Adventure in Nassau (Open)

Claudius nodded in agreement with them. "Fought with him once at least out at sea. Man was the demon they claimed him to be. Made half a fleet of Templars turn tail and run with how many cannons he had aboard. It was a sad day to hear he died."

Claudius waved his hands in the form of a cross and kissed a imaginary rosaries beads. Something he hadn't done in awhile, something his father and mother taught him but used only when something truly special or tragic happened in his life. While some would dismiss it Claudius wouldn't.

Nodding, Damian said, "Aye, quite sad for those I live with, even sadder now that the numbers of those are lower. It's only six, and half of which aren't even twenty. We stopped letting Edward Kenway, one of the people to see him die, to know of our where abouts, due to cowardice during the battle of which Thatch died, he, along with Charles Vane, fled away on a ship, as Edward merely offered Thatch a pistol." Sighing, Damian turned to his brother, and asked, "So, what now?", to which Johnathan merely replied. "Well, guess that's up to these lads here. We could still investigate the cannon fire, or simply dismiss it."

"Like I told you before, I am bored. We could continue investigating the canon fire. We might found something to occupy our time with." The short assassin shrugged his shoulder, after he had given the respect to the now deceased Blackbeard. "Well, shall we continue?" Xander asked, eyeing at the trio for clarification.

Nassau, a pirate's paradise and occasional shithole, best described as being "mostly harmless" by those who lived there. Why mostly? Well that's because most of them were too busy being drunken buffoons and satisfying their primordial needs to even care about the happenings and going-ons of their surroundings. As long as you don't bother anyone and is able to blend in well with the crowd, you'll be fine, mostly.

Today Dewl had the pleasure of treating himself to Nassau's well known rum at a bar near the port. Unbeknownst to him, the reason for its famous status was not because of its delicate taste, rather because of the opposite and the aftereffects it gave to the consumer. "Agh.. taste like the kraken's ass." He grimaced, the aftertaste sticking to his tongue like a plankton on the hull. The thought of having to finish this foul drink gave Dewl a sense of uneasiness, he wanted to throw it away but considered the feelings of the bartender if he had done so. This was, after all, his most well known rum.

A man motioned for a refill just a table away from him, perfect. He took this opportunity to suavely make his problems disappear. Walking calmly to the man's seat, he poured the man some of his leftover rum and patted him on the back. "I'm not sure whether or not you're going to love this one. One thing I do know is that you need a drink, so have one on me my boy." Dewl said to the man, smiling fakely but believably at him. His eyes closing in the process, emitting an artificial sense of warmth and friendliness, both which are far from his true intentions.

The bottle clanged vibrantly as he lays it down on the table, swirling gently over and over again before finally going into a full stop. Within the green tinted glass, Dewl can see something moving, it's shadow twitching grotesquely like the tentacle of a squid. Upon further inspection, there seemed to be a creature laying on the bottom, its legs barely scratching at the surface of the rum. He took a peek at the bottle to try and confirm his suspicions, he then looked at the bartender who in turn looked at him, giving him an innocent shrug right after. The word "What?" silently formed on Dewl's lips while a confused and disgusted look came upon his face. He had accidentally found out about the secret recipe that gave the rum that 'distinct' taste, that 'worst than any drink that he had ever tasted' taste. It was slimy, white and had many legs. It was moth larva.

Knowing this, Dewl said nothing to the man who was enjoying his beverage. He seemed to be desperate enough and depressed enough to gulp down the whole thing just for the sake of it, even the worm. "This one is more similar to that of a nightmare than a dream though." Dewl wittily remarked, responding to the man's previous statement. He wanted to get to know more about this man, there was just something about him that seemed off and he wanted to find out what it was."The name's Dixie Dewl..." his right hand hand gesturing for a handshake "...and you my boy?"

Of all the names that Dewl could possibly think of, that was one of the worst ones. Whit, whit, whit, he repeated over and over again inside his head, yet it didn't get any better. He looked at the man meticulously, studying every feature on his face, torso, clothes, everything. It was quite clear that the man was not in a fit condition, he was very pale and very skinny as well. He also did not have any good features that he could be proud to show off to people. No wonder he looked so sad, Dewl thought to himself. He put on the most caring expression that he could possibly make and pretended to sympathize with the man. To some extent, he actually did care, he just didn't want to. It was somebody else's problem and it was better off that way.

