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---Bristol Streets, Early Morning---
The first hints of dawn painted the eastern sky with pale shades of grey and pink as Thomas Gable, a local weaver known for his fine woollens, just woke up. He yawned, stretching beside his sleeping wife, Martha. Leaning over, he planted a soft kiss on her forehead.
"Mornin', love," he whispered. "Time to rise. Can I have some porridge?"
Martha groaned, pulling the blankets tighter. "Five more minutes, Thomas..." she mumbled sleepily.
He chuckled softly. "Alright, alright. I'll do it... but don't blame me if the kettle boils dry." With that, Martha immediately shot out the bed, saying "You can't cook."
Thomas swung his legs out of bed, pulling on his trousers. Just as he was reaching for his shirt, the bedroom door creaked open. Martha stood there, rubbing her eyes, holding a folded piece of paper.
"Thomas," she said, her voice still thick with sleep, "found this slipped under the front door. Looks like a letter for you... or perhaps everyone."
"A letter? At this hour? Strange," Thomas raised an eyebrow, taking the paper from her. "Honey, why don't you make some breakfast?"
Martha shrugged, yawned again, and shuffled out towards the small kitchen area, muttering about starting the fire. "Yes, honey..." she sighed as she left.
Alone in the bedroom, Thomas unfolded the paper. His eyes scanned the opening lines, his brow furrowing in confusion. Then, as he read further, his confusion turned to shock, then to wide-eyed disbelief, and finally, to simmering anger. The mention of the Queen, the Salves, the taxes to be paid by the Kenways, the King's betrayal, the arrival of soldiers, the massacre...
He shot out of bed as if scalded, the letter trembling in his hand. "Bloody hell..." he breathed, his heart pounding. He scrambled to pull on his shirt and boots, his mind reeling. Forgetting all about breakfast, he burst out of the small house, ignoring Martha's startled cry from the kitchen.
"Thomas, where are yo-!?"
He didn't stop. He ran, the letter clutched tightly, heading towards the city center, needing to know if others had received this... this bombshell.
By the time Thomas reached the main square an hour later, it was already teeming with people, far more crowded than usual for this time of morning. A low, agitated murmur filled the air, punctuated by louder, angrier voices.
He pushed his way through the throng, catching snippets of conversation… "...read the letter?", "...Kenway family gone?", "...soldiers?", "...the King lied?", "...food prices...", "...Slavery again?".
The names and words swirled in a potent cocktail of fear, confusion, and growing outrage. Notably absent were the usual city guardsmen; their posts were eerily empty, a detail that only added to the tension.
Suddenly, a hush fell over a section of the crowd as a group of rough-looking men pushed their way towards the central fountain, which often served as an impromptu speaker's platform. Leading them was a huge, barrel-chested man with a thick beard, clad in worn leather and steel.
He effortlessly hoisted himself onto the fountain's edge, his hard-eyed gaze sweeping over the assembled citizens. His men, armed with cutlasses and pistols, formed a protective semi-circle around him.
"Listen up, people of Bristol!" the man boomed, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "My name is Samuel Boddy! I'm captain of the Silver Pike Mercenary Company!" He paused, letting his identity sink in. Mercenaries were common enough, but few commanded such presence.
"Me and my lads," Boddy continued, gesturing to his crew, "we rode out early this mornin', checkin' the road towards London after hearin' some... disturbing rumors overnight. And I tell you now, the rumors ain't rumors! They're the God's honest truth!"
A wave of anxious muttering swept the crowd.
"There's bodies out there!" Boddy declared, his voice ringing with grim confirmation. "Hundreds... no, thousands of 'em! King's soldiers, massacred! Burned to cinders, cut down where they stood! It's carnage like I ain't never seen!" He pointed towards the direction of the London road. "Just like the letter says!"
The crowd gasped, horror mixing with a strange sense of validation. The letter wasn't just words; the proof lay dead on the road.
"And who did this?" Boddy roared, leaning forward. "The letter claims it was Alaric Jonathan Kenway! Defending this city! Defending us!" He slammed a meaty fist against his chest. "If that's true... if one man stood against two thousand soldiers sent by a treacherous King... then maybe, just maybe, that young Kenway ain't just a rich merchant's son! Maybe he's somethin' more! Maybe he was sent by God Himself as punishment for the Crown's injustice!"
A stunned silence followed, then a lone voice shouted, "Aye! Kenway stood for us!"
Another yelled, "Down with the King!"
Soon, a chorus of agreement rose from the crowd, tentative at first, then growing louder, fueled by shared fear and anger.
