Before you ask, yes: the character's name is indeed Hawaiian.
An Italian-raised Hawaiian who is now bumming about the British colonial Caribbean?
Hey, maybe if you're lucky I'll come up with a somewhat logical explanation for it all.
Yes, I've finally given into the temptation and written one of the banes known as Mary Sues. I don't know right now if any of the movie plot is going to be pertinent to the storyline. I don't know if there'll be a storyline. I don't know when and if I'll update. I don't know how many errors are in here, because I only did enough research to quell the instincts that are kicking and screaming against this.
And frankly, I don't care. Mary Sue, remember?
Enjoy. *smirks
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Sweat trickled through the hair pulled back tight against her scalp and careened
down her temples. It stung the skin where salt had already dried into the pores and
seeped into the corner of parted lips, where it was sucked into her mouth by heavy
breathing. She cocked her sword to block a heavy blow and felt weakened muscles tremor
under the strain.
It was a risky thing, to switch from her left hand to her right. It left a lull in which
there would be no defense against any attack. The young Hawaiian retreated as she
tossed the guard to her other set of fingers and found her grip. Then she had to parry for
her life as her attacker took advantage of the fact, thrusting to kill.
They fenced until she was forced to change hands again, and this time she was
not so lucky. He knocked the sword from her grasp before she could adjust, and then she
felt her back against the wall and a dull blade at her throat.
Keahi let her head fall back and closed her eyes, gasping for air. Her pants, cut
off above the knee, and her silk shirt, its sleeves torn away, were all but soaked. She was
dressed unspeakably indecently, to say the least, and in the company of a man not more
than twenty years her senior.
"God," she gasped, finally opening her eyes and lowering her head to look at
Maestro Vincelli. The steel at her throat dropped to accomodate the movement.
"Do not blaspheme," Maestro chided in his stern, impassive voice, sliding his
weapon into its shaft. Keahi saw him use his sleeve to wipe a considerable amount of
sweat from his forehead. She managed a weak smile of satisfaction and knelt down to
pick her sword up.
Something made her look up from the hard, polished wood. Maestro was watching
her, his breathing already quieter and his dark eyes thoughtful. The thick eyebrows were
lifted just slightly. Keahi tilted her head in question, smearing away a strand of black
hair that had been plastered to her cheek. She felt very young again and Maestro
suddenly looked taller than he already was; stronger than she knew he was. She had
begun to test her teacher's strength in the past month.
"You have grown," he said in English. "Very much, you have grown in only a
year."
Keahi stared at him and shook her head, still breathless. "No," she replied,
staying with Italian. "Only five centimeters, Maestro."
"No," came his heavy accent. "You have grown." He gestured towards the sword
on the floor. "Your...skill has grown. Very much. Too much."
Keahi followed his movement and watched as a bead of sweat fell to the smooth
floor, where it splashed into a thousand more crystals. The girl stared down at the wood,
so smooth and bright even after scuffed by their footwork. If she looked hard enough,
perhaps she could see her reflection.
October, 1659
Port Charles, Hispanola
The woman came awake without reason. She looked about herself. Black eyes still
glazed by sleep were searching for her likeness in the beautiful wooden floor of a beautiful
spacious hall from long ago. All they realized was a dark alley between an abandoned inn
and a questionable tavern. She could hear drunken laughter faintly through the wall behind
her.
The nights here were mild even in the deepening autumn, but a breeze coming in
from sea razored a chill into the air. The woman pulled the ratty grey blanket tighter about
her shoulders and shifted, trying to find something more comfortable against the rough
bricks. Beneath the blanket, her hand dropped to the strap and scabbard that lay propped
againste her hip. Calloused fingers smoothed over leather that was fast becoming worn
and ended on the familiar hilt of her rapier, cold and reassuring. It was all she had to her
name aside from the clothing on her back and the meager number of coins hidden about
her person.
The rowdy shouting grew louder as a gentleman came down the street, preceded
by a little black boy carrying a lantern on a stick. Keahi listened to the tap-tap of the man's
cane, punctuating both pairs of footfalls, and squinted as the swinging light fell briefly on
her face. The blackie's eyes lingered for a moment on the slender, defined face that almost
resembled more a boy than a woman. A white scar glinted against the skin that was
stretched taut and tan over her sharp cheekbone.
