Twistings of Fate, Akin to the Blade [OPEN]

[OOC: So, in spite of everything, this is technically my first RP; the last RP I did was deemed non-canon, despite all the fun I had in it, and all that came to pass. So, with that aside, I'd like to keep this as canonical as is humanly possible. I want Roger to become a consistent character in the awesome world you guys have managed to build, and have him mingle properly with everything. Here's hoping that happens.]

The mists of the Atlantic peppered the hull and the deck of the HMS St. Irvine. The waters that had washed upon the well-worked wood gave the crew right to move cautiously, as they cleaned and exploited the nature of the sea and the sky, to bring the lumbering frigate back up to speed, while the blazing hue of the setting sun melted into the calm reflection of the cold sky. Roger stood at the helm of his ship, watching the winds and the waters, his hair blowing more gently than his coat in the breeze.

"Cap'n, we've done clearin' the bodies off deck. Naught of worth was upon them, save for a few o' these. Helmsman thought you'd oughta look a' them."

Roger turned to face his bosun, who was holding a number of strange knickknacks. Rings, daggers, gauntlets, and a few scraps of cloth, all of which were unrelated save for two featured. Their quality; each was made as finely as the last, and would fetch a fine sum at market even coated in blood, and their insignia; what looked like a set of drawing compasses, and some strange tool beneath them, forming some sort of weird A-shape, or triangle. Roger took one of the fine daggers, and one of the rings, looking at them intently, before ushering away his bosun.

Commodore Roger Stodd of the British Royal Navy, often quite the unassuming fellow. He was tall, sure, and quite fit for his age. Imposing perhaps, and certainly cunning, but most didn't think he'd have much knowledge of the inner machinations of this world. Little did many know he had more than enough knowledge. He returned to his cabin, shutting and locking his door, before looking around the dark room.

Two black banners hung at the back of the chamber, just barely covering his windows. Red crosses sat perfectly centered in them, and the same could be said of much in the room. His seat, made of fine mahogany, with black cushions and with a red cross in it. A painting set over one of his chests, that displayed a historic battle between a masonic order and a horde of their foes, with the masons bearing red crosses on their chests and shoulders. Finally, there was the suit that hung in the corner of the room, dark and menacing. Upon the belt, the chest, and the shoulders, the red cross was present. God, it looked awful.

Roger set himself down in his seat, writing slowly, as he admired the work on the knife. It wasn't hard to tell who it belonged to. After some time, his letter was done. He grabbed another piece of paper and wrapped up the ring, setting both it and the letter in an envelope, with his signature seal; first the Templar cross, and then the seal of the British Royal Navy over it. The knife he tucked into his belt, keeping it for now. He lit up a tobacco pipe, and smoked it calmly, letting his mind wander for some time. Once he left the cabin again, he could see land coming into view. The bosun approaching him again, looking out at the city in question.

"Cap'n, the bodies were disposed of proper, and all cargo is set up, ready for market. Should I tell the men to prepare to make stop?"

Roger nodded, handing his bosun the letter and crossing his arms behind his back. As orders were barked around the ship, the grizzled Scotsman watched in earnest as the city of Kingston grew ever closer.

"Assassins and pirates. Interesting."

Morgana O'Reilly, a bright young woman with an unquenchable thirst for power. The British Royal Navy would never have a woman at sea, so she turned to piracy. Being a Templar, one or two Assassins had made attempts on her life, but they failed. On this particular day, she was sailing for Port Royal for a meeting. She had valuable information, and cargo that was to be delivered to Templar officials. She sat on the top of the mainmast, and looked to a British frigate.

"Alright, boys, make sure the cargo is ready to be moved as soon as we dock. And make sure that the prisoner is secured" Morgana ordered as she returned to the helm. She had one of her men keep an eye on the British frigate while she brought the Raven into port.

The prisoner was handed over to a large man who rewarded Morgana with a bag of gold before heading off. The cargo was taken away by two lean men.
"Come on, Devin, let's get something to drink" Morgana said to her ferret as she adjusted her hat, and set off for the tavern.

