The filthy corsair

Hellknuckles didn’t come on board quietly. That wasn’t entirely her fault – due to her present incapacity she’d press-ganged her mother into carrying her personal possessions.

The old gorgon was a high seas veteran with an array of oaths to make fishwives swoon. Moreover, her profound blasphemy was documented as having a distinctly negative impact on the life expectancy of the clergy.

The source of the daughter’s vicious streak was immediately apparent – Cussin’ Bertie, otherwise known as the Cannonball Dwarf on account of her two peg-legs, was not only the patron saint of volcanic rage, but also the dirtiest scrapper in the shire, with a reputation for coshing bar staff with the aforementioned prostheses.

Once on board there was no removing her. She set up a rude camp in the crow’s nest, snapping at the fingers of those imprudent enough to attempt parley with her.

I threw her a raw steak to calm her blood lust and let me get in the odd word while she tore at the flesh. In between the champing and snarling, I’d like to think she accepted the role of watchperson. Not that it mattered – the prospect of any other cove getting a look-in was now largely academic.

Lookout
Cussin' Bertie the Profane

Likes: bitin' and scratchin'

Dislikes: Queensbury Rules