Pirates of the Caribbean- In Shifting Winds
Summary: "Following Blackbeard's death, Captain Barbossa is one of the most feared pirates to ever set sail. But when a legendary descendant challenges him, and things go amiss on his ship, can Barbossa keep his cool long enough to sort himself and his problems out?"
Rating: Teen, for violence, fantasy violence, alcohol consumption, mild cursing (because I CAN curse in a Disney fic. See? I've told you), and mildly sensual situations.
Main Characters: Hector Barbossa, Jack Sparrow, OC's...and some to be revealed!
Pairings: See, now, mate, that's a secret. There could be none. There could be one. There could be many. But this isn't a romance fic. So you'll just have to wait and find out!
Genre: Action/Adventure/Thriller
Chapter 1
"'Ector! Oh 'Eeector!" The voice called to him. He pulled his hat low, taking a deep swig of rum to drown his discomfort in.
It wasn't like Captain Barbossa to groan, but groan he did.
The tavern whore sidled up to him, her intent clearly written on her features; his disgust was written on his. He had already made certain that three Tortuga prostitutes would not soon forget him that evening- he could handle no more. It didn't help matters that a violent storm was brewing, and he'd- once again- discovered he could feel it in his stump of a leg. And, to top it all off, he was tired and hungry and still not drunk enough and just all around cranky. Simply lovely.
"'Ector Barbossa, it's been a long, long toime!" She crooned, pressing her ample- and very exposed bosom- against his upper arm while she shamelessly toyed with his shirt collar.
"Arr, missy, that'd be Captain Barbossa, to the likes of ye." He drawled, downing the last of his drink in one mighty swig. She was relentless, however, and it stirred severe frustration inside him.
"Alroight then, Captain, can ye steer me to port tonight?" She giggled, leering at him. Barbossa sighed and flicked his arm, shoving her off of him quickly. He didn't want to be reminded of his exhaustion, when he was in such a frame of mind. And, what was worse: he wasn't sure why he was in such a frame of mind. Perhaps some actual sleep would do his weathered body good. But not before he had another round of rum.
He raised a hand to signal the bartender, who nodded and passed him another draught, which he deftly caught as it slid along the slivered wood of the bar top. He was just about to savor the sweet taste as it passed his lips and hit his uncursed stomach when the same prostitute sat down with a pout beside him, fingers once again helplessly entangled with his clothing. He paused, completely still, while the world around him seemed to speed up.
"Oh, come now, Cap'an, ain't I good enough for ye anymore? I'll even split my price in 'alf, just because you're a repeat cust'mer."
He was getting distressingly tired of this common whore touching him. Who was she to think she owned him, after it was he who had once ravaged her? Barbossa cut his gaze sharply to stare her down.
"Ye have five seconds to be gettin' those purty little hands off me, lass, or you might find yer arms returning home without them."
Within three of the five alloted seconds, she frowned, painted lips puckering into a most unbecoming expression, and removed herself from his company. Barbossa sighed, trying to relax. Perhaps another drink was not what he needed. Suddenly, he only longed for sleep. Peaceful, easy slumber.
Heaving himself to his leg and peg with great effort, Barbossa winced at the dull phantom pains of a limb that no longer existed, and waddled out of the tavern. The cool, salty night air refreshed him somewhat. Ah, the pirate's mecca! Tortuga always seemed to bring forth a sense of home from within him, which was odd, considering he only really got that feeling aboard a ship (mostly the Pearl, though he was getting used to the Revenge with ease). He decided he didn't desire sleep, either, and set off for a short walk- or, rather, a hobble.
As always, Tortuga's very air was alive with blessedly damned electricity- snaking forth from the corrupt currents that surrounded the island and everyone on it. Hector Barbossa breathed deeply, feeding off of the spark in the atmosphere. When he exhaled, it sprung forth with an exalted, wordless sound of triumph.
He was a pirate, again.
