A/N: Thanks for your patience, reviews and igood wishes, everyone! I just returned from Verona today, relaxed and with several new chapters for you, and I promise I will reply to your reviews individually; but first, I'll give you Chapter 17, written by the incredible savvysparrow :)

Happy reading :)

A scherzo of wind swept across the glassy waters, disturbing the mirror the sea had created to honor the beauteous stars of the heavens with its galloping rhythm as it leapt from lumbering wave crest to crest, the only sign of chaos amongst a calm decorum. Doldrums, it was widely believed, were the worst of any ill-fated wind that might carry a ship. Unlike their distant cousins, warm zephyr and contradictory gale, the doldrums neither rippled nor disturbed the sea. Rather, on occasion, the depressed air around a ship might feel a slight fluttering of sails if the doldrums chanced to heave a languid sigh. At the rate they traveled, not even a half a knot in a quarter of a day, they'd never reach their destination, nor would their scanty supplies, reduced to but a barrel of fresh water and a single ration of salt tack, last the crew another week at sea.

Burdened with troubled thoughts, and the worry that they may never see land again—worse, the cargo filled with gold and precious stones would not be doubled once they reached their destination. The sailors of The Imposition, a ship designed for speed and not for size, would die penniless, with no ship in sight to respond to their distress. A small group of men huddled around a single lantern, stooped over a tattered sheet of crumpled parchment, while one man, frantically tried to catch every word that was spoken.

"To me wife Fanny, I leave the whole of me hoard, the lot of it and a farthing to boot," one man sniveled, blowing his nose into a sullen handkerchief, shielding his face from his sea-worn companions to hide the glistening tell-tale tracks of tears that stained clean his dirty face.

"What about your mistress in Cameroon--nothing for her? Seems a shame really; suppose pretty Amy might have a word or five to say about that." Armand, the grizzled stenographer, laughed with a jolly bark as he, in an imprecise, unsteady hand, wrote the Midshipman's final wishes with woeful inattention to spelling and grammar onto the crumpled page.

"Next; what can I do you for?" Quill poised in the air, the ship's galley cook looked up from his parchment, which contained the final wishes of the crewmembers aboard The Imposition.

"Captain Morrisey!" he exclaimed, dropping his quill to the ground and jumping up to his feet. Murmurs and repetitions of the word Captain, all spoken with warmth and reverence, rippled through the crowd, as the group of sailors hastily removed their tattered caps and bowed their heads to their chests as signs of respect for their noble commander.

"Gentlemen, as you were," Morrisey offered his solemn crew a faded smile, a gesture of appreciation for their solidarity in their shared plight. Their situation wore heavily on his conscious thoughts; none of his men deserved to die, yet it seemed inevitable that no matter his decision, he'd be leading them closer to that fit.

"Orders, sir?" The first mate, who'd patiently been waiting his turn in the line to sign his name to his last will and testament, peered through the mass of shoulders and stooped heads.

"Aye, you can stir the sheets." Morrisey, ever a man of quiet and precise leadership hesitated as he stared at each one of the gaunt faces, his thick Irish brogue cavorting on the fresh smattering of wind. His men were starving, deprived of the creature comforts of the basest dregs of society. He had no other choice but to take his men where most would dare not to follow.

"Helmsman, make your heading, south by south east. There is a strong current. It will lead us to land…" He paused heavily, taking a large swallow of air. His fingers scratched through his thick, pewter mutton chops as he arranged his words unable to meet the hungry stares, made more desperate by the flickering dance of the solitary lantern.

"I know I said that our course would steer us clear of the Cape-," A few of the men openly shuddered, anticipating his next, death-soaked words. "But we cannot afford to remain at sea. Our rations, if we are frugal, will see us the two weeks time to Abyssinia, but only if we travel through the Cape. We'll reach the Strait at dawn." Grimily, Morrisey stooped and retrieved the frazzled quill, whose wisps of feathers fluttered with the changing wind, eyeing it thoughtfully.

"May I?" he grunted to his galley cook, as he stooped to scratch markings into the parchment that indicated that he had made his peace with his life. What the Captain left to whom in his family remained unannounced to the surrounding crew. As he made his mark on what appeared to some to resemble a death-warrant than a Last Will and Testament, the crew with somber decorum parted to allow Morrisey a dignified berth, each crewman pausing to salute their noble Captain as he passed to his quarters. Loyalty to their commander steeled their courage and prevented them from jumping ship in the long boats. For him alone, they'd brave the worst of terrors. The door to the Captain's quarters snapped shut; the pregnant pause that had followed his wake was filled with the shuddering gasp of the sails as they sprung to life with a kiss of wind.

"Here now, no dallying—who's next to make their mark?" The galley cook's sardonic tone, nasal and biting echoed in the silence as every crew man raised their hand involuntarily, as though they were strange marionettes who had lost the use of their limbs at the hands of a sinister puppet master to the tune of a funeral dirge of snarling gusts.

