A single shot from a cannon thundered out from the brigantine, the ashy smoke rose from the porthole and swirled up towards the black flag that danced viciously with the dispersing haze in the high winds. Despite the ship being named 'The Harrowed Maiden' her warning cry was anything but harrowed. It was powerful, threatening, and no doubt decisive. It was the merchant ship opposite her that seemed far more harrowed in this situation. The waves along made it shiver and its frame's creaks made it sound like it whimpered at the sight of the delinquent pirate ship, but the captain aboard The Harrowed Maiden knew better.

The salty ocean wind whipped the frizzy ginger locks free of her loose ponytail around as she squinted across the water that separated her from her prey. The other ship's crew was obviously not about to surrender from how they scurried about like cockroaches. Her chapped lips pulled back into a sneer. It wasn't a surprise when their portholes opened. The Irish woman's amber eyes narrowed.

"Sir," Nia shouted hurriedly as she turned to face her captain. Her heavy unkempt braids were still in motion from her head spin when the ginger woman held up her hand.

"I see it. Least that means they got something worth protecting on board. Nia, organize canon fire. Oliver, the wheel," the woman commanded before she left her post. A young man scrambled to take over the wheel, his quivering lower lip only steadied as he sucked it into his mouth and bit it still. The woman shot her musket into the open air and hollered out as she rushed towards her top mounted great guns. Her long, worn black and purple coat billowed out behind her in her charge. "Hoist it, Rat!" Imogen, or Rat as she was better known, was already on the case with an excited smile plastered on her round girlish face. She threw her whole body into working the ropes, though that wasn't saying much considering her frame.

"Hands to arms!" Nia's voice boomed, "Rolling fire, cripple her!"

The black flag came down and was replaced by a crimson one just as the first cannon fire from the merchant vessel rang out. As horrifying as a black flag was, the red one was far worse. It was a sign clear as day mercy was now off the table. If that hadn't been made abundantly clear from the flag, then it would have from the entourage of rolling cannon fire. From front to back along the Maiden's broadside a pattern of a bombastic boom from a cannon followed by a smaller, yet still dramatic, burst from the swivel gun next to it tolled from the portside of the ship. The pattern happened thrice over before restarting from the front. Each shot jolted the Maiden backwards with a tremendous force and every time she righted herself again the next fire would push her right back. Her own great guns seemed to move her more than the incoming fire did— even as her railings were burst through and chunks were gouged from her side, goring the souls unlucky enough to be stood in the way. The deck was awash with blood and splinters.

The pirates that were not loading and firing the cannons aimed with their muskets, unlike the great guns that looked to destroy structures and only killed by happenstance, the muskets aimed for people. With the violent jitters and rocking from the brigantine their aim was not always true, but they made up for that in abundance of bullets. The near constant air splitting whizz of gunshots made it hard to hear if they were coming or going. Men on both sides fell to the barrage. Some slumped and dropped overboard, but most fell backwards onto their respective ships. Their wheezes and death rattles peppered the orchestra of igniting gunpowder.

The captain was amongst the crew, her own musket in hand. The vicious rocking and splashing of missed cannonballs made the air heavy and wet— she could feel the sea fully seep into her boots and clothes. Usually that mist would be frigid, but the fire in her veins kept her barely below boiling. Another shot from the opposing vessel hit the Maiden's broadside a few feet away from her. The crack it made was horrific and earned a worried gasp from the woman. She staggered back into a brick house of a man— Eddie, who seemed just as unaffected by the captain stumbling into him as he was by the Maiden's throws. He was the total opposite of his daughter, Rat, who desperately tried to join the fire fight, but seemed more preoccupied with the fight to stay on her feet. The captain growled a quiet, "Bloody hell," through her teeth.