(Sorry it's so short)

Roger stood at the top of the ladder that lead to the deck of the HMS St Irvine, watching as his men rolled the barrels and carried the crates down onto the dock via the placed ramp. Four crates of Indian sugar, three crates of Ottoman silk, and seven barrels of fine Venetian wine. The ship, its crew, and the Commodore had been serving in the War of Spanish Succession, until the formation of the Kingdom of Great Britain. Roger requested departure from the war, and with that, was sent to the Caribbean, to take part in the colonial conquests, and the flourishing trade. What he had with him now was the first part of what would hopefully be a flourishing personal endeavour.

The crates went quite fast, especially the sugar. The wine went fairly quickly as well, and once the final crate of silk was sold, Roger nodded to his crew to resupply as was necessary. A fair sum of ammunition had been spent fighting the small scavenging party not a week earlier, and so that was the first thing he would ensure was sought after. Off through the crowds, now that the trade was done, Roger saw the bosun heading off to deliver his letter. He was a good man, even if he was perhaps a bit over-skilled for his role. The Commodore headed down onto the docks, watching the crew haul lumber, gunpowder, and cannon balls up onto the ship, before heading off into the bustling streets of Kingston.

This was the second time in his life he'd been to Jamaica. The first time he'd been much younger, and stationed here doing just what his own crew was currently involved in. It was a nice change, to wander and mingle. Yes, he'd spent five nights in a row with the local girls, but he had different business to attend to now. Still, he pondered the idea that he could have heirs running about this city, young boys or girls brandishing swords and calling themselves soldiers in the navy. Perhaps in another world he could have a child, but even then, he found it hard to imagine. Knowing his luck, something would get in the way.

When he finally saw the sign indicating a tavern, Roger decided he had found the place. He headed in, taking off his hat and heading to the bar. Once he had his whiskey in hand, he sat down in a corner of the room, eyeing the crowds. He was looking for a Templar, someone he could speak to. Yes, he was no internal cog that kept the secret empire moving, but he still knew a Templar when he saw them, and they knew him. If the rings didn't give it away, generally the scowls, the looks of purpose, they did enough. The average Assassin looked like a pup, in comparison.

Morgana entered the tavern, and sighed. She had barely been there for a moment, and men were already giving her dirty looks.
"How much would it cost for a little fun with you" a drunk asked as he grabbed Morgana's arse. Morgana glared down at the man, and boxed him square in the nose before crushing his family jewels when he fell to the floor.
"Next time, I'll fecking kill ye" Morgana growled before the bottom of her boot met with the drunk's face. Morgana looked around for a seat, and smiled happily when she saw Stodd. As she passed the counter, she grabbed a bottle of rum, and tossed down some coins. She approached the Commodore's table cautiously, took off her hat, and bowed slightly, the ferret firmly seated on her shoulder.
"Would ye mind if I joined ye, Commodore" Morgana asked respectfully, still bowing.

"But of course, take a seat."

Roger took a sip of his drink, eyeing the man on the floor, rubbing away some of the blood gushing from his nose. The Commodore had been among the many people in the tavern who'd let out a loud 'oooh' during the initial contact, and again at the harsh disposal of what was surely the only thing the man had worth dying for, considering his attire and the look of his face. Roger considered how hard of a life it was being the kind of drunken bum that shifted around pubs and taverns, but also considered that if that was how they acted, perhaps the difficulty was well placed. Roger turned his gaze back to the pirate, looking her over quickly. A Templar for sure, if not alone for her knowledge of who he was, and his lack of knowledge on her.

"Hm... Pirate... Templar... Irish... I've got a few guesses, but I'm going to go with Morgana O'Reilly. The scar, the physique, the ferret, it gives it away. I wasn't alerted to many of the Templars in these waters, but those that were worth my time were made clear to me. Seems you're worth my time."

Roger leant forward, arms up on the table as he drank slowly from his glass. The whiskey was fine, even if Kingston wasn't renowned for its alcoholic beverages. He looked around, clearing his throat gently, and speaking low, thinking of what needed to be said. The issue of the Assassins and pirates was utmost important to him, due to the fact that it tied in hand-to-hand with his personal goals. The longer he dealt with pirates, the more likely Assassins would loom over him and try their hand at his life. The recent conflict had already proved he was overstepping his boundaries, and he wanted to let the Assassins know they were overstepping theirs.

"I'm sure you're aware of it, the Assassins that work within the ranks of the piracy movement. I'm sure most of the Templars are well aware these days. I don't want Assassins hunting me down. Most of them are still dutifully unaware of me, and I'm very pleased with that situation. Now, I have at least six dead Assassins on my record, and I'm not very pleased with that. I don't want to give them reasons to hunt me."

