[whooshing, explosions.]

[calicoy]

WHO: Jack Rackham, some irregulars, and YOU.
WHAT: Jack shows up in Kirkwall and is very Jack about it.
WHEN: Harvestmere. Nowww.
WHERE: Kirkwall docks, Kirkwall proper, the Gallows.
NOTES: Kvetching.

[Please note: Anne Bonny whatthefuckami is liable to threadjack nearly any of these at any time. You've been warned.]

a. DOCKS | ota.

That's a new face. And a new ship. The Lion has made port, and the black has been sequestered, making it look like just a normal ship, if of somewhat... Tevinter make. If you're one to spot those sorts of things.

Captain Jack Rackham, tricorn on head, well-dressed and perhaps a little rumpled from a long voyage, is arguing. Loudly.

"This is not bilking. I have been bilked. I have bilked others. I am an experienced bilker. These docking charges-- if you can call them that-- are nothing short of robbery. And I shall not be robbed."

Yes, yes, he knows. He's making a big deal of it so his crew can slowly slide off the ship, small caches of cargo along with them. It's a distraction.

Don't be a narc.

b. KIRKWALL | ota.

He is buying jewelry. He is six feet tall, somewhat well-dressed, immaculate facial hair, and he is buying jewelry.

"Baubles," Jack corrects. "You ought to call this Baubles of Kirkwall. Beads of pretty-colored glass? Ribbons? Your advertisement, ser, leaves much to be desired."

Never mind the fact that glass beads and ribbons are precisely what he's looking for. He's here to argue the price down. Help him. He turns to whoever's next to him, and holds up a tiny glass object, dark red with glass swirls of darker red within. "Now tell me, serah, would you call this a ruby?"

His Tevene accent prickles most when he's trying to put on a front.

c. KIRKWALL PUB | ota.

A loud conversation is happening with a wall. Well, it's between a rather flamboyant man and someone who looks like he'd prefer to be a wall.

"There's a what- a what on?" Jack shakes his head. "Of course I wouldn't know which finger Nevarra's stuck up its ass this time. I was at sea!"

Murmurs increase in volume. The pub doesn't really like this rabble-rousing lout. Not that it's stopping him. "Oh, for fuck's sake, another war. Just what I needed in this cesspit. Present company excluded, of course." He takes a long swig from a jar of rum.

d. GALLOWS MAIN HALL | ota.

It doesn't matter what time it is. Jack is bored and waiting on information or a report or you know what, don't question it. He's here. He's by the fire. He's got some rum.

He's dealing out cards, even if nobody's sitting in the seats across from him. One is rather near to you, though.

"Come now," he says, "I promise a good game. And my opening bet will change your life."

He hefts a pineapple onto the table.

LOCKED TO FLINT.

A pirate walks into the Gallows. The real joke will be walking out again.

What a terrible name for a building, really. Who came up with it? Oh, yes, southern Templars. What grim sorts they must be. All thoughts Jack muddles with while walking through the building with a pineapple under his arm and a tricorn on his head. The hat is for amiably tipping in the direction of anyone who questions his presence. He reassures quietly and with gentle confidence that, really, he's just here to see a friend; no, it's official business; yes, it's above your clearance level; oh, no need to worry about it.

It would probably be more believable without the pineapple, but he needs that.

Finally, he makes his way past guards and scullery maids to the division offices, and finds the one marked Forces. Knocking on the door, he considers saying something. Oughtn't there be something to say for old friends meeting again after years apart?

Well. Friend seems like a strong word.

He knocks, firm and demanding, and he waits.

LOCKED TO GWEN.

He's walking back down from the division head offices with absolutely no pineapple, but some stickiness of the juice left on his fingers. Well dressed but not particularly refined, he passes through the corridors while licking his fingertips. The tricorn is now under his arm.

All in all, he's got that jolly demeanor well suited for swiftly avoiding bothersome questions like why the fuck are you here. Sometimes literally. He ducks behind pillars where needed.

Ducking past one such pillar reveals the entrance to a library, and why not, really. Best see what they have. He pokes about, murmuring to himself and shaking his head, occasionally making an approving click of his tongue. Someone tells him to shhh. He waves them off. What is this, children's hour? Honestly.

But looking around to disregard someone in the right direct reveals another sight to see. A familiar one, though not quite as familiar as some. No, but he's seen pictures; the likeness is unmistakable (or a woman has a very unfortunate twin). He gets that canny look on his face, and in one smooth motion, sweeps his coattails aside so he can sit next to her.

"I've read your book," he says, and then makes a face.

