure the last of the broken glass was swept up and disposed of and that the empty windows were shuttered up tightly for the night. She finsihed that, then after taking one last inventory of the room, she closed the door, and made her way topside, to take a breath of air before she retreated to slumber. As she looked up to the sky, remembering when she was first taught how to mesure time by where the moon was in the sky. She looked at the moon and sighed. It was just then midnight.

She nodded breifly and stood from the table, pushing her food away. Making sure that she pushed her chair back into the table so no one would trip over it, she followed the master-at-arms to where he had a moment past stood with the captain. "What can I do for you, sir?" She asked, her tone that of a soldier at attention.

Tudor sat at the end of the table, out of the way from all and keeping her peace during all discussions, just simply enjoying the well prepaired meal. It did gain her notice however when the Captain excused himself and left the dining area to go and speak to Mr. Pew. She wondered silently to herself what that could be about.

When Tudor surfaced on the gun deck from the galley, she went straight to where the table and chairs had been dropped when brought up from below. With a sigh and a shrug she palced the stack of dishes she carried up with her on the center of the table, and started to space the chairs out evenly and straight. In short order, all was ready. table and chairs were in place, and the table set in as good order as any of a fine banquet.

Tudor made her way towards the galley, sparing a glance at her bandaged arm just once. She gave a grim smile, the stories of scars she had shared with the captain putting her in a reminscient mood. But she flinched to remember a few scars who's orgins she had not shared. She touched her back and felt the large ridge across the width of it through the thin fabric of the shirt she wore. She closed her eyes and let her finger's follow it's line, almost as if it were a talisman to ward against ghost from the past and the follies commited previously from leaving more scars. She entered the galley to find Mister Gage already hard at work, knowing that all would be weary and hungry at the end of the day. Remembering the Captain's insistance at her relife from duty, Tudor smiled at sat herself atop one of the barrels and started to chat with the fine cook, speaking of the days events. A smile crossed her face when the conversation was interrupted from grumblings in the corner, and she saw young Callie, largely unscarred from the battle, sitting in the corner, fullfilling her duties as cook's assistant and hacking her way through some apples set to accompany the meal. The effort and heart were there, but unfortunatly the skill was not. Some were pared down almost to the core, others had bits of skin still clinging on. "Here lass, lemme show ya. . ." Tudor spoke with a kindly smile, to which Callie turned up her pug nose, her pride smarted, but Tudor just laughed it off, pulled out the small knife she had stowed in her boot and demonstrated. Soon, both were making quick progress, and conversation continued. . .

She looked down at her arm quizzically as she sat, almost as if she had not noticed her wound before. "Oh, that . . ." She said, a small laugh escaping. "Hardly worth mentioning. I've had far worse." She gave an impish grin, then flinched as she poked the reddened area on her sleeve. "Just one more scar to add to the list."

Tudor made her way into the ward room ahead of the Captain, turning up her nose in distaste at the choatic state the room was still in, despite her earlier efforts. Without thinking, she started moving about the room, working on sorting this and that trying to tidy the place. "What did you need Captain?" She shot a smile across the room as she asked.

Upon regainig the decks of the Watch Dog, Tudor gathered up a few of the crew who were unemployed with any pressing duties. Some she set to washing down the decks as the Captain had ordered, others she had follow her to the ward room to start moving table and chairs. If ever any of them had any issue with following orders from her, it didn't exhibit itself today. There was too much work to be done, and to many emotions - pride, mourning, fear, exitement, regret - to be felt. There was not time for challenge. Her arm stiffened as she went to lift one end of the table top, dismantling it to be moved. McCormick raised a questionign brow as he saw her wince and lower her end agin. Her bloodied sleeve had plastered itself against the wound, staunching the blood, but the movement of her arm had ripped the stiffened fabric away, tearing the gash open again. She just simply drew in a deep breath and ignored both pain, and McCormicks objections to her labor. She didn't know how soon the captain would be in need of meeting space, but she was determined that it would be ready for him whenever, and she wasn't about to let a small flesh wound stop her.

