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There were two things Mabel would not accept: compliments and promises. The pirate's assurances to protect her did nothing to assuage her anxieties about what would happen if Captain Brailham was usurped. Her first reaction was to tell the man to keep his heroic promises to himself, but she held her tongue. It wouldn't do to piss off her one ally. She really needed to work on impulse control. "Thank you," she scraped out awkwardly. The words felt so alien in her mouth; she wondered when the last time she said them was.
She was still resurfacing from her nightmarish phantasms when she motioned toward the town they had left behind and begun walking towards it. Her boots fell heavily on the hill's decline, making her arms swing in a cumbersome way while her hips knocked side to side. A fancier woman would try to make a show of herself when possible. There was also a reason fancier women did not exist in Nassau, Mabel told herself. She kicked up the dirt on the street as she approached the lively pirates' haven. Mabel made sure to stay a few steps in front of MacNichols so as to make it look like they weren't working together. Just loud enough for Douglas and Douglas only to hear her, she said, "Don't get too distracted in here, Scotsman." With that, Mabel took a turn and brought her boot lightly upon the creaking board of a tavern's veranda. The regulars simply called the establishment Bogart's Tavern, on account of the shiny-headed, corpulent man named Bogart who owned it. The insides were dim; Bogart didn't see the point of burning through so many candles if his patrons were going to get drunk and water-visioned regardless. This, and the loud ubiquitous thrumming of stringed instruments, helped Mabel disappear into the places that the sailors could only recognize as blurry shadows. She would let MacNichols take center stage while she perched crow-like in obscurity.
A few minutes went by. Mabel lingered beneath the stairs, listening to the boards groan every time someone went up and down. She held a tankard at her hip, but she had no intention of drinking it; she only purchased the alcohol to shirk Bogart's suspicion. Mabel watched with her narrow grey eyes. The men here were all sailors, judging by their garb and dark skin tanned from weeks at sea with only the moon's sky for shade. The way they drank was a dead giveaway, too. Any sot that lived on Nassau could get a drink any day, but the sailors drank like it was their last chance. For many of them, it would be; rum was rationed on the open ocean and often reserved for remedies of the physical sort, not a man's boredom.
Mabel was in the middle of her observations when a barmaid sidled up to her in a way very familiar to the pirate. Her shoulders shimmied left and right, and her weight transitioned dramatically from one hip to the other. She had a bottle in her hands, hands that were entirely too young and uncalloused to already be in the service of pouring. "Can I refill for ya, m'lady?" The young girl tilted the bottle neck before Mabel could answer. Consequently, Mabel lured her tankard away and gave a sharp look directly into the girl's eyes. "What'ya doin'?" Mabel queried with that irritated, grating voice. She jutted her chin towards her to emphasize her point. "You're workin' in a bar, lassie, not a bloody brothel. Don't pitch what y'ain't sellin', or else you'll just be people ideas." It was meant as advice but, in Mabel's weary fashion, delivered without the slightest hint of compassion. She gave a wave of her cup-holding hand, sending the red-faced woman away. Mabel watched her go. Something distant fussed in the pit of her gut. She brought the cup up to her lips and took a short drink.
She was mumbling to herself about young fools when a familiar sound vibrated through the drumming floors and through the canals of her ears. A year and a half sailing with a one-legged man would make the sound of a wooden prop recognizable to anyone. Jackham, a man she had no love for but could be more at ease around on account of his inhibited mobility, clacked into the bar. He had two other of the Trident's sailors in his wake, and they looked too grave to have the intention of merrymaking in a tavern.
She was still resurfacing from her nightmarish phantasms when she motioned toward the town they had left behind and begun walking towards it. Her boots fell heavily on the hill's decline, making her arms swing in a cumbersome way while her hips knocked side to side. A fancier woman would try to make a show of herself when possible. There was also a reason fancier women did not exist in Nassau, Mabel told herself. She kicked up the dirt on the street as she approached the lively pirates' haven. Mabel made sure to stay a few steps in front of MacNichols so as to make it look like they weren't working together. Just loud enough for Douglas and Douglas only to hear her, she said, "Don't get too distracted in here, Scotsman." With that, Mabel took a turn and brought her boot lightly upon the creaking board of a tavern's veranda. The regulars simply called the establishment Bogart's Tavern, on account of the shiny-headed, corpulent man named Bogart who owned it. The insides were dim; Bogart didn't see the point of burning through so many candles if his patrons were going to get drunk and water-visioned regardless. This, and the loud ubiquitous thrumming of stringed instruments, helped Mabel disappear into the places that the sailors could only recognize as blurry shadows. She would let MacNichols take center stage while she perched crow-like in obscurity.
