Disclaimer: Disney's

Best Intentions

He'd never been ordinary, never really fit in. His mother had been of ancient lineage, but a profligate's by-blow was neither gentry nor commoner, though he'd seemed something of both to most as he grew from boy to young man. Still, eventually, he chose the low road, and soon found he must play the part or risk failure at the very least; at worst, an early death. It was that important, and it was that simple.

The facial hair had grown in slowly, the moustache nicely luxuriant, the curling beard along his jawline less so. It was years before the braids and beads at his chin were possible, but he loved the look when he'd finally achieved them: truly piratical.

By then, of course, his hair was already a work of art, though ever a work-in-progress. Long, then longer, and dark as night, with plaits and mats, beads, bangles, and bones, all held back with his red scarf, once bright, eventually fading from sun, sea, and sweat. The tricorn that topped all was a unique creation, waterproofed leather, presented to him by his darling Molly that first time he'd come to visit her in her new shop, the shop he'd paid for, six months of swag turned to gold to give her that freedom. He'd never regretted it, not for a minute. And he'd never part with his hat.

The big bucket boots were not really ideal for life on a ship, but what did that matter when they so obviously shouted "Buccaneer!"

The rest of his clothing echoed the sentiment, the finest togs he could claim from their prizes. He liked garments that swayed and moved: white lawn or linen shirts with absurdly billowing sleeves, often open to the cooling breeze and, coincidentally, to reveal a bit of smoothly muscled, bronzed chest; the most elaborately embroidered waistcoats he could lay hands on; frock coats in rich colors, and big enough to mask the wide assortment of weaponry he carried, tools of his trade. His trews, however, were often just a little snug, though still permitting of quick ascent of ratlines, and the acrobatics of energetic swordplay.

And over time, his very skin shouted of adventure, both good and ill. Tattoos, swirling, and picturesque, and a varying selection of gold rings piercing his ears (and other, less visible spots), gave testament to nights of drunken bravado (and sheer stupidity in some instances); scars of all kinds told their tales of violence: fierce fighting, and punishment, and the power of a body to heal and endure. Every one of the marks bought with pain, an assurance that he still lived. And that was what mattered, didn't it?

That, and the image he'd created. Kohl 'round the eyes, an odd affectation, and almost a summary of his persona: comical, dandified, lackadaisical, and elegant; devil-may-care; a fribble. Put 'em off their guard, made 'em careless.

And set him like stone in their memories, which had, of course, been his intention all along.