...ugh, it's hot and muggy today and it's invading my room. I don't
feel like working on my brainchild. Requires far deeper thinking and effort
than I can dredge up at the moment. This story doesn't require anything
of the sort. Decisions, decisions.
Anyway, to answer Celeste's question: a Mary Sue is an original character - a female the overwhelming majority of the time - that waltzes into the world of -insert fandom here- and takes over. I use the term 'waltzes' very loosely; she usually makes her entrance without so much grace. The really severe ones, in the case of PoTC, are dropped in from the future in their halter tops and short short shorts. Mary Sue is absolutely gorgeous. She's going to have long flowing red/golden/ebony/silver hair down to her ass, and eyes that change color. Depending on her mood, of course. Said hair and eyes is going to wow the male character of the fandom that the author is in love with, and Mary Sue will quickly be screwing him (whether or not she's legal). If that isn't likely to happen given the male character's personality, Mary Sue'll take care of that. She sucks the in-characterness right out of the fic.
I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about, if you've hung around ff.net for any length of time. *twitch*
Right, and sorry about the whole first chapter being posted twice thing. I have no idea how that happened. I uploaded this file. This file was displayed in the preview. ...this file was not displayed after the upload. And the chapter also wouldn't go away when I tried to edit or delete it. *bludgeons ff.net*
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Captain Jack Sparrow was a man of the sea. One could even say that, as a pirate, he was wed to her. It was a happier union than those of honest sailors, who after long months pined for land beneath their feet. Land held danger for Sparrow, where the ocean promised freedom.
Even so, every man must return to his mother, whether it be for news and fresh food, or in Sparrow's case, women and rum, and then more rum. Port Charles, then, while certainly not Tortuga, was not a miserable place to stay for a week. Unless, of course, Sparrow ran into old Nantuck the gambling fool, whom he had cheated out of a purse of gold several years ago.
But what would be the chances of that?
"Yes, Jack, what would be the chances of that?" he mocked himself beneath his breath, rubbing his bruised skull.
It was two or three hours past noon by the sun. Port Charles's main street was bustling with activity, its cobblestones clattering with the beat of men and women and horses' hooves. Sparrow usually made a point to avoid this part of town, as this was where the street authorities were least corrupt and there were no drinking houses or brothels to keep his interest. Unfortunately, it was neither drinking houses nor brothels that he was looking for today, and that fact alone made him want to down the rest of the rum in his pouch.
Shops upon shops lined both sides of the street: bakeries and tailors and woodcarvers and anything else a body could desire. Sparrow passed them all by. Sometimes a plump woman with a basket over her arm would stop and watch him pass sidelong, and Jack did not even favor her with his golden smile of insolence. He looked almost sober as he made his way down the walk.
The smithy was the last building at the end of the street, standing a ways off from its closest neighbor. There were considerably fewer people conducting business in this sector, much to Jack's relief. The pirate staggered to the doors of the smithy and looked up at the sign hanging over them: Hinds, Blacksmith and More -- Est. 1636.
Sparrow looked over his shoulder; to his left; to his right. The odd person passing through did not seem to be affording him much attention. After a moment he crossed to the side of the old building and went around back. Hinds would likely not appreciate a pirate captain using the entrance proper - not out of personal offense, mind, but in the interest of professional reputation.
Hinds had left the door unlocked. Sparrow quietly lifted the latch and slipped inside. The backroom was dark and empty, filled by ominous shadows that a thin wedge of sunlight revealed to be smithy's tools before Jack closed the door silently behind him. He took two stealthy steps forward, intent on catching Hinds by surprise, when voices coming the main forge froze him in place. Sparrow drew to one side of the room, wincing every time a precariously balanced hammer came too close, and cocked his head. That was Hinds's voice, scratchy and forever amused, but the woman's lilt...
Jack crept up to the threshold. Hinds and his customer were out of sight; all he could see was the wall ten meters opposite, a portion of the front doors, and the hindquarters of a mule in between. He bowed his head and strained his ears, edging one eye quizzically around the corner. Hinds came into view first, sitting on a wooden bench, his back turned to Jack. He was absently polishing a long twist of silver that looked intended as a scabbard's ornament, looking up all the while at a dark woman before him. She was not dark as a Negro was dark, or even as a mutt would be; rather her browned skin seemed closer to gold than black. Sparrow recognized her instantly - the woman in the alley only last night.
