Curls of smoke flowed up from the old man’s pipe, floating around his head in the low room. He reviewed the papers for the third time, running tanned fingers over the script. Even less then last month….
A gust of wind blew embers from the pipe up into the room as they spun around in little curls. A commanding figure with a tri-corner hat and his red hair tied back away from his face strode in, his boots thudding on the wooden floor.
“Tobias.” He greeted the elderly scribe.
“Cap’n Fletcher.” Tobias responded wearily. He hated these interactions, hated to let down the man he respected so much. The man that was responsible for keeping the town going even through these hard times.
“How’re the numbers?” Fletcher wasn’t known for wasting words.
“Not good.” He slid the papers across the table and they sat in silence for a while.
“The Crown’s bleeding us dry. How do they expect us to maintain their taxes when they’re purging us from the sea?”
“At least we’re free. Not many pirates can say that nowadays.” He leaned back in his chair, the legs creaking in complaint. “Thanks to you.”
The captain snorted as he tossed a letter to the table. “Crown says we need to pay up. By the end of the month.”
“We’ll figure it out.” Tobias nodded confidently.
“We’ll have to.” Fletcher spun on his heel and stood in the doorway, the wind clutching at his hair as he looked out to sea. “Or we’ll get to see what Davy Jones locker really looks like.”
Jarrok