Roger drew the knife from his belt, setting it down on the table. It was curved, typical of a sabre used by most pirates, but short and compact, and finer than most, with fine Aztec gold, Peruvian silver, and an engraved opal that had the symbol of the Assassins Order within it. Not something an initiate would carry, that was for sure.

"Didn't think I'd ever have to call in that first favour, but looks like I've no choice at this point, madam O'Reilly. I need the Templars to ensure me they can get any Assassins off of my back. If that can't be done, I'll need them to ensure me I'll have time to prepare. You're among the best possible people I could've hoped would walk through that door."

Morgana smiled happily, and took a seat at Stodd's table. She took off her hat and gloves, and set them neatly on the table. Her hands looked like those of a lady, not at all like a sailor, let alone a warrior. She grabbed an empty tankard, examined it carefully, and filled it with rum.
"I didn't think the Templars thought so highly of me. But then again, they're not like everyone else." Morgana took a sip of her rum, and smiled happily. At least she was drinking with a man of honour, but then again, Morgana could handle her alcohol.
"I'm well aware of the bloody pest problem, Commodore. I would be more than happy to help ye with your problem. God knows I need to let out some anger." Morgana looked back to the drunk from earlier, and laughed heartily.

Sitting at a somewhat far off table, Damian was chatting with a few men - one a tad taller than him, being his brother, and just a few of his crew. "So," he said, "as I am sure e'eryone here at this table knows - we're running low on supplies. We can either buy it with the low 'mount of Reals we have, or, do it the better, and simpler, way. All in favor of former?". After nobody raised their hands, Damian then asked, "...And all in favor of latter?", to which all of the men visibly nodded and cheered somewhat. "Good," he said, "now, how 'bout you, Jonny?", to which he pointed at his brother. Jonathan merely shrugged, but said in a whisper, looking briefly behind him at another table and pointing back with his thumb, "I dunno, but, not sure that - from what I've gathered from their conversation - we should be discussing this when there is both a Brit Commodore who has killed multiple assassins and a Templar, I guess, since he is asking for protection against Assassins. Not sure entirely, though.". Upon these words, Damian merely sat back, blinked a bit, and downed his drink swiftly. After finishing the drink, he merely said, "Well. Right then. Not what I asked 'tirely, but, still, it's an answer.".

"Perfect."

Roger drank from his glass again, tapping his fingers and thinking. He needed to do a few things first, the saddest of which would be his first. He sighed gently, and rapped his fingers still, before coming to his stop. He looked still around the bar, noticing the eyes that on different occasions nestled on him and his partner. It made him more uncomfortable than he was perhaps willing to admit. He looked at the knife between them and nodded, lowering his voice.

"I'll need someone who knows Assassins better than I to clean out my crew. I don't know if any of those murderers are on my vessel or not, but I'm not risking going to sea before checking."

Roger set down his now emptied glass, gripping it tight as the thought of an Assassin being among his men loomed above him. So many of them had served with him since before he left England, some years ago now. To think any of them were Assassins, even informants, it was just horrible to conceive. What if it was his bosun, the man he'd entrusted with running his ship? Or maybe his purser, the man who tracked and accounted all the goods onboard? No matter who it was, they'd be able to impact his effort far too much. It was something he was certainly not a fan of thinking on.

"Aye, I could help ye with that, Commodore." Morgana picked up the blade, and examined it carefully. She had never seen such an ornate blade before in her life. It looked more like a treasure than a weapon. Devin glared at the Butchers, and began to growl rather aggressively.
"The thing I hate most about the Assassins? Ye can't fecking drink in peace." Of course, being a woman, Morgana could never drink in peace. There was always someone trying their luck with her, or ready to take advantage of her. At least the Assassins just wanted her dead. She wouldn't do anything for free, but he was British Royal Navy, and she was a pirate. She had no right to make demands.

