Thread: The Virgin Prize [Prince & LingeringDesire]

Philippe Vallette inhaled deeply as he stood on the deck of the rocking brigantine. The air was full of the smell of recent battle, a medley of pistol smoke, acrid gunpowder, fresh blood, burning wood, and, over it all, the salt of the sea. The smell of victory, at least for today. The tall, lanky and rather scruffy man was still panting from exertion, perspiration pouring freely down his face as he pushed back his long, tousled, and sweat-slicked black hair. The hot, mid-day Caribbean sun was a cruel spectator and he longed for a drink. His choice of clothing didn't help with the heat, knee high black leather boots, thick dark trousers, and a loosely tucked and billowing white, long sleeve shirt, half-unbuttoned down his chest. He had an image to maintain as Captain and, although he envied his shirtless crew that were clad in just shorts, he knew he cut a striking figure. Har har! To our victory! Philippe shouted in exultation, lifting his saber high and glaring at his crew as they rounded up the captured ship's remaining sailors. A throaty roar from his men answered his call, forcing Philippe to break into a smile. There was nothing sweeter than victory. Even now, exhausted and hot, adrenaline still coursed through his body and he felt invincible. The smaller vessel's crew had fought them surprisingly hard. Two British marines had been onboard as well and Philippe was grateful the rocking sea had made their already inaccurate musket rifles miss as his men had grappled and then boarded their prize. Most ships of this size surrendered without a shot once they realized Philippe's three masted schooner was faster and better armed. It'd taken the death of the marines and three of their sailers before the smaller crew had begged for mercy, unfortunately at the cost of two of Philippe's more reliable men. Bonjour, said Philippe as he swaggered toward the Captain, who sat propped against the mainmast holding his bloody shoulder. The older man had taken a pistol round and, while pale, Philippe believed would likely live. The Captain's bushy, white eyebrows rose as he heard Philippe speak. Using French was Phillipe's 'trademark' as a pirate and had earned him the nickname of the Fearless Frenchman, or Frenchie when out of his earshot. Your ship is mine. Now pray tell, what precious cargo do you carry that would warrant marines and such a fight against bad odds? Go to hell, fuckin' frenchie! snarled the Captain, wincing at the pain his outburst caused him. I'll see you there, no doubt, and soon enough, Philippe replied, flicking his saber at man's face, forcing a flinch before averting the blow and knocking the injured man's tricorn hat off instead. Well, we'll find out anyway. Breezy, search the hold. I'll look in the Captain's quarters. Breezy was Philippe's first mate, a veteran pirate and the only member of his crew that Philippe truly trusted. The lumbering, thickly set and heavily tattooed man gathered a handful of pirates and started to climb down into the cargo hold, a pistol ready. Philippe took a moment to reload his own pistol before walking to the door to the Captain's quarters below the aft deck. It was, of course, locked. Rather than search the Captain for a key that he had no doubt already thrown into the ocean, Philippe snarled and raised his boot. Using all the force he could muster from his strong frame, he gave the stout wooden door a hard stomp right by its handle and burst it open in an explosion of splinters. Now let's see what delicious prize you are hiding in here... the pirate murmured, sword and pistol at the ready as he crept into the dark room.