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Make you a sword of me?
May. 23rd, 2023 07:40 pmJack flips through the few shirts lying in his dresser, feeling full of nervous energy. There's something exciting about the prospect of being able to fight again, even if only played with an aim to practice. It feels like something that really truly belongs to him and who he is, even in this place.
Even if the shirt he arrived in Darrow with weren't dirty, he would be a little wary now of repeating the whole outfit lest it trigger something in him like had happened on horseback. Regardless of how well Eliot had taken it, Jack wants to be able to show Eliot that he's not going to lose himself like that again. Even more, he wants to show Eliot that he's good at something. It would feel good to be able to show him something worthwhile, to impress him.
He pulls out a loose sleeveless shirt, pulls that on and tucks one side loosely into the belt of his old trousers. He tucks his dagger down into his boot, situates his sword belt on his hips, and grabs his sunglasses before heading out the door.
When he arrives at the boardwalk, Jack wanders a little ways from the few people out this early. The sky is clear and blue, the lingering sunrise keeping an orange tint to the sand and sea. The air hasn't warmed up yet, and the salt breeze feels soft against his face. He paces a little in the sand, thinking over different ways they might spar.
He's not sure that he has much to teach if Eliot is looking for that, but he is looking forward to seeing how Eliot fights. He's looking forward to seeing Eliot. After the mess of the last week, it'll be good to do something that feels uncomplicated.
Even if the shirt he arrived in Darrow with weren't dirty, he would be a little wary now of repeating the whole outfit lest it trigger something in him like had happened on horseback. Regardless of how well Eliot had taken it, Jack wants to be able to show Eliot that he's not going to lose himself like that again. Even more, he wants to show Eliot that he's good at something. It would feel good to be able to show him something worthwhile, to impress him.
He pulls out a loose sleeveless shirt, pulls that on and tucks one side loosely into the belt of his old trousers. He tucks his dagger down into his boot, situates his sword belt on his hips, and grabs his sunglasses before heading out the door.
When he arrives at the boardwalk, Jack wanders a little ways from the few people out this early. The sky is clear and blue, the lingering sunrise keeping an orange tint to the sand and sea. The air hasn't warmed up yet, and the salt breeze feels soft against his face. He paces a little in the sand, thinking over different ways they might spar.
He's not sure that he has much to teach if Eliot is looking for that, but he is looking forward to seeing how Eliot fights. He's looking forward to seeing Eliot. After the mess of the last week, it'll be good to do something that feels uncomplicated.
Jack gets ready slowly. He's still not entirely used to this new place, still hasn't made it feel like a place that he belongs. Waking without Anne feels wrong and he doesn't want to think over anything that she told him out on that boat.
He takes a shower, puts on his old clothes and looks in the mirror. Eliot seemed to think that they might be suitable for horse-riding outside the city, but at the moment he only sees how incongruous they seem compared to this modern room in a modern city. He takes a deep breath and lets it out as he settles his hat on his head, telling himself that the clothes won't matter, and he will attempt to be amiable, for Eliot's sake. He doesn't quite understand why riding horses is an activity all on it's own, but it will be a diversion all the same.
When he arrives at Villa Cordova, he wanders up through the entrance without going to the main building. It's dry and warm, and smells of dirt and hay and animals in a way that feels familiar. For a moment, he pauses and rests his forearms against a rough wooden fence. There are horses to watch, but he closes his eyes instead, listening to the relative silence of this place and feeling the sun begin to warm through the back of his coat.
He takes a shower, puts on his old clothes and looks in the mirror. Eliot seemed to think that they might be suitable for horse-riding outside the city, but at the moment he only sees how incongruous they seem compared to this modern room in a modern city. He takes a deep breath and lets it out as he settles his hat on his head, telling himself that the clothes won't matter, and he will attempt to be amiable, for Eliot's sake. He doesn't quite understand why riding horses is an activity all on it's own, but it will be a diversion all the same.
When he arrives at Villa Cordova, he wanders up through the entrance without going to the main building. It's dry and warm, and smells of dirt and hay and animals in a way that feels familiar. For a moment, he pauses and rests his forearms against a rough wooden fence. There are horses to watch, but he closes his eyes instead, listening to the relative silence of this place and feeling the sun begin to warm through the back of his coat.
Jack arrives at the archive cautiously, early in the morning, for the first time hoping that Eliot won't be here. He's looking for Martin, because he needs advice and can't think of anyone else that might give a damn about modern social mores around giving gifts. Martin likes to be helpful, and he's ostensibly friendly with Eliot, so he's definitely the best option that he has today.