Deciding to avoid their past conversation, Damian merely set the drink he had just finished just a bit farther off from him. "Well," he said, "what shoul' we do, though? Can' just buy things with money we don' have on us. Gotta do it the simple way, lads. Don' matter who it be.". A couple of his crewmen nodded, while Jonathan merely looked towards him. After a couple seconds, he then said, "Yes, yes - well, matter's still involved with, ya know, ships repairs. I propose we merely just get small, decently cargoed ships, yet many of them - 'course, they don' do much to us. It's either tha', or a couple big ships, all likely to do major damage to us or kill a good 'mount of men.".. His idea gave a few nods, to which Damian responded, "Yeah - just gotta be careful 'bout we who target though. Don' wanna mess with the wrong sort, y'know how that ended up back home.". Damian and Jonathan seemed to share a nod, in understanding of the younger brother's words.

Roger stood. He brushed himself down, grabbed his hat, and held it under his arm while looking down at the pirate, and the Templar. He didn't often dabble in talks like this in locations like this, it wasn't his way. He knew from experience that some of the best minds on the seas could be found here, of course, but so could some of the sharpest ears. No place for the words of a Commodore of the British Royal Navy, certainly not one conversing with a pirate.

"Perhaps we should walk, madam O'Reilly. While I enjoy the smells of an old tavern as much as the next dog, I'd prefer the breezes of the Caribbean and the sounds of Jamaica, assuming you don't mind."

Roger put on his hat, and two men not far from the door stood from their tables, and made way out of the tavern. They had dark brown leather coats on, dirty pants and white tops, and black tricorn hats. But, now that they had stood, they were given away, as the glimmer of their cutlass handles was caught in the flickering of candles. British guards, the Commodores. They worked well, silent and hidden, and always in eye and ear shot of the Commodore. He pondered often if they were Templars. He hoped so.

The eyes of the Scottish-born Commodore were quick to scan the room one last time before he tempted to make his leave. He didn't like it, now he thought about it. The place was warm, yet cold, as if eyes were on him. He shivered for a moment, before shaking his head and looking back down at the pirate and Templar, awaiting her response. Part of him wanted to think he didn't have much time - the other part of him flaunted his rank like a madman.

"Aye, Commodore. Imagine what the people will say if they saw a British Commodore talking with a pirate" Morgana said with a soft laugh. She grabbed a discarded piece of junk, and fed it to Devin. A few of her men followed her out of the tavern, keeping a watchful eye on their captain. She was under constant threat of attack, so she never let her guard down.

Roger looked down the road, to his far right, and walked left, furrowing his brow. He still felt eyes on him, he didn't like it. He didn't trust it. Holding his hat under his arm, he walked with the Templar pirate, considering much of what they'd talked about.

"I will pay you, of course. Compensation for any tools used, plus a small sum of reals - I would use sterlings, if I wished the navy had any clue of this dealing. Besides, a... vagabond, would likely prefer reals, am I wrong?"

The two coated men appeared and disappeared in the crowds around them, watching for the Commodore. Still, it did not make him feel safe, and part of him despised the confusion within him in that moment. He held the hilt of his blade, shuddering.

Morgana raised her arm, and allowed Devin to run across it until he rested his head on her hand. He had proven quite useful in her adventures. The little ferret could be quite vicious when he wanted to, when Morgana was in trouble. For now, the little ferret seemed calm.
"Reals is fine, Commodore Stodd. Of course, I'll decide on a price. Then... well, then we begin a dance regarding the price of my services." Morgana knew that her head was essentially on the chopping block.

"A dance is fine, so long as you know who leads each step, pirate. I'm in control of this waltz, not you. Doesn't mean you don't have your sway, of course."

Roger moved through the throng of the crowds in silence, watching the people move and merge around them. Jamaica had forced a change in how the British acted, first and foremost by not forcefully integrating themselves. It rang very similarly to the British Raj, but even there, you'd be hard picked to not find the British nobility waving their banner or flaunting their wealth. Here... it was simply too uncommon.

It was better to let natives, slaves, immigrants and free-folk do as they wished. Cook, build, craft, live. The smell of coffee, pepper, chilli, all filled the streets. Roger couldn't tell if he loved it or hated it. He certainly preferred the smells of East Asia. Being a sailor really had ruined him for Europe. Roger came to a slow, as he and Morgana came to the major crossroads of the city. Roger came to a halt, looking at the pirate and crossing his arms.

"Tell me if you've noticed anything strange in our walk."

Morgana looked to the young ferret on her arm, and watched him carefully. He seemed to be sniffing at the air cautiously. The young ferret whent berserk, and ran towards a strange looking man. The man didn't know what to do, so he simply turned tail, and ran. The young ferret gave chase, fiercely barking as he chased after the Assassin. Morgana was hosing herself laughing.