"Mmh. That felt rather ominous to start with. How's this: Captain Jack Rackham of the Lion, lately of Nascere, less lately of a snakepit, how do you do, how pleasant, yes, yes, I've read your book." He holds out his hand for a shake.

He hasn't licked his fingers in at least fifteen minutes.

LOCKED TO SILVER.

Oh, goodness, someone is telling a story in a pub. It's so like home, Jack wants to brain himself with the nearest chair. Yet, he listens. A man needs entertainment, and the storyteller's voice is strong and commanding. That voice... that voice is familiar.

Motherfucker.

Never one to waste an entrance, Jack slowly saunters up to the head of the crowd. A little hard to do so subtly, being rather tall and wearing yellow, yet here we are. He waits for a good stopping point, and then-

"That didn't happen," he says, regardless of whether or not it did. He's smiling one of those smiles that says exactly what he's thinking. I'm doing this because it's fun.

"I would know," he continues, "I was there, Mister Silver."

LOCKED TO ANNE.

Walking through the crowd in a new shirt is a lovely feeling. He is, of course, holding one of his last remaining pineapples and a pleasantly large knife as well, so he's given fair berth. Not that he looks like an unhinged murderer, but when one is looking for- oh, there she is!

He's gotten quite excellent at spotting Anne Bonny in crowds. Stabbing his knife into the pineapple so he can hold them both in one hand (by the hilt of the knife), he walks up to her, lightly tapping her shoulder from the side. Four taps mean it's him. Any other number of taps generally means a beginner's course in anatomical research.

"Darling," he says calmly. He embellishes his words with the hand holding the knife hilt pineapple combo. Some of the juice runs down the blade. "Shall we find a place to eat? And chat? At the moment, there's nothing I'd like better."

z. YE OLDE WILDE-CARD.

[mix and match prompts. set something on fire. do something unexpected. i'm fuckin down for it. if youre not sure, feel free to hmu @ wehwalt. but bro. im probs down.]

Comments

b

[doneisdone]

Teren is passing by when a small glimmering object is thrust into her face, and with a sneer of irritation she takes it, turning it over in her fingers. The shopkeeper, seeing the jewel's recipient, has already lapsed into a thousand-yard-stare.

"Rock's a rock," Teren grunts, scrutinizing the man. "Getting gouged over it?"

[calicoy]

Jack rolls his eyes. Something in it seems to say northerners, but it's whispered at best. "It's not," he says, dramatic pause and all, "a rock."

[doneisdone]

"On the contrary," Teren says, her expression stony, "I wouldn't pay half its asking price. If you want a proper ruby, you'll go a few stalls down, to--"

"Wait," wails the merchant, and without paying him any notice, Teren hands the ruby back to Jack.
"You seem the discerning type," she says flatly, "what's it for?"

[calicoy]

Jack gestures to his whole self.

"Is that really your question?"

[whatthefuckami]

Anne's wandering around in a way that might look aimless to someone besides Jack. She's getting a sense for the place, taking note of the shops, the kinds of people she's slouching past, the way the streets twist. If they're to be here for a while, they'll need to know the city as well as they did Nascere.

Someplace in what the Marchers call Lowtown, a street or two away from the market, Jack finds her. When she sees him, one brow goes up a little. She nods at the pineapple before giving its owner an amused look from under the brim of her hat. "Thought you was getting rid of those."

[calicoy]

"Last one," he says, quiet cheer in his voice. The pineapple moves between his fingers. "Care to share it?"

[whatthefuckami]

She inclines her head a fraction. It'll be a long time before they see the like, this far south--may as well enjoy it. "There's a tavern, few buildings back."

Ideally, they'll enjoy it with a stiff drink or two.

d.

[sulahnan]

Athessa closes the book she was making very slow progress on--mouthing the words silently to herself and all--and looks not at the cards in front of her, but at the pineapple. The glint in her eyes might not just be that spooky thing that elf eyes do, but piqued interest at the sight of that fruit.

"That's your bet?"

threadjacking, yell at me to go away if u want

[thereneverwas]

"I'm in."

He has no idea what it is, but Barrow sees that there's a card game happening, and the more ludicrous the stakes, the more he knows he'll enjoy it.
Even if Fitcher isn't here to bet his clothing against-- no, probably not going to take it in that direction, not with a child present.

sall good.

[calicoy]

"That is indeed my bet. What are yours?"

He pats the pineapple thoughtfully, like an item of great value, which. Well. It is.

literary bonding.

