Hello! so The Sindrian is a pirate!AU collection of one-shots that focuses on Sinbad and the eight general's misadventures as pirates at different points in time (along of course, with all the other characters of Magi)! The drabbles won't be on a linear story-line but instead will focus on different points of their lives and can jump back and forth. For example, the drabble that will come out after one will be set seven years prior to this one, the one after that eight months prior, etc etc. Therefore, you don't have to read them in any particular order (although I do recommend reading them in the order I put them out for special reasons)
And yes it is based on POTC so despite it not being in Magi's world, there is still...strange happenings.
It wasn't every day that Sinbad woke up to a foot slammed into his cheek.
In fact, he could say with confidence it had only happened two or three times in his entire life, so rare that he immediately knew the culprit before he heard the low growl of his quartermaster's voice.
"He's alive. Barely." Sinbad opened his mouth but words lost themselves in translation, instead lowering his head into the sand. Sleep, sleep was good. Alcohol would be better but he had run out the night prior, celebrating that he had lived another day on this wretched island. Being marooned had turned out to be less than pleasant, about as bad as his last stint falling into the ocean.
"Masrur, grab his sword. Sharrkan, run back to the ship and tell them I've found him."
"I can carry him." The voice was decidedly Masrur's, gruff and monotone, the kind of worry that you'd have to squint to see. He appreciated that, especially considering the huff of disgust currently aimed in his direction by a short, angry man.
"I'll handle it," he sighed, the slick sound of his wire untangling from his wrist. Oh no, Sinbad wanted to groan but found that he couldn't, the mind-numbing headache finally wearing him down. "He's likely I don't force him to rope's end after this."
Sinbad was sure that if anyone could control the weather, it'd be Ja'far. But Sinbad was a lowly man, not gifted with the power to freeze the winds with a glare, and so the typhoon took him by surprise. One too many drinks with Sharrkan made him careless and he was gone before any of them woke the next morning.
"A week," Ja'far shouted, gently wrapping his wires around Sinbad's wrists. The gesture was lost when the wires tightened, digging into the smooth skin of his arms. "Gone with a week and what did he do? Drink himself into a god damn stupor."
Then, the dragging started.
Sinbad felt water sinking into his hair, his cheek rough against the small rocks digging into his skin. The pain was enough to spur him into action. However, struggling against the bindings only pulled them taunt, digging into his bones and forcing him to lie still.
"Ja'far!" Just one word was enough for sand to seep into his mouth.
"Welcome to the world of the living, captain."
Pisti nearly tackled him when he finally climbed aboard the Sindria, the taste of grit still digging into his teeth.
"We were really worried about you!" She clung to his leg, blonde hair askew from sitting in the crow's nest. "I thought we'd never find you." Sinbad grinned, enjoying the feel of wood under his feet. There was nothing quite like standing on his own ship he had found, cobble and sand a poor substitute for the vessel he'd carved with his own two hands.
"I have a competent crew! I knew you would find me eventually."
"Get inside," Ja'far rolled his eyes. "We're already late to port and I've worked this crew to death looking for you." Sinbad grinned at the small worry his quartermaster had let slip, allowing himself to be dragged down below deck and into his cabin. The furniture was simple for a captain's quarters, wood and nails forming a bed and mismatched tables. However, it was the trinkets that lined the walls – expensive jewels, ancient swords, worn parchment and wanted posters – that caught the attention of those who frequented his quarters. The room was a diary; a testament to the King of the Seven Seas.
"I'm sorry for worrying you," Sinbad said, closing the door behind him. Ja'far narrowed his eyes before sighing, slipping off his shoes. The movement was enough to make him grin, yanking off his own boots. Gestures mattered with Ja'far; his limbs languid but deliberate.
"I wouldn't do as captain," he sniffed, pushing Sinbad to sit on the bed. He pulled a bone comb from one of the drawers, ignoring the pleased noise that broke from Sinbad's throat as he began to part his hair with slender fingers. Sand snagged on dozens of tangles that Sinbad, in his drunken haze, had been too preoccupied to maintain. "Too lazy of a job; swinging the lead and yelling orders."
"You also yell." But Sinbad had no fight in him, never did during moments like these, rare as they came. Ja'fars hands felt soft against his scalp, picking out the sand and combing it through. "Mostly at me."
"I'd never yell if you behaved."
"I'm a sea dog, a scoundrel," he whined, leaning his head back against Ja'far's shoulder. "Merchants quack in fear at my approach, fathers hide their daughters, children run through the streets singing my name!"
"Sharrkan's adoration has been getting to your head." He made a noise of annoyance when Sinbad's lips snuck up to his neck in an effort to distract him, strands of hair forgotten under his captain's insistence. "Has a week on your own made you this impatient?"
"Rum and my own hand can only keep me company for so long," he sighed, abandoning the effort to flop back onto the bed. "Fine, tell me. What have I missed?"
"We had a messenger from the Rens two days ago," Ja'far sighed, loosening the tie around his neck. Sinbad frowned, watching the movement with wary eyes. The Kou family had been nothing but trouble since the day he'd landed in their port after a rough storm, nearly ship-wreaked and wounded.