A few minutes went by. Mabel lingered beneath the stairs, listening to the boards groan every time someone went up and down. She held a tankard at her hip, but she had no intention of drinking it; she only purchased the alcohol to shirk Bogart's suspicion. Mabel watched with her narrow grey eyes. The men here were all sailors, judging by their garb and dark skin tanned from weeks at sea with only the moon's sky for shade. The way they drank was a dead giveaway, too. Any sot that lived on Nassau could get a drink any day, but the sailors drank like it was their last chance. For many of them, it would be; rum was rationed on the open ocean and often reserved for remedies of the physical sort, not a man's boredom.
Mabel was in the middle of her observations when a barmaid sidled up to her in a way very familiar to the pirate. Her shoulders shimmied left and right, and her weight transitioned dramatically from one hip to the other. She had a bottle in her hands, hands that were entirely too young and uncalloused to already be in the service of pouring. "Can I refill for ya, m'lady?" The young girl tilted the bottle neck before Mabel could answer. Consequently, Mabel lured her tankard away and gave a sharp look directly into the girl's eyes. "What'ya doin'?" Mabel queried with that irritated, grating voice. She jutted her chin towards her to emphasize her point. "You're workin' in a bar, lassie, not a bloody brothel. Don't pitch what y'ain't sellin', or else you'll just be people ideas." It was meant as advice but, in Mabel's weary fashion, delivered without the slightest hint of compassion. She gave a wave of her cup-holding hand, sending the red-faced woman away. Mabel watched her go. Something distant fussed in the pit of her gut. She brought the cup up to her lips and took a short drink.
She was mumbling to herself about young fools when a familiar sound vibrated through the drumming floors and through the canals of her ears. A year and a half sailing with a one-legged man would make the sound of a wooden prop recognizable to anyone. Jackham, a man she had no love for but could be more at ease around on account of his inhibited mobility, clacked into the bar. He had two other of the Trident's sailors in his wake, and they looked too grave to have the intention of merrymaking in a tavern.
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Mabel decided not to waste words as response to MacNichols's drinking. She'd jump overboard before she'd figure a pirate would do anything but drink on his time off. She listened to the sailor speak some more, clearly at wit's end about what to do to preserve the peace among the split crew. Mabel crossed her arms tightly, making the overlarge shoulders of her jerkin rise up a bit. She looked out into the busy port they left behind. They didn't have much height over the tops of the slanted, splintered buildings, but something about the distance and the way the nighttime was starting to digest the orange-pink complexion of Nassau made her feel... separated, almost safely so, if only she weren't there because of threats. "I think this is where our meeting place ought to be," she decided, motioning to the nothingness around them. There were no trees here, no brush or buildings or boulders for anyone to hide behind. They were out in the open, impossible to attack without their knowing. Or as close as they could get.
Douglas wanted to know what Mabel's grand plan was. Truthfully, she had expended all she had premeditated by recruiting him. The only reasonable thing she knew to do was to get MacNichols in on the situation. He was honorable enough and well-liked by the crew. It would be futile for Mabel to try to use her own popularity to win anyone over. Douglas, on the other hand, had a chance. She didn't know him to cause problems or for anyone aboard to have any particular issue with him. A likable fellow was what the captain needed, and Mabel needed the captain. Getting on a ship was a strenuous mission for her, not just because she was a woman but because of her ties to the port, specifically her ties to her deceased fence husband. Mabel and Brailham shared a secret about her coming aboard the Trident, and Brailham was one entity she had counted on to keep her out of the crewmen's clutches. It amazed her, really, that Brailham had extended his protection of her for so long; she had feared he might permit, maybe even encourage the crew to abuse her once they were out on the open ocean. It was his loyalty to her that made Mabel count herself a recipient of luck, even in the wake of the devastations that had brought her aboard. The woman knew her chances of survival aboard a ship would splinter away if the captain was usurped, and she wasn't about to go running back to the life of tavern service or wifehood.