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle considers the hand that's being presented to her for a moment too long to be entirely polite before she shakes it, and her next question is, she feels, understandable given the vast difference between the works she published with the Inquisition and the (recently re-released) poetry that she's still more accustomed to being known for:

“Which book?”

because that will rather influence the tone of this conversation, probably. In some sort of way. It also helpfully lowers the likelihood of her having some unfortunate twin (other than the unfortunate twins who were her sisters), as that would be too much coincidence to be borne.

Re: literary bonding.

[calicoy]

'Entirely polite' can mean a whole host of things. In the end, she shakes it. He's not here for societal acceptance-- he'd be in for a hell of a time if he were-- so this fits his needs exactly. What are his needs? Curiosity. That's not illegal; they're out of Tevinter and everything.

Speaking of Tevinter, his accent-- already arch-- arches further. "The only one they didn't print in Tevinter. Of course, I figured that meant it was especially worth reading, your Lady's Observations." He shrugs. "Interesting start, certainly..."

[elegiaque]

Time was when she'd have been delighted to hear that.

Alexander had had a copy of them amongst his things when they'd met; had told her how he'd seen potential or purpose or whatever it had been that she'd found so fucking thrilling to imagine herself inspirational, to think that all of those writings she had half held her nose to publish had actually had their intended impact. She had gone running to Morrigan, to Thranduil, to tell anyone whose opinion she cared for how successful she was and how proud of herself.

Time has passed, since then. The Inquisition is not in a substantially different position than it was, and Riftwatch all the more precarious, and it's still next to fucking impossible to save the world by committee. Her attempts to craft the Inquisition itself into the symbol that the herald had been were a failure, and few of the things she'd still stand by that she wrote are the parts anyone else has any interest in. It's visible, how swiftly she loses interest in the prospect of discussing that, dropping her hand back to her book and turning the page.

“A minority opinion I can't say I share.”

a.

[glandival]

There's a woman nearby, watching.

Youthful at first glance, hard to gauge exactly, and sitting a little precariously on a dock pillar only just wide enough in diameter to accommodate both her arse and crossed ankles. Arms looped about her knees, and a lot of curly red hair settled heavy around her shoulders. It would take closer study than that to notice sharp elven ears peaking through, and Sabine is fine with the distance she happens to be at.

Awaiting a ferry back to the Gallows, and it is much more interesting to watch the big spindly shem make such a production than it is to stare at fornicating seagulls or the same miserable view of her destination.

Occasionally, hazel eyes flick to the crew disembarking.

Then back to the man, her study open and brazen, as if he really were a play and she was a paying audience.

[calicoy]

Jack notices, of course he notices. That's his job. And he's particularly good at spotting redheads at several paces-- otherwise, a certain has a distressing habit of slinking away into the crowd.

The production goes on. The cargo is unloaded, the dockman distracted, and the price whittled down as far as possible for both sides. He pays-- not quite the pittance he'd like, but he can afford it for now-- and sighs, watching the last of the carts roll away to market. They'll need a fence... but he trusts his men to find one, this place is famously rife with the fuckers.

And then on to the girl. Maybe it's her sharp eyes, her hair, the slight hunched curve she's affected in her back, but... he knows not to underestimate any of those fucking things.

"I hope you don't want a cut," he says with a tired sigh.

[glandival]

Sabine unfolds herself from her pose, remaining on her perch with one foot against the edge of the pier and the other dangling over the harbour's depths. Her expression is relaxed, but he may notice the mild tension that sets into her posture, as if considering a possibility worse than a resigned sigh. The foot kept on solid ground is insurance, as is the way her weight is tipped away from the water as she considers him.

Her eyes flash. Maybe with amusement. "What if we call it incentive," she says, accent clear-cut Orlesian. "With all the profit you stand to make, now."

Of course, she has no idea the nature of his cargo, or where he might have gotten it from, but she assumes that's what foreign looking ships do when they dock in a city of trade.

season recap pineapple

[katabasis]

"Enter," is shouted back, though the order is impossible to follow. The door is bolted from the inside and it's the two banging rattles against the bar that fetch Flint's attention up from the work sprawled over the table at the center of the office.

Matthias needs to begin his work an hour earlier in the day. This veritable parade of morning visitations he's been subjected to today is an intolerable imposition without some second presence in the room to pass the most monotonous of the inquiries off. With an exhale of frustration, Flint snaps shut the book on the table and crosses the room. The bolt is thrown. The door is opened.

Maybe, he thinks at the sight of the apparition waiting there in the hall, he is finally having a stroke.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" is how Friends greet one another.

cool story bro.

[calicoy]

Jack sighs and thinks, Flint as always.

"Fine, thanks for asking." Jack says, and would rather like to slip past him, but being rather taller than the man before him makes it somewhat difficult.