"Now, pardon me - I'm just a simple smith - but you sound foreign, miss."
Sparrow rolled his eyes. Hinds loved pretending he was just a simple smith. Crafty bastard.
"I am," she replied. Sparrow grimaced in confusion as he took the opportunity to give her a more thorough study, unconsciously rubbing the wrist she had just about impaled with her fingers. How had she walked the streets clad in men's clothing? She wore peasant's pants, simple and straight and black, that reached all the way to her ankles - no doubt they had been sewn for someone considerably taller - and a beige shirt that billowed full in the sleeves and draped across her front as it had been designed to do against a flat chest.
"You...you look it, too," Hinds continued, gesturing with his free hand as though he were having trouble finding words. "But you don't look the same foreign as you sound, if you get my meanin'."
"I am Italian," the woman said, looking down at Hinds with veiled scrutiny. Jack brought his fist to his mouth to stifle a laugh. Italian, his pirate's ass. Granted, her accent sounded true enough - though not nearly as thick as he had first heard it last night - but she looked about as Italian as a blackie. Her eyes were far too long; her features too shallowly set with the exception of her cheekbones. No Italian woman, whether lady or peasant, would cut their hair shorter than most men's.
But she was foreign. Sparrow would concede that.
"Italian, eh?" Hinds set the silver aside and twisted the polishing rag between his hands, crossing one ankle over his knee. "Odd way you Italian women dress - beggin' your pardon."
"No need," she told him before shifting her weight onto one leg, and Sparrow could practically see all pretense falling away from her like a cloak. "Mister Hinds, I have a rather difficult commission. The first blacksmith that I saw found it beyond his experience, so he referred me to you."
Jack saw Hinds's back straighten in interest. "Which blacksmith, now?"
"William Turner."
Sparrow jerked and narrowed his eyes. Hinds canted his head and glanced askew at the young woman, his simpleton's expression quickly melting. The blacksmith suspected that his drunkard's stubble and stupid grin had never fooled his caller in the first place. "Will Turner, in Port Royal?" he asked.
"Yes," she nodded. "A young man apprenticed to Mister Brown."
"Will's no apprentice," Hinds snorted, waving his hand and standing up. Now it was the woman who tilted her head to gaze at him. Hinds was a tall, thick man who did not always appear broad at first glance. His long face and the greying thin hair that brushed his shoulders saw to that. "I suppose you're at least his acquaintance, since he gave you my name."
"My father commissioned swords from him," she told him and gave him no time to remark on her answer. "I want to commission a dagger from you."
"A dagger?" Hinds's eyebrows climbed up. "Young Will couldn't manage a dagger?"
The woman turned her back and walked away to the side, out of Sparrow's sight. Hinds, though, could see as she went to the cloak and hood that she had entered in and that now lay in a pile on the ground. "No," she replied, throwing a section of the fabric aside to reveal a scabbard and strap. She drew the sword and stood. "I want a dagger with this hilt. Without the guard, of course."
The blacksmith took the rapier offered hilt-first. Jack tried to better see from his hiding place, annoyed that he could not discern what was holding Hinds's interest. Hinds was studying the engraving in the weapon's grip. When he was done, he let out a low whistle, obviously impressed. "I see," he said at last, looking back up at the woman with truly deep interest. After a moment he held the sword out at arm's length, testing its balance. Now Sparrow could see that it was a fine sword indeed, even if it did lack gleam. The guard twined protectively about the hand, its cage an elegant, simple pattern, and the blade itself was without flaw, straight and slender. Hinds obviously agreed. "This is superb craft," he announced, looking at the woman from the corner of his eye. "Did Turner make this?"
"No."
Both men waited for her to say more, but no more was forthcoming. Hinds offered the rapier back to her. "What length do you want the blade?"
Surprise flickered across her face as she took it back. "You can make it?"
"I believe I can, miss, but I'll have to keep the sword for reference on the hilt."
She hesitated only a moment. "Keep it. And polish and sharpen the blade for me, please."
"Gladly. What length for the dagger, miss?"
"The longest practical," she replied, holding up her forefingers to demonstrate. She decreased the space between them a bit. "Perhaps some less."
"Eight, eight and a half inches, then?" asked Hinds. The woman nodded. "Eight and a half it is. Will you be using it?"
