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Although the weather was fair on this early morning, the sea had begun to roll and toss the large ship about like a floater in a swirling toilet (not yet invented). Captain Jon LaCruset had positioned himself just to the right of the wheel, watching the heading of his ship against the compass. This wasn't good. The wind seemed to be changing directions every few minutes, requiring constant orders to the roguish crew of the Bloody Rose. The horizon had a strange haze, making it impossible to see more than a few miles in any direction. "Blast this demon-spawned ocean!" raged LaCruset, to no one in particular, glancing up to once again see the skull and crossbones flap in a different direction. He had been warned by the soothsayer in San Managua to steer clear of the South Pacific sea, that it was not hospitable to privateers, pirates and the like, and that all of the skill and knowledge of the greatest sailor on earth (himself, of course) would avail him not. But the magical lure of the fabled stories of this unknown treasure, dating to times not even the Not-So-Ancient Jesuit missionary could recall, had cast its spell on him and the crew. It had taken only minutes after explaining what he had come to learn from Paulo, the dying rumrunner, to convince them that they could all finally acquire the riches that they sought by simply locating this "easy-to find" island near the coast of Columbia. The fragment of map he had pried from the stiffening fingers of Paulo seemed simple enough, although the map appeared to be torn just past the indication of the landing site on this remote island. This treasure, so the legend went, was the final result of an aging pirate from many years prior, whom, it seems, chose the "Isla de Scatina" as the repository for the bounty and booty he had acquired over the years. Although only known as Black Jac Shellac, his true identity had never been discovered. Jon LaCruset was a contrast in every single nature that a human being could be. He was fabled as a ladies man, although rumored to have taken a boy on occasion, "just because I can" as he boasted. And woe to the isolated barnyard animal that accidentally shat upon his velveteen Persian slippers! He was an artisan, but a murderous bastard who never cast a thought regarding torturing a foe (or friend) to get what he wanted. He would pledge his heart and soul to a cause, a friend or the downtrodden he believed was being bullied, but could just as easily become bored with it all and turn on his supposed ally, slicing of his (or hers) buttocks with a single slash of his scimitar. (Actually, Captain LaCruset had one of the largest collections known at that time of severed buttocks. |
