Notes from the Author: After nearly a year-long hiatus, Ascent into Legend has returned! Let me know what you think about the new chapter, maties...I be a little rusty with the ol' Cutlass of Doom at this point, but hopefully me skill will return!
Ascent into Legend
Chapter III
Though not much could be heard over Jack's noise, outside the door a heated argument had sprung up between Fat Franny, the proprietor of the establishment, and a lady of unknown origin. The latter was a tall, broad-shouldered woman, her ample bosoms rather stuffed into a silk gown, which, while fine, was almost a decade out of style and fraying badly at the hem. Apparently, due to uncertainties as to what the unknown woman was up to in her place of business (and dressed to the hilt, to boot), Franny had mistakenly offered her a position. The woman in question, already having a much more profitable occupation, had been understandably upset, and had taken to tongue-lashing the confused Madam. Now, Fat Franny hadn't gotten hold of the finest brothel in Tortuga by sitting on her duff in silence, and she quickly put the stranger to a tongue-lashing of her own.
After the drawing of pistols on both sides (for neither woman had grown up in polite society, and both knew what impolite society was capable of), the provoked newcomer managed to convey her intentions with the help of a smartly dressed man who seemed to be in her association. With his polished boots, velvet coat and ruffled cravat, the pert man accompanying the stranger quickly drew a crowd of ladies who rarely saw his kind in the cathouse. He, however, remained staunchly oblivious to their coy flirtations, and followed his companion silently into the very room where Jack sparrow lay recuperating.
First, the unidentified lady called Jack's name loudly to rouse him, her voice rough and cracked from long years of shouting, but to no avail. Her composure already thin, she kicked his foot as it dangled over the edge of the bed, calling to him again. Still, he slept on. Her impatience having reached its peak by then, she marched directly to his side of the bed, intending to wake him by more abrupt means—that is, a sharp slap in the face. However, she only got as far as lifting his hat, for, immediately after that, his eyes popped open and he snatched at his missing headgear out of pure reflex.
Jack started out of his sleep, a curse launching off his tongue, when a sharp, harsh laugh resounded throughout the little room. Jack bolted up in the bed, and the jenny beside him (who had finally managed to return to the land of the living) squealed and covered her head with the blanket. The owner of that piercing laughter had been the lady, the hand of whom was crushing Jack's trifold against her hip.
Now, this wasn't the first time Jack had been startled out of his morning sleep next to a woman, Jenny or otherwise, but it was the first time that he found himself staring at a mystery woman with a cruel smile on her face (as opposed to a familiar woman with a look of digust/anguish/anger, or an unfamiliar man with a look of righteous fury/towering rage/belligerent hatred). Jack gave her a quick once-over, took in the sturdy leather boots peeking out below the raveled hem of her turquoise-and-green silk skirt, her narrow waist and abundant breasts, her sternly set shoulders, wide for a woman of that age, and, finally, the harsh features of her face beneath the most ridiculous hat he had ever seen (and he'd seen quite a few in his day), the brim of which spread outward at least half a foot on all sides, and was covered with more gaily colored feathers than a whole flock of peacocks. (Jack had to quickly stifle a snort of laughter at the sight.)
However inexperienced he was with this particular sort of wake-up call, Jack decided to play a familiar card: humor. A bit of a joke didn't always deter his assailant, but trying to draw out a laugh was a far better alternative to trying to draw his pistol out of a pair of britches that were God-knows-where.
"Don'chy know it's bad luck to wake a man when he's sleepin', lady?" Jack asked, grinning not a little with the knowledge that there wasn't a bucket of water anywhere in sight.
"Fortunately, I know how to counter it," Jack could hardly believe the turn of the conversation, "The person who did the waking wrings the scrawny neck of the beef-witted, doghearted waister that was sleeping. 'Ll'that do?" Hearing the contemptuous tone of the threat, Jack glanced at the only door to the room in hopes of escape, but his eyes found only the dapper dandy with his hand casually slung on a pistol.
"Come now, love," Jack began, then winced at the rattle of disgust she expelled at the word "love." He knew now he was treading dangerous waters, and held out his hands to appease the ill-tempered lady, grinning crookedly. He'd been in worse fixes before, after all. He started again.
"Beggin' your pardon, missus, no offense meant. I was only wondering what your lovely name might be before you do me the honest favor of telling ol' Jack what your business is in his, er, compromised position."
"My name is Black Mary Ironsides, but you may call me Captain, as I'm here on errand to seize your sorry hide as my hostage."
Pirate Speak!: waister, n.---an incompetant sailor. Heheh.