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<span style="font-family:Felipa"><span style="font-size: 22px"><b>C u r s e d      T i d e s</b></span></span><br/>
<br/>
_/~\_/~\_/~\_/~\_/~\_/~\_/~\_/~\_/~\_/~\_/~\_/~\_/~\_/~\_<br/>​</div><br/>While the citizens who lived in shanty neighborhoods closest to the ports were nearly destitute, the dockside communities had an abundance of three things:  citrus for sale, supplies for purchase, and thousands of eyes -- ever-watchful of newcomers to the city.   The scent of salt and limes hung heavy in the air by the piers, mingling with the heaviness of the evaporating brackish water in the wake of the afternoon sun.  The low cacocphony of the crowds receding from the markets grew fainter by the minute, as the sun dipped low on the skyline, illuminating the fog in a manner both beautiful and foreboding.  But even the scent of warm hearths and cooking dinners beginning to fill the air was not enough to distract most from a new presence entered the familiar waters.<br/><br/>The Spanish galleon drifted into the waters under diminishing sails, the old, worn canvas bleached white by thousands of harsh days of punishing sunlight.  Wood joists creaked and miles of line groaned as it entered the maw of the harbor, drifting in like an iceberg or a nightmare towards an available slip.  The privateers who policed these docks immediately took notice, taking up suspicious stances in the areas surrounding the pier and awaiting any signs of trouble as the newcomers came to port.<br/><br/>Deckhands scurried, sweeping up their anchor lines and swinging off the deck and onto the pier, fastidiously hitching off the cleats.  The great ship seemed to yawn in protest as the lines lost their slack, going taut and causing the vessel to shift uncomfortably in the shallows.  With the last of its momentum arrested, the ramp was lowered, and the questionable crew began to disembark.  Privateers loitered around, making their presence known with hands resting on their belts, just beside sabers and pistols.  It was clear they didn't want trouble, but wouldn't mind if their suspicions were confirmed.  Spanish Galleons rarely made their way to this port, even more rarely when the Spanish Flag was not flown proudly from the foremast.<br/><br/>Their suspicions were not allayed as the first man crested over the edge of the ship.  He was a hardy fellow, whose fire-red curling locks spilled out from beneath an ostentatious captain's hat, sporting a proud feather bustled in the soft breeze.  His thick beard nearly masked the broad grin he had on his face that spelled trouble no matter who beheld it.  His dark blue overcoat sported golden accents wherever they could be feasibly pinned, an array of medals from various navies pinned to his breast.  It was his booming voice that first sent a chill of alarm down the privateers spines.<br/><br/>"C'mon, boys!" he bellowed.  "I smell drink and fresh whores!  We'll have our fill of both before the night is out!"  The statement earned a brief cheer from the men, who began to funnel down the ramp, following their fire-haired leader.<br/><br/>The privateers followed them, seeming to surround the group as if to contain them, and keep them from spilling over into private residences.  The red-haired man, as well as the remaining men, seemed to care less.  There were no laws against alcohol or prostitution -- not in this city - - and the privateers could only get involved if things got so rowdy, and they had planned to behave themselves tonight.  For the most part.<br/><br/>Men continued to trickle down the ramp, moving into the city to savor whatever vices they entertained -- gambling, gluttony, maybe some good-natured brawling for profit -- and the remaining privateers followed them to keep the peace.  It wasn't until the docks were nearly empty that a final man emerged from the ship.  He was, in most respects, remarkably unremarkable.  He wore a simple pair of black trousers, high-topped leather boots, and a wispy white poet shirt.  A broad, brown leather belt was tied around his waist, and a simple maroon headband kept his mid-length dusty-brown hair out of his eyes.  He was clean-shaven, which while not impressive, was something of a rarity at sea, and his strong jawline didn't carry the weight of excess with him.  Only two features about him seemed noteworthy at all.<br/><br/>First was his gait, which carried him with purpose off of the deck and into the city, a far cry from the near drunken stumbling that his compatriots disembarked with.  Grace and direction filled every long stride.<br/><br/>The second was his eyes.  Brilliant blue, burning with an intensity that belied motivation deeper than mere carnal pleasure.  Intellectual, cunning, calculating.  Not glassy nor wanting, but forged by indefatigable necessity.<br/><br/>He disappeared into the city within moments, lacking the same contingent of handlers and escorts that his compatriots were trailing, a small piece of paper twisted between his digits.  When he disappeared into the market, the ship was left, seemingly unattended.  They were clearly not occupied with the notion that someone would come aboard to steal their possessions.  Anyone with eyes could take one look at the galleon and surmise that doing so would not be a healthy plan.