There were a few things that he hated in this world. Horace hated not getting paid, he hated snot nosed, better then you attitudes and he absolutely loathed going into a mission blind. The latter was his current predicament. Something had stirred in the Havannan port, and it had spooked the local sources. But when the Torn Sails came and looked, there had been nothing. Or at least that's what they had thought at first. But a very astute observation from on of the locals had put them on the trail of something, something dangerous and big. A living idol of sorts from the sound of it. A avatar of a old one? By hecates six tits, that was bad news. 

So the swedish born, trough battle and gutters raised privateer had travelled across the spanish main to new orleans in pursuit of leads on this strange rumor. And tihs something had apparently stolen away on a boat across the ocean. Of course, the Torn Sails could just not sail into port without a flag to their name and with a black ship armed with more cannons then any vessel its size. They were considered pirates by the missinformed after all. So they stove away in a cove and it was Horace who had to trek trough the bayou into town, luckily he had a guide. The entire swamps gave him shivers something terrible, there was something strange about it. The foul gasses of rotten plants and trees that seemed to twist in unatural shapes had seemingly stretched after him. He wasn't sure what was going on just yet, but if there was a cult present he would find out. And then he would do what he did best. 

As he trekked into the town two men coats decided to stop his passage into town. A tall, mangy one stepped forward. By the hat and the robust robe he was the city guard. A peasant given rang and prestige for shooting natives and rebellious slaves no doubt.

“You.” The man spoke, his accent was far to crisp to be from around here. He must have arrived from the northern parts, possibly to reinforce the Garrison with all the rumors about british ships sailing about in the Spanish main.

“Ye'?” Horace stopped, he didn't look like a pirate per say. He was well groomed, he had scars sure but he was a sailor in dangerous waters after all. But his clothes were clean and his equipment in top shape. His handsome mug was contorted in a knowing smile as the two sized him up. He had spotted a third far off with a muscet. Bog bandits posing as city guards, or perhaps city guards with light pockets? 

“What are you doing out in the swamps lad?” 'Lad', so the tall guard was a limey who had switched sides it seemed. Time to crack this little two man Barricade before they started to ask the wrong questions. But the Brit was faster, and spoke impatiently and with a tone Horace didn't care much for. But it clued him in, they were city guard allright, they had taken gone to scout most likely, and seen Horace. Figured him a easy way to get some padding for the poor pockets. “Well, don't just stand there! Answer!” He demanded.

“Big ol' black ship out in the Fransica Cove.” Horace reached within his shirt as he spoke, the two guards exchanged nervous glances. Clearly the ship had been spotted on it's detour. “Easy Boyos, I got a crown Sigil and a bit of silver for, should you to let me past. And If you don't then I'll just shank you both where you stand. You let me get to close, your rifles won't be up in time. You have to rely on those pigstickers you call swords. And my falchion is better.” He shrugged, he had been on the sea for far to long to care. Killing was nothing new, men were just men and men bled to death.

 “Nice and clean kills, except for piggy.” He eyed the two men, the 'piggy' was a young stout and well fed man who had been growing increasingly nervous in the presence of this undoubtedly unpleasant man infront of them. But they also realized they had been had, they were not any sort of upstanding citizens, and undoubtedly thought they could press a lone pirate on information and money before doing away with him in the swamps. Sigil or not, these were thugs and as likely to blackmail the poorer people of the outer city border if they could. 

“Ye' gonna go for yer toothpicks already? Or am I gonna get to walk?” He said slowly. The brit frooze up first, he was ready to fight to death now that the target was being aggressive. Admirable but foolhardy. The tall islander swung in a wide arch, a angry and clumsy move. There was a split second reaction from the Torn Sails privater as he ducked low and unceremoniously punched the man square between the legs. The 'piggy' fell backwards in mute terror while his 'brave' companion crumbled the ground with a whimper. It had been a good hit, the guard seemed to have blacked out from the sheer amounf of pain. No wonder, the more experienced Horace had punched with the metal hilt in what was a terribly unapologetic and clean hit. 

“No use killing you fools. Here is my sigil.” He showed the waxsealed piece of paper for the still whimpering and crumbled excuse of a man. Not that it mattered now.

It read:
On the mission of the ruling body of the Free American States, this individual has proven himself a loyal servant of the country and is a pardoned and sanctioned privateer flying under American flag. 

Of course, it was a superiorly made fake. But nobody could really tell, he had fooled spies and officials more then once. The Torn sails was of course, known by most of the people who's water they patroled, but there were people with dubius intentions that would rather all the different cult hunters went away, no matter how secretive they were.

And so the tall, blonde pirate strode into town. Now to steer his steps to somewhere he could have a drink or two.