Beauty, whose conquests still are made
O’er hearts by cowards kept, or else betray’d!
Weak victor! Who thyself destroy’d must be
When sickness storms, or time besieges thee!
Thou unwholesome thaw to frozen age!
Thou strong wine, which youth’s fever dost enrage,
Thou tyrant which leav’st no man free!
Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be!
Thou murth’rer which hast kill’d, and devil which wouldst damn me.
-Abraham Cowley, from “Beauty”

Almalure accepted the hat from her corsair with one eyebrow scaling her forehead, but without a word. After twirling it about a delicate finger for a moment or two, she decided that the tri-corn affair was best served atop a head. Namely, of course, her hair. She settled the thing crookedly upon her head, shaking her dark locks with careless grace before returning her eyes to the fencing display. She soon, though, was bored. It was not a display that she had never seen before. En garde, touché, riposte, all facets of the duel, something ritual in English courts. There was little differences between the spars of patrician Spaniards and corsairs expect perhaps the latter was a but more unrefined in their technique. This could be explained, however, by practicality. But in order to save this discourse from becoming a lecture on the art of swordplay, the scene shall follow Almalure’s line of sight.

Almalure’s line of sight had changed, shifting from the two pirates and their set of flashing cutlery to the ocean beyond them. It was in this manner did she perceive the distress of Chanel, drowning up to her ankles (and everyone elses ears-my god did she have healthy lungs!). It took a great deal of self control to keep our favorite courtesan from laughing out loud. As it was, a smile was flirting dangerously with her lips. This was why she did not drink rum- no need to subject herself to indignity more than was necessary, no? It was to the great relief of her eardrums, though, that a figure came along and rescued, as it were, the Frenchwoman. Almalure strained her dark eyes over the darting metallurgy to better view the savoir. His…It’s…Her! Her skin was very dark, but that could men on of many things: another Spaniard, a native wench, a Moorish woman…or a mujer negra. The guessed the latter, judging by the features. It was to her eternal surprise that the woman began to hand clothing and weaponry to Chanel. This mystery African was then a piratess too! Ye gods, before this our well traveled harlot had never seen more than one or two in the entirety of her existence, and now some three were here before her own eyes. What a queer place this was. She wished she could hear the conversation occurring so many yards off, following as she was the gestures. Almalure settled resignedly against the dock post.

A L M A L U R E

Age cannot whither her, nor her custom stale
Her infinite variety; other women cloy
The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
Where she most satisfies
-William Shakespeare, "Antony and Cleopatra"