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Omorose was a woman of occasional words and ever-present austerity. Her stringency made her ideal for the position of a leader, but her tyrannical nature made her equally as impotent as the captain that sat before her. Her face and eyes were reminiscent of stone, still, unwavering and stern.
To avoid suspicion, she flagged down one of the bar maids and ordered her own decanter of whiskey. As she waited, she pulled a burlap satchel from the recesses of her rucksack and gently drew the string, having revealed a healthy heap of the blackest and ripest currants. She speared the plump berries with her fingers first, bleeding them dry of their juices with a lap of her tongue and gnash of her teeth.
When her whiskey came she took a long, exaggerated drawl from the decanter and reveled in its oaky aroma before swallowing yet another handful of currants, seeds and all.
Omorose held her men in high regard. She knew each of their names, which plantations they were borne of and even the name of their late masters (which she slew).
“I’ll leave with you.” Abasi, within an earshot, was shocked to hear how willing she was. Her nefarious nonchalance was something to note, but often represented miscommunication. “You will meet me at the grotto south east of the bay come dusk with one barrel of black currants, a satchel of pomegranates and a cask or whiskey or bourbon. I’ve no preference between them and don’t quite care how you get them.”
She stabbed at the last of her berries and swallowed hard, swirling her drink in its cup as she gazed into it. “I’m going to half to be drunk half this trip to even fathom being anywhere near fucking … pirates. White pirates, no less.”
"Lord," Lars breathed, contemplating the woman across the table. It wasn't much to ask, but it was ... particular. He was unaccustomed to particular. "I'll arrange all of it myself, mijn koningin." Her distaste for present company made him chuckle. It was a common aversion, understandably. "We've got a Negro with us," he offered in a compromising tone. "And a couple of Turks. So you'll have friends." If, finally, that was all, he was happy to push himself out of his seat and nod good-bye. "At dusk." On his way out, he shot a friendly smile to the silent one at the door.
By the time he made it back to his ship, his men were close to mutiny. Tensions had been running high for some time now, as they typically did whenever Subira sent him off on a distant objective, with little opportunity for piracy in-between. Her adventures were universally unprofitable, which was an obvious problem for a crew of treasure-seekers. Pair that with the whimsical nature of these assignments, and you had most people who knew him (or knew of him) now figuring him for a goddamn lunatic. They called him Captain 'Mad' Bullens. Very clever.
At any rate, when he was first drumming up a meager crew to start fresh after the Judith, he'd made the good choice of hiring people who were more inclined to hear a man out than throw him over the side with a rope around his neck. After some hours, he'd managed to placate his men, entirely through the use of outright lies concerning the plan ahead of them. And after all that, he had to skip into market to find some goddamn currants and pomegranate.
Miraculously, they'd made it to the arranged grotto as the sun was setting. True to her word, thank God, the little ship carrying Omorose and her friends was waiting for them. Lars himself lowered the gangplank.
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