Pirates, by their nature, accumulate scars of all sorts in the course of their lives. Or rather, sailors, any man who spends time doing hard work upon the sea. John's hands had filled with splinters and grown calloused and hard long before he had found himself aboard the Walrus.

It is inevitable. It is a life that marks those who immerse themselves in it.

John's hand falls to his thigh. Even in the shadow, the abrupt end of his leg is very stark. His opposite hand turns in the air, weighing as he tells her, "Yes, he lived through it. And he did get it done, albeit from what I saw it was far from his best work."

Is every first attempt at killing a clumsy, haphazard thing?

"Returned to the ship with blood all down his face. Ruined the tunic he came aboard in, if I recall. He never stopped reminding us of that either. The personal loss involved in taking that score."