[When Mary bargained to return to the living, she hadn't expected to be thrust twenty years into the future, and in Tortuga, besides. Well, she wouldn't have, if she had more than a vague memory of the thing. As it stands, all Mary really knows is she took an opportunity the moment it presented itself.

And she has a job to do.

When she comes upon the cook-out looking like Hell and a half, dressed in naught but underclothes and something akin to a corset, she scopes out the attendees, then sidles up for a good piece of meat and a bottle of gin. Maybe some fruit, too, while she's at it. She clearly doesn't give a single shit.

Nothing is free unless you make it so, at least for yourself. And meat is a rare commodity. The suspiciously generous man can pay for it himself. Take what you can, right?

To other arrivals, she may seem like a local taking advantage, because she's definitely dressed for the part. She's practically inviting the stares as she saunters away to a corner of the party and claims a rock of her own, plopping down heavily. Despite her state of dress, she is the epitome of confidence and attitude.

Maybe you want to yell at her for taking your well-earned free food. Or put on some clothes. Or perhaps you'd like to ask an obvious veteran for advice. It certainly looks like she just fought a battle with a damp jail cell and barely came out on top. Life goals, amirite?]

[It's interesting how the world forgets once you leave it. Mary Read has been dead for twenty years, and the legend of the hellcat has become just that: a story told around the fire with plenty of booze. A ghost story.

Calling herself Mary Read hasn't been going so well. No one wants to join a crew captained by a stranger claiming to be a dead woman. An actual recently dead woman as a captain would have been just fine, however. Strange. The world has really changed in twenty years.

So no one believes her. That's fine. She started from the ground up, creating a rep for herself as James Kidd, the bastard son of William Kidd, then the ferocious Mary Read. It sends her mind reeling that she even has to, but she could start again.

Or she could spread whispers 'round of her coming back from the dead. People love a good ghost story.

But first, a job. Now dressed in cheap men's clothes, she's lurking about the taverns, keeping an eye out for a good crew that isn't just all showboating dandies. Yes, it's important to look the part, but she much prefers actual competence.

Finally, she saunters up to one of the taverns and approaches two men darkening the door who just might have nothing to prove]

So which one o' you wags 'ave a crew worth 'alf the salt on yer backs? [Well. She's always been fond of the direct "fuck it, just insult them and see what happens" approach.

The men are obviously piss-drunk, and one of them takes a violent step forward, puffing out his chest, slurring some question or other about what a wench had to say about the state of his own goddamn affairs. Suffice to say, he throws a punch. Mary easily steps to the side, and the man goes tripping and flailing right into you, fist still at the ready. Oops.]

[bro I'm out of ideas hit me]