Wood splintered off, seemingly from nowhere in a mess of smoke and dust, some chips large enough to slice at skin while others blinded enraged crew members along with other rubbish the canon ball bestowed upon the Spanish ship. Heavy led making reasonable damage with each hit landed on the oak. It's captain, Antonio Carriedo Fernandez, stood in the middle of it all; watching his men fire shots of their own and fend off blood-thirsty Englishmen wielding swords and guns; he himself having fought off the ones that dared approach him albeit quite beat up as a result. He could only watch in disgust as another canon ball shot through the thick air, this time closer to his position, successfully throwing him a fair distance across the deck leaving him far more battered than he'd ever admit. A particularly loud crash and several voices yelling obscenities along with his name was the last he could remember before his body plunged into the icy waters of the Atlantic ocean.

A few hours later, though Antonio could've sworn he had been drifting in the salty water for months, his eyes cracked open to be met by blinding midday light, burning his already tanned skin mercilessly to the point that small splashes of water felt painfully relieving. The cold was appreciated, but the salt was less than pleasant on his irritated skin.

"Mierda... mi cabeza... (Shit... my head...)" Antonio groaned to himself as he clung to the drift wood his body attached itself to subconsciously in the midst of passing out. He could feel his broken limbs protest when he shifted his position to a more comfortable state, his chest resting at the center of the wooden plank as a small wave turned him south. Years of living in the seas gave him the advantage of stabilizing himself in the rocky waters and a sense of direction; at least he hoped so, not knowing how disoriented he was left him guessing the direction in which he was led. Green eyes snapped open wider than they'd ever gone since he'd woken up upon catching a glimpse of a dot in the distance. Land?! In a sudden burst of eagerness when the Spaniard attempted to sit up for a better look, he placed too much weight on the wood and was sent underwater again. Brilliant.

A growl left Antonio's lips at his foolishness after he resurfaced with a stinging face, particularly his eyes. Using the same burst of energy to get a head start into what he hoped to be an island inhabited or not, maybe even a town, but that was wishful thinking- hell, anything with food would suffice at that point. Fending off mounds of seaweed, avoiding anything that looked hungry within the depths of the water and jelly fish was the last thing he hoped for when he floated and paddled to his destination.

The sun was close to setting by the time he reached the shore; he was ready to become a merman by then, to say the least. Exhausted and not in the best of moods, the fallen captain clawed his way through the thick sand of the shore, footprints were visible and he could hear distant chatter and laughter; greeting the noise with a middle finger to the air in irritation. Fatigue and hunger did that to people. When no one approached him, probably in fear that he'd be a cannibalistic fish-man of sorts, Antonio took it upon himself to haul his battered body up and travel into the town, wet drags and all. It didn't dawn upon him how lucky he'd been not to encounter more than seaweed and jellyfish on his less-than-pleasant swim to the Italian village. The only way he knew it was Italian was by the similarity to Spanish in the signs he saw, fancy bastards just couldn't accept his language for what it was. They just had to feel special by adding o's and i's where they didn't belong, the pirate thought bitterly as he kicked a rock out of his way, regretting it moments later when the stinging hurt reminded him he wasn't wearing shoes.

"Fantastico." A scowl tugged at his lips as he neared a bakery, the treats were mouthwatering and he had half a mind of robbing the place; had he had his trusty gun with him, Antonio would've. He wasn't above scaring people into giving him what he wanted. And those doughnuts were it.

Without knowing it, he stood at the window gawking at the mouthwatering treats, begging to be eaten by the all-too eager man who was nearly drowning in his own want for food. In his state, it was hard to notice a small, auburn haired woman graciously making her way through the crowd of busy Italians as though she owned the place.

Lovina wasn't scowling. That was just the expression her face naturally fell into. She didn't mind going into town to shop too much. She actually rather liked it. The problem was that she disliked needing to go like she was a common servant. She was a servant to her Lord and no one else. She sure as Hell wasn't going to serve any mortal. But her little fratello had eaten most of the food remaining in the church pantry and they wouldn't have enough for the rest of the day. They had people to serve to, after all. And trying to explain to her brain-dead sibling that not everyone on the planet wanted pasta for every meal was a waste of breath. Besides, if nothing else, she wanted more tomatoes. Could never have too many tomatoes.

She adjusted her hood around her neck, trying to keep the worst of the sun off her skin. Her skin didn't need any more sun, it was already a lightly tanned olive. Unlike most women, she wore her hair down in long auburn waves, one odd curl off to one side. Her hair was her glory and her only possible vanity – at least to herself. Conceit wasn't something she knew of, never really noticing how young men sometimes gaped at her in the street at her smoldering gold eyes and angelic face. She ignored them all. What did she need to do with them? Even if she paid attention, their efforts to win her would be fruitless. Never serving a mortal man and all that.