Dawn broke; peach fleshy tones disturbed the skies, fading quickly into the warmer rosy hues, edged with a hint of lavender that pushed away the darkness of night. Beneath the warm glow of the sun the fate which had to the crew seemed bleak and as foreboding as the looming obsidian cliffs of the Cape, transformed into a beacon of hope. In the light of day, the thick fortress of rock was made smaller, and even the strait was not wholly immune to the charms of the sun. Flecks of golden sun reverberated off the cliff and blinded the eyes of the sailors who lined the rail. Fleeting hope soared from face to face like the wings of an ascending Lark, whose full voiced song was that of joyful life. Their Captain had, by signing his name to the page that held the final desires of every man aboard The Imposition, made a wordless pact, an accord that if it were in his power; all would live to see the opposite side of the Cape.

Closer, and closer, the distant rocks which had seemed like dots on the horizon grew to the size of terrifying monsters, with jagged claws and fierce grimaces that bore pointed teeth. Shaken, but undaunted, the crew held their ground on the deck each man clutching make-shift weapons; harpoons, knives of every variety, two fishing nets and a scattered collection of antique pistols comprised the arsenal.

"But why do they call it the Cape of the Sinner's Tongue?" young Phillip Pryor, the loyal and beloved cabin boy piped. The ship breached the outer wall of rock, and eased its way gingerly into the narrow passage.

"You're a might young to remember the stories. It wasn't always called that; once it was known as the Cape of Good Fortune, and it was rumored to have been named that because a good many sailors had chosen this very location to hide their riches." To the crew's astonishment, it was Captain Morrisey who took up the tale. There was no betrayal of nerves on his placid features, no sign of weakness as he surveyed the rocks with his spyglass and continued with the tale.

"One such man, a degenerate Captain by the name of Thackeray, took stock in the stories, and sought out the Cape to steal the fortunes of other men. Whether he managed to do so remains unclear; the stories are rarely specific. They are conclusive on one point however; the night that Captain Thackeray took his ship through the Cape, there was a terrible misfortune, and he lost all of his crew to the bowels of the sea. To a man consumed by greed, those circumstances didn't suit. He promised his soul and the souls of his men to the devil if they were allowed to return to the Earth to seek out the hidden treasures." His tongue stilled as the ship passed through the layer of gaseous vapors, which beset the whole of the ship until the sun was blotted from the sky with silvery fingers of grey. Set on edge by the fog, one of the crew men let out a muffled shriek, trembling as he scrambled to get a tighter grip on his harpoon. Phillip tugged on the cuff of Morrisey's coat.

"What became of the Captain and his men?" Phillip piped without a quiver in his voice. Of his companions, Phillip had the steadfast heart of a lion. The mighty Captain shook his head as the sea began to roar in protest. They'd reached the inner most sanctity of the Cape, which was guarded by the gaping mouth of an enormous cave. Though he showed no outward signs of trepidation, Morrisey anticipated an attack; no ship had ever navigated these waters without severe losses. In his latest Company briefing, he had been informed that the Raider's attacks upon the crew had left only a handful of survivors, and were noted for their extreme brutality. He only hoped that in the light of day, they might escape notice while the strange creature that prowled the unholy rock lay in slumber.

"When a man makes a deal with the devil, there is always some unforeseen clause. Thackeray was granted immortality, but only if he became the guardian of the strait. Embittered by a life of indentured responsibility, the Cape transformed from a haven to a monstrous pit, where no ship could find safe passage without being boarded, the crew slaughtered." There was a peak in the Captain's indifferent recitation. Through the swirling miasma, there was a burst of sunlight and his eyes detected the glittering blue of a fresh morning sky. They were nearly through!

"He fashioned for himself a new name: The Ghost Raider, and as the seas swirled thick with the blood he had shed, the Cape came to be called the Sinner's Tongue, in honor of the Raider's dealings with Satan."

Morrisey sheathed his scope and turned to bellow orders to his men. "Unfurl the sails, let them fly men. We're through!" he exclaimed in sheer relief, tears burning the fragile lids of his eyes as the burst of blue sky became a surreal reality.

"Captain!" Phillip shrieked in warning, but it was too late. While all eyes had been cast to their future, a dark ship had shifted into their past, trailing after their wake and gaining speed.

"Make ready the guns!" Morrisey shouted, pushing himself to the railing to ascertain what maneuvering options his ship might use for escape, but his orders were drowned by the deafening roar of cannon fire.

"Brace yourselves lads!" A whirling ball and chain circled through the sky, splintering the wooden mast with a mighty crack. The man in the crows nest screamed as he fell to his death, his arms flailing as he made impact with rocks and sea water. The Imposition groaned to a halt like a man who had been cut at the knees. Fodder for the approaching ship, the thick mist returned as their fates descended into gloom.

