The heavy clunk of boot versus plank echoed heavily across the Pier as Harlin Querden leapt from his perch on the prow of the St. Marie. She had barely just begun to dock, but she was small and wretched and miserable, and Harlin was thoroughly pleased to be through with her. Of all his brilliant ideas, choosing to squander an irrevocable period of his life on that rickety piece of junk simply did not count. He landed with bent knees and swooped himself upward with the help of an eloquent swing from his arms. The effects of the past two months, however, made his sea legs wobble momentarily as he attempted to pass over the sturdy laths of the dock, making him stagger like some hopelessly drunken bastard. So much for eloquence.

No, he would not miss the St. Marie, nor would she miss him. His ex-comrades had been about as enjoyable as thumb tacks in his ass, and the pay had gone from a little below average to abysmal—a couple Queens jingled faintly in his pockets and that was all. Well, not true. He had lifted a shill or two or…three from one of his more irksome shipmates as a fond farewell, but that wasn’t the point, just a decent reason to be walking away from the ship as briskly as he was.

As the wick made his way past the rows of vessels and their wares, the sooty smell of Old Rose became more and more intimately entangled with the briny odor of the cool sea air, over toned with dead fish and accented with booze and rot. He stopped and took a deep breath, inhaling the essence of life and land he had so dearly missed. Despite his best intentions, perhaps he would always be a landlubber at heart—even if the feeling only lingered for a season or so.

((I don't remember how to write, la la la.))

((Well then, let's give you some practice!!))

As Harlin stumbled down the dock, a less-than-friendly face attached to a hardened, calloused, angry somebody jerked over the edge of the St. Marie. It threw a ladder over the side, scrabbled down, and thundered after Harlin.

"OY! STOP 'AT KID! 'E'S GOT ME GING!!" the thundering man shouted as he pummeled down the dock. People dove left and right, trying not to get in his way- no one messed with Beefman.

((beefman 2? return of beefman? son of beefman?))

((Haha. Excellent.))

Of course, a sudden boost in the seismic activity of the dock cut his pleasure trip rather short. Joyful moments of wallowing in the harbor’s atrocious aroma never did last very long. Someone always either ended up throwing fish guts in your face or, in Harlin’s case, sicced huge bulking slabs of meat on you. At present time, he most definitely would have preferred the former.

Staring at the dock quizzically as the tremors continued to augment, Harlin managed to remain stupidly unaware of the oncoming menace until that nasty voice hit him harder than the land intoxication had.


Harlin’s head shot up, stayed for a beat, and then twisted back to look over his shoulder. Somehow Beefman appeared much larger on land than he had offshore and was growing considerably bigger the closer he got, which needless to say, made Harlin feel relatively---well, small.

"Mmm, that ent good," he muttered in a single quick breath, eyes still pinned hopelessly on his ex-shipmate before he could throw his body into motion. He bolted. His boots slipped and slid more than once as he ran down the dock, the boards still being wet from the day's previous rain shower, and unsurprisingly crashed into a few surly folks on his way. This was going to be quite a magnificent evening. Really. He always loved vengeful butcherings as a welcome back to port.

((Hehe- Vengeful butcherings- 'Welcome home, buddy!' *Stabbity Stabbity*))

In the same way that a giant covers more ground than an ant by mere difference of size, Beefman barreled toward Harlin. Those knocked about in Harlin's mad dash were lucky to avoid a solid trampling from the mammoth of a man. Harlin managed to reach the edge of town before Beefman caught up with him.

As Beefman rose up behind him he swiped out a hand as big as Harlin's torso and knocked into him, tipping him off balance into a drunken crowd outside a rank tavern. "I should murder you!!" he shouted in rage, towering over Harlin and raising a rump roast of a fist to strike.

((I feel it's up to you insofar as whether or not Harlin actually falls over. Feel free to fight or flight as you will, but defeating Beefman gives you bonus badass points!))

Lacey had meant to find out what she could about the spice merchant. She had gone into the Mad Queen to ask a few questions and use her feminine charms. That had been on the 12th, and frankly, she didn't recall asking any actual questions yet. The Lady was still in the harbor, but she had found a man interested in her, and whilst she was her baby and her love, she was also apparently worth quite a lot of gold. So, after removing all her worldy possessions, she said goodbye to the Lady with a much heavier purse and a much lighter load.

