Afeared in Provence

As the starters arrived, so the other mademoiselle stirred from her drunken snooze. Seven-foot high – while seated – she arched over the table to advise her yard-high counterpart of the ongoing dockside unrest. More specifically, said the statuesque rogue, a young ruffian was – as we spoke – slandering the venomous gnome, accusing her of debility, cowardice, treachery – only one of which was technically true. At this, the poison dwarf slammed down her tankard and stomped off to wreak havoc, pausing only to pick her teeth with the hatchet she kept for such ends. Her mischief made, the aforementioned giantess permitted herself a smug snort of satisfaction before digging into the munchkin’s hors d’oeuvres.

It was thus in this manner that we first met Aurélie la Vagabonde, daughter of Gargantua and bane of Marseille. Her feral nature and remarkable guile were the result of a childhood sans role models – as an infant she had been abandoned by wolves and forced to live by her wits alone. While other youngsters were playing hopscotch and kiss-chase, this colossus-to-be would exercise her deviousness and depravity by conning foxes, just to watch the vermin scowl. Like an inferior vin de table, she hadn’t improved with age.


Cherry-picker
Aurélie la Vagabonde
Likes: John Lewis
Dislikes: John Le Carré

French nickers

Engaging as it is to make small-talk with the self-anointed, we figured it prudent to avoid sticking out our necks unnecessarily, and curtsied our well wishes to the hoighty toighty decapitator, moving on with requisite haste.

Next in line to her throne stood a pair of Gallic boat-snatchers, dichotomous in size, but equally rotten to the core. Being so unusually petite, the smaller of the two compensated for her deficient stature with a vicious streak so malign that, given the choice, most men would rather be dragged through briar in a sack of wasps than ask her for the time of day. Her razor-sharp tongue, for example, was the stuff of legend. Indeed, short-lived was the felon who thought he might profit from her reduced reach, for the appendage in question had been replaced with barbed-wire plaits, and she could lick a man to shreds in minutes.

For the time being, however, she chomped distractedly on some brimstone amuses-bouche of her own design. Fearing a tongue-lashing, we pretended to wolf some down before commenting favourably on their acrid flavour and steering the conversation towards such idle banter as the shipping forecast and recent murders and coastal pillaging.


Keelhauler
Bridget the Midget
Likes: the smell of napalm in the morning
Dislikes: the sound of milkmen in the morning

Dutch Courage

The Mediterranean brigand plumped our cushions, beckoned us over and, with inappropriate zeal, begged to relieve us of our coats. Her entreaties fell on deaf ears, however, as her penchant for doublets preceded her and we were fully cognisant of the perfidious manner by which her incomparable collection of jerkins had been amassed. Firmly, but politely, I thus informed her that she’d not be getting her paws on our blousons, boleros and blazers unless she was peeling them from our cold dead bodies. She shrugged in her gallic manner and trotted back to the waterfront to swindle the lame beggars.

Stepping up next was the infamous Royal Dutch, a mariner from the Low Country, well versed in the extensive licentiousness of her homeland. A keen learner, she had studied trafficking at Eindhoven, graduating summa cum laude by her sixteenth birthday. However, her learnèd approach to freebooting was not universally appreciated and it was variously suggested that she was an uppity madam with airs above her station. That said, her critics were generally disinclined to stick their heads above the parapet, largely on account of her habit of removing them with her broadsword and using them for bunting.

Vice Squad

K.L.M. “Royal Dutch” Van Dieman
Likes: Dirty Rotten Scoundrels
Dislikes: The Waltons