She eyed the bottle in MacNichols's rough hands. He was trying to abstain from the liquor. Figuring she'd do them both a favor, she swiped the drink out of his hands and brought it up to her own lips. She hoped taking the nervousness out of her might help her mental acuity some, but mostly she was just looking for some relief from the stress of the prospects at hand. After taking a wash of drink, she dropped her arm to the side, wringing out the neck of the bottle with her anxious fingers. Her other wrist wiped the saliva off her lips, leaving behind one of her characteristic deep-thought grimaces: lips thin and opened lopsidedly, revealing the teeth around her canines. "All I know is we have to walk this right," she grumbled, looking out into the dim opal glow of Nassau, with the moonlight on the impenetrable ocean skittering ashore, blending with the coral burnish of torches and tavern candles. She could hear some whore's fake laugh from all the way out where she stood, and she wondered for the umpteenth time what state the women she had known growing up were in these days. She was as afraid to know as she was to care. With a voice detached like an untied skiff sliding away from shore, she said, "You have to be ready to scrub the mutiny out of the shipboards if it comes to that, Scotsman." Subconsciously, her fingers slithered way up to the handle of her rapier. As if there were some innate core connecting her to it, the touch brought flashes of violence to her mind's eye, iniquities committed by hands that were not her own, hands that she had not seen but rather heard emanating from the hill on which once stood Augustus Blake's estate. She had found the intestinal coils of rope on the doorstep three days later, when she deemed it safe enough to venture out of hiding. It was charred and blood-crispened. Mabel's eyes were rooted to the distant town still, but she seemed to be looking straight into the beast's jaws. Her snarl deformed into something even more misshapen, but somehow made her look less like the bristly serpent she had become and more like the young lady she once pretended to be.
((I swear I was going to wait a few more posts before things got psychological. Or was I? ))
Douglas wanted to know what Mabel's grand plan was. Truthfully, she had expended all she had premeditated by recruiting him. The only reasonable thing she knew to do was to get MacNichols in on the situation. He was honorable enough and well-liked by the crew. It would be futile for Mabel to try to use her own popularity to win anyone over. Douglas, on the other hand, had a chance. She didn't know him to cause problems or for anyone aboard to have any particular issue with him. A likable fellow was what the captain needed, and Mabel needed the captain. Getting on a ship was a strenuous mission for her, not just because she was a woman but because of her ties to the port, specifically her ties to her deceased fence husband. Mabel and Brailham shared a secret about her coming aboard the Trident, and Brailham was one entity she had counted on to keep her out of the crewmen's clutches. It amazed her, really, that Brailham had extended his protection of her for so long; she had feared he might permit, maybe even encourage the crew to abuse her once they were out on the open ocean. It was his loyalty to her that made Mabel count herself a recipient of luck, even in the wake of the devastations that had brought her aboard. The woman knew her chances of survival aboard a ship would splinter away if the captain was usurped, and she wasn't about to go running back to the life of tavern service or wifehood.
She eyed the bottle in MacNichols's rough hands. He was trying to abstain from the liquor. Figuring she'd do them both a favor, she swiped the drink out of his hands and brought it up to her own lips. She hoped taking the nervousness out of her might help her mental acuity some, but mostly she was just looking for some relief from the stress of the prospects at hand. After taking a wash of drink, she dropped her arm to the side, wringing out the neck of the bottle with her anxious fingers. Her other wrist wiped the saliva off her lips, leaving behind one of her characteristic deep-thought grimaces: lips thin and opened lopsidedly, revealing the teeth around her canines. "All I know is we have to walk this right," she grumbled, looking out into the dim opal glow of Nassau, with the moonlight on the impenetrable ocean skittering ashore, blending with the coral burnish of torches and tavern candles. She could hear some whore's fake laugh from all the way out where she stood, and she wondered for the umpteenth time what state the women she had known growing up were in these days. She was as afraid to know as she was to care. With a voice detached like an untied skiff sliding away from shore, she said, "You have to be ready to scrub the mutiny out of the shipboards if it comes to that, Scotsman." Subconsciously, her fingers slithered way up to the handle of her rapier. As if there were some innate core connecting her to it, the touch brought flashes of violence to her mind's eye, iniquities committed by hands that were not her own, hands that she had not seen but rather heard emanating from the hill on which once stood Augustus Blake's estate. She had found the intestinal coils of rope on the doorstep three days later, when she deemed it safe enough to venture out of hiding. It was charred and blood-crispened. Mabel's eyes were rooted to the distant town still, but she seemed to be looking straight into the beast's jaws. Her snarl deformed into something even more misshapen, but somehow made her look less like the bristly serpent she had become and more like the young lady she once pretended to be.
((I swear I was going to wait a few more posts before things got psychological. Or was I? ))
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." At least not today, 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 Trident's 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."
"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." At least not today, 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 Trident's 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."
