Captain Jack Sparrow
02 December 2008 @ 00:56
I'd fancy you return the way you said (but I grew old and forgot your name)  
Everything has died. No -- scratch that word. Not died. Nothing to do with dead. Nothing and no one is dying if Jack has anything to say about it, and he will if they just could pick up a bloody breeze.

Sometime around late afternoon, the wind gave out. The sea rolled to a slow crawl of gentle waves and the Pearl, for all her might, guttered and stilled. Now, well on past sunset, Jack thinks it might be officially time to call this the doldrums.

They haven't budged an inch for hours. He left Gibbs at the helm under vague orders to keep a look-out. Look-out for the men sagging at their posts with nothing to do but also a look-out for other things coming their way. The Pearl can only out-run with the Dutchmen with the wind on their side. Without, they're sitting ducks.

( He still can't quite figure what he wants. )
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I feel: exanimate
 
6 # | savvy?
 
Captain Jack Sparrow
21 September 2008 @ 19:54
Day Two: Old friends make the best strangers  
The room, when Jack finds it, is no where near the bar. In fact, it's up in the air -- stairs that take far too long to climb for the simple goal of lying horizontal for a bit. The decoration matches the rest of this place -- whatever this place is -- decadent to the point of being nauseous.

Two beds dominate the room, flanked by two tables, drawers, and two off-shoot rooms that are too small to use as anything really. One is nearly barren except for a shirt, and a pile of papers rolled and cluttered on the floor; the other holds more by the way of clothing: a nightshift, breeches, shirt, and waistcoat. The material is expensive, and Jack shuts the door on it, confused at the idea that the hotel thinks he should dress the part to stay here.

Then all the more confused that the hotel thinks anything. But it does, somehow, Jack knows with the ingrained logic of alcohol. The hotel knows things, like a ship can know its crew and captain. The thought of Barbossa sloshes around his head and he shakes it loose. Sleep will not come unbidden and negativity will not do best to woo it.

A hat sits on the bed near the window. Jack picks it up, examining it. It's his hat from what he can tell, same white scars across the brim and water-logged leather making it soft, malleable to the touch. Jack thought it lost in the ocean during his swim.

"Ta," he mutters to the room, placing the hat in its proper place on his head. No creak or groan of the woodwork responds and Jack casts his eyes around suspiciously. He adds, "We need to work on your people skills."

Figuring his hat designates his bed, he flops into the sheets, burrowing into the pillows and rolling until he finds the best place in the nest of fabric.

Jack doesn't know how long he drifts on the currents of sleep, in and out of reality enough to feel the trials of the past few days ease from his bones into his muscles and to notice the sun set and rise outside the window. He stays in the safe world of dreams until a key scratches the lock and the door swings open.

So. He has a roommate. Jack lets himself go limp until the stranger makes the first sound.
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I sail: the room
I feel: sleepy
 
57 # | savvy?
 
Captain Jack Sparrow
25 February 2008 @ 08:10
(no subject)  
Whatever clouds remain, they don't disuade the sun from filtering through the tree tops, infusing everything with an ethereal green glow. Jack sucks deep lungfulls of the humid air, enjoying the smoky scent of sun and wood and rain. It's been a good while since he came to this island last, but he remembers sending the crew to gather fresh water and fresh fruit. A suitable swimming hole must be around somewhere. 

Tugging Norrington by the arm -- because he can rather than because Norrington needs direction -- Jack leads them away from the Pearl. Away from Gibbs and Anamaria and the rest of the crew, lest they be required to help with the repairs. Jack trusts Gibbs to handle things in his absense and if any wonder why tracking coconuts takes longer than it should, well. Jack can invent a suitable excuse if the question is raised. He might almost be tempted to tell the truth, if only for entertainment purposes. 

The sun must be getting to him, thinking dangerous thoughts like that. The sun or something else. Someone else. 

He glances at Norrington, walking a few paces away from Jack's meandering gait. He looks utterly changed now, the green hue of the sun dancing on his hair, clothes disordered and rearranged hastily. Not at all the proper look for a Commodore, a thought that never fails to make Jack grin. Never would have guessed that a little wind and a little rain and some coconuts could so entirely destruct a man. It makes Jack nearly giddy. 

Feeling playful, he stumbles away and then behind Norrington, pretending to stalk him until Jack sneaks up behind him, intent on spooking him in the middle of the quiet. 
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I feel: mischievous
 
7 # | savvy?
 
Captain Jack Sparrow
15 February 2008 @ 02:23
(no subject)  

Jack wanders down near the docks early that evening. The sun's not yet set.

Norrington's shut up in the study with his papers, utterly oblivious to the fact Jack's been lingering through their rooms like a ghost, vying for attention from the butler or the maids. They were starting to look at him odd (more odd than usual, at least), because proper gentlemen don't go about asking for a round of cards or a drink with the help. It's not that he wants their company exactly, but Norrington used to take a hard line to Jack breaking character. It's ridiculous that he's even begun to miss that. 

Playing a ghost is not the way Jack right likes to pass his time. He's done it before, and if he can help it, most things are only worth doing the once. Living undead is one of them. The docks are the best route to escape. 