Only, as the little bell on the door announces his arrival, he realizes that no one is here. No Martin, no Eliot, no anyone. He steps in, and heads for Martin's office to make sure he's not there. He finds an empty desk, a stack of files arranged neatly on one side. He could just grab them and leave with some interesting reading, but that's not what he's here for.
He heads towards the back, thinking that maybe everyone is going through boxes, but he stops when he hears a voice through the other office door. He knocks gently. No answer, so he opens the door and finds John sitting behind his desk, reading aloud. He hasn't had much time to speak with the man, but he recognizes him, knows him as Martin's partner in this business venture...or whatever The Archive actually is.
"Oh, I was looking for-" He stops. John is still reading. He doesn't look up, so Jack takes another step towards the desk. "Hello?"
Only, as the little bell on the door announces his arrival, he realizes that no one is here. No Martin, no Eliot, no anyone. He steps in, and heads for Martin's office to make sure he's not there. He finds an empty desk, a stack of files arranged neatly on one side. He could just grab them and leave with some interesting reading, but that's not what he's here for.
He heads towards the back, thinking that maybe everyone is going through boxes, but he stops when he hears a voice through the other office door. He knocks gently. No answer, so he opens the door and finds John sitting behind his desk, reading aloud. He hasn't had much time to speak with the man, but he recognizes him, knows him as Martin's partner in this business venture...or whatever The Archive actually is.
"Oh, I was looking for-" He stops. John is still reading. He doesn't look up, so Jack takes another step towards the desk. "Hello?"
The festivities at the City Hall feel far from civilized, and the general air of celebration carries with it a sense of unease. He'd been told to be prepared for something strange and possibly deadly to happen tonight. Eliot had said to be prepared for anything, so he and Anne had brought their swords. It feels both comforting and strange to have it at his hip again, especially when the power unexpectedly cuts out.
Instead of sticking around to see the ritual effigy-burning, they collectively decide to head towards the boardwalk and see if there is anything less likely to cause mayhem happening there. Jack buttons up the front of his coat as they walk. The night is crisp, but he's comfortable as they approach the ocean.
He points towards the south, then looks towards Eliot. "We arrived down that way. On the shore. Didn't you say that you arrived in the water?"
Instead of sticking around to see the ritual effigy-burning, they collectively decide to head towards the boardwalk and see if there is anything less likely to cause mayhem happening there. Jack buttons up the front of his coat as they walk. The night is crisp, but he's comfortable as they approach the ocean.
He points towards the south, then looks towards Eliot. "We arrived down that way. On the shore. Didn't you say that you arrived in the water?"
gold that's put to use more gold begets
Nov. 11th, 2019 10:39 pmThis morning, as Jack goes through the possible things he could start working on, or learning more about, the little note in his notebook with the address of the archive keeps grabbing his attention. It really is time that he stopped by and found out what's really there.
And there is the matter of a dish that he has to return to Eliot. He might as well do both at once.
The walk is more comfortable now that he has warm clothes to wear, and Jack takes his time walking over to the Archive, the empty pyrex tucked under his arm. It's not a nice day, but it's serviceable, and it feels good to have some small task to accomplish. He's going to return Eliot's dish and, if possible, find his own file.
When he arrives, he steps inside and closes the door behind him. The place is a mess, though he can tell that organization is in progress. It's more or less what he'd expected to find based on how Martin and Eliot had described it.
What he doesn't immediately see is anyone here to greet him. He calls out a hello as he loosens his scarf from around his neck, and goes to look at the contents of the first open box he can see.
And there is the matter of a dish that he has to return to Eliot. He might as well do both at once.
The walk is more comfortable now that he has warm clothes to wear, and Jack takes his time walking over to the Archive, the empty pyrex tucked under his arm. It's not a nice day, but it's serviceable, and it feels good to have some small task to accomplish. He's going to return Eliot's dish and, if possible, find his own file.
When he arrives, he steps inside and closes the door behind him. The place is a mess, though he can tell that organization is in progress. It's more or less what he'd expected to find based on how Martin and Eliot had described it.
What he doesn't immediately see is anyone here to greet him. He calls out a hello as he loosens his scarf from around his neck, and goes to look at the contents of the first open box he can see.
Jack looks down at the phone screen, frowning as he tries to figure out how to navigate the map that Eliot had sent him. In the end, he pulls up a static map instead and finds the appropriate street there. Eliot had said to leave his sword behind and, while he knows that is probably the most prudent decision given how few people in Darrow seem to be armed on a daily basis, it still makes him feel a little wary. This place is strange and he doesn't know what dangers to expect.
