Braveries

A pirate does not ask for directions. He relies only on his gut feeling, a compass, or a treasure map. Cha packed all of her possessions, leaving her Gerek quarters utterly bare, and set course to Evati, sneakingly relying on her ship comp instead. It wasn't that far off in distance, but it would turn out to be a travel of epic dimensions, culturewise at least.

You can't spell pirate, without "irate". There's a reason for that, so Cha thought it wise to not anger the steadily growing amount of vessels flagged with white skulls on red fields when one after the other targetted her. She felt like a toy being picked up, tossed along and caught by the next one, waiting at the following gate. Twice an angry cloud of hornetslike ammunition rained on her armor, but she made it alive and well, and crashed rather than docked into the first station after the Evati gate.

She hummed contentedly as she made the short journey down from the docks to the Hellcats' pub, happy with the sound of her booted heels clicking on the floor. She didn't know if it was really important to wear boots - in fact she knew not much about pirates, except from the stories her grandma had told her, but there always seemed to be boots involved. And swearing. "Pirates shall always wear boots. Flip-flops are right out", her grandma had said, and so Cha wore boots.
The station turned out to be a gordian knot of endless corridors, stretching ahead in a perplexing amount of directions, with one common factor: pirates of the male kind criss-crossing her path. An abundancy of them, and all she could do was hope that they wouldn't physically act on the whims of the flesh, expressed in the most vivid wordings. On her polite inquiry a tall blonde ponytailed Gallente, his eyes remaining fixed on everything below her face, made the gesture of sweeping his hand in the direction she was supposed to go, and Cha complied hurryingly.
She tried to make her moves swiftt and elegant like a cat that knew her alleyways, but she tripped regardless. No pirate shall discuss his feelings, unless his feelings include gutting a man from stem to stern and spilling his entrails, and thus she did her best to ignore the rise of shameless comments. "Bastards!" she seethed.
She scrambled back on her feet and tried to act breezy and casual, wiped a rebellious dreadlock out of her face and looked down in shock. Her left heel had given out. She grunted, zipped both her boots down and off, and pushed them in her sack with most needed belongings. Barefooted, but in control, determination welling up inside her, she went ahead. Pirates do not cry, except in the case of the loss of a shipload of rum.