Hey all the people reading this (or lack thereof). I have to tell you some
background on this story. It's set around the same time, or about 20 years
after PotC. It begins in a port, remarkably like Port Royal, but named
otherwise. I own most of the characters, except the ones you've seen
before. I own some of the places, namely any taverns my char stumbles into
and/or out of during the course of this fic. Please R&R. Thank ya very
much! And onto the real good stuff.
She woke up in a small dark room, her blankets shoved down to her feet. It was hot, and flies were swarming outside already, a bad sign for so early in the day. She sat up, just barely missing banging her head on the crossbeam, and pushed her long auburn hair out of her face. She rubbed at her eyes, getting used to the faint sunlight, and leaned over the side of the small cot, grabbing at a pair of shoes she knew she had left there that evening. She slipped them on her feet, the soles thin and getting holes. Slowly she got up and slipped the brown homespun over her head. The arms were almost up to her elbows and the hem was already let down as far as possible, and showed her ankles. She tied the front, pulled the laces to the extent of their length. It was baggy and sat loosely about her frame, making her look worse off than she was. She brushed her hair, counting to 50, and tied it up with a band of leather.
She made her way down the stairs, watching her steps, missing the old ones that would whine when you put your weight on them. She walked into the kitchen, not surprised to see her father snoring, his head on the kitchen table, and a pint of ale half drunk in front of him. She went to the strongbox and grabbed a few coins, frowning at their meager supply. She had to fix that. And it would start today. She snuck out the door, shutting it softly and headed into town.
The market was slowly being set up, the farmers setting up their crops, most small and shriveled, due to the drought. The gypsies were opening the windows on their traveling houses, the small wagons that seemed as if they could carry anything and never be full. She stopped to gaze at the red and gold ribbons, the crystal wind chimes and little toys she knew she could never afford. Pulling her eyes away from the irresistible assortment of trinkets, she saw what she was looking for. At the back of the market, away from the crowd that was gathering, was the stall she had bought for herself. Smiling happily, she reached the ancient wood stand and place the coins she had taken under the countertop.
She turned and stooped, her fingers searching for the handle to a trapdoor. She found it, and lifted it, groaning under the weight. It flipped back and made a dust cloud appear from the dry ground, and she coughed, wiping her hand on her sleeve. She reached in, and pulled out the things she had been saving. The little gold pocket watch, with the working hands and the loving engraving, a gift to her from one of the suitors she would never accept. The small scented candles, lovingly made or stolen from her families supply, something they would never know about, since none of them could read or took the time to count. The ribbons she had dyed herself, struggling to perfect the dye and cut of each so as not to waste anything. The small brooch she had found under the floorboards of the kitchen when she had dropped her rare sweet candy. The chocolate she had gotten on her only trip to the big town south of the pier, called New Farnsworth, a gift from her father when he'd been too drunk to care how much it'd cost. And all the little shells and stones she had polished carefully, spending her own time to work for what she wanted. Something of her own.
Admiring them, she set them softly on the dusty wood, covered with holes from termites and other insects, displaying them for the best light, the places the costumers would see them. She sat on a wooden barrel, rolling up her sleeves and smoothing her dirty dress. Now to wait for the costumers.
She woke up in a small dark room, her blankets shoved down to her feet. It was hot, and flies were swarming outside already, a bad sign for so early in the day. She sat up, just barely missing banging her head on the crossbeam, and pushed her long auburn hair out of her face. She rubbed at her eyes, getting used to the faint sunlight, and leaned over the side of the small cot, grabbing at a pair of shoes she knew she had left there that evening. She slipped them on her feet, the soles thin and getting holes. Slowly she got up and slipped the brown homespun over her head. The arms were almost up to her elbows and the hem was already let down as far as possible, and showed her ankles. She tied the front, pulled the laces to the extent of their length. It was baggy and sat loosely about her frame, making her look worse off than she was. She brushed her hair, counting to 50, and tied it up with a band of leather.
She made her way down the stairs, watching her steps, missing the old ones that would whine when you put your weight on them. She walked into the kitchen, not surprised to see her father snoring, his head on the kitchen table, and a pint of ale half drunk in front of him. She went to the strongbox and grabbed a few coins, frowning at their meager supply. She had to fix that. And it would start today. She snuck out the door, shutting it softly and headed into town.
The market was slowly being set up, the farmers setting up their crops, most small and shriveled, due to the drought. The gypsies were opening the windows on their traveling houses, the small wagons that seemed as if they could carry anything and never be full. She stopped to gaze at the red and gold ribbons, the crystal wind chimes and little toys she knew she could never afford. Pulling her eyes away from the irresistible assortment of trinkets, she saw what she was looking for. At the back of the market, away from the crowd that was gathering, was the stall she had bought for herself. Smiling happily, she reached the ancient wood stand and place the coins she had taken under the countertop.
She turned and stooped, her fingers searching for the handle to a trapdoor. She found it, and lifted it, groaning under the weight. It flipped back and made a dust cloud appear from the dry ground, and she coughed, wiping her hand on her sleeve. She reached in, and pulled out the things she had been saving. The little gold pocket watch, with the working hands and the loving engraving, a gift to her from one of the suitors she would never accept. The small scented candles, lovingly made or stolen from her families supply, something they would never know about, since none of them could read or took the time to count. The ribbons she had dyed herself, struggling to perfect the dye and cut of each so as not to waste anything. The small brooch she had found under the floorboards of the kitchen when she had dropped her rare sweet candy. The chocolate she had gotten on her only trip to the big town south of the pier, called New Farnsworth, a gift from her father when he'd been too drunk to care how much it'd cost. And all the little shells and stones she had polished carefully, spending her own time to work for what she wanted. Something of her own.
Admiring them, she set them softly on the dusty wood, covered with holes from termites and other insects, displaying them for the best light, the places the costumers would see them. She sat on a wooden barrel, rolling up her sleeves and smoothing her dirty dress. Now to wait for the costumers.