He keeps his dagger tucked into his belt. Hopefully Eliot won't object to that.
As he leaves, he tucks the scarf that Eliot had lent him around his neck. He'll have to return it today, but it proves useful on the walk over to the mall. He's familiar with the large building where Eliot had said to meet, but hadn't given much thought until now about what might be inside of it. Whatever is there, he feels better about having a little guidance at navigating it.
He spots Eliot and gives a brief wave to catch his attention before shoving his hands back into his coat pockets. Eliot looks just as put together as he had the last time Jack met him, but he notices the addition of a dark sweater under his coat. He thinks that he did make a good choice in asking Eliot for help with this. He could have found a warm coat on his own, but Eliot will know which coats are more fashionable than others. That, and he would like to learn a little more about him and his magic. He can still barely believe that magic exists, and he has a hard time picturing the sort of world that Eliot comes from.
He rounds his shoulders forward a bit and looks over at Eliot, nodding towards the building rather than stopping outside in the cold. "Thank you for your help," he says. "I appreciate it."
He keeps his dagger tucked into his belt. Hopefully Eliot won't object to that.
As he leaves, he tucks the scarf that Eliot had lent him around his neck. He'll have to return it today, but it proves useful on the walk over to the mall. He's familiar with the large building where Eliot had said to meet, but hadn't given much thought until now about what might be inside of it. Whatever is there, he feels better about having a little guidance at navigating it.
He spots Eliot and gives a brief wave to catch his attention before shoving his hands back into his coat pockets. Eliot looks just as put together as he had the last time Jack met him, but he notices the addition of a dark sweater under his coat. He thinks that he did make a good choice in asking Eliot for help with this. He could have found a warm coat on his own, but Eliot will know which coats are more fashionable than others. That, and he would like to learn a little more about him and his magic. He can still barely believe that magic exists, and he has a hard time picturing the sort of world that Eliot comes from.
He rounds his shoulders forward a bit and looks over at Eliot, nodding towards the building rather than stopping outside in the cold. "Thank you for your help," he says. "I appreciate it."
It's been days since they've arrived in this place and Jack is beginning to give up hope that whatever brought them here will deliver them back from whence they'd been taken. Up til now, he hadn't wanted to venture far from Anne in case of just that possibility, but he can't stay locked away in their strange little rooms forever.
He has his own assigned lodging to investigate, so once he's out of the street, he heads in that direction. He takes his time. It's still fucking cold out, but it's hard not to take time when there are so many things that are entirely incomprehensible to him. The occasional honk from a car passing by never fails to make him flinch, and the strange lights and sounds are a constant unnerving baseline. It doesn't help that further, he doesn't fit in at all. His coat and hat and weapons make people look in his direction, but nobody stops and asks if he's new, if he's one of these visitors from another world, if he needs any assistance. He can see in their faces people willing away his strangeness, and he hates it.
At the first intersection, he pauses and takes note of the other pedestrians, how they push the button and wait to cross the street. He pauses with them and turns to his left, squinting at a strange humming coming from a large metal cabinet standing on the pavement. The crowd moves, and he moves with it.
At the next intersection, the crowd moves on, and he stays, staring at the humming metal box. Another one, here. He lifts a hand up and cautiously touches the surface. Smooth, cool, no movement that he can detect. He drops his hand, and examines the small lock holding together the doors. It's nothing major, more of a deterrent than an actual safety measure. No doubt easily broken.
He looks to his left and right. There are people on this side of the street, but none that are actively watching him at the moment. He slides his dagger out of his belt, scabbard and all, and turns it around in his hand. It takes three strikes with the pommel before the little lock falls open. He pulls it off and goes to open the cabinet. A second glance down the street and he spots someone crossing to the other side to avoid him. Just as well, he doesn't want to talk to them, either.
He's expecting that inside there will be a clue, a hint to understanding something about this place. What he finds is a jumble of rubber wires and panels and instrumentation that he doesn't understand and couldn't begin to if he tried. It looks horrific, like if the bones and sinews of this place had fused into a strange humming node.
He tucks his dagger back into his belt and raises a hand to rub at the side of his face. "...Huh."