Tudor stopped short upon reaching the ward room. She had been so intent on the battle on hand, that she didn't stop to notice if any damage had been done to the Dog. And while the damage done was of no serious consiequence, a room with blown out windows was not likely to be the choicest of places for the negotiations. In fact, there wasn't one thing in the ward room that resembled any sort of order. "time to improvise" she nodded resolutly and started pulling a few chairs out of the dissarray that was the furnishings of the room. She quickly made plans to set up on deck once all had been cleaned from debris, but she would need help to move everything, and would need the captain's go-ahead. She went topside again to see how everything went and when she could expect some aide, then headed back towards the fluyt to see the captain. As she was making her way to the captain's location some dutch faces registered, the cook Cuylemburch, and a few able seamen halster - and the other one, she thought his name was Blikenderfer. She always had an uncanny knack for remembering names and faces. It was what made her so good at her job.

As soon as quater was called for and surrender assured, both Captains meeting and pausing to see to the dead, Tudor made her way back to the Dog. Her help would be needed. She took no notice that the better part of her shirt sleeve was stained crimson and stiff. Upon seeing that there was more then enough crew to see to the few departed members, Tudor turned her attention to tasks requiring more specific attention. Provided that the Cutter gave full surrender as easily as they had struck colours, then the ward room would need to be readied for the meeting of captains and officers in short order. The table would need to be set and refreshments made ready. Duties did not stop in the face of battle, and while the loss of crew was mourned, the way of things went on. . ..

The time between when the quatermaster had first briefed her of her task, to when the order was given to the boarders had been the worst part. The waiting was always the worst part in every battle. But when action was called, all of Tudor's anticipation released and habit and instinct took over. She was among one of the first too land. One of the first to draw blood as well, when a scrappy looking marine tried to stop her progress. The duel was short lived, there was no competition. She made her way quickly aft, any man fool enough to try and take her didn't live long enough to repeat the mistake. It wasn't until she had reached the flagstaff that she met any real deterence. There was the Dutch crew's obvious strong-man. She couldn't be sure of his rank just by looking at him, but she could be sure of one thing - this was the one none of his crewmates would pick a fight with. She took a moment to size him up, giving him a chance to brandish his blade and glare at her, trying to intimidate. With a subtle roll of her eyes, she simply raised her rapier in duelist's salute, and then it began. First came the predictable parries and thrusts of a fair fight. Then the pace increased, and all pretenses were dropped, and all tricks laid out - rules of engagement hanged. The upper hand shifted, rythmically almost. First him, then her, then him again, each getting some jabs and hits in. But her defenses never faltered. It wasn't until she heard the shouts, both in English and Dutch that the stalemate was broken. She looked in the direction of the English Cutter that was being spoken of and saw their colours being lowered. It wasn't until she felt the sharp sting of blade against flesh that she noticed her attention to the fight had not been full. She turned angry eyes at the Dutchman as the blood started to well from the long gash on her upper arm. And suddenly the mans bravado dimmed, although he hid it well. Waarom zouik een klein meisje moeten vrezen?" He said it almost more as encouragement to himself rather then the taunt it was to be to her, thinking that she would not know what he said. With a fierce smile, she turned her head ever so slightly to one side. She had heard such insults before, and her dutch was just passable enough to retort. "Orndat dit klein meisje betere mensen toen u heeft gedood!" she spat back at him, venom to her tone, and the surpirse in his eyes at hearing his own language spoken by the little english girl was only superceeded by his surprise at feeling her sword dig through his chest. After seing him topple to the deck, blood making a slow moving river to her boots, she took just a moment to wipe the sweat from her brow, and tie her sleeve tightly around her arm to staunch the blood, and then she turned to the flag staff. Sheathing her rapier, she pulled her dirk free from where it sat on her belt at her back, and with a few quick and sure slices of the dangerously sharp blade the rope was severed, and the wind gently brought the Dutch flag fluttering to the deck. Dutch translations; "Why should I fear a little girl" "Because this little girl has killed better men then you." I don't actually speak dutch but babelfish is a glorious thing

Tudor gently pulled out the spanish colours from the chest they were folded and stowed in, along with the various other flags that had been aquired. Setting the requested banner aside, she rearanged the others, laying them flat in their chest once more. But she paused before closing the trunk again, leaving one specific flag on the top of the pile. A black one. She felt that it would be needed sooner then any of the others. If not today, then soon.

