13 January, 1692
After dark
The Omen, docked at St. Cyprian

The harbor's waters were quiet and lapped gently against the Omen's creaking hull. Her sails were all drawn up and her anchor rested far below. The  schooner's enchanted lines wove and coiled themselves securely home assisted by the few human hands left. The sails were all drawn up, the anchor resting far below, and the owls had all gone ashore for a much-needed hunt. Everything about the ship smelled of heavy weariness. The flight to St. Cyprian had been interminable and the teeth of all were skinned tight. Had it not been for a devil's bargain or two, the halved crew of the Omen would all be in shackles, courtesy of the keepers of the Statute of Secrecy.

The captain Barnabas Cuffe, all haggard and gnashing had ordered all stay aboard and not set one boot or hoof ashore until his say-so. "Leave this ship before I please and you'll come aboard again in pieces, I swear it," he'd shouted. An unusual threat in content but common in quality.

Now at this hour, having been pacing his cabins for two hours, he emerged in a banging flurry. His greying hair a monstrous halo, his frock coat frayed and whipping, and grey blue eyes wild, the old man appeared clutching a flapping black bird by the neck.[1] Although Cuffe appeared to have the upper hand on the creature for now, his dominance was in contention. The raven, otherwise unharmed, was well talon'd and assailing Cuffe's knuckles.

"Where's the &#*!'ing cook! This &@*'ing chicken's not worth its shits!"

He stopped short and spun around. "What bleeding hell are all you dull-brained cacks crying about! Babies!"

1.	It's Pirate!Trouble!

Night had fallen over the Omen, but most of the remaining crew had yet to succumb to it.  After the anchor had been lowered and the Captain had stormed off to despond in his cabin, there had still been plenty to do: secure the guns, furl the sails, hide their colors and clean up the decks.

The schooner had endured its share of damage during their flight, and there was only so much that a wand could repair.  The foremast had taken a direct hit from some chain shot, and the upper spar was dangling precariously enough that Kurby hadn't wanted to leave it until morning.  The task wasn't as easy as simply levitating it to the ground.  Lines had to be untangled from line and broken wood, sail had to be detached, and then the heavy wooden beam had to be lowered, carefully, using a series of blocks and tackles.  After the day's events, he'd much rather trust in a pulley system than try to engineer a complex coordination of wandwork.

They just about had the spar down to the deck when the hatch on the quarterdeck burst open and Cuffe emerged in one of his most horrid furies.  Kurby, who had stationed himself at the halyard to take on most of the weight and control the pace, turned and looked directly at Theo Blake. 

It had been an exceptionally long day.  She could deal with the captain.

Still, even though he knew that the navigator was the best equipped to talk down the madman who was currently trying to throttle the only reason they'd managed to escape in as few pieces as they did, he was frustrated enough by the day's turn that he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"They took the damned cook," he put in curtly, his gaze locked back on the descending spar.

Just behind him, Theo met Kurby Bagnold's expectant stare with a long-suffering one of her own, her eyes darkening to a deep, resentful blue under the wand lights that floated above the spar. She huffed right in his face, then called over a deckhand to take her place at the pulley. The sleepy-eyed kid had been watching the harbor with a tapping foot. This would keep him busy.

"I'll talk him down, but it's going to take both of us to get him on land," she spoke in Kurby's ear as she passed him by.

Wiping her hands on the edges of her ratty linen shirt, Theo hopped off the foredeck, the strangled cawing of the raven ringing more loudly in her mind than Cuffe's voice ever could. Trouble the Treasure! She'd nicknamed the raven fondly, inventing several songs for her on these long nights out at sea. Trouble the Treasure had saved her life this trip.

Though her stomach sank at the reminder of those they'd lost, she rolled the knots out of her shoulders and quickened her pace. Her damp hair waved around her face in a dark cloud of frizz.

There was Cuffe, Trouble in his grasp. Theo kept her gaze on the captain, pulling out a few random papers from the depths of her back trouser pocket. She waved the parchment and ran the steps up to the quarterdeck.

"Captain! You're absolutely right - We need to talk before we step one foot off this ship-"

She paused for the collective groan.

"It'll only take a few minutes to review the repairs, and then we can be on our way. To St. Cyprian, den of devilry. Or as I like to think of it, port of the hopping pot," she allowed a smile. Cruel, to speak to Cuffe's stomach, but what else could she do? They'd lost their cook.

"Never mind the chicken. You're going to lose your hand, and then where will we be. Shopping for hooks among the devils."

And cooks! She dared not rhyme aloud. Theo stepped forward, fluttering the papers at his chest.

"They took the damned cook!"

Cuffe whirled on Bagnold but his eyes focused on the interminably forthright quartermaster for only a second before glassing over to rifle through the roster, the holes in the crew. Taken was the cook, taken was the carpenter, the first mate, the second mate... He seemed to pale for a moment, like a gale changing direction.

He jerked up when Blake came sliding in with her reason and measured suggestions. He released the raven who flapped and clapped her beak at his head before perching on whatever head or shoulders she could find in and about Kurby Bagnold's head.

"Fine! All hands report! Haul your damn dirty arses to the deck for storytime. All seven of you!"

