[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

[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.

[whatthefuckami]

So they each take each other's measure, without any attempt to hide that fact, a pair of tiger cats just this side of circling each other. Anne's chin dips in a decisive little nod. "Sabine, yeah?"

[calicoy]

And that's when Jack shows up. Tricorn under his arm, squinting in the light, he murmurs, "so I see you've met Anne. Captain of the vanguard. Say, Sabine, are you the fighting type, or the rigging type?"

He continues on blithely, as though unaware that Anne could possibly be anything other than complimentary.

[glandival]

These Vints are now two for two in responding to Sabine's moments of tooth baring over scraps of respect with easy reason, and it's almost more disarming than the alternative. Fortunately, in swoops Jack and saves Sabine from having to conjure something to say beyond an affirming nod to Anne, though she keeps her study locked on the other woman for a second or two more.

Then, to his question, "I have only ever done one of those things. But I can climb."

[whatthefuckami]

Anne's gaze cuts over to Jack, brows rising slightly. For moments like this, the silent, shared language of a glance is ideal; even without it, Jack'd probably be able to guess her thoughts.

They're hurting for any kind of crew at this point--too many of theirs, dissatisfied by the weather and prospects in Kirkwall, fucked off to other ships. And Jack's find has at least some of the skills they need. Anne's not sold on her yet, not entirely, but there's the makings of something useful there.

[calicoy]

Jack doesn't nod, but he does slide his head just a tad, as though agreeing. It means, considering. It means considerable.

"That would place you on the vanguard. It involves a fair amount of jumping onto other ships and stabbing people. Does that sound, I don't know..." He shrugs, hands open, palms up, "worthwhile?"

[glandival]

It sounds like many things.

Maybe prior to civil war and such, it would have sounded like a party. Like it's not very real, that it is divorced of meaning. Instead, Sabine gives due thought to this question of worth, and a shade of some other thought crosses darkly behind her expression. Gone, in only a second.

"It sounds bloody," she says. "I am used to knowing something of the people I put my knives and arrows into. How do you choose your quarry?"

[whatthefuckami]

"It is bloody," she mutters, the first word almost entirely bitten off. Better the elf knows that before they're climbing aboard a prize.

The rest of it, the question that comes after--quick of her to ask--is Jack's purview, the how and why of things. She glances at him again, knowing he'll be talking long before her eyes catch his.