Stavanger Bay you don't own me

He gave a name at her bequest. Maude. In their exchange Stitch had almost forgotten — alas that was not unusual for the flighty Kesuk-DeMonte — his interest in her kill. Still, she had no inclinations of sharing, because there was something in his doubloon like gaze that whispered of trouble to Stitch. The exchange of names was almost enough to consider them more than strangers and she almost cursed herself for letting her tendencies at being easy to manipulate. If not for the chuff of the stranger, a few moments and words exchanged later and Stitch might have been willing to share Frank with the one that called himself Maude. As it was, her muscles froze as the chuff reached her heads and her head whipped in the direction of the ebony cloaked enchantress that had joined the scene, Stitch's eyes wide and doe-like, sinking into that usual “deer caught in headlights” look she had unintentionally perfected during the short span of her life.

She tucked her head towards Frank's corpse, fidgety, ready to grasp it and bolt. One was bad enough but two was like a party that Stitch hadn't asked for. Yet, the noise that had slipped from the ebon stranger, coupled with the fact that there was nothing hostile that Stitch could see, appeared to be ...amiable. Maude did not share in Stitch's flightiness, it would seem, for he called out to the other woman without trepidation. She could make a run for it now, her mind hissed at her. Run, fool! Her flight instincts encouraged her, while the sailor was distracted by the newcomer; yet to Stitch's incredible discredit she was innately curious, fascinated perhaps by the hybrid woman who was a picture of beauty unlike anything Stitch had seen before.