He has his own assigned lodging to investigate, so once he's out of the street, he heads in that direction. He takes his time. It's still fucking cold out, but it's hard not to take time when there are so many things that are entirely incomprehensible to him. The occasional honk from a car passing by never fails to make him flinch, and the strange lights and sounds are a constant unnerving baseline. It doesn't help that further, he doesn't fit in at all. His coat and hat and weapons make people look in his direction, but nobody stops and asks if he's new, if he's one of these visitors from another world, if he needs any assistance. He can see in their faces people willing away his strangeness, and he hates it.
At the first intersection, he pauses and takes note of the other pedestrians, how they push the button and wait to cross the street. He pauses with them and turns to his left, squinting at a strange humming coming from a large metal cabinet standing on the pavement. The crowd moves, and he moves with it.
At the next intersection, the crowd moves on, and he stays, staring at the humming metal box. Another one, here. He lifts a hand up and cautiously touches the surface. Smooth, cool, no movement that he can detect. He drops his hand, and examines the small lock holding together the doors. It's nothing major, more of a deterrent than an actual safety measure. No doubt easily broken.
He looks to his left and right. There are people on this side of the street, but none that are actively watching him at the moment. He slides his dagger out of his belt, scabbard and all, and turns it around in his hand. It takes three strikes with the pommel before the little lock falls open. He pulls it off and goes to open the cabinet. A second glance down the street and he spots someone crossing to the other side to avoid him. Just as well, he doesn't want to talk to them, either.
He's expecting that inside there will be a clue, a hint to understanding something about this place. What he finds is a jumble of rubber wires and panels and instrumentation that he doesn't understand and couldn't begin to if he tried. It looks horrific, like if the bones and sinews of this place had fused into a strange humming node.
He tucks his dagger back into his belt and raises a hand to rub at the side of his face. "...Huh."
O brave new world
Oct. 20th, 2019 03:00 pma sea-change
The crew tosses smoke shells over into Rogers' ship as they climb up the side, and Jack has a moment to see Anne standing on the railing before she steps down into the growing cloud. His hands twitch at his side and he finds himself moving his jaw for want of something to say—for want of something to do that isn't standing a ship away watching this happen. The success or failure of the attack will be because he told Edward Teach what to do, and he listened.
He can feel his own heartbeat reverberating against his chest. Rogers cant have been beaten so easily. He's an uninspired man, but he wouldn't have left every man on deck to be slaughtered by canonfire. Rogers would wait for the vanguard. He would want the glory of cutting down the notorious Edward Teach himself to bolster both his ego and his unsteady position back in Nassau.
There are too many men in the ambush. He can see Anne, catches a glint of metal, her hair showing copper through the fading smoke. She's fighting well, but in these odds one well placed blade could end that quickly. Jack takes in a shaky breath. He can't think about that right now. Anne can handle herself. She can.
His eyes scan the length of the ship and finds Teach, stalking towards Rogers. They're both taking large swings, reckless.
Rogers' men seem to be winning out, but things could turn at any moment. His brows furrow as he watches Teach touch his side and then look down at his hand. Was he injured? Jack looks up to the flag, then at the men beneath it. He's ready to surrender, if they need to. Only if they need to. His jaw feels tight. He keeps watching as closely as he can.
Jack looks back to find Anne, but he can't see her anymore. A spike of panic pierces his chest like a dagger.
Between the space of a breath, the vista changes and Jack stumbles as his boots find purchase in soft sand and shallow water. There aren't any boards beneath his feet, and it doesn't make sense. His hat is there, slowly sinking, and he bends slowly to pick it up, shaking the water off as he stands. Dread soaks into his chest, crystallizing his panic rather than quelching it. It is bewilderingly cold and the wind cuts through his jacket like it's not there. The water is the wrong color.
He lifts his head and looks out at the ocean. What ocean, he doesn't know. He can't spot anything familiar. No ships in sight, no clue what just happened.
"Wh-" He starts, then stops, speechless. He feels frozen to the spot. There's too much here—too much not here to process.
As the tide pulls away, the sand beneath his boots shifts with it towards the sea. Jack takes a hasty step back from the sensation of being pulled in, and looks down the length of the beach.
There. A figure, standing in the surf.
Anne. It must be. It has to be.
"Anne!" he yells, already moving towards her, cutting the distance until he can be sure. Her coat, her hat, the color of her hair.
She turns to him and his breath hitches in his throat.
"Anne!" His voice cracks and he stumbles over the sand towards her. He drops his hat onto the sand. He's running.
Into something rich and strange
The crew tosses smoke shells over into Rogers' ship as they climb up the side, and Jack has a moment to see Anne standing on the railing before she steps down into the growing cloud. His hands twitch at his side and he finds himself moving his jaw for want of something to say—for want of something to do that isn't standing a ship away watching this happen. The success or failure of the attack will be because he told Edward Teach what to do, and he listened.