She simply shrugged in lieu of better response. Her own worth was not, had never been, of to much of interest to her, just the worth of her actions - their worth in gold. But lack of interest had never been able to stem the rogue emotions when the lack of worth was felt. She tried to think of a way to communicate this, but found none, and shrugged again. Armand's name actually being used made her flinch, ever so slightly, not to be noticed but felt all the same. She also noted with a rueful smile the captain's use of tenses. For this she had an answer. "Armand is in my past. And we cannot alter or return to the past so there is not point looking at it. He might be in my future, or perhaps not - in truth, I do not see how - but I cannot make it be one way or the other. So, all this to say, clinging to hopes and dellusions that he should look on what was with regret when I will not even allow myself to . . . will simply keep me asking the post-battle question of 'what-if?' And that, as known to every field commander worth his salt, is a dangerous question to ask." She looked out the window and sipped down half of her refilled glass. "But, again, Thank You." She offered him a smile that was at once still melencholy, but yet with a hint of mischief and spirit.

It took a moment for Tudor to assess the situation, and still she hesitated, unsure of what the best next move would be. Not taking her eyes off the Captain, in case his mood changed again, she took the glass he poured for her and downed it with flinching or change of expression. Since both were acting so out of normal so far in this interlude, Tudor reached for the bottle to refill the glasses - or specifically her own, leaving the captain's glass to be filled by the owner. "And let us drink to The Steward's Captains! Always sure to tell them when they are being fools and want to scare three years off their lives in doing so." She lifted her glass to him a chagrined expresion on her face. But then, some of the clouds in her eyes cleared and she nodded to him ever so slightly. "Thank you Captain." It was said quietly, but with sincerity. His words and actions were just what she had needed. She hadn't had someone do such to her in quite a few years. It was oddly refreshing.

Her response was with an equal severity - she was all control, but all serverity, A look of sheer rage crossed her face but she made no movement save crossing her arms in front of her in a show of non-retalliation. "TUDOR SMITH" She bellowed hoarsly, not a woman's loudness, but the hollar of a soldier calling across a battlefield. "Sword for Hire, Soldier without country, mistress of my own destiny and up until a moment ago proud captain's steward aboard The Watch Dog." Her words were laced with venom and her expression fury.

Uncharacteristically, Tudor's jaw dropped, but only momentarily, and then her face went blank and unreadable. She straightened her posture and nodded her head stiffly in accordance. "If that is what you wish Captain. I shall be ready to depart once we reach shore. I will also make sure all in the ward room is in order before I leave. Any orders for now, sir?" She was the epitome of respect and militaristic obedience, all the while, her mind searching through her list of possible places to sign on after this. It was not a thought she liked. For all that she felt like she was just an observer sometimes, she genuinely like belonging to this crew - it reminded her of old friends. And being told that there was no longer a place for her did something startling to her. It hurt. Very seldom did she feel such emotions as attachment and remorse. She stood awaiting the captain's response, her face stoney, but if ever she was to cry, now would have been one of the times.

Tudor breathed deeply and her eyes went distant. "If only that were easy." She spoke under her breath. "I never forget people sir, no matter how alluring gold and adventure are." She hesitated then continued, feeling some regrets. "Sir, I know I have been . . . distracted as of late. But I am determined to be less so. It not just . . ." Not sure of how to phrase her myriad of thoughts, she chose her next words with care, but decided to use a seldom seen candor. "Captain, I do miss him very much. Having a . . . having him made me feel a little less like an outsider. I do not have many on board that I feel close to. I know I do not do much to change that, but old habits die hard . . ." She paused again, and shook her head to clear out her thoughts. "Many things have been distracting me as of late, and not just that. My apologies. I shall rectify and be more of my old self." Her cheeky grin crossed her face and was almost convincing.