"Good work, boyo" Morgana said with a laugh as she picked up the young ferret. Devin had some white fabric stuck in his mouth, which Morgana removed, and placed in her pocket.
"Just one, but he's been scared off, for now." She handed the ferret a small piece of meat, and looked to the Admiral. "There was another a while back, but they were of no threat."

A good while back, a few minutes after Morgana and Stodd had left the tavern, Damian and Jonathan decided to leave as well, merely dismissing their crew to head back to the ship. A few minutes after their quite silent walk, however, an Assassin approached them - it was one that Damian had recognized, and the assassin the same as well, if he did approach Damian. He merely mentioned as to how there were two people - a man and a woman, both seemingly Templar-related. Damian merely nodded, dismissing the man. Looking over to his brother, he said, "Well... you good at stalking, or are yeh still the grea' bumblin' oaf I remember ya as back home?". Jonathan merely chuckled, and said, "Ah, yes, well, if I do remember correctly, brother, I was the one father always trusted to leave the house. After all, I was the one less likely to find a girl at a tavern and get a bit taken away.". Damian merely punched him in the arm lightly, and went off down the path the Assassin mentioned they went down. They decided to merely just talk of everyday things, to give off the appearance as two normal men - ranging from where they were headed next, to what they did the past few days.

[[OOC: I'm very sorry about the long wait. Christmas shocked me this year.]]

Roger nodded, smiling. He'd consistently been bumped into, and a few of those bumps were from his guards, who wandered in and out of the crowd with important information in regards to his surroundings. They had a coded system to ensure no one could decipher what was being said; a rock meant safety; a leaf meant a threat; a pendant meant assassins. He'd received only one, but from how certain madam O'Reily was with her words, he was more than willing to believe there'd been a second.

"Good. Very, very good. I suppose I shouldn't be all too surprised, your rank and survival this long examples enough of your skill."

Before the Commodore could say any more, he was approached from behind, and grimaced as one of his guards spoke to him. They'd intercepted a Templar messenger intended for him, and as it turned out, there were Assassins in the city, a small group that was intended to be put down. Kenneth Abraham, the resident hunter, wanted Roger to do the dirty work. He rubbed his head and nodded, ushering both of his men to his side.

"Well, there's one last thing I want to see; Kingston isn't unknown for the presence of Assassins. Jamaica itself is quite a common spot for the hooded fools. We're going to go hunt a pack of those fools down right now, up to the northeast in one of the plantations. What do you say, madam O'Reily?"

"A hunt, you say?" Morgana looked to the young ferret resting on her arm, and smiled happily.
"Me da took me out hunting every weekend from the day I could hold a gun. Devin here used to chase things out of their holes for me to shoot. His skills have proved quite useful when dealing with Assassins." Morgana rested her hand on her pistol, and smiled at the Commodore. A hunt with someone that had the potential to become a friend. Not to mention that they would be going after her favourite prey, Assassins. She was so excited, she could barely contain herself.

The silent steps of two people were all that couldn't be heard, as the road to the east of Kingston was trod by Commodore Roger Stodd of the British Royal Navy and Captain Morgana O'Reilly of the Jolly Roger, and the pirates code. In all his life the Scotsman would never have pegged this as one of his trips to the plantations, but there was nought he could do about it now. And even if he could, it was more likely he wouldn't.

The local Master Assassin, Antó, had been in a war of attrition with Abraham for near on six months now, and neither side had managed to garner the upper hand. Recent words from Templar spies in the city had confirmed that a Maroon-Assassin conference was taking part near the plantations, and hopes were that these two would bring it down, and hopefully give Abraham the chance he needed to secure his control over the settlement.

It wasn't long till the two of them were in the fields, walking side by side down the dirt road and watching the slaves toil for their work, as the guards eyed them all down, rifles ready to pelt any man or woman in the back if the need arose. Stodd sighed, and looked over the fields, grimacing.

"Tell me Morgana, where do you think Assassins would be most likely to hide? Where, what, why would they? You're not unheard of. I'm certain your reputation would do you well here."