He smudges kohl beneath his eyes and finds his hat. It's still not the same, with the finer clothes and the cropped hair, but it makes do. He wears his old coat and about his waist ties a long scarf that he traded a Persian one of Norrington's candlesticks for. He feels a bit more like Jack Sparrow again.

He doesn't tell anyone he's gone, and figures if Norrington opens his eyes enough to notice, an argument is better than silence. An argument is really better than most things. 

Sour moods aren't. A drink will shake him out of it. 

Jack takes the short path to the pub, mindful that if anyone should see him there'd be uneasy questions about why he's dressed the way he is. He's almost tempted to play that game, but he doesn't. Norrington may not be so quick now to try stall a dawn appointment, should anybody find out. He skips admiring the ships looming in the harbour and steals through the pub's doors. 

Bar's still where he left it, barkeep behind it serving a drink to a customer. Jack doesn't recognise him. A new face feels refreshing.

"Rum," he says, and flicks a coin onto the bar. He sits down next to the stranger, and pretends it was accidental.

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I feel: exanimate
 
92 # | savvy?
 
Captain Jack Sparrow
01 August 2007 @ 23:42
(no subject)  
The storm is finally fading out into the horizon -- the dark clouds and fat, round drops of rain soon to pass behind them as Jack makes his Pearl fly over the waves. The wind is good for that. She can get up to her full speed quickly and stay there without keeping too many men on the sails. Hispanola is still possibly a two day's journey away, if Jack is even going in the right direction, but they can't risk stopping. The storm will gain on them and take them over if they weigh anchor for the night. She'll have to sail through the night and into morning. 

Jack doesn't necessarily mind this. The howl of wind and slap of rain of the decks, the rolling plunge over waves, causes him to smile. Makes his heart beat faster. It's his Pearl's time to shine. 

Half the men are below decks eating a late supper, and the other half are keeping a strong hold on the ropes so that nothing blows away. Jack is content to stay at the helm and captain them through it until he is too tired to stand when Gibbs finally approaches him with Cotton in tow.

"Best be getting something to eat, Cap'n, before all the vittles run out." Jack is about to reject the offer when Gibbs presses, "Had 'em fix a plate for our guest as well." 

The way he says "guest" implies to Jack that a fed Norrington is better than a hungry Norrington. That he is only one that would be the safest to bring the Commodore food. And best to be doing it before Norrington gets it in his mind to try to come out looking for food. Jack's stomach rumbles reminding him neither one of them ate since early this morning. 

Bugger. No real way out. 

"Aye," he sighs (in a very stern, Captain-y way no less) and order Cotton to take the helm. With a tip of his chin in thanks to Gibbs, Jack heads down to the galley to collect two plates, ignoring again the looks the crew there sends his way. They haven't welcomed the idea of having a Commodore of the Fleet on board any more in the passing day. Jack isn't really sure how he feels about it anymore either. 

Balancing the two plates delicately on one hand, Jack unlocks the door to his cabin and steps inside. He's not too sure what kind of greeting he'll be recieing just now.
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I feel: confused
 
96 # | savvy?
 
Captain Jack Sparrow
27 June 2007 @ 21:29
Answering machine for [info]dark_desert_hwy  



Er... Is this thing on? How do you tell if it's on? The red light must mean...

Oh. Bloody contraption.

Uh, thisisCaptainJackSparrow. Who isn't... here. Figuratively. Metaphorically. Nrmnrmnrm... yes. That is all.

How do you shut it off now? Do you just --  Ahh!

*beep*

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savvy?
 
Captain Jack Sparrow
26 June 2007 @ 04:58
[info]random_fic Does your inevitable death make you take pause?  
I’ll tell you a story same as ever if you’re to be wanting to know something about old Jack. This is a true story. All my stories are true. I’ll not hear a word otherwise. But this one is more specifically true than the others. It’s about the thoughts of a man before his neck’s about to be stretched by the hangman’s noose. Just pass me that rum over there -- No that one’s empty. There should a be a full -- That’s it. Good. Just wet my throat a bit. Then I’ll begin.
 
Faced my fair share of gallows, I have. Not as many as some but a good amount more than the most of you. Occupational hazard and all that. And I escaped sure as I’m sitting here now, because if I hadn’t, wouldn’t be here now would I? I’d be six feet under with all the rest of them that don’t call for proper burial at sea.
 
Fine punishment that is too, not allowing a sea dog to rest his final legs in the water where he lived his life. Make him sleep that eternal slumber in the hard and packed dirt that never did him any favours. Hard and packed those keepers of His Majesty’s law they are, just like the dirt itself. I’ve met an all right few of them meself in my travels but.
 
Well I was telling a different story, weren’t I? What was it again? Oh right!
 
Dear old Jack has had his neck looped up on the gallows time enough to know about the kind of thoughts running through a man’s head while the drum beats sound someplace beneath him. Now maybe some part of the man starts to wonder about what death is like, and another part of hisself starts to look back over his life to see if it were made worth living, and another part of hisself (man’s, after all, more than two parts to his whole) could start thinking about what it is what gets left behind when he leaves.
 
