A Flintlock and a Princess

(( This is Flint, my pirate. ))


His fingers traced the lining of his bedside lover's thigh, the absence of hair uncommon for women inhabiting the southern most dockyard of the Eastern Kingdom. Booty Bay was considered, to those that frequented it, a world of its own. Even an hour before dawn, the ambience of the dock-town was one to be admired; whore's offering their used wares, men responding with rum poisoned tongues convinced that their haggling about how well endowed they are will actually have an effect on the veterans of open-legged activites. Despite the carrying voices, Flint's senses were honed in on the beauty that lie beside him. He considered himself a man of fine taste when it came to distinguishing how well a woman receives pleasure. That isn't to suggest that he is boastful in such regards, by any means of the word, but instead that he had the inherent ability to judge any book by its cover - a valuable trait to wield when you're in a town occupied by daggers and gold. A woman's mind would consider it a fortune to be born with a jaw that rivalled any Prince, mythical or otherwise, and golden eyes that would make even the most vibrant crystal in Dalaran seem copper in comparison, but for Flint, it was his most prominant misfortune. Men's eyes would linger hatefully, disregarding him as one of their own. A man who would be capable of wedging open vows formed between newly weds with guiltful glances was not one to be trusted. Flint was capable of reading all types of books, even those with broader spines and louder fonts, thus why he still draws breath. He became a leech to those who held power among the sails, latching on with his wit and charm at the forefront. Handsome Flint was both a mockery and a reputable title.

The cherry haired slumbering woman stirred as the tips of his fingers drifted between her legs. He drew back his hand before lust posessed his next hour. He had reason to be up before sunrise and such distractions would only slow his intentions. He rose from the sheets and cradled his bedside flintlock, his thumb followed the rose pattern of the hilt; the touch alone provided sudden poise and grounded absent thoughts. His clothes carried that familiar salted aroma and he felt warmed to be back in them.

He found himself stood alone on the end of the most outward pier, staring at the water with a sickly gut. He missed hearing the flapping of sails locking swords with a mid-sea storm, the salted breeze transforming his silken hair into coiled wire, the sound of the waves-
Footsteps approached him. Each step came in two second intervals, an attempt to mask it under the natural creaks of the plank boards beneath them. The contemptible sneak that slithered toward him was mere feet away. He turned on his heels, folding his arms with an expression of disapproval. Before him stood a young boy, patches of dirt seemed almost purposeful additions to the child's attire. He arched his head back and frowned up at Flint.
"You focused too much on the timing of your steps when you should have been watching the raising of my ears." Flint smiled gently, the boy was familiar to him and the reason he came down to the pier in the first place.
"I tried real 'ard, Mr. Flint, sir, 'n we ain't 'ad no trouble for a week or two." The boy's lips parted into a smile, revealing the absence of his two front teeth. A cute feature that might otherwise convince a stranger of false innocence.
"I won't be around much longer to get you out of these situations." Flint spoke to the boy with a fatherly tone, though his fondness was more a product of concern. Flint had spent his childhood in a similar manner.
"You dyin', Mr. Flint?" the boy paused, "Could I get ye' shoes and tha' fancy gun?"
"Joining a crew, you cheeky brat." The boy smiled innocently, folding his hands behind his back. "But alas, there are few Captains that take my fancy." Flint opened his coin purse and produced one piece of silver, to which the boy snapped up like a dog being treated for good behaviour.
"What have you got for me?" Flint asked.
"Lots, Mr. Flint. But we kids are livin' in troubled times, real troubled, Mr. Flint, sir. Knowlidgess is power 'n' power is money, tha's wha' the Gobbos been sayin'." A real pocket pirate, this boy. Flint handed a second silver coin to the child, simply raising an eyebrow of disdain.
The child bit the coin before looking down at the ground and speaking gleefully, "Thank ye', sir. Captain Stormblood is 'olding another high stakes card game, Fizzlerigs 'as put out a bounty for one of his escaped girls, new pirate in town, real pretty, she looks armed to the bone, RogRog's been stalkin' Miss Hem-"
Flint raised his eyebrows curiously, "Who is this woman, where is she from?"
"RogRog's a boy, Mr. Fl-"
Flint interrupted without humouring the boy, "The Pirate. Who is she?"
"Ohhhhh... Not sure, Mr. Flint. Think she comes from north. Dresses like she's from 'ere but smells clean, sir. Don't got a name yet, Mr. Flint. Calls 'erself the Princess" The boy fiddled uncomfortably with his hands, "Can get one for you by tomorrow, I'll just get Mari to-"
"No need. That'll be enough." Flint strided toward his bed chambers with thoughts upon the coming day. The woman that shared his sheets had hardly moved, though Flint paid little attention to her glistening body - his curiosity of the newcomer consuming any previous arousal. He drifted to sleep.

He stood upon one of the upper balconies of the Bay harbour with watchful eyes that gleamed under the mid-day sun. He recognised almost every face that passed below until his gaze was fixed upon a striking beauty. His breath caught in his throat; he had a habit, questionably an obsession, for taking in details of strangers yet this one seemed to be more than he had expected. She looked around one and twenty. She held a slender frame and her dark hair was as wild as the gust that toyed with it and lifted and spurred at every breeze and blow, it made a widows peak above her wide eyes. It drifted across her face like the leaves of a willow - allowing fleeting beauty to pass between each strand of hair. Her eyes were iced glaciers, the blue illuminated by the rays of sunlight shining against them, alluring the gaze of passers by. Perhaps it was the way she peered at things but he became nostalgic with memories of piercing eyes that could shift waves before. With her milk-pale skin, high cheek bones and full lips, she managed to detract all male attention from the scantily clad women that aimed to take their coin. Beside the whores of Booty Bay, this trident of beauty seemed as if she were both elegance and dominance personified. 

Flint's fingers stroked the hilt of his gun in much the same way it had a thigh the night before. He noticed children stalking her steps and their intentions became clear. He made his way down towards her. Whether her first impressions would have him as a court jester, a royal guard or even a salted prince - he saw her as the one thing she had been referring to herself as - a princess. 






(( Read Zalorah's story for the rest of it ))

*ego boner*
Luv it, my story will be up tomorrow.