Morgana closed her eyes, raised her head to the sky, and inhaled deeply. She studied her surroundings carefully; there was a strange look in her eyes. She looked at the workers, then she looked beyond them. She looked up at the trees above her, and finally looked back to the Commodore.
"Assassins are like animals, Commodore. They think, act, and, on some occasions, smell exactly the same. The crops, and bushes make for perfect cover. The smell of the workers masks their smell. As humans, we never look up, so trees make excellent cover, and you can't really smell their stench." Morgana's years of hunting had given her a hell of an advantage. She had honed her skills to that of an apex predator.

Forgetting completely about the two alleged Templars that Jonathon talked about, they had both merely resorted to drinking a few bottles of whiskey each. Carrying the bottles in his left arm, the two brothers both just walked about the area, not caring where they went. "Y'know," said Damian, after taking a quick swig from his, "I don' even see what'sa matter with our men... cause, ya know - they're, like... eh...". He merely went on to ramble unintelligibly, while Jonathon said, "Yeah, well... they prob'bly think...", he belched a bit loudly, "prob'bly think... your face isza matter...", and he chuckled a bit, as his brother punched him lightly in the arm. "Yea, well... I don' re'lly like these, ah...", Damian snapped his fingers a bit, tossed his empty bottle behind him, and popped open another one and took another jug from him quickly, and continued, pointing to the plantation to his left, "Don' re'lly like t'ese plantations... don' seem righ', to me - li'e, reminds me of that jerk back home, y'know? The one that tol' us to clean his home, an' didn' even give us a pound for it?". Jonathan merely nodded, as to where Damian continued drinking his whiskey.

Roger looked up and nodded, squinting as best he could. He'd come so used to using height and spyglasses that his eyesight had faded over time, and if there was anything up there he certainly couldn't spot it. In any case he nodded; she was most likely correct in her statements.

"Mhm. I see. A hunter then. Perhaps you'd like to lead on in your hunt then, madam O'Reilly, and do that which is needed of our flock. I will follow as is fitting, of course."

Stodd wanted to kill something. He wanted to badly to fight an Assassin, to lop its head off and hurl it at any that came after him. He'd grown weary as of late, and perhaps some dabbling would do him good. He was certainly growing worn out and tired of himself, and of his place in the navy. It wasn't good for a man of his stature.

"A hunter of animals, aye. But like I said, Assassins and animals are the same." Morgana knelt down on one knee, and examined some tracks. She gently stroked the footprint, picked up some of the dirt, and smelt it.
"Fresh, not more than a few minutes ago. Seafaring Assassin, fresh off the ship, a pirate too." Morgana licked the dirt from her finger, and smiled evily. "Seawater, high quality rum, and jaguar piss. I know this Assassin, I lay with her once. Woman's as mean as a snake." Morgana stood up, and looked around for more clues. There were some broken twigs, and tracks left in the dirt. Careless mistakes. "Well, it seems like we get to meet captain Kenway" Morgana said happily as she turned to face the Commodore.

Elizabeth had been hiding in the distance, watching the Templars. She was a pirate first, and an Assassin second. She had no intention of fighting the Templars that day. Besides, she was in British territory, and she didn't want to risk the attention.

[OOC: Oh son of a bitch, my response didn't go through. Shit, I'm sorry Void.]

Roger shuddered in his boots. Kenway. The name rubbed in more terrible ways than one. An infiltrator of a vital meeting among high-ranking Caribbean Templars, a talented murderer, a fondly loved pirate and a widely despised one at the same time. One of the lucky few pirates able to make a name for themselves, long before suffering the tragedy of the gallows. But he'd get his, Roger was sure of it. Be it by hands of the British, the Templars, or both, he'd certainly get his.

O'Reilly certainly knew her skills where they were needed though. Not only was she certain of Assassins, but of their pirate kinsman, and of everything else, down to the finest details. Roger would make fine use of her in this town, he was sure of it. The Irish could certainly pull through when they needed too.

"Assassins, Kenway, a jaguar. We have a Grand Master, a Templar Commodore, and two of his finest swords. Not to mention any spies or agents you may have lurking in the shadows. I suppose there's no need to waste any more time."

With that, Roger made his way into the thickets of bushes and tall grass, ushering his men ahead and then letting Morgana move to the front, to lead them on. As much as he'd like to, he couldn't track worth a damn. He had to rely on the Irishwoman for now, and when the time came he'd utilise what he was best at - his work.