Something about it don’t feel right, but there ain’t enough to say why. Anne drops down from the gunwale and moves slow and careful among Teach’s vanguard, inching aft and considering the remains. Bodies everywhere: all’s blood and red coats and splintered wood. Teach roams toward the bow, cutting bodies to see who’s breathing. Ain’t right to be this tidy, she thinks; quiet like there’s not a single soul left alive. It don’t feel right, but it ain’t enough to see what’s coming.
He can feel his own heartbeat reverberating against his chest. Rogers cant have been beaten so easily. He's an uninspired man, but he wouldn't have left every man on deck to be slaughtered by canonfire. Rogers would wait for the vanguard. He would want the glory of cutting down the notorious Edward Teach himself to bolster both his ego and his unsteady position back in Nassau.
The ambush floods out quick, men pouring from the forecastle and the hold to swarm the deck. Anne spins around, slashes a marine across the chest and at the back of the leg, bringing him down to his knees.
There are too many men in the ambush. He can see Anne, catches a glint of metal, her hair showing copper through the fading smoke. She's fighting well, but in these odds one well placed blade could end that quickly. Jack takes in a shaky breath. He can't think about that right now. Anne can handle herself. She can.
She has no sense of the scale of what’s unfolding around her; can’t afford to. It’s all what’s right in front of her, what counts for survival of the moment.
His eyes scan the length of the ship and finds Teach, stalking towards Rogers. They're both taking large swings, reckless.
The clash of shouts and metal, the occasional gunshot stinging the air, the sense of seething and turmoil, that’s all background until she needs it, and right now she’s busy driving her blade deep into the marine’s gut, over and over again ‘til he’s not her problem anymore. Next.
Rogers' men seem to be winning out, but things could turn at any moment. His brows furrow as he watches Teach touch his side and then look down at his hand. Was he injured? Jack looks up to the flag, then at the men beneath it. He's ready to surrender, if they need to. Only if they need to. His jaw feels tight. He keeps watching as closely as he can.
She reels around again and jabs at a man reaching for her, but he reaches past and she misses him cleanly, leaving space for him to grab her shoulder. He hoists her up, flips her over, and she’s already reaching for her flintlock as she comes down, ready to plant the shot soon as her back hits the deck.
Jack looks back to find Anne, but he can't see her anymore. A spike of panic pierces his chest like a dagger.
Her back hits water and sand.
“Hunh!” The grunt bursts out of her along with all her breath, and salt-spray hits her tongue as the shock of cold hits the rest of her. Her hand lets go the pistol and reaches up to fend off the man who isn’t there anymore, gone, the man, the noise, the ship, all of it gone.
Between the space of a breath, the vista changes and Jack stumbles as his boots find purchase in soft sand and shallow water. There aren't any boards beneath his feet, and it doesn't make sense. His hat is there, slowly sinking, and he bends slowly to pick it up, shaking the water off as he stands. Dread soaks into his chest, crystallizing his panic rather than quelching it. It is bewilderingly cold and the wind cuts through his jacket like it's not there. The water is the wrong color.
Don’t make sense, can’t be happening. Can’t have gone overboard and couldn’t be on the shore even if she did. The sun is in a different fucking spot in the sky. The air smells wrong, like ocean but wrong.
He lifts his head and looks out at the ocean. What ocean, he doesn't know. He can't spot anything familiar. No ships in sight, no clue what just happened.
"Wh-" He starts, then stops, speechless. He feels frozen to the spot. There's too much here—too much not here to process.
She scrambles up to her feet, casting about for the lost reality of the ambush and the battle, just finds her hat sitting on the sand. Must have fallen. She reaches out for it, fingers trembling almost too bad to pick it up and put it back on her head. Sand stretches out before her, and trees beyond that, and beyond that—
Can’t be happening, can’t, can’t, can’t, and all the impossibility and incomprehension boils up in her gut like sick and her lungs like a scream that won’t quite come out.
As the tide pulls away, the sand beneath his boots shifts with it towards the sea. Jack takes a hasty step back from the sensation of being pulled in, and looks down the length of the beach.
There. A figure, standing in the surf.
Anne. It must be. It has to be.
"Anne!" he yells, already moving towards her, cutting the distance until he can be sure. Her coat, her hat, the color of her hair.
She turns to him and his breath hitches in his throat.
"Anne!" His voice cracks and he stumbles over the sand towards her. He drops his hat onto the sand. He's running.
