"Sheet a jib" Markus echoed aloud, though whether he was amused or impressed at the lack of understanding, it was hard to tell. He and Morgan stood there, Markus with crossed arms as the men behind him scrambled and slipped over one another at their duties. 

"I'll ask you this one last time, lad. You sure about this lass?" He asked, eyeing Markus like he had an enchantment spell cast on him by the woman. "A woman, a sorcerous one at that...bad luck." 

"She's useful in unexpected ways." The captain explained, turning to his friend. When he saw Morgan's knowing look, Markus glared at him. "To the crew, not to me...Stop looking at me like that. Move, old man. These lads can't handle the boat so we'll need to till they get their wits about them." 

Markus and Morgan, along with what crew were coherent sailed the rest of the day. The Captain showed he had lost none of his potency at sailing, nor had the old sea dog of a quartermaster. It was as the sun set that they turned northwest, and though they saw no pursuit, the setting sun at their fronts would blind anyone looking in their direction. Once night had engulfed the world, Mannslieb and Morrsleib were high in the sky, casting a gale of light upon the sloshing seas. Markus spent much of the night sitting in the messhall with Morgan and Sketti as the other men slept off their hangovers. 

The next day, Markus awoke to find he had fallen asleep in the messhall. Not one to fret, he hopped to and whipped the lads to work without mercy. The sun, once it rose, was bright and relentless, yet the sea gave cool wind that blew strongly from the east. Markus could only hope that favored them more than any pursuit, which so far had yet to be seen. They likely weren't to see any, at least on this voyage. No one would suspect them to travel through the Fools Rocks. Once the sun was but two hours from midday, and with the wind with them, Markus began a small exercise he hadn't tried since he had begun sailing. 

He took empty bottles of rum they no longer needed (and a full one for himself), and he would grab them by the neck and throw them overboard, shooting them with his pistol and shattering them to a thousand pieces before they hit the water. The men weren't startled after the first, but anyone unused to it and near would hear successive shots and the breaking of glass. It was a credit to his skills, hitting eight out of ten on his first go round, draining the last of the rum he had brought and tossing it next. He hefted his pistol and aimed as it careened toward the sea. Almost too late, he fired. The bottle broke and fell into the waves like shrapnel.