Hey ya'll, 'tis me again ^_^ I'm really pumped about this story, it's
actually going, like, good! And I will finish it, yay! So here's another
chapter with more on the way. Reviews are very much appreciated. Thanks!
"Yer gonna have to tie this one," the chreton advised a chubby hand on deck. "She's a kicker-jumper sort 'a girl." The ship was beastly, a huge old thing that was magnificent in its own bleak way. Every fixture, every board, up to the sails and Jolly Roger flag was doused in pure ebony. If she'd been in a better mood, she would have marveled at how well she coordinated.
"You BASTARD!!" She screeched, struggling vainly as he bound her hands behind her back. "This is kidnapping, do you understand? You'll die once you're caught! Swing! Hang!"
"Little bit o' a pessimist too, eh?" The burly fellow added, clutching her arms carefully yet firmly from behind. The strange man examined her quizically, his chestnut brown eyes watching her like a crazed animal in a pen. Not taunting, not anxious, just curious.
"This is the worst possible mistake you ever made, Mr. ... Mr. ...."
"CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow, love," he bowed, that same ackward little bob that he'd been oh-so-charming with at the ball. Perhaps, she thought begrudgingly, she was the one that had made the worst possible mistake.
"Should I run 'er up the mast 'er just throw 'er in th' brig?" He inquired to his captain, a hint of genuine confusion lingering in his tone.
"Let's show 'er Le Suite de Grande, shall we?" He grinned, enough nerve to shoot a conceited wink of his coal-covered eye at her as the shipmate struggled toward the large paned doors at the end of the deck.
"That's a good lass, atta girl," he coaxed before finally plopping her down in the darkened room, locking her inside before she could protest.
An eerie sort of peace settled down around her as the floor began to gently rock with the sea, up and down in a rhythm that felt as natural as the constant still of the land. Orders were barked and men ran hither and thither above and around, but they seemed distant and far away from her now, in this lightless, unfamiliar cell.
One evening. One bloody, ill-conceived evening had left her entire world in something worse than tatters. Worse than death, for all she knew. Why did pirates kidnap little girls from parties? To scare them into minding their mothers? The sea's rocking turned her stomach to sickness at the notion of these rough men, passing her around like a good bottle of rum.
A blazing orange light cast a ghostly illumination across the foreign room. Rather large, especially compared to the quarters she used to visit her father in. On the other side, across from the locked doors, was a wall consumed by windows with a cushioned sill running from one length to the other. One other door remained at the right of her, likely not leading far. An unmade four-post bed, with a mountain of wadded blankets detracting from the elegance of hand-carved mahogany. A matching table with velvet chairs held piles of used dishes, empty glass bottles, and candelabras burned down to the quick. Burgundy drapes, curtains, carpet, pillows, and walls may have been the products of bold design or, perhaps, some forgotten massacre. Maps in unreadable languages were tacked randomly about without frames or care. One section, to the right next to the window wall, was organized with slight reverence. A display of flyers, printed and sent out to the masses announcing handsome rewards for the capture of Jack Sparrow...a weak grin twisted along the corners of her mouth as she noted that they had failed to precurse it with "Captain." Like trophies they stood- kidnapping, robbery, commandeering, impersonating a member of the cleric...
Her eyes flickered over to the window, and a horrified gasp escaped from her throat. The entire island was completely engulfed in flames, stretching high into the sky as they coughed out streams of smoke. The rocky isle became smaller and smaller as they moved away, but the fire only seemed to grow.
"You're welcome, love."
She whirled around, her heart racing with the chronic state of surprise the night had condemned her to. She hadn't even heard him come in, which was strange considering the massive boots and accentuated swagger of his walk. He plopped down on one of his velvet dining chairs, hoisting his feet across the table and knocking a pile of silver plates to the floor. "You're gonna have to excuse th' mess, I don't have th' pleasure of entertainin' many gent'lwomen aboard m' ship." From the folds of his grimy vest he produced a silver flask, took a long swig and gazed out the windows. "I knew this'd be a bad raid, what with those novices in th' bar, out t' prove to the entire Caribbean how big 'n scary they really are. They'll have a great tale now, retirin' in Tortuga to a whorehouse an' keg. 'Ever seen that charred li'l rock south o' Port Royal? Yes, we're the ones that torched it.'"
"Pirates in Daemon's Pointe?" Tabitha thought aloud, puzzled. "But there would be no reason for it. Daemon's Ponte barely crosses the mind of the British Navy, let alone plunderers. There's nothing worth the trouble and risk of destroying an entire island to gain."
"They got their reputation, that's reason enough for a gaggle o' ametuer pirates," he shrugged.
"And you." She shot a fierce glare at Jack, who leaned back and watched her fume like an audience at a theater. "What did you get?"
