“Come all ye young fellows that follows the sea. To me, way hey, blow the man down,” Tristram belted with vigor, his arm sweeping high above his head. His fingers held firm to a short pewter beaker as the cup flailed about the sky. He sat with the back of his seat against the wall, one leg propped atop the table, the other sprawled out lazily on the floor. “Now please pay attention and listen to me. Give me some time to blow the man down.” 

“Shut yer bloody trap!” A patron screamed from the back of the room, having grown tired of the man’s singing. 

The harsh words stung the captain. His glazed eyes widened to a pout as his flailing arm fell short. “Not a fan of Blow Me Man Down? I know Drunken Sailor too!” He shot his arm back to the heavens, rum spilling from the goblet and ran down his arm as it continued its dance. “What ‘ill we do with a drunken ‘ailor?”

“We’ll beat em senseless, if ye don’t pipe down.”

Tristram’s leg dropped from the table, sending his chair upright. His torso rolled to a slouch atop the table as his hand carreened to the floor. With a clank, the goblet’s rim hit the ground, spilling the dark contents into a puddle around his fingers. His head bobbed to the side as a frown fell upon his face. His glossy stare danced about the room before falling on a petite barmaid cleaning the table next to him. “How rude.”

“I rather enjoyed your singing,” the maid replied, flinging the wet rag atop her shoulder. “Sweet as a bird, I’d say.”

“Ain’t you a sweet bird,” Tristram slurred with a smile, bringing a blush to the woman’s cheeks. She hastily grabbed an armful of dirty mugs from the table and scampered off to the kitchen. “Way hey and up she rises,” Tristram muttered as he watched her leave. His head bobbed back to the table as he picked his arm from the floor. He raised the mug to his lips, tilting it back in eager anticipation. Not a drop hit his tongue. Dumbfounded by the lack of beverage, he lifted the cup above his head, shaking it as he peered curiously inside.

“Hello sailor,” the chirpy voice of a wench sang out to the captain. She moved across the tavern on the slender stilts of legs, the skirt of her dress fluttering about the bottom of her wide waist as she moved. She placed herself in front of the inebriated gentleman, her tightly constrained torso crawling across the table. Her large bosum dangled atop the tabletop as she slid a large tankard, filled to the brim, in front of him. “Looking for me, handsome?”

Tristram’s eyes widened with delight. His fingers slipped from the empty pint, the mug clattering to the floor as they greedily flew to the fresh one. 

“What’s your name, darling?” The woman asked, catching the man’s hand between hers.

“Cap’n Tristram,” he mumbled, his dazed stare running up her arm to her breasts. 

“Captain, eh?” The woman smiled, helping the man bring the pint to his lips. She wrapped her arm around him, her fingers tracing the edge of his ear as she placed herself atop the man’s knee. “I bet a captain as strong and powerful as yourself has quite the tale to tell.”

“Aye,” the captain nodded. “You want a story, bird? I have the best stories.”

“I do,” the whore whispered in his ear. “Tell me a story, Captain Tristram. What brings you to Whitehaven?”

“Well, bird,” Tristram slurred between sips, watching the woman’s chest bounce with each breath she took. “We stopped for supplies. We’re going to Damascus!”

“Damascus?” The woman asked. “What brings you to Damascus?”

“Me bloke has business there. Some urgent business with another… Bloke?”

“Captain!” 

Tristram’s brow narrowed in confusion. His eyes bobbed about the room in search of the familiar squeak of a voice calling to him. 

“Tell me more,” the wench sang, her finger tilting his attention back on her. “What kind of business?”

“Captain!” Damien screamed, bobbing and weaving through the sea of drunken sailors before arriving at the table. 

“And here he is!” Tristram exclaimed. “This is the bloke I was talking about! Er… The first one.” Mr. Damien Frogfeather! Meet…” Tristram’s brow furrowed in confusion, struggling to recall the name he was never given.

“Ruby.”

“Miss Ruby! Of course! Mr. Damien Fairybottom meet Mrs. Ruby.”

“Fayweather, sir,” Damien corrected. 

“Fairwater. Of course.”

“Mr. Tristram, I must speak with you at once.”

“Then speak,” spittle flew from Tristram’s lips, smacking Damien on the chin.

Privately,” Damien scowled, wiping the droplet away with his sleeve. 

“Privately? You can speak your words here. Everyone ‘ere is but the closest of mates.”

“Yes, dear,” Ruby said, sliding off Tristram’s lap and slinking over to Damien. Her fingers danced up the man’s back, finding a home on his right shoulder. “We are the closest of friends, darling.”

“I’m sorry, but no.” Damien pried the woman’s hand from his shoulder, shoving her aside before taking a seat at the table. “We have delicate matters to discuss, not of which is meant for the ears of a whore.”

The woman’s jaw dropped at the statement. She screamed in disgust, plucking a dirty glass from the nearby table and flinging the contents on Damien before leaving in a huff.

“Bloody ‘ell! Don’t you know it’s bad luck to piss off a whore? You done did jinxed us, mate!”

“Captain Tristram, we must leave immediately.” Damien blurted, shaking the muck of rum off his jacket.

“Leave? W-why the hell ‘ould we leave?” The captain grabbed his pint before leaning in close to his mate. “Have you seen the broads here?”

“Sir, rum and broads are fine and dandy, but we are in grave danger.”

“Blimey! You’re right!” The captain shouted, leaning back in his chair. “You’re without rum! Bar wench! Fetch this man a pint!”

“No, sir!” Damien snatched the inebriated captain’s mug from his paw and pushed it to the far edge of the table. “You must listen!”

“Damien, I-I don’t know where you are from, but from where I come from, that is an act o’ war, you summa bitch!” The captain focused his glazed eyes on Damien. Ever so calmly, he pulled a dagger from his belt and brought it to the table, the glittering blade pointed at the gentleman. “Gimme my rum.”

Shocked by the sudden change in mannerism, Damien slowly pushed the pint back towards the captain.

The captain grabbed the pint with excitement. He took two long gulps before lowering it back to the table. “Now then, w-what was this about peril?”

“Sir, you must listen,” Damien pleaded, placing his hand atop the blade and sliding it off the table into his lap. “We have more dire matters on our hands. Another ship is pulling into port. I believe they are coming for me. We must leave. Immediately!”

“Now what would a ship want with the likes of you? You’re nothing s-special,” the captain responded groggily. He took one last sip from his tankard before dropping the empty cup to the floor and laying his head on the table. “Just calm down. We’ll leave in the morning,” 

“I don’t have till the morning,” Damien mumbled, his eyes darting about the room. “They’re coming now.”