Taking leave of the Queen for the night, she had planned on going down to the beach and just having a good old stroll. It was one of those days. The drink had been decent, but she was mearly buzzy now. Suddenly there was a kafuffle, and a rather appealing looking man was pushed into the crowd with a massive, rather beefy man towering over him. The blonde's face lit up, she loved a good scuffle. Fighting past the people getting away from the two, she stopped beside the boy half crouched, and reached out to grab him arm.

"Ye seem t' be in a pickle lad, care fer a hand?" She grinned wolfishly, green eyes ablaze.

The impact of the blow sent Harlin sprawling headlong into a conveniently placed gaggle of drunks, who, despite their displeasure, managed to stagger away in time for him to regain some balance. He turned his fall into a half-roll, miraculously ending up in a steady stance back on his haunches, and put a hand on the ground to help support his weight. Without lifting his head, the wick instead raised his eyes to focus on his assailant and instantly felt a little pang of concern when he discovered that his line of vision could not make it beyond the bugger's ropey neck.

This complicated things a bit.

As a not-so-large smirk tried to spread itself across his impish face, Harlin made a move to tuck his hand into the gap of his shirt where certain pointy things were waiting to be thrown. That is until--


The soft touch of the woman's hand quickly startled his gaze into hers. He smiled at her ruefully in response. "Well, if I'm ter get cotted, might as well not go by m'self," he replied, his voice strangely light and fluid for a seafarer.

A fantasticly large shadow accompanied by Beefman's bovine battle cry abrubtly overcame them both, causing Harlin jerk in time enough to see enough detail in Beefman's face to last anyone a lifetime. He darted frantically to Lacey's side in order to avoid getting squashed.

"Whassa matter, yeh great bastard?" the wick taunted once he had gained some ground and a touch of confidence. "Ent ya got any brains in that sweet little head of yers?"

Beefman had been about to lash out, but a woman appeared beside his target and spoke to it. The additional information caused some disturbance in his mind, as he now had to process this information. He had barely finished, hand still raised, when,



...process... process... message comprehended.

"You little bastard!" He shouted, a noise that reverberated in Harlin and Lacey's chests, and he launched his full bulk at them, much like a catapulted cow, arms spread wide to tackle them both.

Lacey laughed and nodded, already enjoying herself. What fun Old Rose could be! She stepped to the side as Beefman made a clumsy, rambling warcry and lurched at the curious man.



The pirate whooped and clapped her hands, finding the whole thing uproariously hilarious.



Feeling the rattle in her chest and seeing the huge man throwing himself at them arms spread wide, the blonde's surprisingly sharp mind took in the situation and gave her a possible solution. She threw herself against the man, shoving them both to the side. Rolling and standing she withdrew both her pistol and her sword, knowing she only had one shot with the pistol. She raised it and aimed at the whopping great Beefman's chest and took a shot.

As the two darted to one side, Beefman landed flat on his face, sending cobblestones into the unwary drunkards now chanting various phrases of support or belittlement. He hefted himself up and about-faced, just in time to see the raised pistol.



As broad a target as he presented, it would have been difficult for Lacey to miss. She hit dead-center of his chest. He fell back to the ground. However, while the crowd roared its bloodthirsty approval, he had merely had the wind knocked out of him. The bullet had stopped at his barrel of a sternum. He looked with his beady eyes at the bloodied welt on his shirt, then up at Lacey.

"You shot me!" he looked again, jumped up, and yelled, "I'mma murder you, too, bitch!" And this time reached for a projectile. His massive hands latched onto a nearby drunkard, who he raised over his head, the poor man screaming the whole way. If his pair of targets didn't act quickly, the casualties would mount tenfold.

Harlin had honestly intended to dodge the other way, but a pleasantly persuasive bump from his female counterpart directed him otherwise. He caught himself with both palms, the wet gravel digging itself into his skin, and skidded across the cobble with the soles of his boots.



The thud of Beefman’s significant bulk hitting ground echoed far above the drunken cries sounding from the sidelines. Guess “the bigger they are…” was an adequate statement after all. Harlin, noting an opportunity when he saw one, clambered to get to his feet. He was about halfway to grabbing his revolver when Lacey's preemptive shot stopped him dead in his tracks. As the giant staggered backwards and a small red rosette bloomed on his shirt, Harlin felt his own shoulders droop out of instinct. While he was perfectly thrilled and all to have the great louse blasted out of his hair, so to speak, having this pirate chip deal the final blow kind of made him feel...well, put out.

