[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."

[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."

[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?"

[calicoy]

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

[doneisdone]

She takes in the full sight of him with a little twitch that's almost a grimace. Discerning indeed.

"You'll go far," she decides, gives him a little pat on the shoulder, and proceeds away. He doesn't seem to want her help; might as well let him figure this out the hard way.

[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.

[calicoy]

"Yes, best test the swill here. I've heard varying accounts." He motions with his hand for her to take the lead.

"Are you liking it so far?" Code for what do you think.

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?"

[whatthefuckami]

Anne turns them around, keeping a weather eye out for the Modest Barrel--not a promising name except in reference to its prices, and those remain to be seen. (The sign's not worth shit, either. Someone decided to paint a small barrel on a large plank. Modest.) But all they really need is a table and a few coins' worth of ale (the rum here's pricy, she already found that much out). Doesn't make much difference where they get it.

"Never been a place reeked the way some of this town does." And it's in competition with a hold after months at sea, which doesn't speak well of it. Not so bad up here, but she found her way into the shithole they call Darktown, and it's earned its name. It's the not so bad bits that make it tolerable. That, and the knowledge that once they put together a new crew, it doesn't matter what they think of Kirkwall--they'll be able to go. "Ain't Nascere. But it ain't bad."

What about you? is implicit. When in doubt, she wants Jack's opinion.

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.

[calicoy]

When in doubt, Jack wants to give his opinion. A special gift to be able to give it honestly. "Certainly a place of opportunity. If one is to start from the ground up, I can think of worse places. And so few mages."

spends real ac points for this

[sulahnan]

Lucky for everyone, she has a little rucksack with her so she doesn't have to go trotting off to find something of value to wager. From the bag, she produces a brick-sized parcel emblazoned with some tea company's logo. A pound of tea, in the midst of a shortage.

[whatthefuckami]

She blows out a breath, not quite a laugh. Close enough, though, glancing sidelong at him. "Ain't starting from the ground up, either. We've got the ship."

A ship without a crew seems a damn sight better off than a crew without a ship, anyhow.

[thereneverwas]

Barrow's eyes widen. The ante is already farther than he can reasonably go, at least with the tea now.

"...I don't suppose coin will do," he hedges.

just setup 4 l8r, ignore me.

[whatthefuckami]

As they're discussing the pot, a woman drifts into the hall. There's nothing especially purposeful in her silent footsteps, nor does she bother to acknowledge anyone beyond brief glances from beneath her hat; she could have ended up sitting alone at any table in the room. But the one she picks is the next table over, directly behind the flashy gent with the cards.

She leans back against the table, planting one of her feet on the bench along with her arse, and pulls out a dagger and a small whetstone.

[calicoy]

Jack completely ignores this strange woman who he doesn't know at all. This is an old game, but with a fun new spin: no one knows who they are. It's, quite frankly, hilarious.

"I'd accept coin," Jack says, shuffling the deck. "A lot of coin."

[sulahnan]

Athessa says nothing, but glances sidelong at Barrow as if expecting him to produce a comically full sack of coins. Or wondering whether he has that much coin. She's very relaxed in this moment. Confident, not in her skill but in the nigh inevitability that she'll lose. No sense in worrying if you already know how it's gonna end.

[thereneverwas]

"Define a lot," Barrow says, beginning to withdraw a few from his coinpurse, creating a short stack of silvers. "Never seen one of those things before, but I know what tea's worth these days, so that's the metric I'm using."
He's noticed the strange woman, but just offers her a pleasant nod in greeting and otherwise allows her her silence.

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.

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]

He weighs her opinion, tilting his head from one side to the other. In the end, a smile. "No options, but the beginning of options. Careful, someone might fall down a fucking flight of stairs and call that optimistic."

[calicoy]

"Given the shortages and the rarity of tropical fruit, especially this time of year... yes, let's say one pineapple equals one brick of tea, roughly that size. Inflation being what it is, demand being high, supply being low-- and I am assuming that is serviceable tea at minimum, not some half-sawdust gruel-- I'd say seven hundred... what's Kirkwall's currency? Just gold? Seven hundred gold."

He waits for the reaction.