"Man overboard!"
Captain Barbossa tried to ignore this cry, as he was peering with exaggerated scrutiny at an ancient map covered in indecipherable scrawls. It had been some weeks since he had mutinied against Jack Sparrow and left him on that balmy, palmy, godforsaken island, and already he was regretting not asking Jack for clearer directions to the Isla de Muerta. Jack's notes were no help- they resemble the mirror writing of Leonardo da Vinci after he'd taken some bad acid and then discovered he had nothing but chicken claws to write with.
However, the next line forced him to look up. "Hang on- it's someone from the wreck we caused yesterday! Haul the weevil up!"
Oh blast, he thought, time to do the old Intimidating Pirate Captain act. Better go outside and make an impression. "Come Jack," he commanded the monkey imperiously. It gibbered inanely and handed him an apple. He sighed, and limped out unaccompanied.
The 'weevil' was standing on the deck, shivering under a foul smelling coat that belonged to a member of his crew and not quite meeting the stares of the men. It was female, just about. It sneezed then glared at him defiantly.
"Are you the captain of this ship?" it demanded in a voice so jarringly, neurotically well-bred Barbossa had to fight down the urge to do a mad little dance and start speaking patois.
"I am the captain of the Black Pearl," he instead confirmed, smiling his Lascivious Pirate smile. "Who be ye?"
The 'be' beside the 'ye' was a mistake. She was frostily forming a perplexed expression and was probably going to ask for a translation. He sighed again, and re-asked, "Who are yer?"
She brightened horrible, then cleared her throat. "I am Captain Mariella Suzanna Lovehaste, of the pirate ship Mystic Waters."
"Aye," Barbossa said. "We sank you yesterday in a two minute battle." 'Battle' was putting it a bit strongly. 'Putting a ship out of its misery' was closer.
She gasped. "You are my nemesis!" she cried. "I must face you in armed combat, and seek my vengeance!" With a flourish she had clearly practised, she drew the most impressively decorated sword Barbossa had ever seen. Some of the crew with a strong sense of theatre gasped and drew back, but spoiled the effect by grinning.
Barbossa delicately reached out, took the sword off her and flicked the blade. It went doing. He met her eyes. She reddened.
Captain Lovehaste, or 'Deathwish' Lovehaste as Barbossa was mentally christening her, was not simply slight and slim of build, but sparse and spare, even bony and brittle. God alone knew Barbossa wasn't a fan of large women (behind about fifteen layers of clothing and a beard you could swaddle a medium-sized dog in, he was quite a small man, with dear little feet that were quite extraordinarily ticklish), but he liked women to have a bit of substance to them. Captain Lovehaste had thin hair of a mousy brown that stirred like well-worn sheets on a washing line in the breeze, thin lips and a thin nose, clear but small eyes, absolutely no breasts to speak of (the monkey had bigger mammary glands than her), and it was impossible to tell the difference between her ankle and her calf except by guesswork, aided by the dreadful leather breeches she wore. Even a pout would have done. Even a more original personality. The only thing full and voluptuous about her was her eyebrows- or rather her eyebrow, a huge dark brown smudge above her lids that looked like a hirsute slug.
He shuddered, and handed back her sword. There was an awkward silence, then he addressed his crew. "As you were, lads…"
She seemed slightly thrown off course. "I expect," she said, "you'll want me to do some back-breaking drudge work?"
Barbossa shrugged. "Wring yourself out and scrub the deck then."
He wandered back into his cabin, the plaintive cry of, "But I'm your adversary!" floating behind him.