And find him there he did: Adéwalé was lurking in the corner of one of the less respectable taverns in town, hoping to avoid curious eyes there by mingling amongst a clientele too drunk or too poor to take notice of his presence. Nassau had changed a great deal from how he had remembered it, an ungoverned island of debauchery and freedom. Now it was firmly under the thumb of the British, and under the thumb of the British and their Loyalist friends, exiled from America in the wake of the Revolution, were slaves. Many of them.

This was no Saint-Dominigue. There was no Code Noir. And yet conditions here were poor: the lands surrounding Nassau exhausted by farming and the slaves overworked and punished for poor yields. It angered him, how things could change here in such a short space of time.

And yet where did Adéwalé have to go? He was displaced from his own time, and he had no home. The Jackdaw had been his home once, as had Nassau, in its own way. So it was perhaps fitting that it was to here he returned, garnering what little Assassin support was available anywhere in the region. One he'd managed to contact was a man simply known as "Connor", a native from around the New York region and said to be sympathetic to anti-slavery sentiment.

Was it ideal? No. But without Ah Tabai or the Maroons and their networks of contacts, he had no choice but to rely on the aid of a stranger, should he show at all. Adéwalé pulled down his hood to better conceal his face, and waited.