Then the pair had passed, leaving Keahi blinking the glare from her eyes. Her head
fell back against the wall and she looked up at the moon. It was only partially visible in the
gap between two roofs. She saw that it was near its zenith, perhaps a little beyond, and
decided that it could not be later than one in the morning.
It was an unnecessary thing most of the time, to keep track of the hour. Keahi
lived by day and night, and when the fancy took her she slept if she could; if her stomach
complained then she ate, if she could. Telling by moon and sun was a habit from when she
was young. Maestro had taught her how.
Her fingers tightened around the rapier. Maestro had taught her everything.
The one exception was marksmanship. Keahi had taught herself to handle a
revolver, and handle it well enough to be useful with one. She twitched. A revolver would
in fact be useful now.
"Lilly-livered swine shit!"
Keahi jerked awake again. The alley had changed on her left side. Several meters
away, there was a square of light spilled onto the ground from the open back door and a
man slamming into the wall opposite. The woman could not tell if it had been the sound of
his body or the banging door or the attacker's roared oath that had brought her awake, but
in this case it hardly mattered. She carefully stood to her feet in the shadows, watching as
the doorway was filled by a large, bulky silhouette.
"You owe me, Sparrow!"
The man called Sparrow seemed to straighten with a great deal of effort,
swaying and slurring his words. "Le'ss be precise, mate," he grinned, as though his skull
had not just been bashed into the wall behind him, "I," he swallowed and his eyelids
fluttered. Keahi narrowed her eyes. The man was helplessly drunk: the precarious way his
wide hat was perched on his bobbing head was proof enough of that. "I don't owe ye
anythin'. To owe you would be t' say that I b'rowed it in the first place, but I don't ever
rememberrreachin' sush an accord, savvy?"
Keahi listened hard for any sound from the tavern through the door. The racous
voices she had fallen asleep to had melted into a subdued buzz of noise. She glanced up.
The strip of sky that she could see was black, and the scattered stars were fading. Dawn
was approaching.
The unmistakable click of a pistol jerked her attention back to ground level. The
heavy man was advancing on hapless Sparrow, pointing the barrel of his gun with a steady
hand. "Let me refresh yer memory," he snarled.
Keahi stepped carefully backwards over her sword, never taking her eyes off the
two men as she bent at the knees to grab it by the shaft.
"Consider it refreshed, mate." She saw Sparrow bow with a flourish from the
corner of her eye. Drunk, she decided, or quite possibly mad. "Allow me t' treat you to
that fine strumpet o'er there, eh?"
Keahi's head snapped up. She remained crouched where she was, staring in
disbelief. He'd seen her.
The large man glanced swiftly at her, never taking his gun from Sparrow's chest.
"That 'un?" he grunted. "That's no strumpet."
It was her hair - and her trousers - that was deceiving him. What had once been a
thick fall past her shoulders was now measured no longer than her middle finger. It
stood in soft spikes from her head and in the dark, from a distance, Keahi did
indeed resemble a man.
"Oh, that's a strumpet, mate," Sparrow grinned, nodding sagely. "Just look at the
chest. Oy, darling!" he called to her. "Come now, keep this handsome fellow company."
The strumpet in question slowly rose to her feet, keeping the rapier flush against
her body. "You couldn't afford me," she called back. Recent sleep thickened her accent.
The heavy Italian in her words served to at least distract the large man. "Well now,
Sparrow. She's a foreign wench."
Captain Jack Sparrow watched as Nantuck's eyes were drawn again to the side.
His own gaze traveled down to the revolver resting against his chest. "Indeed," he said,
before grabbing the other man's wrist and twisting it up and away - farther away than was
healthily possible. Nantuck roared as the bones in his wrist snapped. Sparrow scooped up
the pistol as it clattered to the ground and took off running.
"Many thanks, love!" he shouted to the woman as he drew near, expecting to be
past within the next second. Instead, he was slammed against the wall (again), and before
he could comprehend the first fact, he was more painfully aware of a steel blade at his
throat and the hand with the gun pinned high above his head.
He got only one look at her face as she was pressed nearly full length against him,
but it was a face he doubted he had ever seen the likes of before. Then cruel fingers were
digging into a pressure point of his wrist, prying his hand open with sharp pain. Keahi
caught the pistol as it dropped.
"Non. Grazie, signore."