The question was abrupt and intended to knock her off-balance. She only shook her head. "The sword is my brother's," she said as she retrieved the scabbard and sheathed it. "The dagger will be a gift."
"Ah, your brother's," Hinds said, eyeing the fluid way she handled the blade. Jack was thinking exactly the same thing, only with tenfold sarcasm. "I'll be askin' you for a week, perhaps more. For the hilt."
"I understand." Her sharp face hardened as the blacksmith took the sword from her. "It needs to be perfect."
"And it will be," Hinds assured her. The black eyes lingered on him skeptically, but she nodded.
"What about price?"
Sparrow was growing bored. The woman was a curious thing, admittedly, but there was only so long that a man could sulk about in the dark, waiting for his turn. He would come back later, he decided, preferably after shadowing the woman for a while after she left by the front door. The captain turned to steal back out the way he had come.
Unfortunately, he had forgotten just how close he was to an unsteady rack of smithy tools.
The deafening crash of falling metal on metal whipped Hinds around. Keahi started as well, her eyes snapping to the backroom that pained curses were echoing out of. She snatched the rapier from where it lay across Hinds's hands and lunged past him, drawing the blade and discarding the scabbard in one movement.
Jack was halfway out the door when an arm hooked around his throat, jerking brutally against his forward momentum. The pirate gagged, stunned, as he was dragged back inside. Fortunately, the hold was easy enough to break. Sparrow found his feet and simply turned around, prepared to deal a blow to his attacker's jaw.
He found himself much closer to the young woman's face than he had expected. That moment of disorienting proximity gave them both pause. It was enough time for Hinds to appear in the doorway, sharp green eyes taking in the entire scene.
"Jack!" he exclaimed, his face spasming in surprise. "Easy, miss, easy, it's all right. I know 'im."
Keahi stepped backwards, looking back and forth between the two men. "You," she said.
"Me, love," Jack agreed, rubbing at his bruised throat before sketching a mocking bow. "Never thought to see me again, eh?"
"How long've you been back here, Jack?" Hinds demanded, watching as Keahi bent to pick up the sword she had dropped to the ground upon realizing that the long blade would be of no use. "Your brother's sword, eh, miss?"
Keahi only stared at him, fingering the rapier's hilt.
Anyway, to answer Celeste's question: a Mary Sue is an original character - a female the overwhelming majority of the time - that waltzes into the world of -insert fandom here- and takes over. I use the term 'waltzes' very loosely; she usually makes her entrance without so much grace. The really severe ones, in the case of PoTC, are dropped in from the future in their halter tops and short short shorts. Mary Sue is absolutely gorgeous. She's going to have long flowing red/golden/ebony/silver hair down to her ass, and eyes that change color. Depending on her mood, of course. Said hair and eyes is going to wow the male character of the fandom that the author is in love with, and Mary Sue will quickly be screwing him (whether or not she's legal). If that isn't likely to happen given the male character's personality, Mary Sue'll take care of that. She sucks the in-characterness right out of the fic.
I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about, if you've hung around ff.net for any length of time. *twitch*
Right, and sorry about the whole first chapter being posted twice thing. I have no idea how that happened. I uploaded this file. This file was displayed in the preview. ...this file was not displayed after the upload. And the chapter also wouldn't go away when I tried to edit or delete it. *bludgeons ff.net*
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Captain Jack Sparrow was a man of the sea. One could even say that, as a pirate, he was wed to her. It was a happier union than those of honest sailors, who after long months pined for land beneath their feet. Land held danger for Sparrow, where the ocean promised freedom.
Even so, every man must return to his mother, whether it be for news and fresh food, or in Sparrow's case, women and rum, and then more rum. Port Charles, then, while certainly not Tortuga, was not a miserable place to stay for a week. Unless, of course, Sparrow ran into old Nantuck the gambling fool, whom he had cheated out of a purse of gold several years ago.
But what would be the chances of that?
"Yes, Jack, what would be the chances of that?" he mocked himself beneath his breath, rubbing his bruised skull.
It was two or three hours past noon by the sun. Port Charles's main street was bustling with activity, its cobblestones clattering with the beat of men and women and horses' hooves. Sparrow usually made a point to avoid this part of town, as this was where the street authorities were least corrupt and there were no drinking houses or brothels to keep his interest. Unfortunately, it was neither drinking houses nor brothels that he was looking for today, and that fact alone made him want to down the rest of the rum in his pouch.
