The Jackdaw

Chapter 1: Jack

You took refuge in the warmth of the tavern. The cold rain outside left you drenched, your clothes clinging to your skin. It was early morning and if it hadn't been raining it would have been void of people. But every sailor in the area had the same idea as you, flooding their way into the warmth and filling the air with shanties and drunken laughs.

It was a large tavern, larger than most of the buildings in the area. But this was Kingston after all. A large city with a large number of sailors would demand an expansive space.

You dropped your heavy bag under your stool and settled down. You hunched down at the bar, your jacket unbuckled loosely around your form, your shirt gaping open ever so slightly. You kept your hair tasseled back, a blue bandana failing to keep most of it out of your face. A cocked hat helped hide some of your features from curious passersby.

The barkeep made his way over, taking the coins you slid over to him.

You took the tankard but mostly for show. You needed to keep your wits about you tonight.

You were happily roosted in the corner, waiting out the brunt of the storm. There were other places to be or rather any place that wasn't Kingston. And very far away from the city guard.

"Watch it now, lass." The barkeep glanced up at you, nudging his chin in the direction over your shoulder. He leaned on the bar, lifting his voice at the roaring group of men. "What can I get you, gents?"

You let your hand slide down to the small dagger buckled tightly against your calf. You weren't expecting to cause trouble. No, of course not. But you'd been in your fair share of taverns, and sailors with rum-clouded judgment tended to be fairly crude in their advances. And even cruder at accepting refusals.

Their laughter was loud beside you, their breath already coated with drink.

"Well, now." One leaned his side into the bar, his chest inches from your shoulder. "A fine lookin' lady, eh? Here all on your lonesome, I reckon." He was leaning closer now, a finger drifting along your cheek.

It took everything in you not to cringe. It would only encourage them.

You already had your dagger drawn and pressed it against his belly. You flicked your gaze towards him. "Take a walk, friend." You didn't have the energy for a fight. The bag at your feet held something precious, something you didn't want to get caught with. So drawing attention to yourself was the last thing you wanted.

"Aw, c'mon, sweetheart." His laugh startled to an end when you pressed the blade harder. The boys behind him chuckled, hardly aware of the situation. He backed away, lips pressed hard, irritated but submitting. He turned to his mates, spouting out harsh remarks at their goading.

You waited a moment longer, taking a large swallow of your rum, before getting up. The tavern was too dangerous. Any moment the guards would be called because of a senseless brawl. You didn't want to get caught with your bag full of precious goods. You'd lie low somewhere else in the vast expanse of Kingston, somewhere without so many people.

You hauled the bag over your shoulder and weaved your way through the stumbling patrons. The rain wasn't as heavy as it was earlier but still bitterly cold. Compared to the tropical heat that usually burned down on you, this was freezing.

A strong muscled arm abruptly encircled your neck. It pulled you hard along the road, down the alleyway by the tavern. He shoved you back hard against the wall, fingers jumping to squeeze at your neck. "No wench draws a blade on me."

This too wasn't unfamiliar territory. You let the heavy bag drop from your grasp. You reached behind you the moment he pressed his chest against yours and buried his mouth hard and sloppily onto your lips.