Patting the sword that hung on his hip absently, he strolled along the twisting paths and in and out amongst the many people, be they pirate, prostitute, laborer, and the occasional displaced honest sailor. Many he recognized, many he did not. It was the nature of the job. He realized that his time in the British Royal Navy had left its mark on him- however falsified his intent with them had been- but the thought plagued him less than usual. He didn't seem to feel overly different, save for a jolt every time he took a step with his right leg. He didn't act much different. Perhaps he was back to normal.
Barbossa wound slowly around the sprawling complex on that side of the shore, lights, laughter, and sounds of drunken singing coming to him on the wind. He walked the sandy beaches, parting the grains with the toe of his boot idly, for something to do while he cleared his mind enough to be able to rest. A pirate's work was never finished, but he, at least, was finished for just that night.
Finally having had enough, Barbossa trudged up the beach until he hit the dirt once again, climbing the mild incline with about as much grace as a wounded horse attempting to high step. Ah, well. No one had ever counted on him to be a star ballerina, anyway (and if they had, he had no knowledge of it). The sound of the crashing waves melded seamlessly into the sounds of the ever-raging party that was Tortuga, before they faded into the distance behind him. The nightlife rallied on as the moon rose high in the sky- he thanked the powers that were that he was no longer affected by anything other than its dazzling beauty. Burning oil lamps and candles surrounded him, casting a soft, teasing golden glow over everything they touched. They spoke of mysteries, treasure beyond his wildest imagination. It was hard to believe that there were things out there he hadn't already seen and done, but that was the one thing he could honestly claim to have faith in.
Barbossa's tired body propelled him towards a small inn- "The Horse's Mouth." He had a running tab with them; it wasn't like they ever expected him to square up. That was an interesting bit about being a pirate- the more your name was known, the less you were expected to share of your own accord. Of course, it also meant you'd be attacked and hunted down at least once a week, but that was the fun of it!
The innkeeper shot Barbossa a short wave of greeting from inside when he opened the door, but suddenly, the infamous pirate stopped dead in his tracks. Without warning, his right arm shot out, and he felt flesh within his grip. He whirled about, glaring.
"I jus' thought ye ought to pay a lady for payin' the likes of ye so much attention, is all." The same tavern whore from earlier looked up at him, half sneering, half curious to see what he would do. Barbossa looked at her thin wrist in his large, leathery hand, drew her hand out from his pocket, and suddenly a small smile traipsed across his lips. He yanked her closer, leaning down over her and drinking in the sight of her obviously wary eyes.
"Didn't I tell ye that you were in a bad way with those wand'ring hands of yours?" He smirked, now, his grip tightening.
She gasped before her expression turned to one of pain outright. He twisted her arm in his grasp, tracing the lines in her dirty palms with a delicate touch while feeling bones creak and crunch in his hold. Her knees buckled. She finally had the sense to nod.
"Aye, Captain!" Her lips trembled- she could take no more. He released her arm, which she drew back instantly, like a wounded dog. And then her gaze turned fiery.
"Ye'll pay for that! I'll see to it! Ye're nothing but a scurvy rat dog covered in the grittiest fish slop from the bottom of the ocean floor! 'Eaven will never 'ave ye, and 'Ell spit ye back upon these shores like a piece of festered meat! Pox upon thee, Captain! A pox upon th-"
Crack! Barbossa pulled his pistol in to his lips and blew against the smoking barrel before he holstered his weapon. Those amongst him grew curious of the cursing, ill-fated wench that lay lifeless on the hard packed earth, the flower of a crimson oath left behind on her forehead. Barbossa shrugged and cast a glinting gaze over the gathered crowd.
"I told the unfortunate lass to let be the forbidden fruit, but alas! She was as tempted as sinful Eve to this weary garden." He quipped, gesturing with a long hand to himself. Everyone had a good laugh and returned to their business. With one last look at the body on the ground, he fished two-pence from his person, flicked it at the body, and retired to a room at the inn for some much needed sleep.