She looked up startled, not so much at that he had spoken, but by what was said. "Who is that, sir . .. or, well . . . I . . . " She sighed, but was unsure of what thoughts to voice and so decided to act as if naught was wrong. "I am sorry sir, I wasn't paying close enough attenion," This statement was evidence enough at her act, for barely a word was ever said that she didn't note. "To whom are you refering?" She finally brought her eyes up to face him across the room, a million questions and doubts and self-incrimination filling them.

Tudor arrived in the ward room soon after the Captain, Mr. Youngblood and the crewmembers had finished with the hidden guns. After the table was replaced, she set about the comforting tedium of her work in the ward room. Somehow, no matter how much effort she put into it, there was always still something to be set right or organised, or sorted out. She set to it with a grim vigour, determined to make up for the slack of having been in one of her moods. She had sequestered herself over the past hours, watching one day turn into another, avoiding any extended contact with anyone and only performing her duties to be above reproach. Being in such a state was not something she enjoyed. It did not give her satisfaction in her work and gave the feeling that she was little more then an observer of the comings and goings of the ship. But yet, as much as she tried to sensibly talk herself out of it, it was all to no avail. Her melencholy won out in the end, but with a determined wrinkle of her nose, she set herself to work.

After making sure that the captain had all that he needed for the coming solemnities, Tudor excused herself and quickly slipped into her tiny quarters. Pulling out the small trunk she had stashed in the corner. Digging past the top layer consisting of her small collection of slops, shirts, and other everyday items, she pulled back the wool cloth obscuring the second strata containing neatly folded bundles of grey and green silk. And tucked away neatly in a corner she found the articles she was looking for. Selecting the dark petticoat, she quickly donned it, replacing the slops she had been wearing. Deciding to forego full dress, she chose the black sailors jacket, and slipped it on over the shirt she wore. After closing the pewter buttons, and finger combing her locks she headed for the door, going to find the captain, ready for the services.

After having finished catalouging all the treasure with the captain, Tudor made her way below to help with the retrieval of the cargo that was marked to head ashore. After helping to haul it all up, and see that it was sorted and placed in order in the boat headed ashore, she sought out the captain to report to him and was pleased to find him on the Quarterdeck with Mr. Lasseter. The quatermaster had been hard to pin down in any given moment, for her to give him the coin she had found and that was still sitting in the small pouch on her belt. "afternoon, sirs." She said with a quick bobbed curtsy. "Captain, the next boat load is ready to go ashore." She said then turned to the quatermaster. "And here, Mr. Lasseter," She handed him the small bit of gold. "I found this a few hours, and haven't as of yet had a chance to see it to your care. The Captain said you might be able to find the orginal owner."

Vodka and Redbull all the way!!! WOOO-HOO!!! or- on a more trad and less intoxicating note - Cider of any kind (Stronbow, Magners, Hornsby . .. ect) but no beer, no ale and to prove that I'd never truly cut it as a pirate - no rum. Can't stand it. *cowers from the glare, angry looks and bottles being tossed at head*

Once the few crates that had been brought back from the wreckage were unloaded from the fishing boat onto the shore, Tudor came forward and stood next to Pew as he started to open the crates and sort through the retrieved goods. Fishing out the parchments she had just stowed along with the well used quill, she started to note down the inventory as the master at arms called it out to her. There wasn't much to be accounted for, some sewing needles and several diffrent coloured spools of silk thread. Some hair combs were also included, along with a small case of tobacco. "We could have a fight on our hands over that if we are not careful." She said with a slightly grim smirk as she caught a whif of the fragrant leaves.

HOLY SHIT!!! That it ALOT of toys-er-um-weapons!!!! Lesse here, i'll take one of those, a couple of those, and one of each of them .. . .

After finishing her notations, Tudor made herself usefull in whatever ways she could. Having already sorted out all the rations and lending her spyglass to the quatermaster, she felt at odd ends. So after drifting around between Quatermaster, Carpenter and crew, she started to drift further down the shore line, not leaving the crew out of site, intent on inspecting some larger rocks sticking out of a sand bank. She heard the raised voices, but before she could even think about heading back down the shore, she heard the click and explosion of gunfire. Snapping her head towards the rest of the party, she saw Mr. Lasseter, motioning for Pew and his boat crew to make their way back. She quickly made her way back