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In the bosom of the Gray Gull, a well-traveled tavern often frequented by the free men, Valgur and a few of his crew pulled up to the bar, which was alive with a merry tremor. The rest of Ye ‘Ol Marigold’s crew were off gallivanting in town, looking for women, an alchemist or a weaponsmith of some kind. Only a chosen few accompanied him to show good standing, namely Grit and Atrocius.

“Well if it ain’t the wily old seawolf,” said Frank the barman, grinning as Valgur took his seat. Other faces from down the bar turned toward them. Valgur cocked an eye at the barman.

“Not so old yet. Look at yourself, Frank, ye got enough gray to be me grandfather, saggy balls and all,” said Valgur, and he turned to give the onlookers down the bar a toothy grin, full of hidden danger, despite his best efforts. Eyes averted for a moment, but returned in time.

“Been a moon or two since I saw you,” said Frank.

“A few moons and more, to be sure. Been workin’ out in the reaches. Haven’t seen the mainland in some years now.”

“A good haul, I hope,” said Frank hospitably. All his patron’s business was good if it meant coin for him.

“Aye, some like. Let’s get a couple rounds here,” said Valgur. He glanced out of the tavern window to where his lookout was posted on the street corner in view of the bay and its sprawling docks. The man glanced idly about himself as he peeled a clementine, nodding slightly to his captain as they met eyes briefly.

Valgur turned to regard the denizens of the bar. The ilk of a few crews was having a time this evening. Beer and mead flowed aplenty. Chords were played. Many a man burst into song, their voices growing into rasping crescendos that crashed into bubbling bursts of laughter. The sound of it flittered up into the rafters where candles sat in their wicks atop the candelabra that dangled from the ceiling.

Valgur eased into his drink, and a grin plastered itself across his face. After a couple of mugs, he joined in the next ditty. Faces turned to regard the newcomer and his band, some mouths drooping into shadows of scowls where before the joys of their own merrymaking were enough entertainment.

“It’s that savvy cavalier. Didn’t think I’d see his face so soon,” said a rotund man who looked at them from out the corner of his eye. He was nearly as large as Atrocius, but much rounder in the belly.

“What was that y’said. Cavalier?” said Valgur out of reflex. He downed the last of his mead and clapped the mug on the bar with a hollow clang that drew looks from other men sitting at it. Valgur’s lips curled into a familiar snarl. For a moment, the two looked each other dead in the eye with the natural unease that all free men exhibited when associating with those of other crews. ”I’m not sure whether to be takin’ that as a compliment, or no,” said Valgur coolly.

”Y’can take it however y’please,” said the man, who chuckled and downed his own mug. A few crewman tried to calm the situation, while others tensed in sudden readiness.

“Cavalier. Whats’at mean?” Valgur asked, glancing around as he mulled it over.

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“Like brash, ain’t it? I feel like it’s when you don’t care what no one has to say,” said Grit.

“I thought it was when you think you’re better than someone, or something,” said another man down the bar. Valgur turned to regard him. He was a pudgy fellow who didn’t quite have the air of a free man about him.

“You a local?” Valgur asked him.

“Aye, y’could say,” said the man. He was greying about the temples.

Valgur pointed at the man, then back to himself. “You think that I think I’m better than you, then?”

The man stiffened in his chair, fumbling over his next words. “Well no, I wouldn’t say, see-”

“Baha, I’m only kidding lad,” said Valgur, clapping the man on the shoulder. The fellow jumped a little, then reddened, nodding agreeably and laughing awkwardly.

“Cavalier. I kinda like it. Call me Valgur the Cavalier, savvy,” said Valgur thoughtfully before bursting out into more exuberant laughter. He turned back to the large man who had regarded him before. “It’s a worthy nickname. Never thought I’d get one from a rival. Say, ye look familiar. What was yer name again?

The large man reddened with embarrassment for having his barb so easily deflected, and to be so easily forgotten. “Captain Wade Wilds,” he said flatly through a tight jaw.

“Oh, pardon. Good to meet ye, Captain Wade. Oi, Frank. Fetch a round here for Wade and his lads. How many ye got here, seven? And my friends down the bar. What’ll it be lads, mead or wine?” There were a few scattered cheers, and anxiousness soon dissipated as cups were emptied and a jovial uproar recommenced in full.

Men drank, unlikely bonds were forged and wills were tested. Some cleared tables and began a traditional arm wrestling tournament in which there were no weight limits. Grit, tough as nails as he was, bested a man fifty pounds heavier than him. But Atrocius quickly dominated the field of competition until there was not a man that had the strength left to challenge him.

After that, Valgur and his lads made sure to continue the merrymaking, making fast friends with men they had once fought against. At the end of the day, every free man wished to live as he pleased, and on that night bygones were made bygones. Men talked together as if they had never once come to blows. They swapped stories, discussing past and current doings of the great captains on the isles, Valgur not excluded. He sat with Grit, Wade and a few of his men at one of the tavern tables.

“I always wondered,” said Wade as he swayed on his stool. “Why’s it y’never got yer own piece o’ the pie.” Wade alluded to the ocean with a wave of his arms.

“What, y’mean me own territory?” said Valgur.

“Aye, and to still have only one ship after so long. I remember ye from Fine Island when you were under captain Barnaby, that’s why I called ye as such. Y’could really rally a man, I tell ye. Something to ‘spire to as a cap’n. It’s why Buccannon always respected ye. Despite the fact, y’know.”

“Buccannon y’say? You were on his crew?” Valgur asked.

“Aye, still am. But I’m here captaining an expedition vessel. Brigadier-General Buccannon’s expanding his enterprises, so to speak,” said Wade with a glimmer in his eye.

“Is that right?” said Valgur, a twinkle in his own. “An expedition. Well that’s new for a free man.”

“Aye, ‘tis. Why we brought summin’ called an archaeologist,” said Wilds, slurring over the final syllable as if he had a lisp. Wade started to slump slightly, then jerked himself upright.

“Interesting,” said Valgur. “What was the name of your ship again?”

“The Fifty Fathoms,” said Wade.

Valgur nodded. “Oi. How ‘bout another?”

“No, I don’t know if I can do ‘nother,” said Wilds, shaking his head drearily.

“Sure y’can matey, it’s a wonderfully fine evening. Enjoy yourself,” said Valgur, grinning toothily. Valgur looked at Grit out of the corner of his eye, and nodded.

“Gotta take a leak,” said Grit, and he made for the door.