Morrisey's men ran to and fro, passing rounds of ammunition that seemed to be loaded too slowly for some. "Protect the cargo at all costs men, I want six of you down to the holds," Morrisey ordered amidst a cataclysmic crash of ships.

"Aft they're boarding aft!" The fog shifted as men swung from all points. They seemed to spring from the very rock of the Cape, carrying knives in their teeth, their skin as black as their hearts. There was a pinging ring of a sword unsheathed; Morrisey whirled round barely having time to draw his blade to prevent his head from being cleaved from his shoulders. Around him, men screamed in horror, and to his right, one of his men was savagely disemboweled; blood sprayed across the deck, leaving a trail across the pale Captain's skin. Men in their prime were cut down to the left and right of him, as his attacker, a stocky man with an aggressive technique with the blade bore down at him, swiping haphazardly. Worse than the screams of his men and the clash of metal upon flesh was the laughter; maniacal cackling from the man Morrisey could not see but instinctively knew to be the Raider, hacked and slashed his way through the skirmish.

"Captain!" Phillip yelped as he narrowly avoided a killer blow of a sword. Morrisey's blade clashed with his opponents and connected at the hilt, allowing him the opportunity to push the man away with a bodily shove.

"They're taking the hold. Four men have fallen already," Phillip warned; as though drawn to the light timbre of the lad's voice, the Raider's laughter shifted, and changed direction through the mist. He was coming straight for the lad. Seizing the chaos of the Raider's wake as men leapt into the sea to avoid the sharp edge of his sword, Morrisey grabbed Phillip by the shoulder and drug him bodily into his quarters. He drew the bolt and retreated hastily away from the door, preparing to defend it with his last breath.

"We ought to be helping the men defending the hold," Phillip protested loudly; his outrage was short-lived. Morrisey slipped his hand over the boy's mouth and hissed for silence.

"Don't you see? I've stored the hold in here. Our men were ordered below in an effort to forestall the Raider. You must keep your voice low or…" A shot echoed through the Captain's quarters, and the rusted metal lock sprung clean from the wood. Boots applied themselves to the door and kicked it cleanly from the hinges. Phillip was pressed behind Morrisey's back, his arms thrown out wide to shield the lad from harm as the Raider and the man whom he had been engaged in combat stalked into the room, step by echoing step.

"Where be the swag, Captain? We know you have it hidden aboard the vessel, so there's no use prolonging your demise." The tip of the Raider's sword was pressed into the throbbing vein that kept time with his galloping heart. Morrisey's mind worked quickly as he pushed himself to speech.

"W-what swag? This is a trade ship. We're in route to the Caribbean to…" His throat closed as the pointed end drew blood. Morrisey's legs began to tremble; behind him, he felt Phillip's heated hands tugging at his coat, a childish effort to prevent his Captain from being run through.

"Clemency—for the boy…" He changed his tactics abruptly, realizing from the deadened glaze in the Raider's eyes that his life would soon be ended. The hollows of the Raider's eyes shifted, and an ironic grin, revealing his rotting teeth that matched an equally decrepit soul were revealed in their yellowish-green glory.

"And what temptation be you offering to persuade me to consider such an superfluous request? Swag?" He drawled across the words, not allowing the sword a moment's reprieve from its threatening menace.

"He's my son. I'm pleading with you as a man of honor." Laughter assailed his ears; the Raider through back his massive head, which was more skull than features, howling like a wolf to the moon.

"Honor? Can't recall the meaning of the word." His grip tightened on the sword, the Raider's face became an unholy mask of determination as the blade, once cold as ice, became heated with his fury. Morrisey squeezed his eyes shut, his hand grappled behind his back as he patted his son's hand reassuringly in his last moments of life.

"Enough!" the silent companion of the Raider growled from the shadows. His blade, a thick cutlass was drawn and the threatening sword was cowed with a clatter to the ground.

"None of this was part of the agreement. As I recall, we all took part of it, and you signed your name to that bit of parchment as well. Remember what happens to those what break tide with the Code…"

A great hush fell; even the sounds of the ensuing battle outside the Captain's quarters had muted the piercing screams of dying men in order to better hear the Raider's pronouncement.

"I propose a trade…Quarter for yourself and your son in exchange for the holds of swag ye be carrying."

Morrisey considered the proposal, and though he could feel Phillip shake his head in disgust at the deal, his lips spoke of their own accord:

"Done."

Smiling, the Raider retrieved his fallen sword, his eyes cold with hatred for the merciful interloper.

"Lessen you want to find yourself a warm place in the brig, I suggest next time ye be keeping to your own business. Consider this your last warning…" The Raider's attention turned expectantly to Morrisey, who was hastily retrieving the chest filled with gold doubloons, gems and other precious valuables from beneath his desk.

"Come to find it weren't too bad. Knew you could be persuaded to be agreeable when ye recalled the measure of value: there be no limit to what a man may sacrifice for the safety of his flesh and blood. Now, how about that gold…"