"What'd it say?"
"The usual. We're to return everything we took or we'll be dancing the hempen's jig, we're to return Hakuyruu—as if we have the child—and Kougyoku managed to sneak you a letter."
"Did you read it?" The younger man fixed him with a deadpan stare, leaning over the bed to swipe at the pile of papers, ignoring the way Sinbad watched him stretch. "Read it and let me finish your hair. I still think you should cut it; aren't you a bit old—"
"Quiet," Sinbad tugged at a pale ear, pouting. "I'm young and virile." He ignored Ja'far's snort in favor of unfolding the parchment and smoothing down the edges. Her handwriting was instantly recognizable, countless letters having been smuggled his way past her overbearing siblings. Sinbad read quickly, glancing over at Ja'far ever so often. But the man didn't pry; focusing instead of a large snag at the base of his neck, mumbling about chopping it off.
Dear Sinbad,
I likely won't be able to send you anything for a while. Kouen is furious at Hakuyruu and he thinks it's your fault but I know it isn't! I'll try my best to convince him but…if you do know anything about where he is, please send me something.
-Kougyoku Ren
Thank you!
Sinbad smiled wearily, ripping it to pieces and tossing it out the porthole. Ja'far remained silent through the process, same as always, until he finally managed to rewrap Sinbad's hair and sat back on his haunches.
"We can change course back to Coffs if you want to find Alibaba and ask if he's seen Hakuyruu."
"I doubt the boy's even still there; meeting those three always comes to chance these days, the way they move around. We used to be like that!"
"I'd argue we're still like that," Ja'far smiled, eyes trained to the outside. The sun had given him a pink complexion, likely from days of being acting captain above deck. He usually stayed holed up down below or in the shade, keeping the books or scolding crewmates. He wore Sinbad's hat perched on his head, only small tuffs of white hair coming out of the sides, and it was so endearing that Sinbad pulled the man down with him into the feather downs.
"Keep me company for the night."
"I have watch and so do you; besides, I'm sure you're starving."
"You reminded me," Sinbad winced, stretching out his limbs before plunking the hat off his quartermaster's head and fitting it onto his own.
"It looks better on you anyway."
There was a feast in honor of Sinbad's return, fish and pork and others names he didn't try pronouncing (and alcohol, despite Ja'far's snarky jibe that he didn't need any more of that). Pisti perched herself near him, Sharrkan on his other side, both of them singing an old sailor's medley as he enjoyed a fine cup of rum.
"Having him back certainly makes it livelier," Hinahoho shouted to Ja'far, who sent a nasty glare in Sinbad's direction when he tried to paw at him. A fiddler sat on the far end of the galley, a few drinks making him brave and loud despite his fledgling status, and he played loud enough for the entire room to hear him despite the bellowing laughter coming in all directions. Really, the noise was enough to give Ja'far a headache on the best of days and the exhaustion of worrying about Sinbad merely made him even more irritable. It wasn't that he had expected less; after all, Sinbad's crew was notorious for its fidelity to their captain, himself included. However, he had been hoping to escape early and into the crow's nest for his watch. But it seemed time was moving slower and Drakon still hadn't arrived.
A fight broke out in the tables, a messy mix of shouting and swinging, swaths of blue hair and brown skin volleying pieces of bread at each other.
"Good for nothing, sea witch!"
"You're nothing but a god damn powder-monkey!"
He didn't even have to turn to know who those were.
Pisti's laugh was recognizable because of how predictable it was; one of her favorite past-times was watching her friends bicker and snarl at each other like a pair of love-struck dogs. Spartos remained impassive next to her, one hand on her shoulder and a drink in the other, all but a tug upwards on his lips betraying his amusement.
"Ja'far!" He let out a string of curses after hearing his name slurred. Ja'far had hoped he'd disappeared into the background long enough to avoid a drunk Sinbad (or worse, a grabby Sinbad) but instead the man lumbered towards him, on surprisingly steady feet for a rocking ship.
"You haven't had a drink!"
"I have; you're just three sheets to the wind while I've barely managed one."
"Sounds dull," he grinned, slinging an arm around the smaller man's shoulders. "There's time to be responsible in the morning!"
Before Ja'far could reply, scathing and disapproving, Drakon appeared in the front door. His appearance was grave, the scales that marred his skin shining from sea spray, eyes immediately finding Sinbad but staying in place.
"We have a visitor."
ome pirate lingo translated for you:
quartermaster: i'm not gonna put the whole description on here but essentially, a quartermaster is the person who runs everything. The captain is chosen and is mostly battle and command-oriented. However, the quartermaster is elected by the crew to represent their interests and runs the ship and makes sure everything is in order and settles quarrels and distributes the money.
'force him to rope's end': another term for flogging
'swinging the lead': being lazy
'dancing the hempen's jig': being hanged
powder-monkey: this is Sharrkan's job on the ship; he's essentially Drakon's assistant with weaponry and the cannons.
three sheets to the wind: really, really drunk. one sheet means you're sober; four sheets and you're passed out