"A pain in th' arse, it'd seem."
"Then why did you bother to bring me here?" As much as the truth frightened her, she couldn't remain in this velvet-padded room, waiting for her suspicions to be realized. "What are you... what are you going to do with me?"
"Never was one to revel in th' loss of a civilization. From what I saw, you were th' only one worth saving, dearest cousin." Shaking the last drop from the flask, he retrieved a half-empty bottle from under the table. "Well, currently we're set to arrive in Port Royal 'n a few days. Have you got any family that wasn't on th' isle o' th' damned?"
"M-my father."
"Well, there we are. We'll send out word to yer father, while you holiday with some quality pompous arses, and all shall be good in th' world as we make our way toward th' Ambrosia Coast to see a man 'bout a mast."
She stared at him, gawked, as he toasted to himself. No ransom? No slave auction? No carrying of his bastard child? What kind of pirate captain was this? "You mean, you're not going to go after the attackers?"
"We're hardly th' avengers of th' open sea, miss." His words were slightly slurred now, as his wild gestures flew around more irratically with every sip of the vile liquor.
"But they...they took something of mine, and I need it back!" For a moment her mind damned Devonny, but if the book had been left in the house, it would have surely burned beyond salvage with everything else at Daemon's Pointe. Good fortune was so often twisted. "Surely you'll at least encounter them soon..."
"Probably not."
"I...I don't think you understand," she stammered. "It's the most important thing I own, and that damned girl they carried off had it stole it from me."
"An' what was this all-important treasure o' yours that's so valuable, you're willing t' go against yer impeccable upbringin' t' employ th' assistance of a gaggle o' pirates?"
"It's a book," she said, sinking down into the chair across from him. If only these dirty dishes could travel back in time and retrieve their former contents. It oddly occured to her that she never got the chance to indulge into the hors d'ouerves provided by the late Miss Damask.
He laughed, a throaty chuckle given enthusiasm from the mounting spirits. "You're gonna have t' do better 'n that, love."
"A notebook from my mother. It had her writing in it, a strange poem. I've yet to figure it out, but I must recover it." She glanced up to see Jack's chestnut brown eyes locked on her own, the rum bottle still in his hand.
"What was yer name again?"
"Tabitha McGovern."
"Well, Tabitha-"
"Miss McGovern, Mr. Sparrow," she corrected sternly. No matter whom she was consorting with, she would not fall beneath standard.
"TABITHA, CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow has reconsidered yer proposition and welcomes ye most wholeheartedly t' the Black Pearl."
"Yer gonna have to tie this one," the chreton advised a chubby hand on deck. "She's a kicker-jumper sort 'a girl." The ship was beastly, a huge old thing that was magnificent in its own bleak way. Every fixture, every board, up to the sails and Jolly Roger flag was doused in pure ebony. If she'd been in a better mood, she would have marveled at how well she coordinated.
"You BASTARD!!" She screeched, struggling vainly as he bound her hands behind her back. "This is kidnapping, do you understand? You'll die once you're caught! Swing! Hang!"
"Little bit o' a pessimist too, eh?" The burly fellow added, clutching her arms carefully yet firmly from behind. The strange man examined her quizically, his chestnut brown eyes watching her like a crazed animal in a pen. Not taunting, not anxious, just curious.
"This is the worst possible mistake you ever made, Mr. ... Mr. ...."
"CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow, love," he bowed, that same ackward little bob that he'd been oh-so-charming with at the ball. Perhaps, she thought begrudgingly, she was the one that had made the worst possible mistake.
"Should I run 'er up the mast 'er just throw 'er in th' brig?" He inquired to his captain, a hint of genuine confusion lingering in his tone.
"Let's show 'er Le Suite de Grande, shall we?" He grinned, enough nerve to shoot a conceited wink of his coal-covered eye at her as the shipmate struggled toward the large paned doors at the end of the deck.
"That's a good lass, atta girl," he coaxed before finally plopping her down in the darkened room, locking her inside before she could protest.
An eerie sort of peace settled down around her as the floor began to gently rock with the sea, up and down in a rhythm that felt as natural as the constant still of the land. Orders were barked and men ran hither and thither above and around, but they seemed distant and far away from her now, in this lightless, unfamiliar cell.
One evening. One bloody, ill-conceived evening had left her entire world in something worse than tatters. Worse than death, for all she knew. Why did pirates kidnap little girls from parties? To scare them into minding their mothers? The sea's rocking turned her stomach to sickness at the notion of these rough men, passing her around like a good bottle of rum.