It had its advantages though. Lovina was very well known, though not as much as her brother. People never spoke of her as glowingly as they did her brother either. However, she was the more intimidating of the two, so people respected her as a lady of God and as a testy young woman the same. As she wandered through the streets, looking for the needed venders, she never made eye contact with anyone and no one tried to look her dead in the eyes either. Lady of God or not, her temper was still a force to be reckoned with. People said sometimes that she had the spirit of God in her, certainly; she was the wrath of God incarnate.

"Where the hell is the fruit stand? Did they move again, dammit?" Lovina cursed under her breath. Her mouth was to be feared as well. She bit her lip, looking around in annoyance. She wanted to get back as soon as possible, she had food to deliver. People swarmed all around her, always giving her the space she demanded, but something was off. They looked… spooked. Eyes were wider, children were skittish and the adults were wary. Now the little Italian was curious as well. Nothing bad ever happened around here. Come to think of it, there had been some very faint sounds the other night, explosions maybe, but… from very far away, barely noticeable. What was wrong now?

She walked faster, striding forcefully down the road that eventually led to the shore. The shops had thinned out down there, but people were looking more frightened and moving away faster as she got closer to the edge of the town. No one was running or anything, so it wasn't dire. Eventually, she broke through the crowd and lo and behold was the source of the anxiety among the townspeople.

He was a young man with tanned skin and dark hair and deep green eyes. His clothing was torn and damp and lined with seaweed. He was staring intently at the bakery. The problem wasn't just with his savage appearance. Upon closer inspection, his clothing wasn't just torn, it was positively shredded. Where there was no fabric, there were deep cuts into his skin, still red but long since devoid of blood. And his eyes. Lovina felt her heart stop. They were animalistic. Violent. She was a little scared.