Then the sword was gone and so was she.
An Italian-raised Hawaiian who is now bumming about the British colonial Caribbean?
Hey, maybe if you're lucky I'll come up with a somewhat logical explanation for it all.
Yes, I've finally given into the temptation and written one of the banes known as Mary Sues. I don't know right now if any of the movie plot is going to be pertinent to the storyline. I don't know if there'll be a storyline. I don't know when and if I'll update. I don't know how many errors are in here, because I only did enough research to quell the instincts that are kicking and screaming against this.
And frankly, I don't care. Mary Sue, remember?
Enjoy. *smirks
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Sweat trickled through the hair pulled back tight against her scalp and careened
down her temples. It stung the skin where salt had already dried into the pores and
seeped into the corner of parted lips, where it was sucked into her mouth by heavy
breathing. She cocked her sword to block a heavy blow and felt weakened muscles tremor
under the strain.
It was a risky thing, to switch from her left hand to her right. It left a lull in which
there would be no defense against any attack. The young Hawaiian retreated as she
tossed the guard to her other set of fingers and found her grip. Then she had to parry for
her life as her attacker took advantage of the fact, thrusting to kill.
They fenced until she was forced to change hands again, and this time she was
not so lucky. He knocked the sword from her grasp before she could adjust, and then she
felt her back against the wall and a dull blade at her throat.
Keahi let her head fall back and closed her eyes, gasping for air. Her pants, cut
off above the knee, and her silk shirt, its sleeves torn away, were all but soaked. She was
dressed unspeakably indecently, to say the least, and in the company of a man not more
than twenty years her senior.
"God," she gasped, finally opening her eyes and lowering her head to look at
Maestro Vincelli. The steel at her throat dropped to accomodate the movement.
"Do not blaspheme," Maestro chided in his stern, impassive voice, sliding his
weapon into its shaft. Keahi saw him use his sleeve to wipe a considerable amount of
sweat from his forehead. She managed a weak smile of satisfaction and knelt down to
pick her sword up.
Something made her look up from the hard, polished wood. Maestro was watching
her, his breathing already quieter and his dark eyes thoughtful. The thick eyebrows were
lifted just slightly. Keahi tilted her head in question, smearing away a strand of black
hair that had been plastered to her cheek. She felt very young again and Maestro
suddenly looked taller than he already was; stronger than she knew he was. She had
begun to test her teacher's strength in the past month.
"You have grown," he said in English. "Very much, you have grown in only a
year."
Keahi stared at him and shook her head, still breathless. "No," she replied,
staying with Italian. "Only five centimeters, Maestro."
"No," came his heavy accent. "You have grown." He gestured towards the sword
on the floor. "Your...skill has grown. Very much. Too much."
Keahi followed his movement and watched as a bead of sweat fell to the smooth
floor, where it splashed into a thousand more crystals. The girl stared down at the wood,
so smooth and bright even after scuffed by their footwork. If she looked hard enough,
perhaps she could see her reflection.
October, 1659
Port Charles, Hispanola
The woman came awake without reason. She looked about herself. Black eyes still
glazed by sleep were searching for her likeness in the beautiful wooden floor of a beautiful
spacious hall from long ago. All they realized was a dark alley between an abandoned inn
and a questionable tavern. She could hear drunken laughter faintly through the wall behind
her.
The nights here were mild even in the deepening autumn, but a breeze coming in
from sea razored a chill into the air. The woman pulled the ratty grey blanket tighter about
her shoulders and shifted, trying to find something more comfortable against the rough
bricks. Beneath the blanket, her hand dropped to the strap and scabbard that lay propped
againste her hip. Calloused fingers smoothed over leather that was fast becoming worn
and ended on the familiar hilt of her rapier, cold and reassuring. It was all she had to her
name aside from the clothing on her back and the meager number of coins hidden about
her person.
The rowdy shouting grew louder as a gentleman came down the street, preceded
by a little black boy carrying a lantern on a stick. Keahi listened to the tap-tap of the man's
cane, punctuating both pairs of footfalls, and squinted as the swinging light fell briefly on
her face. The blackie's eyes lingered for a moment on the slender, defined face that almost
resembled more a boy than a woman. A white scar glinted against the skin that was
stretched taut and tan over her sharp cheekbone.