"Well, at least you still have a drink on you." Dewl winked at him, smiling slyly as he did it. He did not care if Whit had thought of him as strange or not as he only cared for one thing at the moment; finishing his foul drink. The worm inside the bottle was still squirming endlessly like an infant. Dewl could only imagine that it was crying something along the lines of "Kill me, please." or "Swimming is actually quite fun", both were equally terrifying coming from a worm. Now if only there was a way for him to get rid of this last few drops of rum left on his bottle without having to actually drink it.

A bald and muscular man who was sitting behind Dewl and Whit looked distracted by one of the barmaids that was attending to his needs. It was easy to understand why, the woman was gorgeous. Seeing this as an opportunity, he immediately poured the last bits of his rum and the worm into that man's glass. While he was doing this, the barmaid looked at him, not paying any attention to the already lustful bald and muscular man in front of her that was trying so hard to make her notice him. Dewl merely put his finger to the front of his mouth, ordering her not to tell as he swiftly readjusts his sitting position like nothing had ever happened. "And voilà, it's gone." He whispered to Whit while moving his hands around like a half-dying gipsy on psychotropic herbs when he was actually trying to imitate a magician.

Silence. A handful of it. That was Dewl's response to the boy's rambling. Well, that and the rhythmic tapping of his fingers upon the wooden table. He could not possibly take this boy in with him. The Duke, the almighty, fear inducing yet a tad bit clunky ship, was only a privilege for the chosen few. First, he needed to be a Templar or affiliated with one to join. Second, he needed to have extensive knowledge on medicine and seafaring. Last, but not least, he needed to go through Selkirk's infamous survival training. Based on the statistics that Dover, the captain, had made; only three out of twenty men would usually make it to the end. The rest were either dead or near death. Each of them were always given commendation for all their efforts, not that it would mean much to them by then.

The sound of puking distracted Dewl's train of thought. He looked towards the source of it and found out that it was the bald and muscular man he had previously snuck his drink to, excellent. "Pardon me, sir. It would seem that this boy next to me had mixed your drink with some of his rum while you weren't looking." His right hand pointing to Whit while the left hangs on the boy's shoulder "As his guardian, I have nothing but shame for him. Perhaps you could help him atone for his misdeeds by beating a lesson into him?" Dewl then moved aside and walked towards the corner of the room before adding "You want to be part of a crew? Then show me why you deserve it boy!"

The bald and muscular man, which was apparently named Gilly, judging by the tattoo on his right arm which says "I am Gilly the Great" with a man's skull behind it, angrily approached Whit. His shining head steaming red, and if you looked close enough, you can see sweat evaporating from the pores of his scalp. "Aigh't lad, you made a foo' out of me. Now its yours turn to be made into a dead fool." Gilly cracked his knuckles, his neck, everything he could crack to intimidate the boy. Behind all of that cracking sound, you can barely hear Dewl slipping the word "Idiot" underneath his fake cough.

Three. That's the exact number of moves that Dewl needed to make to take down Gilly. He would first throw a moderate strike on the man's throat, breaking the hyoid bone to swell the airway, disrupting the breathing. After that, one hard strike to the chest with his cane, which would most likely be defenseless as the opponent would've been too busy holding his neck. Once a rib or two has been broken, he only needed to hit one solid punch to the solar plexus to knock him out. If executed perfectly then Gilly would need about two months for physical recovery and one year to heal his mental scars. That was what he would've done if he was the one fighting him. But on this fine day, he was merely a spectator.

Though it was true that size often mattered in a one-on-one brawl such as this one, Dewl believed that Whit could come out as the victor. There were no rules, no limitations, every item was a weapon. If one was resourceful enough, one could possibly gain the upper hand. He turned towards the person next to him and casually said "I'm betting on the boy, he's got that something in him." The person was about to say something before Dewl cut him off, he pointed at the man's heart and pushed him slightly against the wall with his finger. "And let me tell you mate, that something is going to make a big difference." The person didn't move a single inch, he was quite in an awkward position now, unfortunately Dewl could care less about him. The only thing that was in his mind was the fight.

Gilly roared angrily like a gorilla. He clenched his fists as tightly as he could as if they were rocks in human skin, then he proceeded to launch a jab at the pale white boy in front of him. For a big guy his punch was pretty fast, comparable to that of a falling boulder from a perched cliff. Whit would need a great amount of reflex to dodge it or a great amount of durability to withstand it. Unfortunately, it was very likely that the boy lacked both of them.

(You can control Gilly if you want, I'm letting you use him so that you can have more freedom when you're writing.)