Shops upon shops lined both sides of the street: bakeries and tailors and woodcarvers and anything else a body could desire. Sparrow passed them all by. Sometimes a plump woman with a basket over her arm would stop and watch him pass sidelong, and Jack did not even favor her with his golden smile of insolence. He looked almost sober as he made his way down the walk.
The smithy was the last building at the end of the street, standing a ways off from its closest neighbor. There were considerably fewer people conducting business in this sector, much to Jack's relief. The pirate staggered to the doors of the smithy and looked up at the sign hanging over them: Hinds, Blacksmith and More -- Est. 1636.
Sparrow looked over his shoulder; to his left; to his right. The odd person passing through did not seem to be affording him much attention. After a moment he crossed to the side of the old building and went around back. Hinds would likely not appreciate a pirate captain using the entrance proper - not out of personal offense, mind, but in the interest of professional reputation.
Hinds had left the door unlocked. Sparrow quietly lifted the latch and slipped inside. The backroom was dark and empty, filled by ominous shadows that a thin wedge of sunlight revealed to be smithy's tools before Jack closed the door silently behind him. He took two stealthy steps forward, intent on catching Hinds by surprise, when voices coming the main forge froze him in place. Sparrow drew to one side of the room, wincing every time a precariously balanced hammer came too close, and cocked his head. That was Hinds's voice, scratchy and forever amused, but the woman's lilt...
Jack crept up to the threshold. Hinds and his customer were out of sight; all he could see was the wall ten meters opposite, a portion of the front doors, and the hindquarters of a mule in between. He bowed his head and strained his ears, edging one eye quizzically around the corner. Hinds came into view first, sitting on a wooden bench, his back turned to Jack. He was absently polishing a long twist of silver that looked intended as a scabbard's ornament, looking up all the while at a dark woman before him. She was not dark as a Negro was dark, or even as a mutt would be; rather her browned skin seemed closer to gold than black. Sparrow recognized her instantly - the woman in the alley only last night.
"Now, pardon me - I'm just a simple smith - but you sound foreign, miss."
Sparrow rolled his eyes. Hinds loved pretending he was just a simple smith. Crafty bastard.
"I am," she replied. Sparrow grimaced in confusion as he took the opportunity to give her a more thorough study, unconsciously rubbing the wrist she had just about impaled with her fingers. How had she walked the streets clad in men's clothing? She wore peasant's pants, simple and straight and black, that reached all the way to her ankles - no doubt they had been sewn for someone considerably taller - and a beige shirt that billowed full in the sleeves and draped across her front as it had been designed to do against a flat chest.
"You...you look it, too," Hinds continued, gesturing with his free hand as though he were having trouble finding words. "But you don't look the same foreign as you sound, if you get my meanin'."
"I am Italian," the woman said, looking down at Hinds with veiled scrutiny. Jack brought his fist to his mouth to stifle a laugh. Italian, his pirate's ass. Granted, her accent sounded true enough - though not nearly as thick as he had first heard it last night - but she looked about as Italian as a blackie. Her eyes were far too long; her features too shallowly set with the exception of her cheekbones. No Italian woman, whether lady or peasant, would cut their hair shorter than most men's.
But she was foreign. Sparrow would concede that.
"Italian, eh?" Hinds set the silver aside and twisted the polishing rag between his hands, crossing one ankle over his knee. "Odd way you Italian women dress - beggin' your pardon."
"No need," she told him before shifting her weight onto one leg, and Sparrow could practically see all pretense falling away from her like a cloak. "Mister Hinds, I have a rather difficult commission. The first blacksmith that I saw found it beyond his experience, so he referred me to you."
Jack saw Hinds's back straighten in interest. "Which blacksmith, now?"
"William Turner."
Sparrow jerked and narrowed his eyes. Hinds canted his head and glanced askew at the young woman, his simpleton's expression quickly melting. The blacksmith suspected that his drunkard's stubble and stupid grin had never fooled his caller in the first place. "Will Turner, in Port Royal?" he asked.
"Yes," she nodded. "A young man apprenticed to Mister Brown."
