[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

[glandival]

There is a protracted pause, Sabine's expression about as articulate as a loading screen icon while some internal decision making progresses. Or perhaps, more accurately, some internal coin flips.

"And this will make us both coin," she echoes, in the tone of someone amenable to a little side venture between all the war and world saving and such. It's also the important part. She lifts a hand from her folded arms, and points a finger skywards. "But what of today, monsieur?"

[calicoy]

"A first payment. Low, as it was not contracted work, but in the future..." Five shiny coins out of his pocket ought to be enough.

"I'll need you back tomorrow, around the same time. The Lion," he introduces the ship first, and then himself, "captained by Jack Rackham."

[glandival]

Sabine takes the coins, hands fast -- not greedy, but quickening the moment of transaction, where stowing coins away into a pocket reads just as easy as though she were adjusting her bodice. Eye contacted renewed to catch name of ship and shem both, and nods once, sharp.

"Sabine," she says, simply. "I will be here."

And for the sake of honour, she adds, "It is said that the dock deputy's boy deals in cargo that might not have been accounted for -- or knows some that do. If you do business with him, and he is on duty when you dock, he will see less than he should."

[calicoy]

Jack reads the gesture. It's someone, he thinks, who values money very highly. That, he can respect. And that, he can use.

"That was helpful." He flips a coin into the air for her to catch. Seeming generous now will... well, it can't hurt. It's a pittance, so far, just then. "You know this city well? Despite the accent."

He says it while emphasizing his. They're both misbegotten foreigners from widely hated nations. Commonality, rah rah rah.

[glandival]

She catches the coin, largely by instinct, stealing it from the air like she's done that several times before. But the gesture has her jaw setting, eyes flashing with easily ignited hostility-- which absolutely does not stop her from stowing this coin away as well.

"Do not throw coins at me," Sabine says, as she does so. Some shems need training, what can you do.

But she cedes, archly, "I know parts of it well." In truth, she is herself newish by the standards of the better established, more given to knowing of its connective tissue than being a part of it -- but she's been here for several weeks with apparently little to do but get drunk and punch people for sport, and gathering information on the trickier aspects of any given city is a basic bitch necessity.

[calicoy]

It's a request easily answered. Hand up, head ducked slightly, "Then I won't."

He wonders idly if he's ever offended other elves that way-- as this must be an elven thing-- and what a strange thing to mind, being paid aerially. Not really his problem, though. He wants to keep this elf, so he does as asked, and doesn't make a fuss. He was born in Minrathous and she's an elf. That's a fair amount of ground to make up for.

"I myself have been several places, in my life, but this is new. And the line of work I am in... necessitates knowledge. Any advantage, I'll take. If you're not motivated by money, I'll find other incentives." But he imagines she'll take the money.

"Tell me, do you read many broadsides? Reports of heroics, upsets, all that."

[glandival]

That he cedes to her demand rather than, you know, laugh at it, lowers hackles by some degree, and Sabine listens. She can think of other incentives -- knowledge in kind, first and foremost, with that accent and all it could imply -- but there is value in, well, value itself in minted form, as well as being someone who can be dealt with in such a manner.

At least for now.

So she says, to affirm, "Money is tres motivating," and thanks for not asking, first, if she can read. "Oui. Kirkwall has much to say." About itself, and everywhere else.

[calicoy]

His smile, the thing that doesn't quite reach his eyes, twitches. "I used to know someone who talked like that," he says in a voice more weak than withering. "Hopefully you won't try to kill me."

Moving swiftly on- "And what do you think of those dramatic pirate stories they use to sell their rags?"

If she recognized his name, she did an excellent job of hiding it.

[glandival]

Sabine imagines maybe Rackham has heard a few someones who talk like this, and many others who imperil his life. But Sabine doesn't have too much time to contemplate what that's supposed to mean before he arrives at a point, about the papers.

Confusion flickers at first behind her expression before she can stop it, and then the visible click of a puzzle piece put into place. It doesn't look like recognition of any exact nature, but--

"The fictions are better written," she says, after a pause that is full of ship bells, screaming seagulls, and the murmur of the shallow ocean beneath their feet. Over the course of the conversation, her physical defensiveness has slowly lowered, and doesn't raise back up at the prospect of now dealing with the possibility of a pirate.

Which might in itself be a conscious choice, but all the same.

[calicoy]

His lip twitches, another smile, this one less rueful. "So I've heard," he says, and turns back to the ship. Showing another one's back is either disrespectful (ignoring them!) or respectful (trusting they won't stab you there!). It's been Jack's experience that the poor and dreadful-- his people-- prefer the latter.

He stares at the Lion.

"There are many pirates that rule Nascere, in their way. Of the four living, I am the last to greet Kirkwall's shores." He turns back to Sabine. "Let's see how this arrangement goes, hm? Unlike many other captains out the festering husk called Tevinter, I don't ban women from my crew."

[glandival]

Sabine's attention flicks to the ship as the shem angles his attention that way, expression shading thoughtful -- interested by virtue of the fact he is giving her information, even if it's popular information, that she had yet to acquire in any meaningful way. Ears pricked, under all that hair.

He pivots back and she's still looking it over, mostly now to mark its attributes so she can know it better by sight. 'Festering husk called Tevinter' draws her attention back with something like a sparkle of amusement, finally managing to escape the steel trap of instinctive defensiveness.

"Or elves," she assumes.

[calicoy]

His brow escapes into his hat, which he then takes off, folding under his arm. "I should have expected that- hell, I'm surprised it didn't come up sooner. Ah."

But he doesn't drop his accent, however fake it is, however he started out in Minrathous sounding like the scum-off-your-boot Soporati he is.

To them.

"We don't hold slaves. We don't sell slaves. We free the slaves we encounter and allow them to join our crew." Well. Most- some of them. The truth doesn't show on his face. Most slaves are transported overland, anyway. It's not like Tevinter needs to bloody import them. "You'll find most pirates are like that, in my experience."

[glandival]

It's a chilling reminder. There are a lot of words tossed around to describe the plight of Orlesian city elves, but slave is not one of them. Her expression flattens a little as she carefully considers both his words and himself, the way his denial carries with it the kind of specifics that truth would.

And the way he's comported himself thus far.

"Are they," she says, giving him a quick smile. Bared teeth. "They don't put that in the broadsides."

She hops off the pillar, boot heels hitting the pier with a sharp set of clicks. Then puts out a hand, primly, in the position that invites a shared clasp and shake. These little gestures towards equal footing come off with the sharp edge of challenge. "Tomorrow," she affirms. "And we shall see how our arrangement goes."

[calicoy]

"The truth doesn't sell broadsides." He turns back a little, half facing her. One hand goes out, open-palmed, asking for a handshake to seal this little deal of theirs. He's found that Tevene elves place great value on being allowed handshakes rather than orders.

"I'd think it goes without saying that the specifics of why you're wanted here should be left... vague to others. So I won't say it." A wink, hand still outstretched.

[glandival]

Orlesian elves must have some things in common with their Tevene kin, because the handshake Jack gets in return is very firm and pointed in that way. "Bienvenue en Kirkwall, capitaine," she says, obligingly, before deciding their business for now is concluded.

She has a lot of questions, but plenty of patience.

And also! Five more coins to spend than she had before she'd run out of money for the day, so she turns her back on the docks and starts off for Lowtown. She'll catch a later ferry.