Her tactic to nearly all things was simple: distance. It was distance that made her chances of getting picked off by a flintlock significantly more favorable. Her distance from the bigger, more bustling taverns kept her out of reach of drunken crewmen's hands and, most important of all, distance from petty squabbles kept her out of the thick of things. Much to her dismay, however, Mabel Agnes Blake found survival necessitating that she approach the center of the latest issue and stab it right in the heart.
She had been following him since she got off the ship. Only a few men lingered aboard the Trident once it slid into port on the cusp of sunset. The skies were saturated by the dissipating sun, its orange emissions mingling curiously with the dense marine. Mabel was on one of the first rowboats to shore, sitting in the middle, not bothering to help the men propel the tiny vessel. There were only three sets of paddles, and even if she wanted to help, she wouldn't be nearly as useful as any of the strapping fellows. She knew women who tried to live in this world she tampered with, the world of men, women who thought they could act like equals. Those women were dead fools now, Mabel told herself often. She knew in the deepest trenches of her marred mind that they were not equals, women and men. Indeed, they were far too different, and sometimes too much the same, to bother comparing. It wasn't a matter of fairness, and it wasn't a matter of virtue. All that counted was survival, and if Mabel could accomplish that whilst enjoying herself from time to time, she'd count herself among the talented.
These were the thoughts curling through her as she stepped out of the boat once come ashore. She lingered at the water's edge a while, waiting for him to get a head start. Hawklike, her eyes followed the Scotsman's shimmying blue coat up the sandy beaches. It was when he reached the beginnings of Nassau's busy streets, that moment when a rare cloud just completed its eclipse of that spilling, frittering sun that Mabel took on the pursuit. Following MacNichols was easy only because of how well she knew Nassau. It had been months since she stepped foot on the place she once called home, and much longer since the time she felt it was such, but places like this hardly changed. The drunken firebrand on the corner of the southernmost street was a fatter man, and the ragtag goons were of a different breed, but they all played the same role. People rarely tried to play a different game. Mabel herself made the attempt once. It was a long time ago, and like most folks, she had the idealism bled out of her. She wasn't about to let that happen again, and so she continued to follow the bouncing hill of grey-black hair.
When the Scotsman perched himself at a patio bar, Mabel allowed herself to give an irritated snarl. While she, too, would rather occupy the quieter corners of Nassau's debauchery venues, it robbed her of the cover of other sailors' rowdiness. There would be no bar brawls, no undulating hollers shaking the building to drown out the conspiracies that would soon slither from Mabel's lips. She'd just have to make do. Mabel watched the man from across the dirt for a while, letting him sit down and get a drink in front of him before approaching. Her boots were worn down significantly, softening the sounds of her approach. She came upon the establishment with the smallness and subtlety of a serpent and, rather than announce her arrival, let the man initiate things himself.
When he called her a vulture, Mabel kept her countenance stoic. Her mind dimly registered the wry humor. She sat herself next to MacNichols, turning the seat around so she'd have to straddle it to face him. She wanted something as a barrier between them, and the back of an ale-stained bar chair was the best she could do. With her forearms lain across the top, she leaned in and said with intended severity, "You'll owe me your life if you're smart about this." The barmaid set down a tankard on the table with a noticeable thud. Mabel leaned back a bit. She wanted to be able to see the Scotsman's reaction.
(Sorry, there might be some errors. Have to go out so I figure I'll just post this.)
She had been following him since she got off the ship. Only a few men lingered aboard the Trident once it slid into port on the cusp of sunset. The skies were saturated by the dissipating sun, its orange emissions mingling curiously with the dense marine. Mabel was on one of the first rowboats to shore, sitting in the middle, not bothering to help the men propel the tiny vessel. There were only three sets of paddles, and even if she wanted to help, she wouldn't be nearly as useful as any of the strapping fellows. She knew women who tried to live in this world she tampered with, the world of men, women who thought they could act like equals. Those women were dead fools now, Mabel told herself often. She knew in the deepest trenches of her marred mind that they were not equals, women and men. Indeed, they were far too different, and sometimes too much the same, to bother comparing. It wasn't a matter of fairness, and it wasn't a matter of virtue. All that counted was survival, and if Mabel could accomplish that whilst enjoying herself from time to time, she'd count herself among the talented.
These were the thoughts curling through her as she stepped out of the boat once come ashore. She lingered at the water's edge a while, waiting for him to get a head start. Hawklike, her eyes followed the Scotsman's shimmying blue coat up the sandy beaches. It was when he reached the beginnings of Nassau's busy streets, that moment when a rare cloud just completed its eclipse of that spilling, frittering sun that Mabel took on the pursuit. Following MacNichols was easy only because of how well she knew Nassau. It had been months since she stepped foot on the place she once called home, and much longer since the time she felt it was such, but places like this hardly changed. The drunken firebrand on the corner of the southernmost street was a fatter man, and the ragtag goons were of a different breed, but they all played the same role. People rarely tried to play a different game. Mabel herself made the attempt once. It was a long time ago, and like most folks, she had the idealism bled out of her. She wasn't about to let that happen again, and so she continued to follow the bouncing hill of grey-black hair.
