The Jolly Roger
Cullan 'Black' Donnelly Session 3 Notes
Having gained his freedom along with his shipmates, Cullen found himself under the nominal command of yer typical English gobshite, one “Smittie.” Employing skills garnered from a lifetime of serving under various highborn milksops and assorted inbred morons, Cullen managed to wrangle the lace-wristed idiot around to something approximating a workable plan. Of course, it all went straight to hell the minute the Cromwell-lookin’ fool opened his piehole, and it went to blades and pistols against the greasy wog bastards who held the cabana.
Though known for his personality – Granny Donnelly always said he was the charmer in the family – Cullen has no problem resorting to violence when the situation calls for it. Having positioned himself by a doorway once the alarm was sounded, he negotiated a meeting betwixt cutlass and belly that left dago guts staining the ground. Entering the room, he dispatched two more Spanish lapdogs with typical alacrity and naked Irish courage.
Though somewhat hampered by the weaselly Spaniard bastards having resorted to long-distance musket fire, he joined the fray outside and laid two more of the swarthy buggery-merchants low, including one – an officer – who was surprised by the sudden appearance of Cullen’s pistol from Smitty’s nethers – surely the most explosive action that particular region of anatomy has seen in years. Two more guards, having been knocked to the ground by the steadfast – and refreshingly loyal and stupid – Bullock, met their end under Cullen’s blade.
Finally turning his attention to the distant musketeers, Cullen took a running lunge at the first, slipping beneath his guard and skewering the Moor-loving prick through the vitals. One final thrust dispatched the last of the guards, and Cullen and company were free to loot and pillage at will – which they did.