PIRATES!!!!!!!!!!!!! :D :D :D :D P)

((You want conflict? You sure? Alright, if you're positive...))

~* Time Skip: One Week *~

Abigail Sophia Edwards was dying. Miles away, back on shore, her mother had just expired of the same disease: Malaria. Though neither Abigail nor her father, Nathan, knew this yet. What they did know, was that Abbey was in dire trouble.

Her skin burned with fever, yet she claimed to be freezing cold and begged to be allowed multiple blankets. When she moved, the motions were stiff, jerky, and seemed quite painful. Even though movement hurt, she had to sit up quite frequently in order to vomit violently into a bucket. Whenever she managed to eat anything, she'd empty her stomach until there was nothing left to empty it of but thick, black bile.

Rosalie: Abbey was sick. Majorly sick. And her father was terrified. I didn't know what to do. She needed a doctor, but I couldn't take her. I was a wanted criminal, and we were out to sea, miles from shore. I was leaning against the door of Abbey's room, listening to her vomit like mad, when Jack walked into the hall. "We have to get her to a doctor in Port Royale. Tortuga's doctors are too shady fo what she needs, mate."

Nathan held his daughter's hair out of the way of the torrent of bile and gently rubbed her back. Tears streamed from the girl's yellowed eyes, down jaundiced cheeks, and it was all Nathan could do not to cry, as well.


Jack's eyes widened at the prospect of going to Port Royal. "No disrespect intended, Cap'n," he said, licking his lips uncomfortably, "But that just might be condemning the rest of us to death."

Rosalie: I sighed. "I know. And we can easily escape them, given our skill. But Tortuga isn't going to help her. It just might make her worse."

Jack reluctantly nodded, and went up-top to set course for Port Royal. Though something kept poking at the back of his mind. He couldn't quite think of what it was though.


Abbey fell into a fitful sleep. Nathan still sat at the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

Rosalie: I went down to the cargo hold and got a couple bottles of rum. I then went up to the deck and handed one to Jack. "You look like you need it."

"Thanks," Jack said, taking the bottle. He wasn't so vain as to claim his troubles were greater than those of a man whose daughter was deathly ill, but he was in a good bit of trouble. Unless of course he could remember what he'd been trying to. Maybe a bit of rum would coax it out. He uncorked the bottle and took a small sip. Nope, still couldn't recall. He drank more deeply.


Nathan's mind was racing. He just couldn't believe it. First his wife had contracted this disease, now his daughter. The only reason he'd taken Abbey on-board with him was so she wouldn't get sick. But apparently, she had already been exposed by the time he'd come for her. All he could do now was hope that Abbey survived, and that the disease didn't spread to the rest of the crew.

Rosalie: I sipped my own rum. "You alright, Jack?" I asked him.

"Yeah," Jack nodded, "Just trying to remember something, is all." Somehow, Mother Nature was on their side. Once the crew adjusted the sails, the wind began pushing them straight towards Port Royale.

Rosalie: "You sure you're alright? You seem... off." I said, watching the sails move.

"Probably because this is the first rum I've had in the past three days," Jack shrugged the question off. Jack's plan had back-fired. The more rum he drank, the harder it became to even recall what he was trying to remember in the first place.

Rosalie: "You've gone that long without rum? That's pathetic." I smiled a little.

Jack shook his head sadly, "A dreadful shame, I know. But I intend to remedy that." He smirked, then tipped his head back, gulping back a third of the bottle.

Rosalie: "There ye are, lad. Back to your old self." I said, raising my bottle and chugging it.

When Abbey finally fell into a fitful sleep, a blanket wrapped tightly around her, Nathan wandered up-top, grateful for some peace. The top deck, however, was not peaceful, but filled with the activities of sailing a ship. He walked over to Rosalie, "May I inquire as to where exactly we are headed?"

((Ba-dump))