𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐌𝐀𝐍'𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 ▸ W. TURNER

𝟣. 𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑠𝘩𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡

𝐂 𝐇 𝐀 𝐏 𝐓 𝐄 𝐑 𝐎 𝐍 𝐄

[ 𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑔𝑎 ]

𝐼𝑇 𝑊𝐴𝑆 𝑆𝐻𝑂𝑅𝑇𝐿𝑌 𝐴𝐹𝑇𝐸𝑅 𝑆𝐻𝐸 𝐻𝐴𝐷 𝐴𝐿𝑀𝑂𝑆𝑇 𝑆𝐿𝐼𝑃𝑃𝐸𝐷 𝐼𝑁 𝑉𝑂𝑀𝐼𝑇 𝐹𝑂𝑅 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑅𝐷 𝑇𝐼𝑀𝐸 𝑇𝐻𝐴𝑇 𝑁𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇 𝑇𝐻𝐴𝑇 𝐿𝐼𝐿𝐿𝐼𝐴𝑁 𝐿𝑌𝑆𝐴𝑁𝐷𝐸𝑅 𝐶𝐴𝑀𝐸 𝑇𝑂 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐹𝐼𝑅𝑀 𝑅𝐸𝐴𝐿𝐼𝑆𝐴𝑇𝐼𝑂𝑁 𝑇𝐻𝐴𝑇 𝑆𝐻𝐸 𝐻𝐴𝐷 𝐶𝑂𝑀𝑃𝐸𝐿𝑇𝐸𝐿𝑌 𝐻𝐴𝐷 𝐼𝑇 𝑊𝐼𝑇𝐻 𝑃𝐼𝑅𝐴𝑇𝐸𝑆.

It had been said that if every town in the world were like Tortuga then a man could never feel unwanted, but after five years of serving rum to the godforsaken bastards who docked in the Port, Lillian couldn't help but wish they felt a little more wanted somewhere else.

It was crystal clear that this particular pile had come from the man now slumped against a pillar not two metres away – Lillian guessed he must have done his business, fallen in it himself and promptly crawled away to the nearest rest spot. There were even stains on the knees of his breeches to match up with her deductions.

Sighing dejectedly under her breath, she upturned the half-drunk mug of ale in her hands onto the flagstones to disperse the mess. It spattered against her boots, the black leather now flecked with yellow and she grimaced. Tonight clearly wasn't her night.

She'd been working the bar since midday, when the sun rose high above the port and a façade of relative civilisation still remained. Now that the moon had replaced her brother in the sky the illusion was gone, and the patrons of Lysander's tavern were proving to be just as wild as ever. Both ale and rum flowed freely, poured straight from the hundreds of barrels her mother stored downstairs in the basement – and which Lillian spent most of her mornings hauling back up to street level in time for service. Raucous laughter and slurred arguments punctuated a backing track of endless sea shanties. No evening passed without at least one brawl, though a count below anything around five would've been remembered as a miracle. And to think Lysander's was considered one of the more respectable establishments in Tortuga.

Tucking a stray lock of fiery auburn hair back behind her ear, Lillian made her way towards the bar, where her uncle Niall was passing dusty bottles over the counter to a pair of middle-aged merchants. Behind them, a young woman sat nursing a large mug of rum – dressed in a shirt and breeches yes, but still recognisably female. Her dark hair, partially braided and strung with gold beads, was held down with a length of tan fabric wrapped around her forehead, and her light brown skin glowed with the telltale signs of a recent trip to sea.

"Only five more hours to go!" She called out as Lillian wound her way through the patrons to join her uncle, followed by a bout of crackling laughter. Lillian scowled back at her.

"Please Marin, don't remind me. I'm liable to lose all sense of sanity before the night's over if this carries on!" As if on cue, a group of men gathered around a table in the corner all began to stand up, slurred voices raising as they argued. Lillian, unable to deal with the prospect of breaking up yet another fight, simply turned her back to them and tried her best to ignore the yelling.

"What did you expect, it's a Friday?" Marin continued between sips of rum. "Plus I heard Port Royal was crawling with marines today, one of the merchants said they were under fire last night, so anybody who was meant to unload there this morning moved on pretty swift."