Briefly, anyway.



Harlin blinked at the brute rather stupidly. He wasn't aware they made them that thick. The wick took a second to spare a brow-raised glance at Lacey that more or less conveyed, 'Well. That was effective,' before a new noise could grab his attention.



Beefman lumbered tumultuously above the pair, his new cargo augmenting the intensity of his shadow. Harlin took a step back, arms poised to the sides, and felt his eyes widen despite his best intentions. Definitely, definitely bigger on land. Then again, Harlin did have one thing that Beefman did not-- and that was agility. Allowing his god-given talents to take over, the wick faked towards the she-pirate and then dashed around to the other side, dodging under Beefman's upraised arms and sliding directly behind him. The moment he stopped moving, he straightened, reached in his shirt, launched four neat little riffs at the swine's back, and immediately drew his pistol, ready to fire one into Beefman's head should he fall.

The first blade drove into Beefman's right shoulder, painfully severing a nerve and nicking an artery, causing the associated arm to drop, sending the drunk projectile to the cobbles. The second stopped against his ribs, and the third neatly bypassed them, puncturing a lung. The fourth and final dagger sunk just below his ribcage, narrowly missing his liver and intestines. The falling drunkard, pain, and disabled arm caused Beefman to stumble sideways into stacks of crates and barrels.

The crowd hushed.

Beefman's head rose up momentarily, long enough for them to see blood on his lips from the lung wound. He seemed intent to yell and charge once more, but he gurgled lightly and collapsed into the debris. The crowd looked at Harlin and Lacey. Cheers erupted as wenches and drunkards shoveled bottles of rum and tankards of beer in the conquerors' hands.

The pirate watched with her pistol still held pointed at the big man, waiting to see what happened next.



Lacey dropped her hand.

"Oh clocks." She said rather blandly, slipping the pistol in its holster and looking at her fellow fighter.



She shrugged and grinned, then her eyes snapped back to the brute.



Lacey shook her head.

"Well if that aint the most..." She frowned. Too many casualties caused problems.



Lacey watched him move, and with a quick skip she held herself in a fighting stance, sword wavering expectantly, ready to fight if the Beefman didn't go down after four knives and a gunshot.



Lacey held her breath, eyes fixed on the burly man.



The blonde grinned and accepted a bottle. Nodding to the congratulation party, she walked over to the wick and held her rum up in a sort of toast to the drink in his own hand.

"Aye, good scuffle that one. Ye just made a new friend." Taking a large swig out of the bottle, she stuck out a hand.

"Lacey Lovell, at yer service!"

The pistol in Harlin’s drooping hand was quickly replaced with a rather haggard looking stein whose sides were sticky from the wheat liquor spilling over its brim. Without a word or a nod of thanks, he lifted the drink to his lips and took a big, hearty swig. He had forgotten what a generous little place Old Rose could be when it felt like it—man slaughter? How daring! …Beer! Have some.



Smirking in his cheeky way, Harlin clinked the stein against the neck of Lacey’s bottle. Fine day this was turning out to be, really. A little rough at the start, he had to admit, but free booze and a pretty face to boot certainly did have their healing charms about them.

“Harlin. Harlin Querden,” the wick stated after indulging in another large gulp of ale. He reached out and shook her hand firmly, however briefly. “Lucky thing that, new friends. A kov’d likely get squashed by that great galoot without ‘em. Speaking of…” his voice trailed, leading his searching eyes to the giant mountain of said galoot sprawled on the side of the street. Harlin sauntered over to it and took a moment to prod it forcibly with his toe. When satisfied that the small hill would remain stationary as such, he crouched down and began to remove the small knives embedded in Beefman’s back with something a little short of gentility. The first he plucked out with ease, making a vaguely disgusted face at the wet, popping noise it made upon removal. His brow contorted at the bloody thing in his hand for a moment before he just shrugged and wiped off the excess unceremoniously on Beefman’s shirt.

"Now these," he said, wagging the small steel blade at Lacey, "I consider old friends... They help too."