A girl maybe. Wife. Couple of kids somewhere.
 
Those he’d be still owing a debt to. His mates in the ports.
 
His ship.
 
Those kinds of things can pass through a man’s mind as he’s waiting for that lever to be pulled. Final judgment being swept over you just as the ground sweeps out from beneath your boots. And then you look out into the crowd, see all them faces looking back at you and most men at the point, after all their inventorying and surveying of what death is and what life is and what ol’ Frank over at the pub in that favoured port of yours is going to do when he finds out you still cheated him out of twelve doubloons. After all that, if everything turns out square for them in the end (and it’s hard not to be wanting to have things square in yourself and with yourself when that rope is tightening ‘round your throat) they’ll look out at all them faces in the crowd and think --
 
 Oh bugger.
 
Then when those drums finally stop their tattooing and the ground is ‘bout to give way. Any man worth his salt’s going to be afraid. Not me, course. Jack Sparrow in’t afraid of the hangman coming. But others, yeah. Man’s a right to be a bit scared at that point.
 
Because even when you’re standing there, life trying to work out an accord in your head, you still wind up wondering: Is this really the end for Captain Jack Sparrow?
 
Or. Er. Whatever you might want to call yourself when you’re up there.
 
And that’s really the one thing that never gets exactly square in your head. What kind of death be proper and fitting for a man like me... um, you. I mean. Meant.
 
There really isn’t one. Not really. Comes down to that flat out. And if there isn’t an end but you’d be needing an end at some point, what can you be doing about it?
 
That’s what a man thinks about when he’s up there, least. Some men anyway. I don’t. I think about... rum. And. Muffins. And --
 
Bugger, the rum is all out. Go down to the holds and fetch me some more, eh?
 
Muse: Jack Sparrow
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Word Count: 719
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I feel: contemplative
 
savvy?
 
Captain Jack Sparrow
24 June 2007 @ 16:46
Lemme tell you something  
There are two things what a man owns that are important above all else. His name and his word. 

Think of it like you're a ship. Now there you are, sailing along, doing whatever it is you want to be doing over that vast open ocean. And you have all your ship-ly parts, with your decks and your hold and your helm and what-have-you. And you have your sails. People can see 'em far off and away through a scope. Know you're coming. And if you're like the Pearl, and has some recognition to you, they'd be knowing who you are just based off your sails. That's like a man's name. Not part of the wood beneath your feet but flying above you. Without it, you can't move. 

And the wind, that's your word. Fills the sails, make them mean something other than strips of canvas. Without the wind, no one would be moving at all either, even if you got sails. And when the wind starts blowing every which-a-way and you can't find no true course to rely on -- well. Well, s'bit hard to get anywhere, isn't it? Never know where you're going to end up. 

Sometimes might be a good thing, change of direction in the wind. Get a lively breeze to take you away from something not too appealing, or as I like to think it, towards something that got to be more appealing. But only in the times of some and not in the times of most. Eh?
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I feel: indifferent
 
savvy?
 
Captain Jack Sparrow
24 June 2007 @ 00:53
Someone wants to know a few things about ol' Jack...  
And who am I to resist anyone with such good tastes in information-gathering?


INSTRUCTIONS
01. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
02. I respond by asking you five questions (of a very intimate and creepily personal nature. Or not so creepy/personal.)
03. You, then, update your own LJ with the answers to the questions (if you like).
04. Include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the post.
05. When others comment asking to be interviewed, ask them five questions in return. 

And that way we can all be knowing too much about ourselves and each other, without even one sip of rum.




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I feel: discontent
 
2 # | savvy?
 
Captain Jack Sparrow
23 June 2007 @ 22:05
[info]realmof_themuse prompt 1.63.3  
1.63.3 - Today is Guest Judge Day at the courthouse. You will be spending one day dispensing your own unlimited brand of justice. Have a good time 


It comes down to two words: full pardon. Full pardon for myself, flat out. No letters of marque. No sailing for any company other than mine own and that what I choose to keep. I want to be untouchable. So to speak.

And a plaque. Something shiny. Something with a nice gleam to it that I can hang over the helm and polish and drink to and point to and say, “Just look at that, would you? All your answers be there.” Have it saying in nice, gold lettering -- real proper like -- that the Black Pearl belongs solely and only to one Captain Jack Sparrow and he shall sail her ‘til his dying day or eternity ends when the seas dry out. Which either one comes first.

Next to it, if you could please, do a nice engraving of this image right in front of me? I hate to forget the sight of Cutler Beckett hanging there by his ankles with those lovely frills of his dress tickling ‘round his neck. It does cut the most lovely figure on him, though. Well. When his face isn’t all red and sputtering, that is. Hm.

Do you know if my cache of all of the world’s rum has been set in place yet? Oh. Good.

I think I can take off this wig then and hand the rest of this judging business back to the hands of its previous owners. Awful itchy, those wigs are. Don’t know how you lads can stand them.

Muse: Jack Sparrow
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Word Count: 254
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I sail: one of them high fancy to-do court houses
I feel: mischievous
 
savvy?