The greenish-quartermaster handed Clive back his boarding axes, upon which he took them by name, “There’s Tim…. and here’s Tiny, roight, notice the stunted haft?” He ran his thumb along it with a scowl. “Thanks for giving me back what’s moine, I suppose, maybe thanks for not banging the little bastards up…” He walked away without waiting for a response, insecure in the extension of his gratitude, as if he had unwillingly given up his skivvies. He was trying, he was. He knew his plank was thin at this point.
Today was boarding training day. Wasn’t something he hadn’t done before, but boy, had it been a while… He’d got fat, soft on shore. This kick in the ass was a long time coming, and he knew that his urge to get back out onto the sea was inevitable at some point… unfortunate as it was for anyone with him. As he stepped out onto the deck, thumbing the sharp point of Tim, he looked at the strong fellow, who stood among his possee… Phips… Was that mouthy little shitwit’s name again? Phelps? Fops?
Didn’t matter what his name was. He was a dead man walking, he just didn’t know it yet. Clive flashed him a toothy, sinister grin as he rubbed the sharp end of Tim, one that could not be mistaken for anything else then a silent vendetta.
“Toime will come, and when it does… No Ill will. Just has to be done.”