When she told her story, she normally left out the part before she turned pirate. The part before the Pearl, the sea, and the Locker.

The daughter of a dead pirate and a Tortugan wench, she really wasn't anything out of the ordinary, save for the fact that she eventually withdrew from the wench business. For a wile she had instead worked at the same bar as her mother, serving drinks to sea dogs and watching them fall into the daze brought on by the rum. She also saw what they did to the women in their company, watching as the prettiest lass was taken by some old sailor over and over again. Not in front of everyone in the brothel, of course. She lived in Tortuga: she knew what went on in the rooms above her.

She had tried it once, being a wench. The dress she had worn was later burned, not that she would have been able to wear it again anyway. The man who had bought her for the night had ripped it to pieces in his haste, calloused hands and wiry hair rubbing unpleasantly against her skin. His face was gnarly and wrinkled, creased from the sea and covered in scars. After that, she never went about doing such a thing again. It turned her stomach whenever she remembered that particular memory. How the others did it, she would never know.

That was all before the Incident.

Nights passed, and she grew up significantly before it happened. Instead of seeking payment as a wench, she dodged about the brothel, bringing drinks to the drunken sailors. Many a man had made a grab for her after she refused to go above with them, though most of the time they were drunken and slow, and she was able to weave around their outstretched arms and groping hands. And yet, one younger man had reflexes as sharp as the small knife she had tucked into her bodice, which was kept just in case she needed it. He caught her as she was fleeing yet another unwanted attempt, tucked her under his arm, and wrestled her up the stairs. None tried to stop him, either not wanting to cause a stir or not caring whatsoever. Her shrieks were simply dismissed, her flails unnoticed.

He was gone after what felt like an eternity, and her body lay sprawled out on the bed, or at least what passed for one. That was the first time she had ever really sobbed. She had cried, yes, when her pet cat was shot by an angry sailor, when she had first realized what her mother really did for her job, when she fell and scraped her knee. She cried like any other lass her age, though never like that.

She resolved to leave Tortuga, find some pirate ship and learn to sail. The idea sounded spectacular to her, as she imagined herself at the helm of some glorious ship, commanding a strong, loyal crew in fierce, awe-inspiring battles against terrible foes. She might even get herself a cape of some sort. With the ideal fresh in her mind and what had just transpired pushed as far as possible from thought, she snuck out of the brothel to search for a ship she could crew. Or at least, the best looking one docked.

One with black sails caught her eye. One man stood on watch, keeping stowaways from clambering aboard. "Where be the rest of the crew?" She called up to him, attempting to sound pirate-like . Whatever the man was rolling around in his hand, he dropped, caught off-guard by the question directed at him. He then bent swiftly to pick it up, then returned into view, looking at her curiously.

"They be in there." He pointed to another brothel. Inwardly, she groaned, not wanting to enter one ever again.

"Thank ye," she said and trotted off in the direction he had pointed, the sign swinging above the door bearing the faded letters spelling out 'The Faithful Bride'. She snickered at the irony and pushed inside.

The place was crowded, and she didn't know whom she was looking for. So she did the sensible thing and asked someone, a grubby looking, drunk man. "Who be the captain of the ship with black sails?"

He looked around for a moment, as if expecting one of the surrounding men to have asked him. Not able to determine who it was who had asked him, he stated to the general area that the man at the table was who they were looking for, and pointed to the very man.

He indeed was sitting at a table, a short line of men in front of him, possibly looking to join his crew, which was just what she needed. Contrary to what she was expecting, he was rather young, as well as not alone. Well, had he been alone, she would have thought him foolish. What would have happened should he fall under attack? Nothing good, that's what.

The man next to him was rounder, shorter, and definitely older. Maybe he was the captain, not the one with dreadlocks and funny beard-thing. Either way, she sidled up to the line and stood there, waiting. It moved quickly, to which she was grateful. She didn't really want to talk to anyone, nor tell off someone looking for company. Stupid, sodding brothel.

Finally the man in front of her was first in line and, like all of them before he, he told his life's story, though abridged and not in any detail whatsoever. She didn't really care about it, and her attention was only drawn back to him when he flipped the table over and started yelling. She backed away, ducking into a shadowed corner as the rest of the men realized there was a fight amok and joined in hitting each other with bottles and throwing punches.

"So close," she muttered, rather disheartened. Then, she hauled herself out from her hiding place and walked directly into the one with the funny beard-thing.

"'Ello, there." He said and twisted around so she was in front of him and the man who had started the fight was in front of her. She growled and attempted to break away, though the man's hands were clasped firmly on her upper arms. She struggled for a moment, but judged the situation hopeless and settled for glaring at the one in front of her. His hair was ratty and limp, hanging in brown strands in front of his face. His face was unshaven and his uniform rumpled. He was most certainly one who spent all waking hours drinking or already drunk, and he was definitely angry, which often proved to be a dangerous and disastrous combination. He continued to glower at the man behind her until he muttered "accepted!" jovially, spreading his fingers away from her arms in a gesture of good nature. She took the opportunity to break free and turn to face him.

"Are you the captain of the ship with black sails harbor end out yonder," she asked.

"The Pearl? Yes." He replied looking curiously at her.

"Then I be wanting to join yer crew," she stated boldly, hands on hips.

He stared at her a moment, sizing her up. "What all can ye do?"

"Nut'in. But I'm eager to learn." She gave him her best smile, the one she saved for when she badgered a drink off the bartender, or when asking for a new dress. She even batted her eyelashes a few times, remembering being told that it sometimes won a man over.

"What be your name, lass, and what would a Tortuga wench want on a pirate ship?" He continued staring at her, making up his mind.

She smiled. He hadn't said no, but neither had he said yes. "My name be Cassandra Evens, and I want my freedom!" The man raised one eyebrow.

"A wench wanting freedom. Whatever for?" She tried to keep the disheartened look off her face.

"I want to be free." She said firmly, setting her jaw.

He threw up his hands in mock exasperation. "Fine. But be ready to make way at dawn tomorrow, otherwise ye be left behind."

"Yessir." She said happily and went to find some new clothes. A dress would weigh her down, as well as be a hassle to keep clean. Well, anything she wore would undoubtedly be destroyed at some point or another. Cassandra had always done her best to stay clean, and the idea of letting the salt and grime of the sea collect on her person... It both excited her at the idea of that freedom from order and made her cringe.

Grabbing a flask of rum from a table where some dog had left it, she raised it in the direction her new captain had disappeared. "Drink up me hearties, yo ho." She then downed the entire thing, excited to embark on a new adventure.

It was a rather good thing that she was still in shock at this point.