The wind was cold.
That was the only memory the girl had from the day long ago, nearly a week after her unrecorded birth. It was a dim one, but somehow she clung to it. Always in her dreams. Nothing but the bitter cold. Her father, after having killed her mother, deposited the baby in an empty barrel and calmly walked away, laughing at a joke his men told him. The laughter and the cold, constantly haunting her dreams. Sometimes she could even envision the man's face as he took one more half-interested glance into the barrel, little more than a silhouette.
After that, the baby had remained in the barrel for a while, until another man had glanced in, possessed by a drunken curiosity, at the sound of a child's wailing. This man, like her father, was a pirate. This was not uncommon, as the small island of Tortuga was rather filled with them. However, it was uncommon to find babies stowed away in barrels, peeking up at you with bright blue eyes still streaming with tears. The man had glanced around for a while, scratching his head, started to walk off again, and was stopped by the wailing of the child. Glancing back into the barrel, the pirate cleared his throat and continued to walk, stopped once more by the miserable cries. He scowled and stalked back to the barrel, pulling out his pistol. It may have seemed a cruel act, but Tortuga was no world for children, as if being abandoned in a barrel did not at least offer such a hint. But as he held the pistol out in front of him, he paused at the odd expression on the child's face. He dropped the pistol to his side and stared into the barrel hard, as if struggling with some decision his foggy mind didn't like. Grumbling to himself, he reached into the barrel, hauled the baby out, and stalked off once more, the gurgling child tucked under one arm. This part was never in her dreams. But the man who had taken her back to the inn his crew was staying in was in her life; her adoptive father and friend, Matthew. He didn't bother lying and claiming to be her true father, that would have been pointless. Pirates didn't generally carry their little ones around with them, and his skin was much to dark in comparison to hers. But he did teach her everything a pirate needed to know-how to drink, how to fight, how to steal. But mostly, how to fight. It was something strange about the girl, something that had been strange and great enough to convince even the pirate crew of the Nova to keep a female on their ship. Even as a child, she displayed a unique understanding for the art of the fist. By the time she was eight seasons, she could out- box any man on the ship if she was allowed to train with them. She was as strong as or stronger than most of the men on board by the time she turned thirteen, though no man would admit this and she didn't realize it. She could pick up most any weapon and use it as skillfully as any maestro of the tool. To her, it was all a game. So the crew taught the lass, enjoying both the unique personality and the thrill of watching something so bright grow so quickly. And grow she did. To most of the crew, she remained the blue eyed little girl found in a barrel by their mate, her hair white and her smile crooked. The girl could charm her way out of a bag, and often got into trouble just to do so. She was short and had a fiery attitude, the latter a gift from her adoptive family. But to the first mate aboard the Nova, Smitty, Shail McGuire was nothing but trouble.
That was the only memory the girl had from the day long ago, nearly a week after her unrecorded birth. It was a dim one, but somehow she clung to it. Always in her dreams. Nothing but the bitter cold. Her father, after having killed her mother, deposited the baby in an empty barrel and calmly walked away, laughing at a joke his men told him. The laughter and the cold, constantly haunting her dreams. Sometimes she could even envision the man's face as he took one more half-interested glance into the barrel, little more than a silhouette.
After that, the baby had remained in the barrel for a while, until another man had glanced in, possessed by a drunken curiosity, at the sound of a child's wailing. This man, like her father, was a pirate. This was not uncommon, as the small island of Tortuga was rather filled with them. However, it was uncommon to find babies stowed away in barrels, peeking up at you with bright blue eyes still streaming with tears. The man had glanced around for a while, scratching his head, started to walk off again, and was stopped by the wailing of the child. Glancing back into the barrel, the pirate cleared his throat and continued to walk, stopped once more by the miserable cries. He scowled and stalked back to the barrel, pulling out his pistol. It may have seemed a cruel act, but Tortuga was no world for children, as if being abandoned in a barrel did not at least offer such a hint. But as he held the pistol out in front of him, he paused at the odd expression on the child's face. He dropped the pistol to his side and stared into the barrel hard, as if struggling with some decision his foggy mind didn't like. Grumbling to himself, he reached into the barrel, hauled the baby out, and stalked off once more, the gurgling child tucked under one arm. This part was never in her dreams. But the man who had taken her back to the inn his crew was staying in was in her life; her adoptive father and friend, Matthew. He didn't bother lying and claiming to be her true father, that would have been pointless. Pirates didn't generally carry their little ones around with them, and his skin was much to dark in comparison to hers. But he did teach her everything a pirate needed to know-how to drink, how to fight, how to steal. But mostly, how to fight. It was something strange about the girl, something that had been strange and great enough to convince even the pirate crew of the Nova to keep a female on their ship. Even as a child, she displayed a unique understanding for the art of the fist. By the time she was eight seasons, she could out- box any man on the ship if she was allowed to train with them. She was as strong as or stronger than most of the men on board by the time she turned thirteen, though no man would admit this and she didn't realize it. She could pick up most any weapon and use it as skillfully as any maestro of the tool. To her, it was all a game. So the crew taught the lass, enjoying both the unique personality and the thrill of watching something so bright grow so quickly. And grow she did. To most of the crew, she remained the blue eyed little girl found in a barrel by their mate, her hair white and her smile crooked. The girl could charm her way out of a bag, and often got into trouble just to do so. She was short and had a fiery attitude, the latter a gift from her adoptive family. But to the first mate aboard the Nova, Smitty, Shail McGuire was nothing but trouble.