"Will's no apprentice," Hinds snorted, waving his hand and standing up. Now it was the woman who tilted her head to gaze at him. Hinds was a tall, thick man who did not always appear broad at first glance. His long face and the greying thin hair that brushed his shoulders saw to that. "I suppose you're at least his acquaintance, since he gave you my name."
"My father commissioned swords from him," she told him and gave him no time to remark on her answer. "I want to commission a dagger from you."
"A dagger?" Hinds's eyebrows climbed up. "Young Will couldn't manage a dagger?"
The woman turned her back and walked away to the side, out of Sparrow's sight. Hinds, though, could see as she went to the cloak and hood that she had entered in and that now lay in a pile on the ground. "No," she replied, throwing a section of the fabric aside to reveal a scabbard and strap. She drew the sword and stood. "I want a dagger with this hilt. Without the guard, of course."
The blacksmith took the rapier offered hilt-first. Jack tried to better see from his hiding place, annoyed that he could not discern what was holding Hinds's interest. Hinds was studying the engraving in the weapon's grip. When he was done, he let out a low whistle, obviously impressed. "I see," he said at last, looking back up at the woman with truly deep interest. After a moment he held the sword out at arm's length, testing its balance. Now Sparrow could see that it was a fine sword indeed, even if it did lack gleam. The guard twined protectively about the hand, its cage an elegant, simple pattern, and the blade itself was without flaw, straight and slender. Hinds obviously agreed. "This is superb craft," he announced, looking at the woman from the corner of his eye. "Did Turner make this?"
"No."
Both men waited for her to say more, but no more was forthcoming. Hinds offered the rapier back to her. "What length do you want the blade?"
Surprise flickered across her face as she took it back. "You can make it?"
"I believe I can, miss, but I'll have to keep the sword for reference on the hilt."
She hesitated only a moment. "Keep it. And polish and sharpen the blade for me, please."
"Gladly. What length for the dagger, miss?"
"The longest practical," she replied, holding up her forefingers to demonstrate. She decreased the space between them a bit. "Perhaps some less."
"Eight, eight and a half inches, then?" asked Hinds. The woman nodded. "Eight and a half it is. Will you be using it?"
The question was abrupt and intended to knock her off-balance. She only shook her head. "The sword is my brother's," she said as she retrieved the scabbard and sheathed it. "The dagger will be a gift."
"Ah, your brother's," Hinds said, eyeing the fluid way she handled the blade. Jack was thinking exactly the same thing, only with tenfold sarcasm. "I'll be askin' you for a week, perhaps more. For the hilt."
"I understand." Her sharp face hardened as the blacksmith took the sword from her. "It needs to be perfect."
"And it will be," Hinds assured her. The black eyes lingered on him skeptically, but she nodded.
"What about price?"
Sparrow was growing bored. The woman was a curious thing, admittedly, but there was only so long that a man could sulk about in the dark, waiting for his turn. He would come back later, he decided, preferably after shadowing the woman for a while after she left by the front door. The captain turned to steal back out the way he had come.
Unfortunately, he had forgotten just how close he was to an unsteady rack of smithy tools.
The deafening crash of falling metal on metal whipped Hinds around. Keahi started as well, her eyes snapping to the backroom that pained curses were echoing out of. She snatched the rapier from where it lay across Hinds's hands and lunged past him, drawing the blade and discarding the scabbard in one movement.
Jack was halfway out the door when an arm hooked around his throat, jerking brutally against his forward momentum. The pirate gagged, stunned, as he was dragged back inside. Fortunately, the hold was easy enough to break. Sparrow found his feet and simply turned around, prepared to deal a blow to his attacker's jaw.
He found himself much closer to the young woman's face than he had expected. That moment of disorienting proximity gave them both pause. It was enough time for Hinds to appear in the doorway, sharp green eyes taking in the entire scene.
"Jack!" he exclaimed, his face spasming in surprise. "Easy, miss, easy, it's all right. I know 'im."
Keahi stepped backwards, looking back and forth between the two men. "You," she said.
"Me, love," Jack agreed, rubbing at his bruised throat before sketching a mocking bow. "Never thought to see me again, eh?"
"How long've you been back here, Jack?" Hinds demanded, watching as Keahi bent to pick up the sword she had dropped to the ground upon realizing that the long blade would be of no use. "Your brother's sword, eh, miss?"
Keahi only stared at him, fingering the rapier's hilt.