Then the pair had passed, leaving Keahi blinking the glare from her eyes. Her head
fell back against the wall and she looked up at the moon. It was only partially visible in the
gap between two roofs. She saw that it was near its zenith, perhaps a little beyond, and
decided that it could not be later than one in the morning.
It was an unnecessary thing most of the time, to keep track of the hour. Keahi
lived by day and night, and when the fancy took her she slept if she could; if her stomach
complained then she ate, if she could. Telling by moon and sun was a habit from when she
was young. Maestro had taught her how.
Her fingers tightened around the rapier. Maestro had taught her everything.
The one exception was marksmanship. Keahi had taught herself to handle a
revolver, and handle it well enough to be useful with one. She twitched. A revolver would
in fact be useful now.
"Lilly-livered swine shit!"
Keahi jerked awake again. The alley had changed on her left side. Several meters
away, there was a square of light spilled onto the ground from the open back door and a
man slamming into the wall opposite. The woman could not tell if it had been the sound of
his body or the banging door or the attacker's roared oath that had brought her awake, but
in this case it hardly mattered. She carefully stood to her feet in the shadows, watching as
the doorway was filled by a large, bulky silhouette.
"You owe me, Sparrow!"
The man called Sparrow seemed to straighten with a great deal of effort,
swaying and slurring his words. "Le'ss be precise, mate," he grinned, as though his skull
had not just been bashed into the wall behind him, "I," he swallowed and his eyelids
fluttered. Keahi narrowed her eyes. The man was helplessly drunk: the precarious way his
wide hat was perched on his bobbing head was proof enough of that. "I don't owe ye
anythin'. To owe you would be t' say that I b'rowed it in the first place, but I don't ever
rememberrreachin' sush an accord, savvy?"
Keahi listened hard for any sound from the tavern through the door. The racous
voices she had fallen asleep to had melted into a subdued buzz of noise. She glanced up.
The strip of sky that she could see was black, and the scattered stars were fading. Dawn
was approaching.
The unmistakable click of a pistol jerked her attention back to ground level. The
heavy man was advancing on hapless Sparrow, pointing the barrel of his gun with a steady
hand. "Let me refresh yer memory," he snarled.
Keahi stepped carefully backwards over her sword, never taking her eyes off the
two men as she bent at the knees to grab it by the shaft.
"Consider it refreshed, mate." She saw Sparrow bow with a flourish from the
corner of her eye. Drunk, she decided, or quite possibly mad. "Allow me t' treat you to
that fine strumpet o'er there, eh?"
Keahi's head snapped up. She remained crouched where she was, staring in
disbelief. He'd seen her.
The large man glanced swiftly at her, never taking his gun from Sparrow's chest.
"That 'un?" he grunted. "That's no strumpet."
It was her hair - and her trousers - that was deceiving him. What had once been a
thick fall past her shoulders was now measured no longer than her middle finger. It
stood in soft spikes from her head and in the dark, from a distance, Keahi did
indeed resemble a man.
"Oh, that's a strumpet, mate," Sparrow grinned, nodding sagely. "Just look at the
chest. Oy, darling!" he called to her. "Come now, keep this handsome fellow company."
The strumpet in question slowly rose to her feet, keeping the rapier flush against
her body. "You couldn't afford me," she called back. Recent sleep thickened her accent.
The heavy Italian in her words served to at least distract the large man. "Well now,
Sparrow. She's a foreign wench."
Captain Jack Sparrow watched as Nantuck's eyes were drawn again to the side.
His own gaze traveled down to the revolver resting against his chest. "Indeed," he said,
before grabbing the other man's wrist and twisting it up and away - farther away than was
healthily possible. Nantuck roared as the bones in his wrist snapped. Sparrow scooped up
the pistol as it clattered to the ground and took off running.
"Many thanks, love!" he shouted to the woman as he drew near, expecting to be
past within the next second. Instead, he was slammed against the wall (again), and before
he could comprehend the first fact, he was more painfully aware of a steel blade at his
throat and the hand with the gun pinned high above his head.
He got only one look at her face as she was pressed nearly full length against him,
but it was a face he doubted he had ever seen the likes of before. Then cruel fingers were
digging into a pressure point of his wrist, prying his hand open with sharp pain. Keahi
caught the pistol as it dropped.
"Non. Grazie, signore."
Then the sword was gone and so was she.