A blazing orange light cast a ghostly illumination across the foreign room. Rather large, especially compared to the quarters she used to visit her father in. On the other side, across from the locked doors, was a wall consumed by windows with a cushioned sill running from one length to the other. One other door remained at the right of her, likely not leading far. An unmade four-post bed, with a mountain of wadded blankets detracting from the elegance of hand-carved mahogany. A matching table with velvet chairs held piles of used dishes, empty glass bottles, and candelabras burned down to the quick. Burgundy drapes, curtains, carpet, pillows, and walls may have been the products of bold design or, perhaps, some forgotten massacre. Maps in unreadable languages were tacked randomly about without frames or care. One section, to the right next to the window wall, was organized with slight reverence. A display of flyers, printed and sent out to the masses announcing handsome rewards for the capture of Jack Sparrow...a weak grin twisted along the corners of her mouth as she noted that they had failed to precurse it with "Captain." Like trophies they stood- kidnapping, robbery, commandeering, impersonating a member of the cleric...
Her eyes flickered over to the window, and a horrified gasp escaped from her throat. The entire island was completely engulfed in flames, stretching high into the sky as they coughed out streams of smoke. The rocky isle became smaller and smaller as they moved away, but the fire only seemed to grow.
"You're welcome, love."
She whirled around, her heart racing with the chronic state of surprise the night had condemned her to. She hadn't even heard him come in, which was strange considering the massive boots and accentuated swagger of his walk. He plopped down on one of his velvet dining chairs, hoisting his feet across the table and knocking a pile of silver plates to the floor. "You're gonna have to excuse th' mess, I don't have th' pleasure of entertainin' many gent'lwomen aboard m' ship." From the folds of his grimy vest he produced a silver flask, took a long swig and gazed out the windows. "I knew this'd be a bad raid, what with those novices in th' bar, out t' prove to the entire Caribbean how big 'n scary they really are. They'll have a great tale now, retirin' in Tortuga to a whorehouse an' keg. 'Ever seen that charred li'l rock south o' Port Royal? Yes, we're the ones that torched it.'"
"Pirates in Daemon's Pointe?" Tabitha thought aloud, puzzled. "But there would be no reason for it. Daemon's Ponte barely crosses the mind of the British Navy, let alone plunderers. There's nothing worth the trouble and risk of destroying an entire island to gain."
"They got their reputation, that's reason enough for a gaggle o' ametuer pirates," he shrugged.
"And you." She shot a fierce glare at Jack, who leaned back and watched her fume like an audience at a theater. "What did you get?"
"A pain in th' arse, it'd seem."
"Then why did you bother to bring me here?" As much as the truth frightened her, she couldn't remain in this velvet-padded room, waiting for her suspicions to be realized. "What are you... what are you going to do with me?"
"Never was one to revel in th' loss of a civilization. From what I saw, you were th' only one worth saving, dearest cousin." Shaking the last drop from the flask, he retrieved a half-empty bottle from under the table. "Well, currently we're set to arrive in Port Royal 'n a few days. Have you got any family that wasn't on th' isle o' th' damned?"
"M-my father."
"Well, there we are. We'll send out word to yer father, while you holiday with some quality pompous arses, and all shall be good in th' world as we make our way toward th' Ambrosia Coast to see a man 'bout a mast."
She stared at him, gawked, as he toasted to himself. No ransom? No slave auction? No carrying of his bastard child? What kind of pirate captain was this? "You mean, you're not going to go after the attackers?"
"We're hardly th' avengers of th' open sea, miss." His words were slightly slurred now, as his wild gestures flew around more irratically with every sip of the vile liquor.
"But they...they took something of mine, and I need it back!" For a moment her mind damned Devonny, but if the book had been left in the house, it would have surely burned beyond salvage with everything else at Daemon's Pointe. Good fortune was so often twisted. "Surely you'll at least encounter them soon..."
"Probably not."
"I...I don't think you understand," she stammered. "It's the most important thing I own, and that damned girl they carried off had it stole it from me."
"An' what was this all-important treasure o' yours that's so valuable, you're willing t' go against yer impeccable upbringin' t' employ th' assistance of a gaggle o' pirates?"
"It's a book," she said, sinking down into the chair across from him. If only these dirty dishes could travel back in time and retrieve their former contents. It oddly occured to her that she never got the chance to indulge into the hors d'ouerves provided by the late Miss Damask.
He laughed, a throaty chuckle given enthusiasm from the mounting spirits. "You're gonna have t' do better 'n that, love."
"A notebook from my mother. It had her writing in it, a strange poem. I've yet to figure it out, but I must recover it." She glanced up to see Jack's chestnut brown eyes locked on her own, the rum bottle still in his hand.
"What was yer name again?"
"Tabitha McGovern."
"Well, Tabitha-"
"Miss McGovern, Mr. Sparrow," she corrected sternly. No matter whom she was consorting with, she would not fall beneath standard.
"TABITHA, CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow has reconsidered yer proposition and welcomes ye most wholeheartedly t' the Black Pearl."