The small room was black as pitch and just just as warm; the humid weather of New Orleans made sweltering in the windowless confines of the room. The creaking of old wood and salvaged nails were barely audible over the low and panting growls filling the small space. A woman cried out, muffled and frantic, stabbing the persistent groans briefly before falling back among the creaking as mere background noise until the sound of cannon fire split the night.

"Rete! Rete! Stop! You hear? I'll not take my last night under you!" The woman's accent was as heavy and indistinguishable her blows amidst the inky darkness but resonated just as clear when struck against the bare flesh before her. More creaking and groaning as her client fumbled for a half-decent match. With a puff of smoke and a spark of warm glow, Jack's face was illuminated. The light glistened the beads of sweat gathered on his body as he stepped nimbly to the the oil lamp above the door way; tiny altars to his single serve goddess.

"Ah, but what better way to die than in the arms of a beautiful woman?" Jack chuckled as he lit an oil lamp, filling the room with a soft glow. Though stark and naked in the newly birthed light, it would be the smile in his eyes one would notice first. A man of some height and a build fit for his labor, Jack was a fine looking man-especially by piratical standards-and he knew it.

"Unfortunate for you then those were my arms!" Just out of the light's grasp, a man rose upon the opposite side of the bed and began dressing in the light. Jack let loose another deep laugh as he clapped his other lover on the shoulder with a grin. It seemed of the three of them, only the woman had found cause to be alarmed by the sounds of war. Or, rather sound of war as Jack pointed out, dressing himself in turn.

"And who is to say you are not beautiful as well! Certainly more vocal then our mutual acquaintance here, no? At least until the stray shot was fired." Turning his gaze to the woman still cowering in bed, Jack continued. "Were we fighting, would there have not been more than one shot? I can understand your confusion of course, in your profession even one misfire can put even the finest of ships out for nine months." With a knowing grin, Jack pulled on the rest of his clothes: a loose pair of tan breeches, an old leather vest, a purple sash to hold his weapons and a large, black feathered hat gifted from Captain Charbon himself. "Still, I shall put your mind at ease, mon petit, and see what trouble is afoot. In my absence, I believe my friend and I here paid for the whole night and, while I trust I do not need to supervise this transaction being fulfilled, I will be back soon to watch." With a flourish, Jack tipped his hat, blew out the oil lamp and descended the stairs to the tavern proper in one fell swoop.