Samuel Boddy nodded, his expression was fierce. "That's right! We can't let the Kenway family's generosity, their work to make this city decent, be trampled by a King sittin' fat in London! Me and my men, we ain't saints, but we know a raw deal when we see one! We came here 'cause life was better! Prices were fair, work was steady, folk weren't starvin' or bein' dragged off in chains! We saw hope here!"
He spat on the ground. "And the Crown wants to tear that down? Wants to bring back the slavers, raise the taxes, bleed us dry while callin' it 'order'? Is that how a King should rule!? By betrayin' his own people!? By sendin' armies against cities that dare to prosper!?"
"NO!" roared the crowd, the sound echoing off the surrounding buildings.
"They drove out the Kenways!" Boddy bellowed, feeding their fury. "They broke their promises! They sent soldiers to kill and oppress! What's next? Will they send men to haul us away? To put chains back on this city?"
The crowd surged, fists shaking, faces contorted with rage. The seeds Alaric's clone had sown were taking root, blossoming into open hostility. Bristol, the city that had tasted freedom and prosperity under the Kenway's influence, was turning against its distant King. The fire had been lit.
---JULY 8, 1714---
Nine days had slipped by since La Providencia had weighed anchor and disappeared from Bristol harbor under the cover of the night. The vast galleon now cut through the choppy waters of the Atlantic, the coast of Portugal was now a hazy line on the eastern horizon. Lisbon was drawing near.
The journey south had been blessedly uneventful. A few sails spotted in the distance, likely British patrols, had kept their distance. Captain Oldgate was a well-known figure in these shipping lanes, his reputation as a reliable merchant captain preceded him.
Furthermore, news, especially news as shocking and potentially seditious as the events in Bristol, traveled much slower than the swift galleon. But Alaric knew it was only a matter of time. By now, the carefully planted letters and the lone surviving soldier's report would have reached London.
England would be simmering, the new King facing an unexpected and volatile backlash from the West Country, all thanks to the perceived betrayal of the Kenways and the blatant violation of the late Queen's agreement.
It was five in the morning, the sky was still dark but hinting at the approaching sunrise. On the quarterdeck, leaning against the railing, stood Alaric and Captain Oldgate. Each held a steaming mug of tea and nursed a lit cigar, the glowing tips like small embers against the dark.
[Buy: Sage's Herbal Infusion tea (Brewed) - 4d.]
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Below the decks, in the comfort of the great cabin, Kassandra slept soundly. Their nights had been filled with passionate intensity, every single night. Alaric had ensured their privacy, placing a subtle Fuinjutsu seal on the cabin door, a silencing barrier that kept their moans and cries from disturbing the rest of the ship. He smirked inwardly; Kassandra certainly enjoyed the freedom it provided.
Up on deck, the two men watched the dark waves in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the creak of timbers, the snap of the sails overhead, and the rush of water against the hull. Lisbon's distant lights were becoming clearer.
Oldgate took a long pull from his mug, then a drag from his cigar. He squinted at Alaric through the smoke. "So…"
"That night... outside Bristol. Those soldiers." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "You dealt with 'em…. all two thousand?"
Alaric met the captain's gaze, his expression was unreadable in the dim atmosphere. He took a slow drag from his own cigar, letting the smoke curl from his lips before answering calmly. "Almost all of them. I let one go."
Oldgate's eyes widened slightly, the whites stark against his weathered face. He leaned closer. "One? Out of two thousand? And... you did that alone? Your woman, the lad Reuben, the big fella, the Italian lass... they didn't lift a finger?"
A faint chuckle escaped Alaric. He nodded, taking another puff. "Just me."
Oldgate stared at him, searching his face for any sign of boasting or falsehood. Finding none, just that unnerving calm, he slowly shook his head, a look of profound disbelief mixed with grudging acceptance settling over his features.
He turned back to stare out at the sea, muttering under his breath, "Of course... Should've known better than to expect normalcy when it comes to you, lad. Bloody hell."
Alaric turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. "What are you talking about, Whitebeard? I'm perfectly normal."
Oldgate let out a sharp scoff, not even bothering to look back at him. "Normal," he repeated derisively. He drained the last of his tea and pushed himself off the railing. "Right." He stalked towards the helm, where his first mate was overseeing the helmsman.
Raising his voice to a booming command that echoed across the waking ship, Oldgate began shouting orders. "Alright, listen up! Prepare to shorten sail! Helmsman, steady as she goes! Gunners, stand ready just in case, but keep those ports closed unless I say otherwise! We're makin' port in Lisbon! Look lively now!"
The sudden bellowing and the subsequent flurry of activity from the crew effectively shattered the morning quiet, undoubtedly rousing everyone else aboard from their slumber.
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