Even in the stress, the older man remarked, "Language," just before the cannon he was manning fired a pair of cannonballs connected by a bar. The bar shot, as it was so aptly called, rammed into the merchant ship's side and sprayed the deck in a cloud of debris. It pulverized the boards nearly down to the waterline— it was clear it could no longer sail in anything besides clear waters. Musket bullets erupted through the smoke to take out those who escaped the fate of being skewered by their own ship. The merchant vessel's crew didn't even have time to register fully what happened before a chain shot careened across the gap, it spun wildly until it crashed into the main mast and shredded it over half way through. The snap it made was wet like bone. For a moment it held, until the sound of a single rope giving way made it tremble. Suddenly, there was more. The chorus of snapping ropes cracked like whips as they let go and fiercely lashed at the sky. The main mast tipped and dragged the topsail and mainsail along with it— blanketing half of the ship. It draped over the portholes and blinded most of the crew in its vast canvas. The majority of the topside great guns were rendered useless, and the one freed from that fate has hardly enough to fight back against the pirate's onslaught. Finally the merchant ship ceased fire.

The captain let out a heavy sigh of relief. No flag of surrender even needed to go up for her to know it was finally over. Her gaze lingered on the deviation to her own vessel for just a moment before she shook her head and hurried up to the wheel. "Oliver, trim the sails," she commanded as her presence pushed the man from his former spot at the wheel. Oliver, or Olli as he preferred, though the crew hardly took the time to get to know him well enough to know that, nodded almost too emphatically and scurried off like a little mouse. 

The captain shot her gun into the air again before she finally holstered it, "Alright boys! Get to the sweeps! We're approaching now!"

And just like that the cannons were abandoned as the crew poured down the hatch and to the oars— bar a few. Olli and Rat worked on the sails, and a few more stood on standby in case the other ship tried anything else. After most of the men disappeared below a Spaniard named Carlos climbed out and attended to the wounded that were scattered across the deck. Truly, he was a rarity on such a ship: a proper and well educated doctor— and shockingly he was there on his own volition, unlike their sail master Ollie. Another man, Santiago, aided the doctor. He too was clearly an educated man, but no one was quite sure of his true credentials or much about him in general. He claimed to be Portuguese but looked to be from south Asia, but besides that he spoke very little about himself.

The Harrowed Maiden slowly approached the ruins and a plank was placed between the two ships. Most of the crew swiftly invaded. The captain and her first mate, Nia, were the first to set foot on the opposite ship. The surviving members of the merchant vessel were already on their knees, their hands on their heads. They shook in terror, yet that did not stop their faces from twisting with insult and disgust when they saw it was a woman that led the attack that beat them, doubly so when they saw the first mate Nia. Bested not just by a woman, but by two, and the latter was African no less. In no position to do anything about it, the crew held their tongues and awaited their fates with their pride and little more crushed than just they were moments before. At least their hearts sat a little more at ease; in their minds a woman would surely be more likely to show mercy, even after they flew the red flag.

The Irish woman approached the opposing captain, each of her steps were deliberate. Her collection of golds around her neck clattered in sync with the buckles of her boots. He sat on his knees, hands on his head like the others. However, his face still read as defiant. He glared up at her through his dark messy fringe. She gave a snort and drew her cutlass. Her movements were slow and deliberate as she pressed the flat side of her sword to the underside of his chin and used it to tilt his head so he looked up at her properly. She took a moment to appreciate the situation, or rather let it all really sink in for the man before her, then she spoke, "What was so precious it was worth all this mess to protect, hm?" She asked in a taunting tone, "You know the saying: hell hath no fury… and I don't take too kindly to wounding my ship or my crew, so speak."

"Like hell I'd tell you anything, wench," the man barked back and spat at her. A glob hit her cheek, she wiped it clean with her free hand and without a word more drew her sword back and readied herself to lob his head off until another voice piped up and caused her to pause.

"Just down the hatch! I-inna cage! Right in the open, ya won't miss it! Ma'am please–"

"It's sir," She coldly interrupted as her glare fell on the subordinate who had spoken up. He shrunk away into his shoulders and avoided her oppressive gaze but she pressed, "I said, it's sir."

"Yes sir, sorry, sir!" the man relented, sinking even farther than the woman knew possible. His wide panicked eyes studied the deck's floorboards below him far too keenly.

She gave a short huff then sheathed her blade, "I'll let my men deal with you lot. Nia, I think you and I have a cage to open."