He slashed his hand through the air, his lined face wet with rain. It was only days ago that the Omen's lines were crawling with people, his people, their people. Every station had a first and a second, the hold was full of swinging hammocks, everything always abuzz. Now they were haunted with silence, running like skeletons without rest.

"If ye don't want to be snatched away, best chain your bodies down. #&*@ me blind!"

Quick as their weary legs could carry them, the remaining crew gathered within earshot (but beyond arms reach). Cuffe crossed his arms. He gestured with mocking grandness to the diminuative Theodora Blake, their only remaining daughter of the mundane.

"If the last one has something to say."

Theo glanced beyond the port city where the line of palm trees became a forest for the owls. The rain obscured the trees, but she knew the line was there and she knew she was here, the deck shifting beneath her feet.

Trouble the raven knew it too. Trouble could see further than anyone, though she hardly ever left.

She could forgive a wizard who looked like a ghost. Squaring her shoulders, she turned from Cuffe to face the ragtag gang. Since the age of thirteen, she'd had the advantage of meeting many men at eye-level, but standing next to the Wiry One made her seem a bit taller.

"Alright folks. Before we find a warm meal and a place to rest, let's go through this list quick."

The crew called out ideas of what had to be done tonight and what could wait till morning. She took notes of what they needed in town, cradling the parchment close to her beneath the wide brim of her soaked hat.

Theo added what she needed as well - a replacement dial for her spyglass, never-ending rolls of parchment, a few jars of balm for her hands. Multiples of what Cuffe needed that he might lose or smash in a fury. She wrote it all down, raindrops muddying her illegible scrawl. Writing served as its own memory magic. Her maps were immaculate, but her messy notes were entirely for her.

Towards the end of the list, she looked up to meet Kurby's eyes. The quarterdeck had enough space for three. She took her time folding the parchment and pocketing her auto-quill, signaling to the others that they could relax for a minute.

"Which leaves one more problem," Theo lowered her voice, focusing on Cuffe's pale, rain-streaked face.

"Crew."

Her mouth thinned into a rueful line. Replacements, she couldn't quite say.

It wasn't easily explained why (of all who'd tried) it was the muggle Theodora Blake who had a hold over Cuffe's tempers. Rumors of something tawdry had been proved baseless, and none would suspect Blake of blackmail. Some guessed that perhaps they were kin but family resemblance wasn't easily established. Her influence was not undue and she earned no special privileges for it. In all ways Cuffe showed her as little compassion or companionship as he did anyone else. The remarkable anomalies of her control occurred in cases such as these, when there was something what needed doing that required a delicate hand or when Cuffe was being harried by some demon, raven, or other specter.

Thus he allowed her to hold senate among their remaining numbers and take a tally of the Omen up and down. Until of course, they came to their most painful and pressing predicament. They'd limped into port with the scanty numbers they had, sure, but they were not close to enough hands to do any quest worth doing. If the Omen could not sail, they could not take on work, and if they could not take on work, what the $&!*$ing hell were they about!

He held silent for moment, then wiped his hand down his face. A horrible fear was following him now, that if he let a single one of these roustabouts out of his sight, they'd be snatched away and their predicament worsened and it would be all down to him a mad man flailing at the lines of a sinking ship in a wine-dark sea. But he must relent. They'd decompose otherwise.

"I'll have no argument against it," he said with a sniff. "We will be taking on more crew and you lot will just have to shove it up your ass. This bloody ship doesn't sail itself, those guns don't bellow like happy volunteers! Or do you imagine that gold and silver will just swim its way to us, on the backs of sea turtles and serpents? Eh?"

Of course, there would be no complaint. Cuffe was arguing against himself more than the desperate-eyed kind standing on the empty deck below.

"The least dull-witted of you will go into town tonight as soon as you figure out how to tie your shoes to bring us back supper. Tomorrow, we'll start again."

He paused for a moment. "And someone find me an oracle."

He considered himself more Healer and Love than he did Sailor, but Neeraj had come to understand the unerring ways of sailing in the last five years onboard The Omen. Which was to say, rely only upon the moodiness of the sea and of their captain. One could hardly blame Cuffe, however, considering their recent losses.

For land to be so close and yet so far was frustrating; still, Neeraj had been uncomplaining and thoughtful as he helped out where he could on deck. The quartermaster, at any rate, had an unending list of tasks to accomplish.

Blake's calming and sensible hand eventually asserted itself into Cuffe's temper. This gave the Healer a sense of things returning back to normality - to putting one foot in front of the other instead of stagnating on the damned ship like a stew waiting to be devoured by worser fates. Neeraj piped in with his own suggestions for what they urgently needed onboard; his voice was pressing but it carried a sedate note.

The loss of life always did dampen his spirits in a particular way. He wished he could totter into town and find the closest pub for a deep, deep drink. Instead he listed potions and herbs and various antidotes - some more urgent than others.

"I volunteer as one of the least of dull wits," Neeraj raised a hand as he turned away from some crewman, addressing Blake initially and then looking at Cuffe with a straight face. "Oracle? Man or woman, or are we not in a position to be superstitious about these things, Captain?"