She forced herself to take a step back and look at him. This man obviously needed something. He was injured and possibly starving, seeing how his eyes were trained on the food inside. Lovina knew the father wouldn't like it if she did nothing. This was part of her Christian duty and all that. She took a cautious few steps forward and made her voice as forceful as it always was. "Ehi, tu. Hai bisogno di aiuto o qualcosa del genere? Hai un aspetto di merda." (Hey, you. Do you need help or something? You look like shit.) Well, she still had her mouth.

~~~

Having been too caught up in fantasizing about sinking his teeth into the freshly baked goods, he didn't notice the people scampering around him or trying to avoid him, even if he had, he'd probably sneer at them or give them a real reason to fear him. A voice, sharp like a blade but sounding like bells broke him from his thoughts; just when he had a plan of breaking into the bakery down to five basic steps too. "Que?"(What?) His own heavily accented voice broke the silence that settled upon the pair among a sea of an anxious crowd. Still oblivious to the townspeople's obvious discomfort, he leaned against the wall, eyeing up the unknown female. She was... stunning to say the least. Anyone who knew a pirate- or any male deprived of intimacy for longer than a month, being stuck on a boat with large sweaty men only gave you so many options, would know that a man's first desire is contact. And what better way for that than by grabbing one of the long strands of hair swaying tauntingly in the wind?

Slender, dark fingers tangled themselves into the nearest lock of hair he could reach, using it to tug her closer to him despite his less-than appealing state; Antonio was confident in his appearance. Whether he looked like he'd been mauled by a bear or not. "Quien eres tu?"(Who are you?) The obvious language barrier was bound to get in the way, being far too proud to use the language of his enemy left the Spaniard at a disadvantage. Most other nations knew English, he didn't doubt this small city did as well.

"Hablas Español, nena?"(Do you speak Spanish, babe?) A smirk followed his words suggestively, leaning closer to her until he could smell the very faint, but still evident scent of flowers and wood, most likely from the woods or her home. He briefly wondered if he'd manage to get to her home, or food for that matter. While ladies were top of his list he couldn't do much with a starving stomach or rags for clothes. Speaking of which… hazy eyes traveled south to him. The dark red cloak he'd taken the time to demand the best tailor of his land to make and sew accordingly so was no more, it looked as though he'd thought it'd be a good idea to tie a blanket around him and then left it out in the rain. At least his pants were still intact, only several rips near the pant legs, the ends worn down from constant wear.

After receiving no more than a glare for a response, he gave the long, dark lock a harsh tug, forcing her closer to him until they were pressed flushed against each other, one smirking and the other attempting to glare a hole into the instigator's head.

"Que paso, estas muda?" (What happened, are you mute?) He teased once more, slowly becoming infuriated at the lack of response. His grumbling stomach wasn't helping much either, it seemed today just wasn't one of his best. No, that was an understatement, today sucked for the normally cheery Spaniard, never mind his happiness was derived from other's pain and conquering.

So he could hear her. Whether he could speak coherently was a different matter. He was saying something, but she couldn't piece together exactly what he was saying. Spanish, huh? Lovina knew a little Spanish. It was somewhat common around here, and she could converse pretty well. However, a lot of what he was saying was lost on her. The problem wasn't that she didn't know what he was saying. She figured it out quite clearly from the way he was eyeing her and what the fuck was he doing? Lovina had no idea what happened, but he grabbed her hair and pulled her to him and oh shit, she didn't like people touching her hair!

Before she could slap him, she was pulled against him and trying to figure out what he was saying again. Espanol? That meant Spanish, right? She was a little distracted by how he was eyeing her, sizing her up just as hungrily as he had been staring at the food. Lovina was torn between confusion, repulsion and fury. What in God's name was he doing? She glared daggers at him, half hoping that staring at him enough would cause him to burst into flames. She should be so lucky.

He kept on getting closer and her anger dissipated ever so slightly for on setting discomfort. She had never been this close to a man. Ever. It was freaking her out and his constant yanking on her God damn curl wasn't helping! It felt odd and she didn't like it. He said something else in that foreign tongue of his and his voice was getting scarier. She had already let this go on too far.

She snapped out of it very suddenly, tearing his hand away from her hair and gritting her teeth. As soon as his hand was away from her, she slapped him (backhand) across the face roughly. "Non mi toccare, cagna! (Don't touch me, bitch!)" she spat, pushing him back fiercely. "Cosa diavolo c'è di sbagliato in te? (What the hell is wrong with you?)" The few townspeople still around were looking on with mixed nervousness and amusement. This was going to be good. He was playing with fire and they all knew it.

"Io non so chi cazzo ti credi di essere, ma è meglio non toccare mai cazzo me again o io giuro a Dio … (I don't know who the fuck you think you are, but you better not ever fucking touch me again or I swear to God…)"

There it was... a response, he was getting closer and closer until- A stinging sensation not unlike the one of the ocean splashing his face struck him, only this time with deliberate strength and sharp nails. He all but grunted as he stepped back in shock, the hit hurt yes but after having swords try to skewer you and bullets embed themselves to your body; more specifically your shoulder which still has a stringing scar that refuses to cease its fury no matter how many treatments you apply to it, the least of your worries is a prissy lady with a knack for making your face her next punching bag.

"Carajo!"(Fuck!) Antonio hissed, the hand that had been toying with the angsty woman's hair shot up to clasp his stinging cheek; finally seeing their tactics caught several onlooker's attention. Seizing his opportunity, the crafty pirate smeared the blood from one of his still fresh wounds over his nose to play the slap off as an act of unreasonable violence against him, a suddenly weak, starving man with no shelter. At least that's the look he was aiming for when he feigned hurt and fell against the side of the bakery's wall with an asserted grunt, hoping to earn at least one passerby's sympathy, maybe even his attacker's.

If he couldn't force his way into a home, he'd guilt his way there; pride wasn't too much of a concern in this small village. He highly doubted anyone recognized him- and frankly he had more than enough reasons to be vulnerable if they did.

"Ay, por favor," (Ah, please) Antonio began in a much more humble tone than he first spoke to the fuming Italian with, hanging his head in a way that made him cringe inwardly. His pride was definitely bruised. Had it been under any other circumstance, the Spanish captain would've gone with his first plan and ransacked the store before anyone knew what happened. Alas, luck would have it that he be stuck playing a kicked puppy, promising himself to get back at the violent female as soon as he had the chance.

No one laid a hand on him and got away unscathed.

"No mas ocupo un lugar para descansar..." (I only need a place to rest…) Green eyes peered over the thickness of his fringe, now clinging to his damp forehead with some strands poking at his eyes, looking up at the relatively calmer girl. He could see the suspicion in her eyes, it was almost as evident as the lies swimming in his, still, if she was like every other woman he'd met she'd be eating out of the palm of his hand, helping him up and pampering him if only to keep her image to the public. Normally he despised them, the fake and malicious type of devils who disguised themselves behind a smile as fake as their breasts and a face coated in makeup as if it would hide their souls' imperfections; quite frankly she didn't seem to fit the bill. Of course he knew nothing about her, not her name or her attitude but judging by her vicious attack, he wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't an accident that people stirred free of her even then. On any other given day he would've hoped she was different but given his position, he could only pray she would follow through with the silent standards he bestowed upon her and give in to his play.

"Por favor..." (Please...) This time, he looked directly at her, green eyes flashing malicious intent briefly to assure her there was plenty awaiting her; before returning to their audience in a victimized look of hurt.