The Happy Harpy is a sloop of war, mounting 20 guns and carrying an ever-growing crew, currently counted at 63.
At the helm of this ship, called pretty by the most hardened of sailors, stands a bungling captain with a heart of gold and the luck of a...
It is Wednesday morning, April 19, 1690, in the sleepy town of Misty Waters and a sleepy town it is indeed since it is still the wee hours of the day.
The sun has not yet risen, and no cock has even dared to crow; nothing is stirring; no man nor beast is out and about in the thick layer of mist covering the world. Except for the lights flickering in the windows of the Floundering Footman, everything is quiet.
Candles are lit inside the inn, bathing the bar area in warm, moving light, the shadows hiding the dire need for repairs the place is perpetually suffering from. The atmosphere is buzzing with anticipation and excitement, and there might even be a pinch of fear in the air, mingling with the smell of old ale and watered-down rum.
Most of the crew of the sloop, The Happy Harpy, are gathered in the bar that would've been deserted at this hour of the day if it weren't for their presence. The proprietor of this less-than-fine establishment, Hanford Abernathy, is well known for looking the other way and accepting coins from whoever is willing to pay him. He himself is constantly playing fast-and-loose with the law and in no position to betray others who do so too.
Trust and loyalty are things that are earned through time... and sometimes, it is forced on others by threats. In the case of the captain and crew of the Happy Harpy, Abernathy's trust and loyalty were gained through a little of both.
The government body of this specific town has long ago learned that keeping their noses out of the things going on in the underbelly of the dockside means that the less savoury people and activities stay in this area and don't spread out to the good folks of the... uhm... upper belly?
Right now, about 50 or so members of that less-than-savoury variety are sitting, standing and lounging around the bar, creating more customers than any usual night would have, and Hanford is not about to turn up his nose at them. He is gleefully re-filling chipped glasses and putting out battered wooden platters of crudely cut bread, cheese and ham, even though the sun is yet to peak over the hills.
At least, he was pouring drinks and handing out food at the scratched and pitted long shelf of the bar, but he has now joined the gathered men in gaping at the foot of the staircase, where a vision in pink and white lace and brocade has appeared from the bedrooms above the bar.
Her hair could do with a good brush, but Olivetta Brown doesn't need fancy updos and fine jewellery to enhance her sultry beauty. A white lace bow carelessly gathers some of the cascades of brown ringlets behind her head, and the trimming of lace at the dress's bodice barely keeps her creamy breasts from escaping their confines.
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First Mate Olivetta Brown
There is an audible sigh of wonder and desire rippling through the onlookers as they gaze at her glowing lips and her long, languid lashes. Most of the gathered men finally decide that drowning their fantasies in a mug of ale or rum is much healthier than engaging in any romantic ideas (some valiant, others not so much) involving the second in command of the Happy Harpy.