"I was thinking," he says, "we could discuss that in your fucking office, commander."

[katabasis]

There is a beat in which it seems the request may go unfulfilled - a bristling moment of calculation -, and then he falls back by the step required to allow Jack Rackham into the space beyond.

Even now the Forces division office is clearly in the slow motion process of being reappointed - not untidy, but missing the distinction given to spaces meant for some measure of residence in addition to work. The exception is a series of books set into the sill of the far window, and a small painting over the fireplace which would be painfully unremarkable if it weren't so clearly a rough study of a particular dark ship with at anchor in the harbor. The lines of the Walrus are distinctive enough that there are recognizable even translated by the hand of some two-bit painter.

The door is closed. The bolt is not thrown again.

"The state of the island?"

[hornswoggle]

To his credit, John doesn't stumble. There's no skipped beat or hesitation upon seeing Jack Rackham within the crowd.

But there is some terrible, sick twist in his chest: What's gone so wrong that you've landed here?

"And now you're here, which I'd say is a charming surprise, Captain Rackham," John answers smoothly, the title a small conciliatory gesture. However the story ends, it's clear that's a tomorrow thing. John's already moving towards Jack. "Emlyn, bring us a bottle of that rum from last night. This is an occasion to celebrate."

But there's a clear, expectant note in John's voice. Is Jack here with good news, or bad news?

[calicoy]

Jack's smile may threaten to reach his eyes, but it isn't quite there yet. "Of course. If you gentlemen will kindly disperse, I have some information to discuss with Mister Silver."

The crowd grumbles, and Jack rolls his eyes.

"I'm sure you'll hear about it tomorrow; the man's a fucking storyteller."

[hornswoggle]

John seconds Jack's request with a wave of his hand. As important as he considers the time he spends in this tavern, Jack's arrival takes precedence. All John's careful steps towards finding a way to reliably gather information, and the universe has seen fit to deposit Jack Rackham (and Anne Bonny, wherever she may be at the present moment) into the harbor.

"There's a table upstairs where we'll have a reasonable amount of quiet," meaning privacy "And a decent view, if that interests you."

Though it isn't until they're seated and Emlyn has come and gone, leaving an unmarked bottle and a pair of dented cups, that John's easy smile fades.

"Will your partner be joining us?" He asks first, mostly because he's still trying to think of a way to phrase the rest of his questions.

and later.

[glandival]

The last time she'd played pirate, it was when she was a child with other children, in the streets of Halamshiral, or the sprawling acreage of noble summer homes. Pirate or sea-faring adventurer, anyway, but when you're seven that sounds like the same thing.

Anyway. Standing on the pier now, she thinks that pursuing this line of inquiry is almost as childish.

She does, after all, have things to do. One of them is a shem with good shoulders and a stupid face. She's not entirely certain how that and all the rest balances with cavorting with Tevene pirates, and yet, she waits for Rackham to come and meet her as agreed, so that she might, you know.

Check the place out.

Her hair has been tamed into a braid with a finely crafted, subtly decorative wooden pin staked through, and the humidity in the air still manages to pick free some wild curls, fine and near floating. Elvenness is thereby more prominently on display, but she is otherwise dressed as practically as ever, thick cotton and flexible leather, and all sharp implements hidden in places that not everyone would think to glance.

[whatthefuckami]

Anne's the one who finds her first, not entirely by chance. Jack told her the story--Orlesian elf, ginger hair, sharp eyes, potentially useful--over a shared bottle of rum the night before, but he's not the only one who'll have to work with her if they start pushing coin her way. So she finds a sunny spot to perch, carving down some driftwood in her hand and occasionally shifting her eyes up toward the passersby.

The woman who eventually pauses on the docks like she's expecting someone to meet her looks every bit like Jack described: pretty without being too delicate, dressed like she's expecting work, red hair, pointy ears. Makes the whole enterprise an easy one. Anne pushes herself up from where she's crouched and ambles over, taking her time about tucking the knife back into her belt until she's sure she's in the woman's line of sight.

"You're the elf," she observes, her voice sandpapery, but without venom. "Lookin' to make some money with the Lion."

[glandival]

The elf turns her attention to this new quality. Sabine hadn't really anticipated Jack to set up some kind of ambush situation, even if he is a Vint pirate of apparent notoriety,* and so it's not exactly a wary look that Anne gets. Just-- open eyed, assessing in a frank and direct sort of fashion.

"That was the offer," she concedes. A shemlen with a few inches on her, and built finer in a way that does not constitute dainty. Sabine puts her hands on her hips. "Did he neglect to give my name?"

* Which was probably negligent on her part, honestly.