Within the Swirling Mist (IC) > Biographies

Grog and Grapeshot - Vauquelin LeBlanc

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bobith:
“Y’see, Addie, the sea is like a woman. You uh, love ‘er. But you never - you never do something else that isn’t love ‘er. See?” LeBlanc hiccuped, bottle of rum in hand, the other on the great ship’s wheel. The night was cold and wet, as so many nights are at sea.

“Trust ‘er, Captain?”

“Aye, trust. A fickle mistress, the sea. Fickle. Like a woman.” He squinted into the dark. There was supposed to be a lighthouse ahead, and in the shelter of the bay a trade schooner laden with goods, goods bound for foreign shores. Goods he had as much of a right to as anyone. It wouldn’t hurt the mercantile companies to lose just a ship here, a ship there. Hell, the hired help rarely put up a fight. Lives are worth more than vodka and gold. Usually. Being a pirate was much like being an actor - it was about the spectacle of it all. Come bearing down on the north wind with the skull and bones high and fire a few warning shots and the unlucky sods practically begged him to take the loot. It was hardly stealing if they offered, aye?

“Y'see, Addie. Ghastria, well, she’s uh-”

“Like a woman, Captain?” Replied the girl. LeBlanc could never tell if she merely humored him, or if she was truly as simple and straightforward as she seemed. Annoyingly simple. Irritatingly straightforward.

It was there in the throes of the "good" Captain's abject misogyny, bad euphemisms and a drunken stupor that his lookout, who had surely been on the rum as well, failed to spot low lying rocks off the Ghastrian coast lurking just beneath the surface.

The wreck of the Gullwing wasn’t like the old stories, where the stoic commander goes down on the bow, facing the deep’s embrace with valor and grace. No, the brave Captain LeBlanc had jumped ship as soon as it began to list starboard. One for all, and all for the Captain was his code. This translated loosely to "every man for himself" in times of crisis. Of course, Adelaide was not a man, so she’d tagged along with him, clinging to a splintered section of the yardarm for dear life as the Gullwing went down with an anticlimactic “gulp” and a burp into the black seas, a few bubbles in its wake, cargo hold full of perfectly legally acquired gold in tow. Men bobbed in the icy water, crying out, then a terrible silence gradually took hold.

More concerning than the souls he’d condemned to a watery grave (or the souls his lookout had condemned, as Vauquelin would later convince himself) was the fact that LeBlanc knew that his coffers were now empty. He had debts to pay, and it was far easier to dodge the collector when you had a fast ship to zip from harbor to harbor. He was going to pay them back, surely, one day, but as it stood the gold that he was just about to return was lying a league under the waves. It’s funny how freezing to death makes an honest pirate of us all.

He’d just made his peace with Ezra through chattering teeth, and Adelaide had made her peace with not having to deal with LeBlanc anymore (an enticing prospect for an overworked scullery maid), when the wind decided to do the pair a good turn and steer the wreckage they clung to shoreward. As they climbed dripping wet upon the pile of rocks the Ghastrian people called a "beach" and flopped on the seaweed covered stone, they sighed, relieved.

“I think it’s time we went straight.” He’d said.

“Straight, Captain?”

“Aye, straight to some place the lads back home won’t find us. Bluebeard’ll hang the both of us for losing that ship.” Well, he'd be hung and she'd be just fine, but Addie didn't need to know that. He needed her. She needed him. It was very simple, so long as they allowed it to be. Adelaide had agreed, as she always did. With a smile to match, a smile that in no way spoke to the certain death they'd faced but moments ago, or the loss of so many good, semi-loyal pirates. Well, not good. Useful, semi-loyal pirates.

“Barovia! There’s no sea in Barovia, you know. So he won’t be able to sail up an’ get us!” Absolutely infallible, that cheery mood of hers, thought LeBlanc. Misfortune rolled off her like water off - off some type of seabird’s back. Aye. So did social cues. Rational thought. The lot of it.

Two months later, the captain and his crew of one stumbled into a certain inn on the outskirts of a grey, dismal city.

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