When the Scotsman perched himself at a patio bar, Mabel allowed herself to give an irritated snarl. While she, too, would rather occupy the quieter corners of Nassau's debauchery venues, it robbed her of the cover of other sailors' rowdiness. There would be no bar brawls, no undulating hollers shaking the building to drown out the conspiracies that would soon slither from Mabel's lips. She'd just have to make do. Mabel watched the man from across the dirt for a while, letting him sit down and get a drink in front of him before approaching. Her boots were worn down significantly, softening the sounds of her approach. She came upon the establishment with the smallness and subtlety of a serpent and, rather than announce her arrival, let the man initiate things himself.
When he called her a vulture, Mabel kept her countenance stoic. Her mind dimly registered the wry humor. She sat herself next to MacNichols, turning the seat around so she'd have to straddle it to face him. She wanted something as a barrier between them, and the back of an ale-stained bar chair was the best she could do. With her forearms lain across the top, she leaned in and said with intended severity, "You'll owe me your life if you're smart about this." The barmaid set down a tankard on the table with a noticeable thud. Mabel leaned back a bit. She wanted to be able to see the Scotsman's reaction.
(Sorry, there might be some errors. Have to go out so I figure I'll just post this.)
Name: Mabel Agnes Blake
Appearance: Mabel is five feet, five inches tall, though she tends to look smaller because of her hunched back. She gives the constant appearance of peering and scrutinizing. In other words, she looks rather untrustworthy. She has medium-length black hair, almost always in a braid down her back, and usually wears a broad-rimmed black hat. She dresses in men's clothing for practical reasons, wearing sun-bleached cloth and a leather jerkin. If she took the time to wipe the grime from her face, she still wouldn't look pretty; there is almost always a haunting sharpness about her grey eyes, and you half expect to see her lip curl up in a snarl whenever she talks.
Strengths: Mabel is not tightly bound by ethics. She will do whatever she has to to survive, and she'll go even further if it means she won't just get by narrowly. Her instincts verge on animalistic at times, but that doesn't mean she loses her head. She can be clever and calculating. This rationality is the reason why she tends to stick to cloak-and-dagger methods whenever possible rather than charging in head-on.
Weaknesses: Sometimes Mabel gets too fierce. She taught herself that she had to seem a bit like a wild dog if she wanted to survive in this world, but oftentimes that fierceness only makes her a target. Additionally, Mabel is not one to make personal sacrifices. She would rather manipulate other people into "taking one for the team" rather than doing it herself, which makes her unpopular with the other mariners. Lastly, Mabel is of a rather non-threatening stature. Frontal assaults are a huge risk for her, and there aren't always opportunities for her to take stealthier approaches.
Appearance: Mabel is five feet, five inches tall, though she tends to look smaller because of her hunched back. She gives the constant appearance of peering and scrutinizing. In other words, she looks rather untrustworthy. She has medium-length black hair, almost always in a braid down her back, and usually wears a broad-rimmed black hat. She dresses in men's clothing for practical reasons, wearing sun-bleached cloth and a leather jerkin. If she took the time to wipe the grime from her face, she still wouldn't look pretty; there is almost always a haunting sharpness about her grey eyes, and you half expect to see her lip curl up in a snarl whenever she talks.
Strengths: Mabel is not tightly bound by ethics. She will do whatever she has to to survive, and she'll go even further if it means she won't just get by narrowly. Her instincts verge on animalistic at times, but that doesn't mean she loses her head. She can be clever and calculating. This rationality is the reason why she tends to stick to cloak-and-dagger methods whenever possible rather than charging in head-on.
Weaknesses: Sometimes Mabel gets too fierce. She taught herself that she had to seem a bit like a wild dog if she wanted to survive in this world, but oftentimes that fierceness only makes her a target. Additionally, Mabel is not one to make personal sacrifices. She would rather manipulate other people into "taking one for the team" rather than doing it herself, which makes her unpopular with the other mariners. Lastly, Mabel is of a rather non-threatening stature. Frontal assaults are a huge risk for her, and there aren't always opportunities for her to take stealthier approaches.
Thanks! I will look that over.
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