The Adventures of the HMS Harlot

Part 6: Roy Nightingale, Pilot

There was a Tutor at The Academy who always liked to bring up the importance of team building. One day, more fervent than usual, she said "No matter how strong or smart you are, you can't lift a main-mast off your broken, bloody femurs."

I think I may have been a little in love with her.

"And even if there are bodies wearing the same colors as you" she would continue, "you had better hope your sorry arse that they care enough about you to run into the shit-storm flavor of the week to pull what's left of your carcass around the corner to bleed out in peace."

What I took out of her singular lessons were twofold:

First-

Take the time to get to know your crew. Figure out what food they like, as much of their history as they care to share (prying tends to have a negative effect on most sailors), how do they act when they're drunk. The basics.

Second-

No one should look as good as Corporal Saxton did in standard issue officer leggings.

Regarding the first, and arguably more important point, I have decided that I've been too distant with much of the crew for too long. In fact, the only people on board who I've had extended conversations with can be numbered on one hand, with that sweetheart Otto almost topping the list.

I may have my qualms with where I am now, but that doesn't make my femurs any more immune to splintering. It's an unfair burden on Connor if nothing else, being the only one who drags my bloody carcass around after I get in over my head. Gods know he's done it enough over the years.

Today was a good day then, by very particular standards.

When the Captain, still hot and bothered about Little 'Dessa's closet skeletons, announced we were to pair off on our own for a field trip to the gun store, I realized that it would be a perfect time to branch out and try to make some headway with some of the crew.

I saw Connor and made my way to him first, seeing he had already lodged Eldon safely under his wing.

"Can you two manage on your own? I feel like making some friends today."

Connor gave me a wry look, obviously recognizing the glint in my eye. "Please tell me it's not Otto" he groaned.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you my friend." I couldn't suppress my smile. Connor could.

"Alas, we don't have nearly enough liquor for that budding friendship to bear fruit" I smiled back, "No, Little 'Dessa needs a friend right now I think. Look at her, she looks like she might burst a vein. Vicky stripped her of her delegatory responsibilities, a fate almost certainly worse than death, and she'll likely find it hard to group up."

"Captain's pretty mad at her" Connor said thoughtfully, "not many on board who would willingly sail that squall."

"I can think of at least one.... Eldon, make sure Connor doesn't hurt himself or do anything stupid, he's prone to that sort of thing as you know."

As I turned to find the only other person on board I could think of who might be reckless enough to sail into the coming shit-storm, I heard something between a grunt and a laugh and Connor call out "Fine, just don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Good. I still have plenty of options then."

Seymour was propped against the outer wall of the main cabin, polishing, as he always seemed to be, his beloved rifle. I don't know much about him, except that he's extremely competent when he wants to be. It's said that he can hit a crow from 500 yards... maybe 600 if he's a little tipsy, which is less often than one might expect of a sailor. We have had our little differences in the past, but I was absolutely convinced he was the man for this job.