Still drunk on lust and cheer, Jack rose from his flourished bow to his amorous equals and broke his full gait into a nimble dash down the upper halls and over the old staircase banister, creaking as he lay hands but only a moment to vault himself up and over to the floor below. Landing with a thump, the small main room of the Café Majestueux through the patrons seemed mostly unfazed. Pockets of tables cheered, some at the bar gave a knowing nod and a raise of their glass, but most in the Majestueux needed not even to look from their drinks to know who had come crashing from the bedrooms. The Majestueux had long been the haunt of the Dog Headed Whore as it was placed far enough from the main gates to arouse suspicions but far enough from the swamps proper to avoid less than savory critters ending up on the menu. The crew were French after all, a fact they never failed to remind their Striker Jack when sending him hunting ashore. 

Indeed, they never failed to teach Jack many a thing growing up. Now a point of morale and the son they never wanted, Charbon's crew had, for better or worse, raised the young Haitian to the man he was today; a man now standing in an especially exaggerated pose, his arms open wide and a grin plastered across his dark face. 

"Voici! If that's not fit for a drink, I'll kiss your pecker!" Jack called loudly as he made his way to the barkeep, an older man with one eye and a penchant for watering the booze if you don't watch him. "What says Gaspar? Drink for a dear friend?" Resting himself on a shabby wooden stool, Jack flashed a smile at the old man. Gaspard was once the quartermaster of the Dog Headed Whore, the very same that caught Jack as a boy stowed away and stealing food. For years he refused to speak to the boy despite his obvious favour with Charbon, often giving him the worst foodstuffs available. Being a slave all his life, such malnutrition was barely noticed much to the old quarter master's chagrin. 

It wasn't until many years later an ill fated raid on am English vessel that cost Gaspar his eye and nearly his life that he grew a begrudging respect for the young man who turned a blade seconds before it ended the old man forever. Staring death in the face changes a man and as such Quarter Master Gaspar became Bartender Gaspar, a position which allowed his years of divvying supplies and breaking up brawls to shine while giving him some semblance of security. 

"You will pay me like all others, imbécile. And to that, I tell again, you are no friend of Gaspar's." With a warm glare, Gaspar spit once more on the bar and ran his rag across the knotted wood. "Et Autre chose! Another thing, Gaspar hears the wooden singing of creaking boards, do not think he does not! You and your pouffiasse lovers, you will not break another of Gaspar's beds or he shall grab a paddle and-" Gaspar stopped as a shadow fell across the room as a stranger stepped to the doorway, blocking the oil lamp and casting the black beast. All eyes turned to the newcomer. 

It wasn't exactly surprising that he made people stop talking. The man, tall and blonder then the suns own yellow, carried himself like a true sea dog as he strolled inside. Stares from the regulars let him know that they didn't like new arrivals very much. He shot the nastiest looking a smug smile and patted his sabre, the other man shifted and ran his hands against a blade in his boot. Horacio took note of the others knife, and counted the people in the bar as he took in the ale soaked tavern in all it's glory. This was a fine place to start stirring shit up.

Horace then he steered towards the bar with the confidence of a man that survived a bit to much for his own ego to take it lying down. He produced a small pouch from his belt and let two pieces of shiny golden metal slide across the bar. “Rum. Bottle of it.” He glanced over to Jack and eyed him slowly. 

“Get this ugly mug something to drink as well.”

With a smug grin, Jack turned back to Gaspar. "Aha! Voici la chose, mon frère! I told to you I would not be paying for my drink this night! Look how Ghede Nibo provides! A drink from a handsome stranger and yolk for dear Gaspar's face!" Jack pulled a silver flask from the purple scarf about his waist, something within rattling against the precious metal, and kissed the emblem carved into the side, a symbol of health and virility.

Gaspar mumbled beneath his breath as he reached below the counter and produced to bottles of rum, one dark and one white. He knew what Jack wanted, it was the same he ordered every night, or rather, tried to get for free then, failing that, ordered like a civilized person. Likewise, he knew the exact ritual Jack followed and laid a small crude funnel atop the bar alongside the bottles. With a courteous smile, Jack uncorked his flask and inserted the funnel. From within the silver, fragrances poured out into the room, the bite of cayenne peppers, the sweet aroma of shredded coconut, the tropical pungency of mashed plantains, all piled atop the lingering smell of death as six pieces of human bone rattled inside as Jack poured in a small bit of rum and shook the slurry in front of him. With a toast to his benefactor, Jack sipped the concoction and returned the flask to his belt. "Massissi!"

With his thanks to Nibo complete, Jack turned to the dashing man beside him. "Tell me, racé, what brings such a man as you to our corner of the map?" 

“Rumors” Horace answered and waved a mosquito away from his face. This place was swarming with them it seemed. He took a swig of the rum, smacking his lips as if unsure what to make of it. Not the worst he ever had, but far from Havanna in quality, that was for sure. He eyed jack again before grinning.

“Actually kamrat', I heard you know this place fairly well." He paused. "You are Hyena Jack are you not?” He smiled widely as he referred to the other man by his nickname. When he wasn't chasing culists, he was a sort of a pirate after all and he could be very pursuasive. After his stunt at the gate, he had easily scared some locals into giving him a name of pirate of the right color and expertice to help him. He had no interest in a well off, white christian at this moment. Horace was after all, not a christian himself. His goddess was quite fond of witch doctors. Add to that the fact that they were in Three Snakes territory, he rather keep himself on right side of the local freemen and others that may be as inclined to practice the art of Vodou. This was a start towards establishing his base of operation.

“I have a proposition.” He said, taking the bottle in one hand and one arm over the others shoulder. Leaning so only jack could here. “I am tracking someone, I might need the help of someone like yourself who knows the local crews and can move in circles I cannot. The pay is good and the cause is not entirely gob'shite.”

Jack leaned close to the man as he spoke, amorous affections fell aside as he listened closer. While his flask was seen as a simple quirk, Charbon and his crew held an unspoken stance against openly speaking of the Loa. Much like his childhood on the plantation, Jack held his offerings in private though now more out of respect than fear. Speaking in equally soft tones, Jack spoke to the stranger careful not to let Gaspar hear. "You come on wings of Nibo so I will listen. But not here." Clapping the man on the back, Jack staged a loud laugh and called for his crew mates to hear. "But of course, Handsome! You who buys me drinks, what sort of date I would be to not walk with you a while! Come, step through moonlight with me." With that, Jack rose from his seat and took the stranger by his hand.