Risen

Summary: Thoughts, musings, tales, and emotions, all building up over the course of ten years and then some…It's enough to drive a man crazy. Some drabbles from the crew under Barbossa.

Disclaimer: POTC and all characters save for my OCs belong to Da Mouse, and Disney. I do not claim them, I merely borrow them from they're comfortable life-styles in the Archives.

Fire. -Scooter
"H-he-Hello..."
And William Turner looked on in confusion at the man whose back had housed his killing hatchet just prior to their second encounter.

Jacoby

Toasty

I like fire. I can't help it, for it is not my fault; rather, it was how I was born, and it was built into me by the divine. I have no choice but comply with its whims and wants. Even when the coins call to me, I am called by the cackle of the flames; they are both loud, both made by things mortal beings can not fathom.

They could not fathom. Where I was raised, they never understood. They drove me off, forced me into piracy; I was to be a merchant. Ironic, no? Now I rob those whose place I would have stood in.

The first building had been old, anyways; it would have collapsed any day. I merely dropped the torch and sped the process of decay up, forcing it to move on. The fires tasted the ancient wood and stone, and devoured them. I stood in awe of what I had done; it had been an accident, at the time, but I later realized that He had planned for my epiphany. Watching the glow, the embers, the sparks rise up with the spoke and eat away at the weak…

I had to grace more with His divine gift of scorch. Most people fear burning alive; even I did, once upon a time. He made me see, allowed me the knowledge. I even brag about it; Pride is a sin, but I was blessed, and the greed from the coins encourages me. One day, maybe, I will fend them off, fight the flames of voracity the Aztecs scald me with, but for now…for now I relish the burns left behind.

The second building was a man's home; he had five wives, and almost countless children. He had stolen from my father, and had been judged innocent. I did not understand this; I still do not. I poured the oils, said a prayer, and allowed the spark from my flint to dance itself into a frenzy.

Thirteen people perished, including two from the small hut beside the thief's home. They are martyrs; they died so that justice may live on.

I was given the gift to bestow forgiveness; my fire would bring with it the knowledge of what the so-called innocent had done. The liars! They lied so hard they believed it themselves, and the signs told the justices what went through the minds of such swine; false images, false truths.

Building after building, person after person, until it came to a lowly whore. She was half dead already, signs of being choked glowing around her neck. I took an incense wedge from my beard and placed it upon her stomach, the fabric catching soon after. She was a lowlife, and would go to Hell; by showing her sins, I thought she would repent. And then, as I walked away, I heard her scream, and another woman rushed form the shadows. She saw me, and I saw her, and we parted ways instantly at a run.

I was reported, but I would not face trial; society saw my blessings as crimes, regardless that He had given me such a gift. Even if the signs said I was innocent, they would prosecute me privately.

I left; I did not retreat, though. I merely sought out a new place to spread my gift, to educate those that did not appreciate what He had given them; choice. The option to do good, to elect beauty and the divine over hideous evil and the iwicked/i fires of His nemesis.

Once the curse had finished, I shall burn some of the bodies upon this ship. They do not understand their sins. Yet they will repent; His fires will make them see, and He will let me light them.