The Crew of the Queen Anne's Revenge

[AlphaWolf215]

//for all intents and purposes this is a temporary recruitment thread whilst we restructure this faction. If you're interested, please drop me a PM first to discuss your application

Edward Thatch. Handsome. Talented. Ladies Man. All words he would use to describe himself. But there was one word the authorities preferred. Pirate.

The Bretonians had a warrant out for his arrest. Police watching for him to raise his head. Bounty Hunters, hoping to claim that million credit bounty on his head. But he was Edward Thatch, a brilliant ship captain if ever you'd seen one, and boy was he proud to have escaped capture for so long.

He touched down on Planet New London, setting down away from the spaceport to avoid any official recognising him, or being logged on any system. There was a pub here in the continent of Bromley, a job for him to take. It paid well, assuming the fuzz didn't catch him. They hadn't yet, why now?

Walking towards this pub, The Last Post it was called, he noticed the familiar uniform of a Bretonian Police Constable up ahead, and heard footsteps quicken behind him. He was trapped, with had no choice but to enter the pub. Thatch opened the front door, entering as calmly as his beating heart would allow. This was close, too close for comfort. Could this be where it all ends? Thatch darted into one of the alcoves around the edge, the light not quite illuminating it right, which only served to help hide his face.

They burst through the doors, slamming them into the wooden frame and heading straight for the bar. Speaking to the landlord, he shrugged his shoulders, clearly not knowing who they are after, not by name of course. It wasn't until a constable turned to leave that he was spotted. Thatch considered running for freedom, no job was worth waiting around for like this, but could see the flashing lights through the window. He was trapped.

Well lads, it looks like ye've bested me. I'm not in the interests of dying today, so let's say I come along quietly now?

He held out his hands waiting for the cuffs.

The ride in the police van was quiet, they didn't even speak to him. On reaching the police station they took him to an interview room asking questions that he, politely, declined to answer. He knew the drill, and wasn't looking to incriminate himself futher, hoping that by delaying they'd have to let him go eventually, or slip up enough for him to escape and contact his small crew.

After another line of questioning, mid way through really, the two Constables got called out. They looked irritated at being interrupted, but left the room, closing the door behind. He didn't hear the familiar "click" of the lock engaging. This was his chance. He began fiddling with the cuffs, trying to free himself. Good lord they made these things tight. More struggling, and then the sound of the door opening again. No, it couldn't be. The opportunity went as quickly as it came...

But it wasn't a Constable that entered the room. No, this was.. Armed Forces.

"Oh dear, they're certainly less forgiving" was all he could think. What was this becomming, an execution? He knew he'd been a nuisance, certainly made things harder for them sure, but he didn't think enough to kill them...

Mr Thatch, I presume?

She took a seat opposite him, placing a file upon the desk.

You've been a spot of bother for these boys, they certainly didn't want to let me come talk to you. Still, my position affords me certain liberties they cannot overlook...

Where are my manners. Lord Brigadier Sonya Callahan at your service. I believe, Mr Thatch, that we could do with your particular skill set. I like your drive, I like that you kept us at arms bay for as long as you have. What if I told you I could keep these fine men and women at bay, make them look the other way whilst you did your craft. We would expect you to stop operating against Bretonians of course, but there's plenty more targets out there, and it certainly helps that we would leave you to.. to your work.

And, let's pretend you have the right guy for a moment, what kind of cut would you be looking for ma'am? Still, think you have the wrong sailor. I'm just a trader that's been assaulted by these brutes..

Oh Mr Thatch I know I have the right guy, but if you want we can leave you to rot in Newgate, it makes no difference to me.. Oh, but if you want to come clean now, we don't take a cut. It's all yours...

She stands, heading towards the door

There's a letter in that folder Mr Thatch, and a pen. If you want your freedom, sign it, and I'll ensure all charges against you and your crew are cleared.

She left without another word. He opened the file, as best he could with the handcuffs still on, and inside, as she'd promised was a letter, the paper thick and the writing gracefully written through means of calligraphy. At the top of the page, three words, beautifully written large and clear.

Letter of Marque

---