Lacey screwed her nose up at the messy retrival, but she had a smile on her lips. It was disgusting but it was fun.

"Aye, that they do. I would ne'er be without me pistol and sword. Best friends a girl could 'ave" She strolled over to him and looked down at the beefy man thoughtfully, taking another drink.

"So...ye stole his money an' jumped ship? Good stuff. Ye takin' time in Old Rose or ye plannin' on headin' t' Vienda?" She made a face at that. She hadn't enjoyed Vienda.

“Yea, well,” Harlin replied as he continued to rip the three remaining knives free, “I figured I might as well rest m’bones awhile here. Six months aboard that rotten lil’ skiff I was on’d make any fellar pine fer a touch of land.” Well, not six, two, but whatever. “Enough tae make yer stomach turn.”

With all the riffs retrieved, wiped off, and pocketed, the wick grabbed a hold of his tankard and hoisted himself up, taking another gulp of beer once he got there.

“So, am I tae assume, Miss—uh, Lovell, that you ‘n Vienda don’t get on well?” He grinned rather toothily at her. “So tell me now, what has poor Vienda ‘ere done to you?”

Lacey tended to disagree whole heartedly. She loved being on the ocean. It was more like home to her than the land.



The blonde frowned and swigged her rum, hooking a thumb in her belts.

"It's just...not fer me. So uppity an' posh like. I've ne'er liked civilization, an' Vienda is just too civilized for me. 'Sides, whare's the water? Just a river an' yer own bathtubs. Bah, un-natural luv." She said, shaking her head and taking another sip of rum. Grinning back at him, she looked around.

"Feel like findin' somewhare a little less in-the-middle-of-the-street to chat lad? I don't like bein' out in th' open so much."

Harlin made a noncommittal noise into his drink. He was something of a rotten pirate in that sense. The idea of a never-ending sea cradling him every hour of every day just didn’t hold the same appeal for him as it seemed to do for others. It was fine and all, and he didn’t mind it, sure, but, if anything, the extended stay on the water just made him feel restless and confined—and occasionally queasy. Something to do with being brought up in those damned plains, he was sure.



The wick responded by cautiously peeking over the rim of his tankard, swirling the meager remains of its contents, and frowning.

“A’ight. I think I needs to get me another one of these anyway,” he said with a smile at the lady and without a look at the rusty stein as he tossed it over his shoulder. “Tell ye what, next one’s courtesy of our mant friend here.” A small pat to his chest betrayed a soft jingle of coin, where he had stuffed a portion of the stolen ging. “Might as well send ‘im off nice ‘n proper-like, ye chen?” He grinned a little maliciously and immediately started off towards the nearest establishment.

“My homecoming, my choice,” came his voice from over a shoulder. “Off we go then.”

Lacey chuckled and made a polite curtsy to the beefman's body in mock appreciation.



Raising an eyebrow, the blonde hurried to catch upto him. She was rather fond of men who could lead instead of follow. Something about them sent a little delightful shiver up her spine. Walking beside him, she looked sideways.

"Whare ye takin' me, luv?"

“Mmm,” the wick hummed passively through a clenched jaw, “I dunnae. Where ever tickles me fancy.”

He stopped then, thoughtfully drumming a finger against his chin and looking about the street for this so-called “fancy.” To be fair, Harlin had only a vague, wispy idea of where he was, but that was the beauty in not having a destination—he never got lost.

Happily conscious of a member of the impatient sex at his side, Harlin finally pulled his hand out from his pocket and, in a dramaticly slow to decisive movement, pointed wildly at the nearest tavern. It was a perfect brick-shit house whose name was so worn off its sign that it might as well have been called just that.

"This'un," he stated rather breathlessly. "A'ight, you." A very determined hand lunged forth and grabbed hold of Lacey's forearm. "Let's go get drunk."

((Sorry, I've been so neglectful with this. :x I don't think I'll be able to keep up with very consistent posting until towards the end of the month. If you'd like, we can either keep going with them chatting and drinking and whatnot or just toss in a convenient "fade to black" at some point.))

((i am happy to do what ever you like darl. just lemme know! ))



Lacey laughed loudly and allowed herself to be led.

"Aye! That is a sentiment I can agree with! Yarr!" She skipped a little as she walked with him.