Mabel let the Scotsman's words come, though she grew irritable. He didn't seem particularly worried about keeping his voice down. Figures, coming from a man championing his own loyalty to the Captain Brailham. If anybody heard him, he wouldn't be a threat. The loyal sailors were still considered neutral, but Mabel estimated that in a few days, the mutineers would consider them enemies. The whisperings of mutiny were spreading faster than the French pox in a whorehouse. Her leg started to bounce impatiently as he wore on about the detestable recreancies of their fellow mariners, who were at this present moment most likely drowning their bodies with ale-- at least the ones who weren't the ringleaders of the cankerous mutiny. The Scotsman finished his rather level-voiced tirade, curiously offering the courtesy of pouring her a drink sentences after giving her insults. It was MacNichols's way, it seemed, to be for and against, polite and sharp all at once. It irritated her.

"Got it out of your system, did ya?" Mabel groused, crinkling her eyebrows as she reached for the alcohol. She brought the opaque tankard up to her lips and tilted her head back. She only swallowed the smallest bit of the drink, preferring to merely give the appearance of nonchalance. A bit alcohol wasn't going to send her running into the night, sure, but she was a creature of caution. Setting the cup down, she began to speak in a low, level voice. "Listen here, Scotsman. I'm not what you accuse me of being." [i]At least not today,[/i] she thought, figuring it best to keep that concession to herself. "It's because neither of us are much in the mood for mutinying that I'm here. Our Captain's got some enemies aboard, but he's got just as many sailors that're content with his leadership, too." Her hand gestured between the two of them. "You and I, we're what'll tip things in his favor." She didn't pose it as a question, and she didn't need to explain to the man why it was in their best interests to preserve the peace as best as they could. Mabel wasn't one to waste-- or risk-- unnecessary words. She leaned forward again, her cutting eyes trained on the Scotsman's. She looked away only when she heard the thud of a man's boot on the ground. Two sailors sauntered in, one in a long, tattered coat and the other with nothing but an armless shirt and torn trousers. She didn't recognize them; they weren't of the [i]Trident's[/i] crew. Mabel quieted herself some more regardless, her voice becoming barely audible rasping. "If we can't soothe some sense into the rambunctious bastards, we make sure the others keep on likin' the captain." Her hand had been gripping the chair's back tightly. "We accomplish that, then if it comes to it--" She eyed the sailors at the bar quickly. Their backs were turned. She discreetly raised a finger and dragged it across her throat. "We should have the more favorable numbers."